I am sitting on my bedroom floor, typing by the dimmest of lights while baby Flora sleeps in the middle of our bed. I have often written this column softly, bent uncomfortably over my laptop, anxious not to wake her. Yesterday, after the fastest 12 months ever, she had her first birthday, which signals the end of this column. I've enjoyed writing it and been touched by the kindness of readers.
In the week leading up to Flora's birthday, things aren't going too well. First, Tilly appears at 3am (I know because I shout at J, "What time is it?" when I am woken up) looking green. "I'm sorry, Mum, I'm so sorry," she says. She has the winter vomiting bug and has thrown up in several places on the way from her bedroom, not quite making the toilet.
"You don't have to say sorry, it's not your fault," I say. I scrub at the large area of regurgitated food as merrily as I can while Tilly watches with interest. I can't recall any of the children ever making it to the toilet in time. I take her downstairs and we sit on the sofa, while Tilly moans at how bad the television is at 4am. I hug her and she is hot.
Two days later, it's Lydia who appears, just as I have got Flora off to sleep. According to J it is midnight.
"I'm sorry, Mum, I'm so sorry," she says. This time the vomit is so close to the toilet door it almost touches it. Maybe baby Flora will one day make it to the toilet in time. Meanwhile, I am desperate that she escapes this winter vomiting bug and is well for her first birthday. I organise a little tea party but don't invite any babies because we only know two and they are always busy. Maddy, our 19-year-old, who is more organised than I will ever be, comes back from university for the day.
We buy a few presents; a baby doll, plastic tea set and a baby jigsaw. They are outshone by the electric baby quad bike in bright pink and blue, bought by one of her godmothers, which makes proper car noises. "We don't get to go to many first birthday parties any more," says the same godmother.
"Well done – you've managed the first year," one of my sisters-in-law says to me.
"Yes, but badly," I say, curiously keen to put myself down.
I have tried hard to make my family happy and if I sometimes shout at my children (not Flora), forget to talk to my husband, leave my eyebrows to grow alarmingly bushy, only see my friends because I invited them to our wedding and go to work feeling guilty but wearing a suit – I am still doing my best. But I fall short when Sam phones after Flora's party, six days after disappearing to go to his new job. "You said you were going to stay at home now you have a job," I tell him because I hate it when he disappears. I scare myself by how mean I feel towards him. "I was going to look after some of the money you earned so you could save up to rent a flat."
"Well, I was sorting myself out," he says, "And now S has some of my money and I need a mobile phone or I can't work anymore."
I don't know why the phone call escalates into a row but, may God forgive me, I call him a waste of space and we hang up acrimoniously. Then I remember he doesn't know it's Flora's birthday and it feels disloyal when we've all celebrated not to tell him, so I call back but he's gone out. Tomorrow, I swear, once again, I will manage things better.
Tomorrow dawns and the sun is out and Flora, my sweet little girl, holds up her arms to me and promptly throws up all over my nightie. And I think, now I've stopped writing about it, who can I tell?
