It’s official. My 7 year old daughter has finally been recognised as a young carer. As it should be, but oh, I have mixed feeling about it.

I think, I hope, it’s merely a generational thing, but I have always feared my children being labelled so, because I learnt, rightly or wrongly, that needing others to help care for me, particularly those who I am I meant to be responsible for, meant weakness, incapability.

But that speaks to how I have long viewed myself, my mothering. I am glad to say that mostly, this is changed now, though sometimes that small mistrusting voice I now know belongs to the child I was and sometimes still am, will mutter.

This week, Squidge finally had her Young Carer’s Assessment. I requested it when she was 5, both of us exhausted when Kev was hospitalised. I am someone that remembers the weight of trauma, but not the individual moments. I think of these instances now and shudder: how did we survive?

It was only with my most recent pondering on this at Squidge’s last play therapy session that I remembered, that whilst poor forgotten Immy had been just 5, with so many jobs to do to help Mummy, Gabby had just one year old. One. That crashed over me and suddenly, it didn’t matter anymore how we survived, only that we had.

And I couldn’t have survived any of it without my Immy Squidge, truly. Then, there was guilt, a steel determination that my girl would have the support she needed, to not feel different or left behind if the jobs did not stop coming. Of course, I am never to be in a position where I can promise that they will, ever. That is the reality of our family.

The man came from the council and sat at our dining room table, carefully asking Immy about herself, about her life in this family may be different to her friends.

My beautiful girl was sunshine and positivity about it all. I’m not sure this is what I wanted. I had been concerned that if we all looked like we were coping today, no-one would remember Immy on the inevitable days we were not. I never, ever want to be a burden to my children.

I also do not know if my seven year-old could articulate her mum presenting a burden to her life. But I do know that, bless her, she has inherited my frustration. I recognise it, I know it, as well as her beautiful voice. So I didn’t jump in, let her speak, let her truth be her own, saving mine until last.

“I can have lots of jobs to do.” Immy said.

“Does that get frustrating?”

“No,” my daughter replied, not a breath missed. “It makes me happy, I like helping my mummy.”

I blew her a kiss from my spot on the sofaas my heart swelled, even if I feared that in her competency, her hopes of help might be dwindling.

“Do you think any of your friends have to do extra jobs like the ones you do?”

“No, because none of them have a mummy that is disabled.”

She talked also about not talking to her friends about her life with me because they wouldn’t understand and though she would, she disliked having to describe that her mum was different to others they might have seen. But I love that, with no prompting, her next sentence was:

“But I like that my mummy is different. It makes her special and unique.”

I have never said such a thing about myself to my daughter. To my shame perhaps, because I need to learn that my daughters will only learn to be positive about themselves by my own example.

Those were her words and hers alone. They are the nicest thing anyone has ever said about this disabled mummy. From my girl, about her mummy.

So what does the label matter, either Squidge’s or mine? Squidge’s means she’ll get to go to a social club with other children in a similar situation. She is excited by the prospect that she might recognise some of them, the reality of our home life no longer unspoken. She will still get to be herself.

The counsil worker went to great pains to tell my Squidge what a kind and caring girl it was clear she was and how important it would be to hold on to those aspects of herself as she grows up. It was very sweet and I felt very grateful.

Then it was my turn to speak.

“She copes so well, but we just don’t want her to feel different or alone. Kev’s health still isn’t fully managed yet and if he goes to hospital, a lot has to land on me and then Immy. If it’s good, it’s great but when it isn’t – and we have no idea when that comes – it’s hell.”

He smiled. “A carer is defined as a child who is doing things that another nine kids are not. Imogen is clearly doing things and having to consider things her friends don’t. Wearing a watch to contact Dad in case you fall? That’s a big responsiblity at seven. She just doesn’t see it because it’s her life. She’ll get a lot out of carer’s club.”

Later, with a confused frown, I said to Kev: “Is her smart watch such a strange thing?”

“Yes.” Kev said slowly. “Other kids don’t have to do that, Jo. It’s just completely usual to her.”

There’s comfort to be be taken that Immy has completely normalised me as her mum. The guilt doesn’t have to prick so much.

We are just us. Immy & Jo. Young carer & Mum.