Oh, I did get some mummy time, thank God. We drove into central London yesterday to collect her, and sure enough, there she was – gorgeous as ever, perfectly styled and in her beautiful pale pink winter coat with matching scarf, something straight out of a fashion catalogue. I am the spit of my father, by the way. My mum was a beauty queen back in her day, the very loveliest of Scandinavian beauties you could ever find, her large blue eyes, incredible cheek bones and naturally platinum blond hair the stuff people pay a lot of money to have – she has it all naturally. She’s a trophy wife if ever there was one.
And then there was me.
This beauty queen had ME. Even as she went into labour, she was perfectly styled and looking as lovely as ever. It was a leap year, so she was worried I’d be born on the 29th of February. Oh no. I came along three weeks early, on Friday the 13th to be precise. First child, three weeks early and on Friday 13th. Oh dear. What she gave birth to, this dainty, feminine and flawlessly beautiful beauty queen, was Yours Truly…. The average baby weighs 3,5 kilos, yet I clocked in at nearly 4, and instead of gentle and soft blond curls, I had a full head of what was an angrily spiky and full mohican of black hair. Fat and angry (get that boob out NOW!) I arrived and brought tears to my father’s eyes not because I was precious and cute, but because I was this crazy ugly blob of a baby my parents probably couldn’t quite believe they somehow got cursed with. No, I wasn’t pretty. I was something out of a Scandinavian fairytale about the trolls of the woods snatching a human baby and leaving one of their own in its place. Yep, that was me.
So now that mum has been in London with her two sisters for the weekend, we talked about days gone past, as you do. My youngest auntie (who turned 50 today), recalled how she’d babysit me. I was a bookworm the second I came out of my mother’s womb, and she told me how whenever she looked after me all I wanted was to be read to. And how she tried to skip over pages, with me then getting angry and skipping back with my “little fat hands” to the exact bit she’d tried to skip from and made her read from where she’d tried to leave off.. And the funny thing is that I do remember it. Maybe it isn’t my youngest auntie I remember doing that, but I definitely remember that someone did. Oh well, I was always into books, and I do remember that some adults didn’t read the stories to me properly.
It was so lovely to see them, mum and both of my aunties. My mum’s the oldest, and my second aunt looks like her twin. There’s four or five years between them but they do look crazily similar. My youngest aunt could pass for 35, yet she’s 50 TODAY (whoop!) and she’s as cute as a thousand kittens. She’s actually closer to me in age than my little sister – 12 between me and auntie and 13 between me and my little sister. History repeats itself, according to my mum, although that’s not true in my case – B and I won’t be having bambinos. I don’t want to (I’m done) and he can’t (plus I’m sure I don’t want to either).
If we did though, OMG they’d be freakin’ gorgeous! Then again, the ones we do have (B’s two and my one) are pretty bloody amazing, so I think we have added some magnificent kids to the future of this world.