The one where I overuse "seven"

Small Person turns seven next week. Seven!

I don't quite understand how I came to be the parent of a seven-year-old. I mean, I understand the technical side (even as I am, as ever, slightly incredulous at the thought that the Ex and I ever did that). But, seven? No front teeth and obsessed with kittens and nearly ready for That Talk about, you know, the facts of life? Incredible.


She's all sass and sweetness, is my girl. By turns hilarious and infuriating (and those two states are pretty much interchangeable at the moment), I look at her sometimes and wonder how I came to be the mother of such an amazing creature.

Seven years ago, I was extremely pregnant, and extremely unhappy. The Ex and I were pretty much sick of the sight of each other and, as if a house populated by tired, huge, hormonal, irritated/irritating people wasn't enough to contend with, my mother came to stay. For three weeks. I'm sure I don't have to elaborate too much on why this was a bad thing.

She ruined the last two weeks of my pregnancy. When I went into labour, she stalked us around the hospital, having been expressly forbidden from coming to the hospital in the first place. She haunted the corridors like a grey-haired vampire in sandals, at one point having to be evicted from a lurking-spot right outside the delivery room. She visited me on the ward approximately thirty seconds after I wince-waddled my way back there, following a slightly disconcerting bath*. When the Ex and I brought Small Person back from the hospital she was waiting in the living room, offering sage advice on everything from how high to have the heating to no-you-don't-hold-her-like-THAT. Which was a bit rich really, considering she has no discernible parenting skills herself.

Not a good time, all things considered.

Fast forward seven years. The Other Half arrives home from work and Small Person rushes downstairs to give him a hug and a kiss. Our house is warm and safe and the people in it love each other**). I will always feel sad that Small Person went through the trauma of her parents divorcing, but she loves me and she loves her dad and she loves the Other Half (her Not-Dad). And yes, she has driven me mad this evening, but just before bed she gave me a fragrant, bath-warm cuddle and told me in her Very Serious Voice that I am the Best Mummy In The World. So, I must be doing alright, really.

Either that, or that time I dropped her on her head as a baby*** did more damage than we first thought.

* Seriously, I wasn't expecting to find out that that happened when you gave birth. Someone should have warned me.

** We don't love the woman next door, however, who is listening to what sounds suspiciously like a Bedingfield very loudly indeed.

*** Of course I made that up. Durr.