India is my middle child. She’s eleven. The oldest is thirteen, the youngest is nine. We had to use a fertility clinic to get any kids at all and, of course it cost money. India almost wasn’t — a mandatory pregnancy test prior to a course of drugs showed that my wife was pregnant and a subsequent ultrasound confirmed this — and we are grateful every day of our lives that she is.

We’re English by birth and the kids were all born here, in sunny Northern California. Parents generally bring up their children by trying to recreate the good parts of their own upbringing, leaving out and warning against the parts that weren’t so good. Being a recent immigrant, we have had to interleave our formative experiences with the new realities such as :

1. Generally good, or at least predictable weather.
2. Completely different school systems
3. The razor-edge of a red-in-tooth-and-claw capitalist system (as opposed to a slushy comfy nanny-state socialism).
4. People who are often, shockingly unapologetic.

The difference between England and the US are hard enough to deal with without the maddening differences caused by technology. It’s no longer much a punishment to send your child ‘To Your Room’ when the said room would have appeared like a fantastic vision to us at that age.

Anyway, back to India.

India is a creative child, mostly sweet-natured but with a dislike of early mornings and most food groups.