Love is…

…being unable to conceive of life without someone.

In a child, this is raw and survivalist, spiked with fear. But most of the time, it’s just matter of fact.

My children tell me they love me as something to say, more often than not. Jonah, like a young romantic, goes dreamy at a sad song, or a television kiss he doesn’t understand and strokes my hand, for him, better still, my boob, and tells me “Love Mamma” in a baby voice he rarely adopts these days. Ava gabbles it, ten times a day, as she gabbles anything else; in the way she waxes lyrical about her bunny, or her breakfast.

But yesterday, all wild hair, red face and quivering lip, a  spectre of my relaxed little daughter appeared on the stairs, having for the first time glimpsed the terrifying prospect that I may not always be around. “I don’t want mama cat to die,” she wretched, racked with sobs.

I was watching Britain’s Got Talent, so this was quite a mood juxtaposition. At first, I dismissed it as a ‘go back to bed’ moment, but then, Ava’s not a malingerer, so I gathered her to me, recognising in her sobs my own desperate fear of aloneness, and spectre of death that hangs over me as a tangible inevitability.

We’d been to a 1940s day at a Kent railway. It was wholesome fun for the whole family. A trip to Tenterten to see the steam trains there – Jonah had once been obsessed – and a chance to meet up with my step mum, Jane, who still lives in the county where I spent much of my childhood. We’d all got dressed up. I love a bIt of retro, so it was a chance to put on my hat, practice a victory roll, and wear much, much brighter lipstick than usual.

Jonah’s not much of a dresser upper – he doesn’t get the point of disguise or costume, but I told him we were going back in time, and we would get rumbled if we wore ordinary clothes. He didn’t believe me for a second, but played along for Ava’s sake, who deigned to wear a frock for the occasion – she’s a resilient tomboy most of the time.

We played the game of going back in time all the way there. There were a number of vintage cars en route, and as we hit the Kentish weald, the world does seem to wind back notch by notch, as suburban sprawl turns to half timbered quaintness and the countryside green and gold is only interrupted by the red of the village post box.

Over a hump that left our tummies in our thoats, I told them, yup, that was it, we’d gone back in time, and we arrived at the railway, where Tommies fraternised with Land Girls and everyone wore hats. It was easy enough to believe, if you’re four.

Explaining in blunt terms to Jonah about bombs, and air raids and shelters to try and put his 21 Century discomforts of compulsory school, eating broccoli and DS limits into context, we took them to a desk where children could write their own labels and pick up a pretend gas mask. We played along, explaining to Jonah about evacuees, and children being parceled off to strangers and not seeing their parents for many months, if indeed ever again. These things happened. I don’t see the point of trying to censor it, but it was all too real for Ava, whose lip began to quiver, and I deftly explained that none of this was happening to her, today, and that it was just pretend and I would never, ever send her away.

The day progressed, we went on the train, picked up a darling vintage handbag, drank numerous cups of tea, and the kids may have learned something. Home in the car, nice day out.

But later on, it had sunk in. Innocence over. Mummy’s gonna die.

I tell you what though, seeing her distress made me think twice about about the suicidal imaginings that wash over me when I’m pissed off or depressed. Fuck me, I couldn’t do that to them. I love them too much.