I have a good excuse for not posting for a few days: I have just completed the application for my first Turkish residence permit. Anybody who reads this blog even occasionally will know that I am a little sensitive about the pace at which I am learning Turkish, and how much help I need from Ville. I was determined that I was going to get through this process without involving him too much. So two days after taking the last vapur home and getting the kids to bed at 2 am in order to pick up Ruskin, and three days after our journey from Finland, I set off for a day of accumulating the documentation I needed. I won't bore you with descriptions of heat and frustration, but I have to share my favourite moment of the day. One of the things I needed was translations of the children's birth certificates. I paid 40 lira to a translator before going to a notary to have them certified. I went up to the desk and had each document stamped loudly twice without more than a passing glance. I then went into the notary's office to have a signature scrawled on each one. It took two minutes and cost 137 lira. All respect to the man though, he saw me baby-wearing Neve and got out a lovely picture of him carrying his grand-son (who lives in the UK) in a Baby Bjorn. I was impressed. He also practised the four phrases of English that he knew on Anton. Definitely the right person to certify the certificates! The other stand-out moment was thinking I was done and then realising I had lost the required passport pictures of Anton and Neve (thank goodness not mine, I was not keen to document my appearance that afternoon) and had to go through getting more. It only took 35 minutes to get an acceptable one of Anton as he walked around the studio, away from the photographer.

That evening I had another late one picking up my brother Chris. It was wonderful to sit on the top deck of the vapur with him, enjoying the views and the breeze. The next morning Ville, I and the two little ones set off for Istanbul. Ville to work, and me to the Directorate of Security (police station) on Vatan Caddesi (Fatherland Street! The street name has a ring of torture to Turkish people, because of the role of the place particularly after the 1980 military coup) for my 8.30 appointment. (Last time we passed through the intimidating security at the entrance the police found a pen-knife I had borrowed from Ruskin, and forgotten about, in my bag.) Across the top of the building, unmissable as you approach, are the words Ne Mutlu Türküm Diyene!, Ataturk's words meaning "How happy is the one who says 'I am Turk'".

It was early for Ville to go to work so he sat and drank tea for a while. As he reached the door he heard persistent ringing coming from inside. I had lasted 20 minutes before needing to ring for help. Unfortunately one of the first things the officer assigned to our case looked at was Ville's residence permit, in which his marital status is listed as 'boşanmış': divorced. It became impossible to convince anybody (and I tried several people) that he was not divorced from me, because we weren't married. Ville rushed over from Taksim and we began the long task of squeezing ourselves into the box of traditional Turkish mores. How could we not be married?  The person in charge that day told us that England and Finland are like Turkey, and people have children within marriage there too. There was no convincing her that there is a real variety of family formations. It was even, in a more helpful moment, suggested we get married quickly and then return. This all reminded me of a  Turkish medical text book Ville once saw in which a professor had written that 'once a man and woman get married secretions begin to form in the woman's vagina'.

Towards lunch-time a really decent officer, who kept trying to help against the tide, took up Ville's suggestion that we go to a notary and have a permission certified in Ville's name to allow me to live with his children in Turkey. We did some serious suspending of beliefs to get this done, there being so much at stake. After the notary we went into a esnaf lokantası (canteen) for some fortification. The proprietor walked around with Neve the whole time we ate. I felt really moved by this kindness, especially as it was very likely that he was fasting and feeling weary. We then returned for a further three hours of bureaucracy, but we came away victorious. I may not have done it alone, but we  have ensured our family is together for another year.

When I was 24 weeks pregnant I went to Jinemed (a private hospital)  here in Turkey and was told that I would be having a third boy. We decided he would be called Emil Francis, and I began to imagine Anton and Emil's progression through life together. In England, when I was 37 weeks pregnant, we went for another scan to check the position of the placenta and suddenly the sonographer was saying 'Have you bought lots of blue?' Having come to terms with never having a girl (I don't want to have any more children) and having started whispering to 'Emil', I felt some shock and shame at the sudden rush of hope that I was about to be told that our baby, now so close to being born, was a female of the species. The sonographer spent a long time looking before calling another doctor for a second opinion. Then she put a still of our daughters genitals on the screen, highlighted in a brighter white. There, in a strange moment of intimacy with the body of our unborn daughter we saw her perfect, minute vagina and labia.

Having spent weeks imagining Emil we felt a kind of loss that he didn't actually exist, but at the same time giddy that it seemed that we would, after all, be raising a daughter. This development came as no surprise to my Turkish neighbours who had for some weeks felt quite sure I was having a girl (even knitting a cardigan embroidered with flowers) because 'being pregnant with girl children makes the mother ugly'. (I forgot to tell the antenatal team that they should be determining sex with before and after pictures.)

Neve's birth feels quite odd in that it was so undramatic there doesn't seem much to report. It had the classic Cooke flavour of having lots of people around just getting on with their own stuff. Chris dozing on the sofa. Bethany and Brendan having their hearts listened to by the midwives. Me being left to my own instincts. Ville being gentle. The moment it all comes down to, and the one I won't forget is the one of perfect, silent, serenity when Neve's head was out and my wonderful midwife was gently stroking her. A couple of minutes later she was in my arms.

So now I am raising a girl and there suddenly seems that there is a lot to think about. Back when Ruskin was born I would have felt very strange about having a girl. How could I have begun to raise a girl to be strong, independent and stand up for herself when I could manage none of those things?  Now I have found the perfect man with whom to raise a daughter, and I have grown up a bit too. Still though, there are a few issues I am working out and one or two areas where I would prefer Neve to do as I say, not as I do!

I am sure that raising a child of your own gender can have a particular set of emotional complications. I want Neve to far exceed my small accomplishments, and to have no trouble celebrating her when she does. But I must not hope that she lives a life I wish I did, but get on with being the example for the person I want to enable her to be. I desperately want her to be proud of me, as I am of my Mum.

I think there is a difference in our attitude to Neve, because she is a girl that is totally to do with gender stereotypes. I am sure I am quicker to treat her dry skin. Ville and I describe her as just like Anton but with thinner, finer features. Is this actually true?

So Neve, as I am sure I can rest assured that when we reach the time to which this advice applies you will listen to none of it, and knowing that I could not fall out of love with you whatever you did (though when you are choosing isms please not fascism or racism), here are some of the things I wish I could have told my younger self. Feel free to ignore them, I would have.

Confidence.

Lacking confidence stands in the way of everything. You will soon notice that people who do well have an abundance of this (often because of a belief that wealth equals worth, or that it doesn't matter because you can get your way anyway). People are rarely judged on their quiet merits. There are huge amounts of idiots in top positions because they have more confidence than they should have. Never be afraid of having too much confidence, keep your modesty for your interior dialogue and walk tall. You will get much more done this way. Even as I write this something recoils in me, having been taught modesty above assertion.

Have confidence in your appearance. I have wasted countless moments on feeling that my imperfections were all that people could see. Now, at 39, I understand that I will never be more appealing than I was during those times, and I should have enjoyed them more. There is so much to be enjoyed in life, and your experience can be so vast. So try not to linger (as I may have done once or twice) on being a size bigger, or your hair not cascading, or your skin lacking that 'just-airbrushed' quality. I wish I could give you the gift of never comparing yourself to others, of knowing that you have the perfect nose, bum, chin and thighs for you. And I hope that you, unlike me, have a gap in-between spots and wrinkles.

Clothes.

I had thought vaguely about dressing you in a way that does not indulge the frills and embellishment that will later be used to make you attractive to men. However, I love clothes and will not do myself out of dressing you beautifully. Women dress at least as much for themselves and their friends, and looking fantastic does not stop someone being strong or feminist. I am very grateful I did not have to burn my bra. I picture you in your late teens knowing just the fabric, or piece of jewellery, to subtly enhance. The reality may well be far more dramatic. Living in Istanbul which, for reasons of history, has people looking far more homogeneous than they should, I will be delighted if you have the confidence to stand out. And equally so if you choose to pretend to fit in.

Food.

This is the area where I think I will have to actually walk the talk if you are to have any chance of avoiding the perpetual 'if only I was a bit slimmer'. How many days have I actually not given a moments consideration to my weight or eaten wholly without guilt? Not enough. Definitely not enough. I desperately want you to live enjoying food, enjoying your body, and never dwelling on this petty concern that has plagued me. I want to bring you all the best things that this world can offer to taste and enjoy. I want food to only be about nourishment and pleasure. And so I am doing my very best to live that way.

There is so much more to say but this is too long already, and I can hear you starting to wriggle....

I want to write a bit about the ideas Ville discussed in Raising Neve. I asked him to write about raising our daughter without a sexist attitude to her sexuality because I want us to read these posts when she is a teenager, and we are in danger of descending into conservatism! If I give in to discomfort or distaste over my daughter being sexually active, while being relaxed about my sons, I will not have rejected a continuum of related sexist ideas only a few notches from my daughters' value being derived from her virginity. And I do reject it entirely.

In the area of sexuality (as in most others) men and women are not even close to being equal. Living in the UK ideas often made sense to me simply because they were the prevailing attitudes amongst my peers. (It has to be said that those I call friends have good attitudes). The shock of moving to another culture is that, rather than enabling comparisons between them, it makes the idea that ideas have some kind of logic because many people hold them feel very flimsy indeed. Turkey may be in a different place on the continuum of ideas that include treating women as chattel, but my native country is clearly on it too. Too often women are called slags and whores for exactly the behaviour that is acceptable in men.

 In Museum of Innocence Orhan Pamuk has the upper class Turkish men visit prostitutes because the women they marry should be virgins. Women getting married in Turkey often wear a red ribbon around their waists to symbolise their virginity. Honour killings take place (in the UK too). There are crimes of 'passion' and abuse perpetrated with the pathetic excuse of jealousy in both cultures. And the residue of these ideas take hold of many couples, with many women glossing over how many sexual partners they have had, in order not to be considered 'sullied' when starting a new relationship. Men still (largely) want their girlfriends to be less experienced than they are. This notion must be dropped completely. Men must have the courage to follow the demands of equality and understand that any discomfort is their own and derives from backward ideas about ownership and breeding.

Ville felt a little self-conscious having written what he did, that people might judge him for considering such issues. But the truth is that society at large takes an unnecessary interest in monitoring and judging women's sexuality. Initial judgements about women are largely based on shallower or more sex-related factors. Women can do what men do, but the behaviour is called 'laddette' and those enjoying it considered to be on the edges of acceptability in some cultures and legitimate victims of murder in others.

These issues are quite separate from whether it is beneficial to wait for some kind of emotional maturity before embarking on sexual exploration, as this applies identically to boys and girls.

Neve, your value will be found in the unique collection of qualities that we cannot yet imagine, but are so excited to get to know. Your sexuality too should be a source of enjoyment for you, and you should be able to be all of this without being held back by conventions. I know that you will be respectful of others' feelings, and you must demand that they are respectful of yours. I hope that you will be secure in understanding your value, and not need to seek it by doing anything that makes you uncomfortable. Please know that it is absolutely right that you enjoy your sexuality and that this does not make you less virtuous in any respect. You can hold me to all of this. Parents are sometimes weak and find their convictions crushed by conventions.

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