WHAT I WANT FOR MY 3 YEAR OLD DAUGHTER WHO HAS CANCER

EMOTIONAL, MOTHERHOOD

Somethings can’t be sugar coat. Sometimes life is unfair. Bad things happen to good people. Cancer is cruel and childhood cancer is impossible to rationalise. Here Laura Farmer-Maia shares her hoped for her Daughter Bibi who has high-risk Neuroblastoma

I want you to cry when I drop you off at school.
I want to forget to pack your reading book on a Tuesday.
I want to dress you up as Moana on World Book Day just to annoy people.
I want to be able to talk about what you might be when you grow up.
I want to have a box stuffed full of your terrible paintings.
I want to get FOKMO (Fear Of Kids Missing Out, just invented it) about normal things like ‘organic strawberry picking parties’ instead of things like soft play and ‘going outside’.
I want you to tell me about how so-and-so ruined your game but it wasn’t your fault and then someone else made you cry but it is ok now because thingy let you hold their toy hedgehog.
I want you to have friends who aren’t imaginary or nurses.
I want you to learn how to swim.
I want you to not be scared of mud.
I want you to go to a playground with other kids.
I want to not freak out every time you get a fever.
I want to be able to worry about whether letting you eat chicken nuggets now will make you start smoking crack at 16.
I want to run home from work to pick you up in time and secretly wish I was at the pub.
I want to enjoy every moment with you without worrying that it might be the last.
I want you to argue with your big sister for 12 years then suddenly become best friends and both turn against me.
I want to become THE most patient, chilled out, strongest, most mindful parent for you. Because something good has to come from this.
I want you to be THE worst teenager.
I want you to tell me you hate me at least five times.
I want to worry about how I don’t really like you at the moment.
Or that weird new voice.
I want you to get dumped by someone called Tobias.
And I want you to think that it’s the WORST thing that has ever happened to you.
I want you to have a haircut that makes you cry.
And tell everyone about how your hair used to be really curly before it all fell out and grew back completely straight.
I want you to wonder why we have a box with an empty plastic pouch of Stem Cells in it.
And we’ll tell you.
And you’ll be like ‘Ew’.
I want you to be a completely self-entitled Twenteniall.
I want to wonder whether it’s our fault because we spoiled you so much when you were ill.
I want to threaten to tell your friends that I breastfed you until you were four.
I want you to fall in love with someone AWFUL.
I want you to get lost at a festival and do a poo in a pizza box.
I want to make you watch Friends with me.
And you’ll hate it but I won’t care.
Because Phoebe, am I right?
Ugh mum. Monica, obviously.
I want you to find Chemo Duck in a dusty old box one day and be like ‘WTF is this?’.
I want you to tell us off for being such old ‘Screenies’.
I want you to tell your new friends at Uni that you had cancer when you were three – like it’s a really cool story.
And they’ll be like ‘I can’t believe how hard it was to treat back then’.
I want you to say to people ‘I remember being in hospital a lot but not much else. It wasn’t that bad really.’
And your dad and I will just look at each other.
I want to lie on the sofa with you and stroke your arms.
I want you to turn 20 and be like, ‘OH MY GOD I’M SO OLD’.
And decide you want people to call you ‘Beatriz’ instead of Bibi (more sophisticated).
I want you to get drunk and show off your scars to someone you fancy.
I want you to have a hangover so bad that you question your very existence.
I want to say to you ‘You’re exactly the same as you were when you were a baby’ and make you roll your beautiful eyes.
I want you and Clara to start a secret Chatz Group (the letter ‘Z’ makes a comeback in 2037) used solely for moaning about me and how I think I’m so ‘patient and chilled out’.
It will be called ‘MumMoanz’.
I want you to visit Glanny and Michael and Grandad and Gina and secretly wish you were at the pub.
I want you to come to GOSH every Christmas with me and deliver presents to the kids (and secretly wish you were at the pub).
I want you to still pull that face you pull when you’re about to do something very naughty.
I want you to complain to Auntie Tessa about how I just don’t get you.
I want you and cousin Molly to visit Uncle James in Australia and never fully tell us exactly what happened out there.
I want you to moan about how you got my thighs.
I want us to still call it Basgetti.
I want you to laugh at the picture of me and my boring old friends dressed as a very sweaty Paw Patrol.
I want you to stare at the picture of you at Granny’s house – the one where you’re completely bald with face paint on – and try to remember.
I want to explain to you why me and Daddy have a very large drink on the 15th September every year.
I want you to turn 30 and be like ‘OH MY GOD I’M SO OLD’.
I want you to wonder why all my friends come to all your birthday parties.
I want your 30s to be the decade that everything changes.
But not like mine. Not that.
I want you to change jobs then really, really regret it.
I want to be honest with you about having children. Because you might not be able to.
But you’ll deal with it. And you’ll be the best Auntie.
I want you to move to Portugal for a year with cousin Ines, not zingping us for 6 months, and come back with a new them friend.
I want you to have a surprise generomony organized at the last minute.
And we won’t care because Tiago will get to give the speech he’s always wanted to give.
I want you to invite Magda, your favourite nurse.
And we’ll invite every single person from our 2020 Justgiving page.
I want you to be like ‘Why are the team from Admiral Insurance Cardiff here?’
And I’ll explain how they waxed their backs to raise money for your treatment. Now go get them a drink.
And we’ll show a video of you dancing in the corridors of Elephant Ward wearing a rainbow butterfly dress.
And everyone will cry for so many reasons.
I want you to get wrinkles.
And start to look like me and Tiago.
I want it to not hurt to write this list.
I want you to find a job you love. Until you fulfil your childhood dream of becoming the tooth fairy, anyway.
I want you to turn 40 and be like ‘OH MY GOD I’M SO OLD’.
And not realise how lucky you are.
I want to get drunk and cry and tell my friends how unbelievably lucky I am.
And reminisce about the evening visits at GOSH, the secret cans of G&T, the meals left on the doorstep, the half-marathon dressed as Paw Patrol and all the fundraising parties.
I want you to say you don’t want a massive party and then have a massive party.
I want to remember how scared I was on my 40th birthday.
I want to shove my face in your beautiful straight hair when I hug you.
I want you to share a three second video on Blipzapp of your ancient mum and dad trying to do the ‘wopangpang’ on the dancefloor (it’s the new ‘jammyflop’).
And you’ll be like ‘hah that’s my mum and dad they’re so old’.
And it will get 37,578 hi-fives.
And then I’ll stand up, clink my glass, and I’ll read you this list.

To help beautiful Bibi beat high-risk Neuroblastoma. TEXT ‘BEATRIZ’ followed by any amount up to £20 to 70085 or visit her gofundme page here

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WHAT I WANT FOR MY 3 YEAR OLD DAUGHTER WHO HAS CANCER

I want you to cry when I drop you off at school.

I want to forget to pack your reading book on a Tuesday.

I want to dress you up as Moana on World Book Day just to annoy people.

I want to be able to talk about what you might be when you grow up.

I want to have a box stuffed full of your terrible paintings.

I want to get FOKMO (Fear Of Kids Missing Out, just invented it) about normal things like ‘organic strawberry picking parties’ instead of things like soft play and ‘going outside’.

I want you to tell me about how so-and-so ruined your game but it wasn’t your fault and then someone else made you cry but it is ok now because thingy let you hold their toy hedgehog.

I want you to have friends who aren’t imaginary or nurses.

I want you to learn how to swim.

I want you to not be scared of mud.

I want you to go to a playground with other kids.

I want to not freak out every time you get a fever.

I want to be able to worry about whether letting you eat chicken nuggets now will make you start smoking crack at 16.

I want to run home from work to pick you up in time and secretly wish I was at the pub.

I want to enjoy every moment with you without worrying that it might be the last.

I want you to argue with your big sister for 12 years then suddenly become best friends and both turn against me.

I want to become THE most patient, chilled out, strongest, most mindful parent for you. Because something good has to come from this.

I want you to be THE worst teenager.

I want you to tell me you hate me at least five times.

I want to worry about how I don’t really like you at the moment.

Or that weird new voice.

I want you to get dumped by someone called Tobias.

And I want you to think that it’s the WORST thing that has ever happened to you.

I want you to have a haircut that makes you cry.

And tell everyone about how your hair used to be really curly before it all fell out and grew back completely straight.

I want you to wonder why we have a box with an empty plastic pouch of Stem Cells in it.

And we’ll tell you.

And you’ll be like ‘Ew’.

I want you to be a completely self-entitled Twenteniall.

I want to wonder whether it’s our fault because we spoiled you so much when you were ill.

I want to threaten to tell your friends that I breastfed you until you were four.

I want you to fall in love with someone AWFUL.

I want you to get lost at a festival and do a poo in a pizza box.

I want to make you watch Friends with me.

And you’ll hate it but I won’t care.

Because Phoebe, am I right?

Ugh mum. Monica, obviously.

I want you to find Chemo Duck in a dusty old box one day and be like ‘WTF is this?’.

I want you to tell us off for being such old ‘Screenies’.

I want you to tell your new friends at Uni that you had cancer when you were three – like it’s a really cool story.

And they’ll be like ‘I can’t believe how hard it was to treat back then’.

I want you to say to people ‘I remember being in hospital a lot but not much else. It wasn’t that bad really.’

And your dad and I will just look at each other.

I want to lie on the sofa with you and stroke your arms.

I want you to turn 20 and be like, ‘OH MY GOD I’M SO OLD’.

And decide you want people to call you ‘Beatriz’ instead of Bibi (more sophisticated).

I want you to get drunk and show off your scars to someone you fancy.

I want you to have a hangover so bad that you question your very existence.

I want to say to you ‘You’re exactly the same as you were when you were a baby’ and make you roll your beautiful eyes.

I want you and Clara to start a secret Chatz Group (the letter ‘Z’ makes a comeback in 2037) used solely for moaning about me and how I think I’m so ‘patient and chilled out’.

It will be called ‘MumMoanz’.

I want you to visit Glanny and Michael and Grandad and Gina and secretly wish you were at the pub.

I want you to come to GOSH every Christmas with me and deliver presents to the kids (and secretly wish you were at the pub).

I want you to still pull that face you pull when you’re about to do something very naughty.

I want you to complain to Auntie Tessa about how I just don’t get you.

I want you and cousin Molly to visit Uncle James in Australia and never fully tell us exactly what happened out there.

I want you to moan about how you got my thighs.

I want us to still call it Basgetti.

I want you to laugh at the picture of me and my boring old friends dressed as a very sweaty Paw Patrol.

I want you to stare at the picture of you at Granny’s house – the one where you’re completely bald with face paint on – and try to remember.

I want to explain to you why me and Daddy have a very large drink on the 15th September every year.

I want you to turn 30 and be like ‘OH MY GOD I’M SO OLD’.

I want you to wonder why all my friends come to all your birthday parties.

I want your 30s to be the decade that everything changes.

But not like mine. Not that.

I want you to change jobs then really, really regret it.

I want to be honest with you about having children. Because you might not be able to.

But you’ll deal with it. And you’ll be the best Auntie.

I want you to move to Portugal for a year with cousin Ines, not zingping us for 6 months, and come back with a new them friend.

I want you to have a surprise generomony organized at the last minute.

And we won’t care because Tiago will get to give the speech he’s always wanted to give.

I want you to invite Magda, your favourite nurse.

And we’ll invite every single person from our 2020 Justgiving page.

I want you to be like ‘Why are the team from Admiral Insurance Cardiff here?’

And I’ll explain how they waxed their backs to raise money for your treatment. Now go get them a drink.

And we’ll show a video of you dancing in the corridors of Elephant Ward wearing a rainbow butterfly dress.

And everyone will cry for so many reasons.

I want you to get wrinkles.

And start to look like me and Tiago.