Happily Imperfect. Stacey Solomon

shout above the din. ‘Bubbe’ is the traditional Jewish name for ‘Grandmother’. We’ve never been massively Jewish – we celebrate the Sabbath each week, of course, and Hanukkah, but that’s about it, these days. I wouldn’t dream of denying my family access to Christmas, Easter, Diwali or any festival outside Judaism.

      Nana’s eyes would twinkle and she’d shrug in that wholly Jewish way, which was permission enough for me to belt out my favourite chart hit of the moment as she stirred soup and fried dumplings ready for the feast – it went on through the evening due to lack of space.

      I had an ulterior motive. If I entertained the adults, made them laugh and sang songs to them, they gave me second or even third helpings. It was a totally primal instinct. If I acted like a performing seal, telling jokes, making everyone laugh, they’d throw me a fish! I really felt I was there for their pleasure, and what I got from it was more food and the feeling I could fit in with the adults.

      The first serving of chicken soup with kneidlach had the kids crammed round Nana’s cramped dining-table. Even a whiff of that distinctive smell takes me right back there, slurping the clear soup with its yellow stain from the chicken, the noodles, carrots and unbelievably tasty dumplings – if anyone left one I’d have it. The table was surrounded by random garden chairs, eight in total, though it only really fitted four.

      Next, the adults would eat their soup so we’d all swap over, though I’d always go back for more delicious soup – Jewish penicillin, as Nana called it. Then we’d have the main course, a roast chicken with yellow rice. No matter how many times my dad or I have tried to make Nana’s yellow rice, we have always failed to reproduce the warm spiced flavour. Most of the time we wouldn’t have pudding because by then Nana was too exhausted from cooking, but if we were lucky, I mean reeeally lucky, she’d make us meringues. It’s another family mystery as to how she got them so chewy on the inside and crunchy on the outside. I’ve never been able to master her recipe, and I don’t think Dad’s ever managed it either. Most of the time we got a fruit pop – a long stick of iced water and sugar – and were happy with that.

      Nana died aged eighty-six. She never got to see either of my boys. Zachary was born a couple of years after she passed, which, even after all this time, still makes me feel sad. Those evenings were legendary. In fact, it was an epic childhood, though by many people’s standards we had very little except each other. Nana never had a spare penny in her life, but if she had, she’d have given it to one of us children. She thought she had everything, though, because she was rich in family and love.

      My family has given me a sense of belonging that has carried me through all the hardships and times when I thought I wouldn’t make it. Their love and support have defined and shaped me. I’d be nothing without them. I know how lucky I am to have them. They are my tribe, my clan, my brethren.

      Growing up, I never really appreciated how close we all were, and it’s only since I’ve been a mum that I’ve realized how important family has been to me, and how I’d almost taken it for granted. For instance, Jemma and I used to fight loads. We argued so much that Dad built a fake wall out of plasterboard, which cut our shared room in half, including the window, to separate us. I was gutted because it meant that Jemma’s clothes weren’t so accessible for me to steal – that was what lots of our fights were about.

      The other part of me was thrilled to have a space of my own even though it was hardly bigger than a cardboard box. It meant I could spend hours on the phone to my friends and Jemma wouldn’t be able to snitch on me – another cause of our arguments. Despite that, as Jemma and I grew up we became the closest of sisters. I call her every day and now we’re best friends.

      Strong women run in my family. Nana, who was the daughter of Polish immigrants, brought up her four children single-handed and alone after my grandfather died when Dad was young. Nana Toby, as she called herself – she hated her real name ‘Mathilda’ – was progressive in her views. She let my dad build a darkroom in her cupboard when he became interested in photography, which later became his profession. Later, she looked after us three when Mum had to leave early in the morning for work. I was still at primary school before Mum and Dad divorced. Mum worked for the Department of Social Security while Dad was setting up his photography business, which meant that neither parent could be there in the mornings to get us ready for school.

      When my mum left quietly for the office, so I wouldn’t be upset, I always found her out, ran to a top window and cried, ‘Don’t go! Don’t leave me!’ I was never one for understatement.

      I was eight years old when my parents sat us down one day and told us they were separating.

      ‘Jemma, Stace, Matt, we’ve got something to tell you,’ Dad began.

      ‘Move over,’ Jemma hissed at me, wiggling her bum into the space where I was trying to sit.

      ‘No, you move. Muuum, Jemma’s sitting on me!’ I wailed.

      All three of us were crammed into the tiniest, ugliest brown leather sofa you can possibly imagine.

      ‘Listen, you three. This is important,’ said Mum. ‘We’re going to divorce because me and your dad love each other but we’re not in love any more.’

      There was silence, broken by Jemma bursting into tears.

      ‘Oh,’ was all I managed to say. Jemma was very upset, and I assumed I should be too, but our parents made it so easy and friendly that I wasn’t sad for long. Matthew took it hardest. He was only seven when they split up, so he found it really confusing.

      I’d had no clue that Mum and Dad’s relationship was ending. They were so amicable, though we always knew when Mum was having a little cry about it: she’d hoover downstairs and we knew not to disturb her.

      I think Mum had been feeling neglected because Dad worked so hard setting up his photographic company, but the reasons for their separation were never discussed. I always felt it was their business, not ours. Dad moved out, and not long afterwards he bought the house in our road. Each week, Mum had us from Sunday to Wednesday, Dad would pick us up from school on Wednesday and we’d stay with him for the rest of the week. They made it so smooth. They did the most selfless thing by putting us first.

      A few years later, in 2000, when I was at the end of primary school, Dad met Karen. He introduced us to her that summer. Instantly, we loved her and she loved us. All credit to my mum, she made a huge effort to be nice to Karen and they got on really well. If Mum hadn’t liked her, we’d have struggled.

      As an adult, I look back at that time and can see how difficult it must have been for Karen, fitting into a close family. She and her children, Aaron, Samantha and Ray, came on holiday to Turkey with us, and it must have been strange being there with all of us, including my mum, while she was starting a new relationship. Dad was so happy, and she was such a lovely lady, that the holiday didn’t feel awkward at all. I’ll never forget that Karen bought me a book for the plane, The Prince of Egypt. It was the first time our new extended family had had a holiday together. To me, it was exciting, different and lovely. Dad was happy. Karen was happy – and so were we.

      Once Dad and Karen had moved in together, half of our week was spent with our bigger family. The first time my new step-siblings stayed overnight with us, I insisted my new sister Sam slept in my bunk with me. When it came to bedtime, we lay there silently for what seemed like ages. It was really awkward. I didn’t know her or she me. All of a sudden Sam put her foot out and caught the white sheet, which made me exclaim that her foot looked like Julius Caesar because it was wrapped in a toga.

      ‘It’s Julius Cheeser!’ one of us yelled, and then we were laughing. We laughed so loudly and for so long that Dad had to come and tell us to stop. After that, whenever we stayed over, there’d be silence, then one of us would shout, ‘Julius Cheeser!’ We still do it today –though we’ve given up sharing a bunk bed!

      I don’t know how Dad and Karen could afford to feed us. We’d walk in from school and all six of us would head straight to the fridge. Most of the time Dad cooked.

      One