A Vagina Monologue

Since the moment I knew I was pregnant (and technically before that point, but let's keep this clean) goings-on below the bikini-line have been uppermost in my mind. Following the arrival of my little bundles of fun, I've changed more nappies and wiped more boy-bits and girl-bits than I've had gin and tonics; and I've needed a fair few of those since their arrival... As the children grow up I have become ever more aware of the words I use when I'm with them; conscious that I am shaping the future vocabulary of my ultra-absorbant audience. Over the last couple of years I have managed to phase out swearing almost completely, replacing the profanities with a range of 'blimeys' and 'botherations' that would bring credit to a vicar's wife.

With this in mind, my thoughts have turned to what to call my childrens' nether regions. My little boy is easy; he has a willy, in common with most other boys in his peer group. Occasionally one comes across a todger, a winky or a percy (yes, really) but I have yet to encounter anything that causes offence or provokes adverse comment. Perhaps this is not surprising, given that society is quite content to banter about men's meat and two veg, yet becomes rather coy when discussing the fairer sex.

I have been wrestling for some time with what to call my daughters' private parts. Ok, so it doesn't keep me awake at night, but never-the-less I'm keen to find an answer I'm happy with, before my children ask me the question.

A quick survey among my friends was enlightening and amusing, but didn't yield the solution. I'm reluctant to give my girls 'flowers' for fear of spawning all manner of deep rooted gardening-related issues in later life. I flatly refuse to take my children to the doctor and discuss frou frous or minkys, and it seems deeply unfair on Aunt Mary to annexe her name with sniggers and guffaws. A friend's three year old refers to her moo-moo; surely the reference to cows is confusing? I'm convinced that potty-training could go horribly wrong if I introduce front-bottoms, and if I follow another friend's suggestion, it'll bring a whole new meaning to 'Twinkle Twinkle little star'. I don't want to spoil panto trips by giving my girls a fairy, or cause concern over their pocket money by suggesting tuppence. There is a whole range of words to which I haven't even given house room; I don't mean to be a snob, but no daughter of mine is ever having a fanny...

At the back of my mind I feel I should be using proper words; not giving in to the British trait of body-part embarrassment. I do think that it needs to be a term easily identifiable for what it is. But I guess I'm a bit of a prude, and the thought of my daughter yelling 'vulva' in Waitrose is enough to give me palpitations. I fear my mother-in-law would disinherit us if vaginas were dropped into conversation on a regular basis.

And so I am no further forward, and have yet to find a word that doesn't either make me cringe or chuckle like a school-boy. I have settled, for the time-being, on their 'bits', which is wholly unsatisfactory but pretty explanatory. Thank goodness puberty is some years away...

Country Girl

A life-long devotee of village life, I am rarely to be found outside my natural habitat. A social engagement in central London therefore takes on the signifance of a Polar expedition; with a similar degree of preparation. Driving into the city is out of the question; one-way systems terrify me, and the presence of more than two lanes is positively panic attack inducing. Besides, I quite like travelling by train. I like the mundanity of it, and the voyeuristic peek into pockets of people's lives, as you chug past their back gardens.

So I find myself on a train to London, armed with a copy of Tatler and some killer heels. This latter accessory has already proved to be a mistake, confirming that my life as a Slummy Mummy has left me seriously out of condition; I may be able to leap across aisles for the last special edition baby Annabel, but I still missed my first train as I lurched across the platform in my Manolos.

I feel a pang of dismay as Cotswold stone and rolling hills give way first to the neat postage stamp plots of the 'burbs, then to the grey smog of central London. Exiting the train I adopt my usual overtly paranoid stance; bag clutched to my torso in such a manner as to convey that any would-be thief will have to prise it to from my cold dead fingers in order to get their hands on my wallet. Frankly I may as well have 'mug me, I'm from out of town' tattooed on my forehead; had I a rucksack, I would be wearing it on my chest.

I descend into the bowels of the underground and try in vain to protect my carefully styled hair against the bellow of warm air that heralds the approach of a train. I negotiate the Bakerloo line and look suspiciously at my fellow underground passengers, scrutinising the carriage for potential terrorists. A young Asian man at the far end catches my eye as I scour his apparel for signs of explosives. I worry about being racist in my paranoia, and dutifully scan the train for some white, middle-class passengers to include in my scrutiny. A man in his seventies, who looks no more likely of swearing allegiance to Al Qaeda than of completing the Great North Run, bears the brunt of my scrutiny and retreats behind his Evening Standard.

Once out of the underground I am assaulted by the noise and lights of London; intimidated by those at home in the city when I feel so at sea. I duck through the throng and make my way to the bar where my friends await, and magnaminously offer drinks all round. It is fortunate that not many accept my offer; or perhaps there is a tacit agreement among Londoners to save out-of-towners from inevitable bankruptcy. For all my fears of a London street mugging, I had never anticipated being robbed blind by a smooth talking bar steward; "That'll be twelve pounds, thanks". "HOW much?" Surely there must be some mistake; my 'round' consisted of two drinks. Just two. Scarcely a 'round' really - more of a 'brace'. I will have to hide in the toilets for the rest of the evening to avoid buying more drinks.

They say that if you are tired of London, you are tired of life. I have been here for less than an hour, and if wanting to be back in the country means I'm tired, then I'm absolutely exhausted.

The hardest choice

We make many choices in life; some simple and some far-reaching, but perhaps none as hard as the decision between life and death. Two years ago I was asked to make that decision on behalf of my son, who was five weeks old. He had fought meningitis and suffered permanent brain damage. He was on a life support machine and heavily sedated, in an attempt to prevent the seizures which still gripped him every few minutes. Up to that point, the doctors had made all the decisions; we had been consulted, granted, but still we knew that our little boy's fate was in their hands. But on a bright Sunday morning in December the doctors asked us to make the decision alone. They could no longer advise us. Our son would not breathe independantly again, they thought, but if he did, that's all he would ever do. He would never walk, or talk, or have any awareness of the world around him. Is that a life? I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything today; not sure we made the right decision, not even sure the doctors were right. Maybe our baby would have survived, maybe right now he'd be upstairs, lying in his little bed next to his twin brother. Maybe.

Rightly or wrongly, we told the doctors to remove all intensive care, and we were ushered into the family room to wait for our precious boy. How I hated that family room, filled with bad news and sorrow; with the tears of countless parents who had sat there dreading the future and weeping for the past. Our son was brought to us still sedated, to ensure he didn't feel any pain - but who really knows what he felt? The doctor left us and closed the door, and our world stopped turning. Outside I could hear the machines bleeping, the nurses going about their business. Someone was laughing. We sat next to each other on the sofa, cradling our child and watching him die. Every fibre of my being was screaming at me to stop the life from ebbing away from him; it goes against every instinct of nature to allow someone to die, right before your eyes, and do nothing to stop it happening. I read him a story and sang lullabies; I told him how much everyone loved him, and how we would never forget how he had touched our lives. I washed his face and brushed his hair; put on a warm cardigan and hat. I tried desperately to cram a million memories into a life too short to have any. And gradually, slowly, he stopped breathing. I felt as though my heart had been ripped out.

Suddenly I no longer had two sons. I no longer had twins. When I called the hospital the following day I only had one baby to ask after; just one cot to visit, one set of clothes to wash. A piece of me died too that day, and I will never get it back. I am filled with bitterness, and hate the person I have become because of this experience. I am bitter and resentful of every single person who has never known what it's like to bury their child. Who, in the absence of such experience, seek to find comparisons in their own lives, in a way that could never ever compare. I am angry, so very very angry, with a God who could take away my baby. I'm angry with the doctor who told me my son would get better, just days before he told me he had to die. I am so sad for my remaining twin, who will never know the shadow he plays alongside every day. But mostly I am simply bereft; painfully, desperately grieving for my beautiful beautiful boy, who never had a chance to know how much he was loved.

Flying high

I love flying. I love everything about it; people-watching at the airport, shopping for duty-free, running to the gate in response to the last call for boarding... Once in my seat I trawl through the in-flight literature, tossing aside the safety instructions and devouring the pages of still more duty-free shopping that I have no intention of buying. I search for the menu to make my choices; the in-flight meal being the highlight of my trip. I've never flown business class, but whilst I would undoubtedly appreciate the luxury, I think the experience would lack the quintessential allure of flying for me. I can eat my dinner from a china plate at home; I use real cutlery, real glasses at home... What I adore is the novelty of my airborne picnic; the plastic knife and fork, perfectly packaged in a paper napkin with my spoon and my sachets of salt, pepper and sugar. I love the anticipation of waiting for my meal, as the trolley trundles slowly up the aisle, delayed every few minutes by another passenger on their way to the loo. And finally, when my tray is placed in front of me, the mouth-watering delight of my miniature feast; peeling back each tinfoil lid to reveal a Lilliputian roast dinner, the ubiquitous cheese and crackers and an unidentifiable, cloyingly sweet dessert. Once I have finished, I gain nearly as much delight from re-packing my tray; stacking the pots neatly inside one another like Russian dolls.

Flying solo is my ultimate luxury. The freedom to kick off my shoes and go to sleep, or bury my head in a best-seller with no residue of guilt at my anti-social behaviour. Doing nothing for several hours is a luxury in which I could never indulge at home, where there are e-mails, phone messages, shopping, cleaning, cooking... all demanding my attention.

As with so many things, however, there is a fine line between heaven and hell, and this line is crossed as soon as one introduces children into the equation. Flying with children is a whole different ballgame; a descent into a hell involving the exact antithesis of all that I love about my solo flying experience. First you negotiate the snaking check-in queue, with your over-sized buggy, over-stuffed baggage and over-tired children, snatched from their beds because someone once told you it was easier to fly overnight with small children.

Next comes the hurdle of security; folding buggies and stripping coats from reluctant arms in order to pass through the detector arch which will undoubtedly locate the missing pen-knife you caught your child with some weeks back, and shoved in your trouser pocket out of harm's way. Your bag is pulled aside, so you shuffle across, a child on each hip, to retrieve your belongings, take a sip of baby milk to prove you're not a terrorist, and explain away the hundred-weight of raisins, cheerios and cheese triangles necessary to placate the children during the flight.

Forget the perfume counter, the next hour is taken up with toilet trips, feeding and distraction tactics. All this before you've even reached Gate 27, where the airline - in its infinite wisdom - invokes their policy to board families first. Far from being helpful, all this serves to do is to use up not only your children's (already limited) attention span, but also your diversionary toys, your aforementioned stache of snacks, and your sanity, while you wait for the remaining passengers to board.

The actual flight is three and a half hours of purgatory. A nappy filled just as the seat-belt sign lights; a tantrum over your refusal to allow them to jump on the seats; an air-sick child who won't use a bag... You daren't accept a hot coffee with a child bouncing on your lap; you'd kill for a gin, but you already have 'unfit mother' stamped on your hand luggage. The in-flight meal comes and goes; your tray is already in use as a colouring desk.

The air around your neighbouring passengers is thick with disapproval. You're torn between bribing the children into submission, and your desire to demonstrate some redeeming parenting skills. Forget the latter; bribery will win out.

Finally, when you think it will never end, and you have long since exhausted your reserves of chocolate, nursery rhymes and self-respect, the plane will land. They say it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive; perhaps just occasionally it is better never to set off. Or better still, to leave the children with Grandma, and travel alone.