It is Lucy’s birthday.
She is eighteen today.
Of course this is one of those landmark moments, where one wanders back along memory lane, remembering all of those childhood stories, and sighing happily at the gentle meandering of life’s stream.
At any rate, I am doing my best. Actually it is not quite as easy as all of that, because during Lucy’s earliest years, and, if I am honest, several of her later years as well, she was a toe rag.
She was the most determined toddler I have ever come across. As a baby she refused to sleep unless she was being shaken, rather dangerously violently. The adults in the house would run up and down the stairs with her, her sisters would clutch her to them tightly and bounce on the beds. Either activity would lull her into a soporific state of bliss, the screams would cease, and she would drift into sleep, at any rate until you stopped running up and down the stairs or bouncing on the beds. We all got very fit.
She walked at eight months, and as soon as she had achieved sufficient balance and co-ordination, the next thing that she did was run off. The next three years were fully occupied pursuing a high speed toddler around supermarkets and public parks. The second you turned your back on her, she would disappear.
The worst of those moments was in Istanbul airport. She was not quite two, and was lost for nearly an hour, after we carelessly looked away from her whilst handing over our luggage and passports at check in. By the time we found her I was in floods of terrified tears. She was not. She was sitting on the Information desk, seething with rage at her captors. Mark had to restrain her in an iron grip to prevent a repeat performance.
Air travel was not infrequently horrible. There was the time when she shrieked and fought her very hardest whilst I restrained her in the seatbelt on my knee and the rest of the passengers loathed us, silently. This lasted until we were taxiing down the runway for takeoff, at which point she threw up, profusely, drenching the both of us in vile-smelling vomit, in which we had to sit, helpless, until we reached altitude and the seatbelt light went off.
I am glad she is eighteen and grown up now. She might still throw up occasionally, but it is not likely to be my problem. Almost certainly she will not be sitting on my knee.
Tonight we have had a birthday party.
We had not planned this, because I was supposed to be on a course in Staffordshire. One of the joys of being unemployable was that I became unexpectedly free, and suddenly all sorts of things became possible.
Some last-minute rearranging took place.
We sprung Oliver from school and rushed off down the motorway, We met Number One Daughter in the pub and we all hurried round to the Thai restaurant just opposite Lucy’s school.
Nan and Grandad had collected Lucy. She was not expecting a huge family birthday party, and was pleased in the way that would make a lesser being tearful and emotional. She is Lucy, so she was not either.
We all grinned happily, and ate a huge amount. Thai food is spicy, and sweet. The table was filled with different dishes, and we all dipped in to everything. During the eating, we encouraged Lucy to invest in a coming-of-age hangover for tomorrow morning, which she did. I am going to feel rubbish tomorrow, and she might just feel worse.
It was a brilliant, lovely night. I have no idea if Lucy had a good time, but I enjoyed myself more than I can say.
Number One Daughter told military stories. Oliver fell asleep at the end, and Nan and Grandad laughed at everybody’s jokes, and it was altogether exactly the way a perfect night should be.
We had to rush back up the motorway afterward, because Oliver’s school want him back for breakfast at half past seven.
We are in a lay-by at the bottom of his school drive. I hope that this all turns out all right.
I have got three grown up daughters now. This is a brilliant, marvellous, happy thing. They are all so splendidly grown up and perfect.
Dear me, I am going to have a hangover tomorrow.
Tonight, though, is lovely.
I could not be happier.
