Many come from an environment where regular meals are unheard of and they survive by grazing on what they can find lurking at the back of a cupboard, although when Phoebe first arrived it was the opposite problem: she ate nothing but a few spoonfuls of porridge.
Charlie’s mother being a drug user, it figures that food would probably appear low on her list of necessary weekly purchases.
‘Yes, me too, Mum. What’s for breakfast?’ Jamie asks.
I should have told Charlie not to worry; Jamie would never allow me to forget a mealtime. My son is going through a growth spurt and food is an obsession second only to cricket.
‘Come on, then. Let’s go and make some pancakes.’
I reach out to Charlie and he stands up, slipping his small hand into mine. Jamie, Emily and Phoebe charge downstairs, the sudden withdrawal of attention pricking Charlie’s interest. When we get downstairs he follows them with his eyes, watching their every move as I whip up the pancake mixture. At the table he wolfs down his food, all the while studying them closely. Whenever they look at him he quickly turns away.
We spend the whole day at home, giving Charlie time to get used to his immediate surroundings before exposing him to the world outside. Emily and Jamie revel in having a little one to play with again, enthusiastically pulling toys from the cupboard and parading them in front of him. He comes to life and for the most part he seems to enjoy their company, but he’s easily distracted, spinning around at the slightest background noise. I suspect that he’s watching out for danger, which speaks volumes in terms of his past experiences.
Throughout the day Charlie tumbles casually onto my lap for regular hugs, pushing himself against my back as if he’ll only achieve the reassurance he craves by tucking himself beneath my skin. I have to acclimatise myself to being pawed all day – Emily and Jamie drape an arm around me occasionally or slouch next to me on the sofa, but I’m redundant as far as earthy demands for close contact go. I’d almost forgotten how exhausting it is to be needed so intensely; by teatime I’m craving the solace of my duvet, counting the hours until I can retreat to my bedroom alone.
On Sunday morning I set my alarm early again, wanting to be nearby when Charlie wakes up. Yawning, I peer around his bedroom door and suddenly all trace of tiredness evaporates, my eyes widening in terror. He’s gone. Stumbling into his room, I tear back the duvet and rummage around the empty sheet, as if doing so might conjure his reappearance.
My rational head tells me not to panic – all the exterior doors are locked so he can’t have gone far. But then the news story of the incident where a toddler climbed into a washing machine during a game of hide and seek, closing the door on himself, flashes into my mind. A search party found the two-year-old suffocated.
With a montage of disastrous scenarios unspooling before my eyes I shriek out his name, tearing back downstairs to check the washing machine, tumble dryer, even the fridge.
‘What’s going on, Mum?’ Emily, Jamie and Phoebe charge bleary-eyed into the kitchen. ‘What’s wrong?’
Squinting, I notice another pair of bare feet behind Phoebe’s. I let out a long breath.
‘Charlie, where were you, honey?’
I kneel in front of him and stroke his long hair back from his forehead, unconsciously performing a quick health check.
Charlie points innocently at Phoebe, whose smile is rapidly evaporating.
‘He was in my room. We were only playing,’ she says, simultaneously defensive and hurt.
‘You mustn’t play together in the bedrooms, you know that.’
Phoebe looks suddenly crestfallen and I realise that, still recovering from the shock of seeing his bed empty, my tone must have been sharp. Until recently, Phoebe had no idea how to play with other children. It’s lovely that she’s chosen to share her toys with Charlie of her own accord.
‘It’s all right, honey. I’m sorry, it’s my fault. I should have reminded you of the rules. I think it’s very kind of you to be so welcoming to Charlie. How about we bring some of your toys down to show him?’
‘Yay!’ Phoebe cheers, and runs back to her room.
Charlie claps his hands and scrambles onto the sofa, all trace of yesterday’s shyness gone. The resilience of children never fails to surprise me.
‘Me be good boy,’ he announces, bouncing up and down on the cushions in spite of his injured head.
I’m about to tell him that the sofa is for sitting on when Phoebe arrives back in the living room, armed with piles of toys. Charlie’s eyes light up and he throws himself down on the sofa on his tummy, then rolls to the floor.
‘Be careful of your head, Charlie,’ I say, cringing, but his kamikaze antics don’t seem to have caused him any pain.
Emily and Jamie, well past playing with toys at their age, join in eagerly now they have a young housemate to entertain. I go off to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, the sound of their loud laughter bringing a smile to my face.
Sometimes, when we welcome a child into our family, relationships are thrown out of kilter. It can take a while to establish a new fulcrum, but with younger ones it’s much easier to rearrange ourselves around them, perhaps because it feels more natural for older ones to make way for the new.
With breakfast on the table, the three older children take their places; Jamie, unsurprisingly, the first to sit down.
‘Come on, Charlie. Breakfast time,’ I say.
Knowing how desperate Charlie was to eat yesterday, I can hardly believe that he rejects the invitation with barely a glance, continuing to play with Phoebe’s toys.
‘Come on, honey.’ I slip my hands under his arms and try to lift him to his feet, but he arches his back then suddenly plays dead, taking advantage of my surprise by wriggling free. I lunge for him a couple of times but he dodges me, screeching in triumph. I suppose I should feel encouraged, knowing that he would only strop if feeling safe and secure. Part of me feels pleased. The rest of me is weary.
‘Guess what I’ve got over here,’ Jamie says, his tone enticing.
Charlie’s head shoots around, so I go and take my place at the table, leaving my son to work the magic therapy that seems to come so easily to children.
‘I think Charlie’s going to like this, Mum,’ Jamie says, lowering his voice theatrically.
It’s one of his strengths, the art of persuasion. I’m convinced that my son has the makings of a future MP. The beginning of a smile touches Charlie’s lips and he crawls slowly to the table, kneeling up when he reaches Jamie’s chair.
‘Me see?’
Jamie shakes his head. ‘Sit up first, then I’ll show you.’ I could have hugged him.
Charlie performs a convoluted roll onto his tummy then rises on all fours, drawing the whole process out as long as he can. Standing, he plants such a small part of his bottom on the chair that he has to grip hold of the edge of the table for balance. He looks at me, a glint of defiance still lurking in his eyes. I lean back in my chair and stretch, heading off a battle of
