Parachute parenting 2

Well things came to a head in the Domange house last night when the children decided to use one of my most precious fruit bowls (the only thing to have survived 15 years of marriage) as the centrepiece for an indoor scooter ring. Luc was the first to knock it over, cracking it from top to bottom, at which point you'd think that any sensible 12 year old would have moved it to a place of safety. But no, she put it back in exactly the same place before careering into it at speed on her scooter in a copycat accident. And this while I was cooking their favourite dinner.

I of course provided an excellent role model in crisis management by throwing my oven gloves at them and bursting into tears before calling Emily a stupid cow and storming out of the house.

Francois was not particularly impressed by me phoning him in the middle of a client meeting and insisting that he came home, 'before I killed both of his children,' and kept saying annoying things like, 'they're only kids' and 'these things happen'....he redeemed himself later however by setting up a kangaroo court in the sitting room, making them recount the whole sorry tale and then decide on suitable punishments - for Luc no computer (despite new Club Penguin catalogue) and Emily grounded - so no much awaited trip to Angel to see a film etc on Saturday.

I woke up wracked with guilt about the whole incident but it's too late now - we must stand firm.

This end of treatment thing is strange. I know I should feel relieved and happy, perhaps even a bit of that post cancer eurphoria, but I just don't. I feel knackered, utterly and completely too tired to walk exhausted. Everything is an effort.

I had been quite enjoying the Lynette has cancer story in Desperate Housewives - because despite a few completely ridiculous subplots (dressing up as Brandy the cheerleading slut in long red wig between chemo cycles and eating hash cakes to alleviate nausea - perleese) - some of it has been strangely accurate. Today I watched the most recent episode where the oncologist comes round to her house to tell her she has the 'All Clear'. Now anyone who has ever had cancer, or lived with someone who has, can tell you that doctors just do not say this. There are very few cancers that are ever given the 'all clear', or not for many years. The best they can tell you is that you are NAD (No Active Disease). There is no punch the sky moment, there is just carrying on with uncertainty - and hope.

It's about living in the moment, buying bigger clothes and spending all your money on hair straightening products - about not recognising yourself in the mirror - and wanting to tell people you meet that you have had cancer - that you are different, changed, on borrowed time. It's about feeling guilty that you have let everyone down, particularly your children, and that the last memory they may have of you is an oven glove hurtling through the air...