The Final Child

Oli, Daisy, Felix, Sam and Henry prove that five is a magic number.

After three decades, my longest-running series is ending just as the last kid’s pilot episode is beginning. Cue the emotional theme music . .

Forgive me while I take a second to breathe in the past 18 years.

Actually, make that 31 years.

That’s how many summers I’ve been heavily embedded in the childrearing matrix, from Henry in 1995 to Oliver in 2008. And now, on the eve of the final child’s 18th birthday, the final inmate is on the verge of being paroled and I find myself staring into the void of what next.

Flashback to November 1994, as I am walking down Kensington Church Street in the rain, with a warm little secret burning away inside me. I had a vague inkling that life was on the precipice of something brand new, but realistically literally had no single clue quite how much.

August 1995 - the era that hairstyles forgot.

In typical Virgo style and missing the point entirely of whether who I was marrying was the One (let alone the Two or Three), I pulled a Claridge’s-based wedding together in four weeks, tying the knot in Temple Church on December 30 as wet snow left marks on my wedding train. The cross-legged knights of the Templars at the end of the aisle kept schtum but probably thought, hang on, this isn’t the greatest idea, gurl, let’s regroup.

Nevertheless, I pushed those thoughts into a little orange nappy bag, and threw myself into simply staring at Henry, the little blonde cherub who arrived during 1995’s hot London summer. And then, because I have a glitch in my software, I committed to the child creation process a further four – FOUR! – times, each one producing another uniquely wonderful creature destined to change my life in ever-more brilliant ways. After Henry came Felix, followed by a new husband and Sam, Daisy and finally Oli. Like an extending branch, warping and bending as it grew away from the trunk, I was me but not quite me each time that first cry reached my ears.

Four boys, one girl later, and I’m at the end of the road in terms of schools, uniforms, blazers and Book Week, PE kits and lunchboxes. I have spent more than half my life running a high-stakes, domestic dictatorship centred around PE kits and misplaced school bags, lost socks and sports days.

Henry, baby Sam and Felix in a mish-mash of hand-me-downs and one nice Baby Gap top.

Along the way, I’ve emigrated, had a hysterectomy, divorced twice, lost my mother and father, gained a granddaughter, committed to parenting a miniature schnauzer and tried to paint with acrylics, although not necessarily in that order.

So what’s next?

The granddaughter is the perfect passion project for a melancholy parent with a new child vacancy. She is in all ways glorious and surprising and joyful. She may not have actually sprung from my loins but for the moments when she’s in my arms, I relive those endless hours with the four boys, one girl in vivid baby-sized technicolour.

The painting is also something I want to be better at. Rather like the five children, I figure if I just keep throwing paint at a canvas, eventually something will look intentional.

I may not be able to replace the deceased parents, but I am doing my best to nurture the family and friends who still remain doggedly attached to me, whether they live in the Black Isle, South Wales, The Gong or Fremantle.

I’m wildly conscious of the clock ticking louder and more aggressively towards my final quarter. I think in terms of having 30 good Christmases left, if I’m lucky. 30 summer holidays to plan and remember with ever-decreasing clarity. Plenty of time, right? Assuming I don't spend half of them looking for my glasses.

I tend to think that good dinners and long lunches are more valuable now than scaling the career ladder, because - news flash - ladders don’t love you. Especially if I can do those things with one or all of the four boys, one girl. I don’t want to miss a thing and yet I think I already am, somehow, because I need to be in bed by 10.30pm.

And what about that final child, the ultimate boy, Oliver? He was the surprise package, completing the box set in 2008 just after we thought the series wouldn’t be renewed, and we landed in Perth, Western Australia. He’s the tallest of all the five, the cleverest, the gentlest, and the most intensely sweet boy. He essentially grew of his own accord while the other four battled for supremacy amongst themselves like extra-fidgety Gladiators. He’s smart, kind, lanky, dorky, and about to become a man in about 24 hours.

Oli already thinking deeply.

He was the Final Child in what felt like an endless season of family repeats and reruns. But for him, it’s the start of his very own Pilot episode.

And I’ll be watching every. single. one.