A To B

I have accepted that, whilst gaining two gorgeous children, this has not been without some loss. I’ve lost my figure, I’ve lost my memory, I’ve lost some of my pals, I’ve lost the will or the opportunity to party and I’ve lost my memory (sorry, poor joke!). All of these losses and more I have borne with the utmost of dignity and selflessness and with the generosity of spirit that comes only with advent of motherhood. As you are aware, the stuff about dignity and fortitude is totally untrue. I hate the fact that I’ve gained so much weight, I mourn the loss of those pals who live across the channel in Childlessland, and I do wish that I felt more inclined to go out to dinner without wishing that restaurants provided beds for tired punters. But despite all this, I reckon that I got a pretty good deal with my two darlings, and on the whole don’t really regret that life has had to change. That is, until this weekend.

Steve and I considered that we were quite prepared for the arrival of number three baby, as we’ve got pretty much everything from before. The cot, the pram, clothes, baby-changing station, toys etc etc. It's when we’re stuffing Olly and Bilie into the car this weekend for a trip up to town, I realise that we've forgotten something. We currently run a lovely 4 by 4; our last indulgence before Oliver and Billie started bleeding the bank dry. Neither of us had ever had a posh car before and we just fell in love with it. It has repaid our love tenfold, runs like a dream, sips rather than drinks petrol and has tons of room in the back to carry all of the cornucopia of junk that we stuff in there. So while we’re struggling with Billie, who is as usual insisting on getting into the car and the car seat herself, it occurs to me that we haven’t worked out where we’re going to put the new baby when we go out. I lean over to examine the gap in between Billie and Olly’s seat. It is barely enough to fit a supermodel in let alone a bouncy baby.

I’m in panic mode all the way up to London. Steve as usual is more sanguine. First of all he suggests we get a car seat for Olly with just a lap belt, a few calls to Halfords and John Lewis later and I have discounted this for safety reasons. We can’t put one of them in the front because of the airbag. Then as we hit the West End amidst the hurly burly of the New Year sales activity, it dawns on us both: we are going to have to get a different car. This is a loss that I cannot countenance. I love my car, but the options are looking increasingly more depressing. They seem to be (in order of preference): -

a) Never travel together as a family
b) Sell one of the kids
c) Sell the car

And there’s worse: if we sell the car Steve thinks the best thing to do would be to buy a “people carrier”. As he says them, the words strike terror into my heart, and it dawns on me that this is not really about losing the car; this is about me finally losing Me. You see the 4 by 4 was my last vestige of pre-child life. It wasn’t that it was particularly individual or glamorous but it was nippy and buzzy and most of all it didn’t say CHILDREN ON BOARD in big bloody capital letters. "So what?" you cry, "It’s just to get you from A to B." But by going for practical rather than frivolous I feel like I’m admitting the limits of my life. The end of possibilities - the death of imagination. Somewhere inside of me there is still a childfree person who (though craving recognition) knows that like a bald man clutching at his ill–fitting toupee, the time has come for me to own up to who and what I really am.

I guess eventually I’ll adjust to this like I’ve adjusted my waistband, address book and social calendar. But whilst I sludge from school run, to shopping trip, to kids' party in my big fat bus, I’ll be turning the stereo up just one extra notch, winding the window down and remembering more freewheeling days.

Quote of the Week:

Olly and Billie visiting my mum and dad examine their bath. Olly spots the bath mat which mum explains is to stop people slipping.

Olly: "We don't need one of those, because me and Billie have sticky bums."

Juliet Jones lives in domestic chaos with husband Steve, son Oliver (aged 4) and daughter Billie (aged 3) in Hertfordshire.

Read Juliet's previous diary