The day before I flew back to Istanbul, my brother Stefan and sister Katrina surprised me with a visit. I was completely over the moon to get a chance to see them again before going, and also saw an opportunity to take a few pictures of Stefan. Being a model/ St. Martins fabric design sort of a person he is really tolerant of me and my camera, just another reason why I wish I lived down the road from him (and all my other siblings). The second bonus came when I actually checked my flight time and realised that I wasn't, as I had thought, on a plane at the same time Ville had flown several days before, but had a whole morning more than I expected. Instead of rushing about I relaxed and even had time to take some precious pictures of my beautiful brothers Daniel and Brendan and my Mum with Neve.

I love unpacking our suitcases when I return. They are always full of gifts that are precious daily reminders of the affection of those far away. This year there was some fantastic artwork by my illustrator sister Hellen, a string of long coveted lights from Katrina, clothes, posh moisturiser and a stash of chorizo from my Mum and an adorable handmade rabbit from my friend Suzy.

Apart from not quite managing to sort out the sleep deprivation of the last few weeks (as soon as Neve's teeth emerged Matti got a bug!) we are all in good spirits thanks largely I am sure to the scent of spring and the increasing number of blue skies. Today we went to Ihlamur Kasrı where I had recorded the very first signs of spring only weeks before and found an abundance of flowers and fallen petals.

Me and the little kiddos spent the last few days in Wells in Somerset. I have loved this tiny city since I made regular visits when I was at university in Bath when Ruskin was a little nipper. He actually took some of his first steps in the Cathedral Chapter house. For the last few years Wells has been home to my sister's growing family (they have 4 boys now) and so I have had good reason for regular visits. Hellen gathers as many Cooke Kids as can make it to a relaxing weekend party every summer, and this year she timed it for my visit. So I got to see the newly wedded Andreas and Martha, and Stefan's boyfriend Jake. And my Mum was a total heroine (as ever) travelling down by train to pick up three of Hellen's boys on Thursday and dropping them back on Monday, so that Hellen could relax a little at least. Hellen and I managed to have Anton and Sonny 5 weeks apart and then our next babies Pepi and Neve 12 weeks apart, so you could say we are quite close! Here are a few pictures of Wells and my siblings:

Well I promised myself I would write this post in advance, have practiced using my camera (having read the manual cover to cover) and have at least the first week of photos smugly ready to go. But of course I am writing this just before midnight having done none of it. Today is the day I am going to start my 366 'Documenting Delight' project, and I am determined to at least begin on time. From today, for 366 days I will take a picture of Neve (3 months) and Anton (nearly 3) every day. I can hear a groan, yes there are far too many photos of my children on facebook! I am sorry but I just cannot help myself, so I am determined to get better at capturing them.

For most of the people doing the project today is the halfway mark, so I have been able to see their work and be inspired. As far as I know this project was begun by a woman called Georgia and you can see her gorgeous website by clicking here. One of the reasons I decided to do this was that when I have found being a parent in Turkey difficult, and forgotten just to revel in my glorious kids, looking at her work reminded me that not a lot mattered but their giggles. I want to document spontaneous delight so that I remember to allow plenty of it to happen.

At the moment I am in the UK, in the tiny cathedral city of Wells with some of my large family. Georgia wrote that you should only photograph what 'makes your heart sing' and here is what made my heart sing today:

Returning to the UK at regular intervals makes the meandering journey things have taken in your absence look like a jump. The first thing that hits me every time I get here is that it is ever more diverse. The UK has its fair share of shameful history, and there is still plenty to complain about, but wandering through London I love to see the diversity it has brought us. The UK has hardly been nurturing to many that considered it their mother country but I am always moved to witness the work that goes in to making life manageable for new arrivals now. Taking Neve to the doctor's surgery the sign in screen has 12 language options. For the last couple of years the nearest place of worship to my parent's house is a Hindu Temple. I did a two week placement in a primary school in Leeds during my teacher training that boasted children from 67 countries. This diversity means that kids growing up in our boring New Town listened to Jungle, Reggae, Bollywood and Bhangra to name but a few. I remember my mate learning to sing Madonna in Cantonese thanks to the proprietors of a local restaurant, I was duly impressed.


My home town, Crawley, is next to Gatwick Airport. My Dad once told to us that we were lucky because whatever happened with the economy there would be jobs for us there. When he said it my, arrogant and insecure in equal measures, teenage self said 'Thanks Dad, its always good to have something to strive for'. But of course most of the family have done stints at the airport and have been grateful that there has always been work when we needed it. My particular favourite was the flight meal factory where I worked 16 hour shifts. I had two roles. The first was wrapping the entire tray in clingfilm. The electric shocks received from doing this at the required speed meant I was still crackling several hours after I got home. The other, slightly better, option was taking my place on a production line. Most often this meant placing a scoop of peas in-between mashed potatoes and meat at high speed. I was usually the only English speaker on the line, but we could all sing along to every song on the (limited) Radio Mercury playlist, including the advertisements.


The area of Crawley next to to the one I grew up in is Langley Green. This has at various times been called  Bangley Green or Langley Desh by (not that politically correct) locals. Walking there today it is clear that many of the women wearing headscarves have married into a new way of life. Of course this multi-culturalism has its problems, but I really like these fluid interactions between groups. I am glad that here most people do not presume someone belongs somewhere else just because they haven't yet mastered the language, or their skin or dress sets them apart. And five minutes walk from my parent's house there is a Chinese, a Curry house and a newsagent selling good Polish sausages.


As our apartment on Heybeliada has one small mirror I have largely been able to avoid spending much time looking at the reality of my post-pregnancy appearance (nearly three years of avoidance now). It is always  when I return to Mum and Dad's and face the mirrors that I have assessed myself in since I was 5, that I judge the meandering decline that looks a lot like a leap thanks to the weeks or months in between. The circular mirror in the bathroom has reflected eight Cooke kids journey through puberty and into adulthood, quite a thought. I would have been able to just see my eyes when stood on tip-toe when we first moved to this house (from next door!). One mirror moment that has stuck with me was when I found Daniel (who has Down's syndrome) examining his face and he turned to me and asked 'Are my eyes different than yours?' I answered that they were beautiful liquid brown and that he was so handsome, but I understood what he was really asking. All of us have had to face the reality of the curves and lines and marks that define us, until people know us better. This mirror, the only private one in a busy household is where each of us have come to terms with what we have been given to work with.

I think that at least half the times I have looked in that circular mirror I have thought 'One day I will sort this out' or 'I want to look better than this soon'. I am nearly forty, have four children to nurture, have never willingly let anyone down and have been a very soft place in countless difficult situations. But I still want to look good enough for quick, thoughtless first impressions to be reasonably favorable. If only showing outward patience when your inner self wants to shout, or taking a child into your arms when you feel more like pushing away, awarded you beauty points! But I do think it begins to work that way (though of course its impossible to see this in yourself) because all the people I find beautiful beyond first impressions are also good, and there does come a time when a bitter or judgmental disposition becomes permanent in the set of a face, and there is no beauty in that.


Being with my Mum is also my first real opportunity to have a haircut without two little ones in tow, so I am forced to sit opposite my own reflection for an hour. The hairdresser tells me she would rather live anywhere than the UK, though somewhere hot would be better. I focus on the fat on her chin and the tiny bump of her belly rather than look at my own. 'What are you going to do about all this grey?' she asks me, with all the tact she can muster. I have been thinking about this one, so I have an answer: 'It's ok, I am going to live with it for now'.

Yesterday I flew for the first time on my own with the two littlest and it was good. Really good. At the moment I feel guilty about providing little excitement for Anton, so travelling, which we both enjoy, is sort of relaxing. He is so delighted by the different phases of long journeys that we have for sometime recited  them like a mantra when he has moments of fear or frustration. He loves to ask "And then what did we do?". Yesterdays relaxing string of words was used last night to get a very tired boy to sleep: taxi to Taksim, coach to Sabiha Gökçen airport, plane to Luton, shuttle bus to Luton train station, train to Gatwick, bus to Grandma and Grandad's house (yes, my parent's live 10 minutes from Gatwick and easyJet fly to Luton, thanks easyJet).

I love watching other parents at airports. I love the grace with which they enable their beloved children to sleep by holding impossible (and no doubt uncomfortable) positions. I love to see whole families fast asleep with little ones warm and open-mouthed across laps. Its a time when all the family pull together in order to save the rest of the plane from an unhappy child, and they perform wonders.

Anton is a seasoned traveler and behaves as such. He explains to me that he is a bit scared of the landing but it is all right because the "bumpsy bumpsy" doesn't hurt. He plays with his cars until he sleeps and resumes his game as he wakes. As Neve spends hours a day in her Ergo Baby carrier she relaxes as you lift her in and is asleep within 10 paces (good on a plane as you have to pass a stewardess every 4). I am suddenly, as there is no where to go, no meal to cook, no house to clean, left to sit still and think.

My first set of thoughts is about this blog. Here we have a man and a woman writing a blog together. The man's writing is often abstract, it has variety and is academic at times. And the woman, me, writes about the small details of life with children.


When I was travelling in Israel in my late teens I read a poem by a female Jewish writer in which she bemoans the fact that the men have recorded her history while the women's arms were full of children, making it hard to write for themselves. I decided I would always carry a notebook. But it turned out not to be so simple. Its not just my arms that are full of children, but my heart and head too. There is no denying that the children have completely pervaded Ville's being, but it is I who feels the details and is involved in the minutiae of their every waking (and half-awake) need. It is I who provides an unbroken blanket of emotional security. This is my privilege but it comes with a price that is made all too apparent here. Its not ideal for Ville either, as having to be in Turkey, where I am so far unable to work, has created gender roles for us we might not opt for in more favorable circumstances. Yet I am so grateful for this life that contains so little heartache, so few goodbyes. I have had the opposite and it hurt. 


I also think about how, whatever our children choose to do, there are certain qualities I want them to have. I want them to be great travelers, I don't want them to find petty things stressful. Spillages, small changes in plans, little losses should always lead to an inner response of  'never mind'. I want them to be the soft places when others are struggling. I want them to use these skills to see lots of places, to embrace differences and have experiences wider than ours.


I realize that my parents basically raised us with these same objectives in mind. There is not one of the nine of us that does not travel, is not gentle when it is needed or greets petty mishaps with anything other than 'never mind'. So how did they achieve this? My Mum did it by hitch-hiking round Europe, by marrying a Brit, by moving to the UK and making it work. My parents did it by never making a mountain out of a mole-hill, responding to our childish disasters with warmth and perspective. They did it by packing us in a VW camper every holiday (even the short ones) and hitting the road. My Dad just put on Nick Drake sort of loud. Just love him. In short they successfully raised nine 'never mind' children in the only way possible, by never minding. By never losing their immense openness, generosity and cool. They gave us emotional self-sufficiency by never holding back on love.


So I am well aware that our children follow our example. And we already have a 15 year old that thinks nothing of flying alone, laughs about taking wrong trains, pops detours down to experience, chatters to whoever he meets along the way. So in this context I was talking to Ville last week about Anton's painful shyness and unwillingness to interact with people in Turkey. And Ville said 'well he is picking up the cues from you' and I knew instantly that he is right. Not speaking Turkish puts me on guard. I might smile and wave, shout hello across the street, but I do not want to stop. Because three sentences into a conversation I am lost for words. I do not share hugs and laughter with people who do not speak English to me and, not so surprisingly, neither does Anton. I feel mortified by this realization.


Having children with me all of the time has had a dire effect on my determination to learn Turkish quickly. Getting out your notebook when you are carrying one child, watching a toddler and have a pushchair piled with shopping is hard. Immersing yourself in anything makes you less willing to enter into play or conversation with your little ones, and I have chosen to just be with them. But it looks like I have some thinking to do because, notebook or not, I am writing the future in the hearts of my children.