Better together?

It was the end-of-term nursery assembly. We been looking forward to it for weeks. With the twins showing great leaps in confidence, finally seeming to really enjoy going to preschool, we couldn't wait to see the effects on stage. At the Easter show, both had shyly performed a few actions, but didn't seem to want to sing anywhere near as loudly as they do at home. Now, though, our hopes were high.

G and T seemed to have left their shy days behind them

G and T have both come on in leaps and bounds. T especially always bursts in each day, showing off whatever she's wearing to teachers and children alike, and throwing herself into the nearest game. G is still the shyer of the two, but she always seems pleased to be going, and has begun to talk to the teachers in a voice they can actually hear. They have both spontaneously drawn pictures at home that they insist on taking to their teachers, and are always telling tales about their little friends. In the dance class I take them too, they are in their element. By all accounts, they have the whole class in giggles as they gleefully pretend to be elephants or fairies. At home, they sing from dusk until dawn. They know the words to any nursery rhyme you could care to mention, and aren't afraid to ad lib if they do find themselves at a loss. In short, I was sure they were going to stand on that school stage and shine.
And, well, one of them did. T grinned from start to finish. She joined in all the actions, smiling a huge smile at the teacher hidden away behind the curtain if she did need a memory prompt. She looked so proud as she waved to Mummy and Daddy, Grandad, Grandma and her wee sister, and laughed and smiled with the little girl seated next to her. M, in the audience, copied along as best she could, singing and wiggling and generally having to be restrained from jumping on the stage. My girls are clearly born performers. Well, two of them are.
G did nothing. Seated on the other side of the stage from her sister, she sat cross-legged, with her arms folded in front of her and didn't utter a word. She'd been handed a pair of socks to hold up during the Spotty Sock Song, but they sat, untouched, on her laps, despite the best encouraging efforts of her teacher. When she had to move at one point when a few of the older kids stood up to sing, she was physically shuffled along by the teacher. Nothing could bring a reaction. She was still. Mute. It broke my heart.

But what's going on behind those big brown eyes?

Maybe she wasn't as confident as I'd thought. Maybe she was still scared. She looked so small. I wished they'd seated her with her sister, sure that she would have felt so much more comfortable. Sure enough, as they filed out, at the end, I don't know whether G reached for comfort or if T sensed her sister needed her, but they were hand in hand. I melted. They had each other again. They could always have each other. With still a year left to make the decision, I resolved there and then that I would request they be placed in the same class in primary school. My husband and I talked about it that night.
'I think it made the school decision easier,' I said after we'd discussed the show.
'Yes,' he nodded. 'I think it is right to separate them.'
Maybe we need that year to decide after all.
We both saw each other's arguments. I feel they have a huge advantage and I don't see why we should deny them it. I know most kids goes to school alone, but they haven't had a constant companion their whole life. They've faced everything together. We would be ripping the girls apart. But they are by no means joined at the hip in nursery, often playing separately and barely noticing if the other is taken out of the room. I don't think they need to be split up, so why do it?
My husband meanwhile pointed out that G perhaps needed a push out of T's shadow. She's perfectly happy playing alone, but tends to follow T's lead when joining with others. Most of their friends I think are ones T has made for both of them. If they go to school together, they'll probably sit together and the pattern will continue. Perhaps they'd both benefit from having to find their own way.
We ended up even arguing the other's side. My ever-practical husband wondered whether separate classes would mean separate activities, and our lives would become a logistical nightmare. I meanwhile, conceded that it would be good for the girls not to be seen as a set. Although I think this is far less of a problem for non-identical twins like mine, there is a tendency to see multiples as a unit, to think that they share the same skills, have the same personality. Nothing could be further from the truth with G and T, but perhaps our placing them in the same class would emphasise this stereotype.
We were getting nowhere. All I knew was that the thought of separating them was like a dagger to my gut. And that my finding it difficult shouldn't be a determining factor.
For now, I'm going to have a word with G's key worker, and check that my original thoughts were correct. That G has grown in confidence, and that the show was a blip. I hope that she shows her true personality to everyone there. She is brights, bubbly, emotional, feisty and oh so clever. I worry that by being shy, she is not being stimulated. She has always has a flair for language, and having been doing spelling and phonetics at home, both G and T are starting to be able to read. If she says nothing, will she be getting bored? Do the teachers have any idea what she's capable of? Or does she sit quietly, saying nothing?
I take comfort in my own early school reports, which always highlighted my good test scores and obvious intelligence (my skills may have waned in the past three decades, but I was quite the clever 5-year-old you know!) but time and again, said I was painfully shy. My parents couldn't understand it, often double-checking the name on the report. I was anything but quiet at home. I was cheeky and loud and always had to be the centre of attention. I eventually came out of my shell in the outside world, and I'm sure G will too. I just can't decide how best to help her do it.
To separate or not the separate. We've got a year to decide...

Photos copyright SS Kelman (http://pkperspective.co.uk/)

Parenting under the influence

This week I got drunk. I went out with actual adults and drank actual alcohol. I never do that any more. Turns out there's a very good reason for that. Oh God, the hangover... I wanted to curl up in a ball and sob. Only I can't. I'm a mum-of-three. Mercifully, it was Sunday, so my husband was there to take up the slack. Having attempted to get up and help them get dressed, but been unable to actually hold myself upright without vomiting, I pleaded for mercy and retreated back to bed. I needed a day off.

 I love this little lot... but a day off would be nice

A day off. I haven't had one of those for three-and-a-half years. Before kids, if you are ill or exhausted or have the hangover from hell, you can pull the duvet back over your head and plan nothing more for the day than a heroic trip to the loo or, if you're feeling really ambitious, the kettle. But as I curled back round the sick basin, the guilt pounded in my already-pounding head. Mine is not the kind of job that comes with sick days and holidays and tea breaks. It's an 24-hour, seven-days-a-week kind of deal. 

I've got up and cared for my girls through vomiting bugs from which I was also suffering, I've survived on barely any sleep, but still made it to the playpark, and through four months of morning sickness, I provided two toddlers with three meals a day, every mouthful of which made me want to throw up.

But finally, after three-and-a-half years, I was beaten. I don't know whether it was my age (possibly), the fact I hardly ever drink now (probably) or the beer that seemed a really good idea after an evening of wine, wine and more wine (most definitely), but I felt awful. Skin-tearingly, soul-devastatingly awful. I could barely move without vomiting, and just wanted to sleep forever. It hadn't helped that little M had decided not only to have a disturbed night, but also to reject her father and demand only her wreck of a mummy sit up with her half the night. Unable to sleep off my excesses, they hit me fall-force the following day. 

But I never take time off. I've had a few days out, and get some regular time to myself every Tuesday with the twins and nursery and M with my mum. But I still get them dressed, I still get them breakfast and find their shoes and make sure everyone has their bag. I still get back in time to cook their tea and bath them and kiss them goodnight. I've had only one night away from my girls in their life, and that was unintended when a flight back from a funeral got cancelled. I'm a full-time mum. Literally.

But I couldn't do it. I had to go back to sleep. So I swallowed the guilt (then threw it back up again. Probably) and shut away my world. Until lunchtime. Even dying didn't get me a whole day off. By 2pm, I was up and dressed, and taking the girls round to see their granny, who went all maternal herself, and nursed me with tea and toast. I guess you never take time off from being a mum. I know as the girls get older, they'll start making their own breakfast, taking their own baths, going out with their own friends, and I'll get more time off. I'll be less vital. I may even take more time for myself. I'll be about to go out with friends, relax and have a glass of wine... Not that I'm ever drinking again... Where's that basin...

Photos copyright SS Kelman (http://pkperspective.co.uk/)     

Frenemies

Best friends... or closest of enemies?

Who'd want to be an only child, huh? No one to play with, no one to share with? Sounds a bit dull to me. Blissfully quiet though.
Recently, I've spent most of my time splitting up arguments and refereeing disagreements about, well, everything. Case in point, the walk back from the bus-stop we use to get to and from nursery. There are two options - 'the road way' and 'the step way'.
'Which way shall we go today?' I asked the other day.
'Road way!' shouted G.
'Step way!' screamed T simultaneously.
A stand-off ensued until I suggested we take turns in choosing.
'So, who will choose today, and who gets the choice tomorrow?' I asked.
'Me today!' yelled T.
'No me!' demanded her sister.
There is simply no way to win. Given a choice, they will automatically demand different things. Or the same thing, if that makes it harder. They battle over every toy, every space, every scrap of my attention. And they have extra competition too, in the shape of a bossy 19-month-old, who thinks using the phrase 'Excuse me!' means you can barge through anything - and anyone - you want without taking prisoners. T, especially, has lost all patience with being one of three.
'Me! Me! I have something to say to you!' has become a familiar cry.

 Sometimes, there just isn't enough Mummy to go around

And this little bundle of cheekiness doesn't help!

When I drop the girls at nursery, they always wander off to play hand-in-hand, best of friends, facing the world together. But back home, they are in competition for everything. It's exhausting. And their fights aren't even what I'm really sick of. The sound of my own nagging voice is almost unbearable.
'Don't do that! Stop fighting! Get off your sister! No, don't draw on that! Take turns! You need to share! Stop licking the window!'
I'm horrid. I signed on for the nappies, the sleepless nights, the wrecked body... I didn't know I was going to become a monster.
'God, all I ever do is tell them off,' my husband complained to me recently. 'I sound like such a grumpy old man.'
A grumpy old couple. How did that sneak up on us? Does it happen to all parents? And do you ever get to turn back into the easy-going, fun-loving human you're pretty sure you used to be? I'm beginning to feel sorry  for my children. If I'm sick of the sound of my own whinging, goodness knows how they feel. I just want to have fun with them. I want to be a playful, happy, laid-back earth mother. Just how old do they have to get before I have a chance at that?

Photos copyright SS Kelman http://pkperspective.co.uk/

On My Own

The great thing about having twins is that they always have each other. G and T shared a womb, then a cot, then a room... They had a friendly face there when they started playgroup and nursery. They're best friends, confidantes and constant companions.They have a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on. They're so lucky.

But the problem with having twins is they always have each other.

From the time they were a little bump, the twins have shared everything

I read recently about a fellow twin mum who's started having the occasional day where she drops just one at nursery, and enjoys some one-on-one time with a single child at a time.

This might seem like I shocking confession, but I had simply never thought of that.

I've spent the past three-and-a-half years ensuring that G and T are individuals. I didn't give them matching names, I've never dressed them alike, and wherever possible, I buy them different toys. But in my quest to make sure no one sees my girls as a set, it seems I may have overlooked someone Me.

They've always had someone to snuggle up to

It's been a great comfort as I've (reluctantly) sent the girls out to face the big bad world that even when they don't Mummy there, they do have each other. But I realise now that not only do they have each other there when Mummy's not around. They have each other there when Mummy is around. M gets some time with me when the girls are at nursery, but the twins have never really had me to themselves. I'm constantly saying: 'One minute, Mummy's just...' or 'I just have to finish this with your sister...' or 'I only have one set of hands!' My children always have to fight for my attention. Maybe it's time they didn't have to.

They soon became best friends

I had a small taste of singleton time with T when I took her to the doctor the other day to have her eczema checked. Now, my little T can't exactly be accused of being short on words at the best of times, but realising she had me to herself, she went into overdrive. She literally did not stop talking the whole way there. And I mean literally. She barely stopped for breath. She knew no one was going to interrupt her, so she made the most of every second. I heard all about every one of her favourite toys, we discussed nursery and teatime and Minnie Mouse. In the waiting room, she delightedly played in the toy house they have set up, making me (and an obliging other patient) cups of tea, and blowing me kiss after kiss. She loved it. And so did I. I didn't feel like I was neglecting anyone, I didn't have to stop her short or put her off. I could listen and play and cuddle just her. 

My only regret was that I didn't get to do the same with G.

My gorgeous girls make a cute picture, but they aren't a set!

So, I'm going to do it. I'm going to make a point of getting one-on-one time with all my girls. The twins have been loving nursery since they got back after Easter, so I may try just taking one at a time for a few days. Or, as that thought still makes me a bit shaky, I might line up Granny to watch a couple of kids at a time. The twins aren't a set, so I should stop treating them like one.

Having a best friend on hand every day sounds like a dream, but even the greatest of mates need a break from each other sometimes. And sometimes, a girl just wants her mummy all to herself.

Photos copyright SS Kelman (http://pkperspective.co.uk/) 

Like mother, like daughter

At what age does separation anxiety start to ease? When do you start to look forward to time apart, rather than worrying about what will happen? Start reveling in 'metime' instead of fearing it? Please tell me it's soon. Please tell me it's 36...

OK, so it's not only me. But it is my clone. To the outside world, T is the outgoing one. She's the twin who takes the lead, who introduces her shy sister around, who rolls up her sleeves and gets the games started. But I know my middle daughter. I know her because she's me. Although it was nothing more than chance that meant G took prime spot inside Mummy and became my firstborn, since they arrived, she's acted like the eldest. She's bossy and opinionated and generally believes she's in charge (although in reality,we all know little M is the boss around here...). Just like my big sister - just like everyone's big sister, I guess. I'm the second of three girls, and the fate that decided G would fulfill her firstborn destiny, also decided T would  match her mum's family position. Seems like it was fate, because she's just like me. She's cheeky and extrovert and loves to be centre of the action. And beneath that, she's hiding the fact that she's scared and insecure.

Do her nursery teachers get to see the cheeky T I do?

I had a catch-up today with G's nursery key worker. Nothing they said surprised me. She's a bit shy and quiet, and doesn't tend to speak up, but she's well-behaved and intelligent. Although 'quiet' is not a word that can remotely be associated with G in the house (my poor old ears and rapidly growing crop of grey hairs are testament to that), I know she's always been shy in social situations, clinging to me if I'm around or her twin sister if I'm not. But I also know that once she's familiar with somewhere, she's fine. She's a dreamer, who can be perfectly happy constructing a jigsaw or pouring water or looking at books by herself. I do think it's such a shame that they don't get to see the real G quite yet. That they don't know that she can sing and dance and spell and add. But she'll show them in time. She's not the one I worry about.

Under that shy exterior, G is a bundle of personality

I have T's one-to-one in a few days' time, and I honestly don't know what I'm going to be told. Which T do they get to see? 

The past few times I've taken the girls to nursery, I've noticed something. T gets very quiet. There's a look in her eye. Tears lurking somewhere deep down. When I ask if she's OK, she always smiles and says she's fine. But I know her. I am her.

As my mother will delightedly tell you, I was the queen of the tantrum. I could scream and shout and rage and wail with the best of them. But that just meant I was tired or grumpy. The real problems came when I went quiet. My silence was never a good sign. And T is her mummy's girl. Once she's at nursery and I've completed the abandonment she's feared, I'm pretty sure she manages to have fun. She always has tales to tell of what she's been up to, and I know she throws herself into looking after G, into making sure her shy sister's OK. Just like I used to do with my sisters. But does she really want to be there. I just don't know.

And I just don't know when she's going to outgrow it.

I'm a married thirtysomething, who's had a great career, a social life I loved, and now loves taking the girls to new and exciting places where we can have little adventures together and meet new people. But deep down, I'm still fearful. I'm still hiding the fears about what will happen, the worries that maybe no one really likes me. On days where I don't have M to concentrate on, when she goes off to have fun with Granny while the twins are at nursery, I never quite relax. After my meeting today, there wasn't really any time to get home and get stuck into any gardening or housework before I'd have to be heading back. So I went for a coffee. A latte, a biscotti and a copy of The Guardian. That's pretty much my idea of heaven. People watching, relaxing, time all to myself... But the whole time, I felt sick. Physically sick. I couldn't concentrate on anything more than headline, and barely tasted my coffee.

What if G doesn't feel confident enough to go to the loo when she needs? What if her clumsy genes (also inherited from me, I'm sorry to say) show themselves and she gets hurt? And what if T is sad? What if she is really sad? 

Those last two are the thoughts that really kill me. I'm so proud of that brave little face she puts on, of how she always looks out for her sister, but the thought of how hard it is for her underneath is like a knife to the gut. Of course, on my return, everyone was uninjured and unsoiled and perfectly happy, but I know as long as T goes quiet, I'll feel just the same tomorrow. I guess all I can do is encourage and smile and reassure her that I'll always come back. That herds or wildebeest and flocks of dragons could not stop me getting to her. And hope that in time she will relax. That she will begin to love the nursery that she could so easily love. That is a perfect place for her to learn to be herself without me there. Like her sister, when she's with someone she knows, she's bubbly and feisty and cheeky and bright, and all I can hope is that, with time, the whole world will get to see that. That the whole world will get to see both my girls in all their glory. Until them, I will just have to enjoy every minute I have with them, and learn to live with the times we are apart.

Photos copyright SS Kelman (http://pkperspective.co.uk/)

Power struggle

Do you ever feel like you've lost control? Control of your home, your children, your whole life? I've never been a control freak. I've never been obsessively neat, or super efficient, or remotely organised. But since I've become a mum, even things I thought I was in control of seem to have spiralled out of my reach. Things like this...

1) My house. I'm not a neat freak or a compulsive cleaner, but I like to think I at least used to be able to keep my home respectable enough. These days, it's a constant battle to find the worktop or the sofa or the floor. I am eternally picking things up and putting things away. I have cleaned and tidied more in the past three years than the rest of my life put together. Yet it is never clean. Never. Proper tidiness always just seems out of my reach. Especially in the kitchen. No sooner have a put everything away than more things just seem to appear there. I'm beginning to distrust my own memories. I mean, I thought I once saw a clean kitchen, but maybe my mind is playing tricks on me. Maybe I never really had a clean kitchen. Maybe no one has ever really had a clean kitchen. Maybe it's all made up by cleaning product manufacturers to squeeze money out of us as we grind ourselves into the ground.  Maybe it's just a myth...

2) My body. I don't just mean my figure, though that is also a distant memory, I mean my actual body. I rarely have fewer than two children attached to it at any one time. I thought when I said goodbye to pregnancy and breastfeeding that that would be it. I would be able to eat what I wanted, wear what I wanted and generally be in charge of my own body for the first time in years. Nope. Now, instead of having internal parasites sucking me dry, I have external ones clinging to my every limb. If I sit down to read or play with one of the girls, another will instantaneously appear to sit on my knee. Often, there are ferocious battles as three fight for only two legs. I am merely collateral damage, furniture to be used and dismissed at will. I seem never to be able to stand up when I want to, and often have to complete basic household tasks with one hand, while carrying a child in the other.

3) My brain. I forget things. Lots of things. Not that unusual, I grant you, but I'm frankly surprised I've made it this far through a sentence without losing track. OK, so I've always been a bit forgetful, but these days, it's a constant worry. It's not that I put things off as I don't have time. They just vanish from my brain. It's infuriating. I was tidying the dining table the other night, and kept noticing the half a melon still waiting to go back in the fridge. 'Must put that away,' I mumbled to myself. I found it the next night as I laid the table again. Not a single thought about it had entered my head in the 24 hours since I'd seen it. I'd been in the room numerous times, but no tiny inkling had drawn my head round to look on the table. And it's not just fruit that slips away. It took me no fewer than five trips to Boots to buy the girls new toothbrushes. I have shampoo, nappies, hair dye... but nothing during any of those trips drew me to the dental aisle. Each night as I picked up the toothpaste, I'd kick myself about the state of their brushes, but come the next morning, the thought would be gone, and I'd start the process all over again.

4) My children. Particularly my youngest. Yesterday, she pelted out into the garden while I was trying to get the twins in from nursery, and as I tried to herd her inside, she made a dash for the garden steps. Stone steps. Nine times out of ten, she stops at the top and grabs for the nearest hand to help her down. Not this time. As I ran screaming her name across the lawn, she simply stepped straight off the top one, and bounced down on her face. Luckily, all the damage seems to be a small cut and a bit of a bruise. All the damage to her that is. Not sure my heart will ever recover. And in the few hours since that event, I've also had to snatch a crayon out of her hand, just as she was about to insert it into her ear, catch her by the nappy as she tried to launch headfirst off the sofa into the book box, and dry another round of tears as she wrestled her way out of my arms and slipped over on the bathroom floor. I simply cannot keep up with her.

With the demands of three small children to meet, I just can't do all of it. I can't do any of it well. I feel like the children are running the place. I'm certainly not in charge any more. I can't be. I just can't be in charge of so many things at once.So, I have just one question. Will I ever be in control again?

Fear of failure

Starting preschool can be a scary time. Getting into a new routine, being separated from those you love, worrying that you'll do something wrong... And no, I'm not talking about the kids.
The twins have been in nursery for over a month now, and have easily got into the swing of things. Although they are still not as over-enthusiastic as some of the other wee ones about going each day (I think maybe the fact that they have a permanent playmate at home makes nursery an added bonus, rather than a looked-forward-to-treat) they are having fun, and both seem to have grown in confidence. T especially has become more independent than ever, insisting on completely dressing herself each day, and sending me out of the room if I dare to try to help her go to the bathroom. G is coming out of her shell too, though she does tend to let T take the lead and introduce her around when she's feeling shy. After all the dramas we had toilet training G, being a nursery seems to be helping with that too. She loves the perfectly G-sized toilets, and the independence she has to go all by herself whenever she pleases. But we have had a couple of slips. And therein lies my new biggest fear. The accident book.
Each afternoon at 3.15, an orderly queue of parents and grandparents file in to collect their little ones and are greeted by one of the nursery assistants at the door. Holding a book. The first time she stopped me to ask for a word, I didn't know what was coming.
'I just need you to sign this,' she smiled. 'G came up to one of the teachers and told them she'd wet herself. She's all changed and she wasn't upset. We just need you to sign in the accident book.'
She was friendly and casual, waving away my apologies and assuring me it happens, but I felt bad all the same. So when I was beckoned over on the way in one day the following week, my heart sank.
'She didn't realise she needed to go to the toilet and soiled herself,' the teacher explained.
'There was quite a lot and she does look a bit peaky now,' she added, explained that G's wasn't the only such incident that afternoon.
It soon emerged that G had caught a wee tummy bug but still, I felt bad. And now, every day as I file my way in, I'm torn between desperation to get my babies back, and fear of the book. As soon as I have a view of the teacher, I try to catch a glimpse of her hand.
Is she holding the book? Is she pulling aside anyone else? Is it for me??
I can feel my heart-rate start to rise as I get closer, desperately hoping that all I'll receive as a welcoming smile.
And nine times out of ten, that's all I do get. Those two are the only incidents we've had. But I still can't shake the feeling of shame.
Not of G. Never in a million years could I be ashamed of my bright, beautiful girl. This is all new to her. The odd accident is more than understandable, so why can't I help judging myself? Worrying that somehow I've let her down?
Potty training has been quite a journey. T was dry within maybe a week, and after an initial reluctance to poop in the potty, clean within a month. But my pride in how easily she coped is marred by the guilt I feel that G has struggled. After months of accidents, simply giving up on pull-ups and putting her in pants no matter what did eventually work and she has now been pretty much dry for a few months. But I just can't convince her to use the toilet to poop in. After introducing a system of 'no accidents all day' rewards, she's got into the habit of going in her night-time pull-ups in the morning, so it's not like I have a lot of mess to deal with, but I feel awful that I can't seem to get her over whatever mental barrier is stopping her using the toilet. And I can't help but worry that people will think I'm not doing a good enough job as her mum.
I never judge any other parent I see signing the book. All kids get distracted and forget to use the loo. But none of those mums had three kids in the space of two years. I feel like I have the justify that by being better. By not making mistakes. Are people looking at me and thinking that if I wasn't capable of raising these girls, I shouldn't have had so many? Do they think I'm not coping?
T was trained easily and little M has already started to run to the potty saying: 'Did a poop! Did a poop!' I can't see how she won't be out of nappies by the age of two. But I don't have two children. I have three. And I feel like I've let one of them down.
I'm actually quite relaxed about it from G's point of view. She'll do it when she's ready and her delayed cleanliness will make not one single ounce of difference to her life. But was there something I should have done to help her along the way that I missed? Was training her and T together a mistake? Should I have guessed she wasn't ready? Was trying too soon the cause of these fears now?
I don't imagine I'll ever know. One day, G will simply get up and go to poop in the loo, and this will all be behind us. But will I learn to go easier on myself? I don't know. I know I'm being ridiculous. With three times as many kids, it's only natural I'd be making three times as many mistakes. And despite all those mistakes, my girls are pretty great. They're bright, intelligent, funny and wonderful. I should accept that that is a reflection of my parenting skills. I had a lot of children in a short space of time. It wasn't exactly planned that way, but I knew what I was getting into. I have made mistakes, and I can assure you I'll make many more. But I love my girls more than anything in the world, and that's all that matters, right? If I have to sign the book again, I'll smile and thank them for taking care of my little girl. I'll keep trying to help G master this latest skill, but until she does, I'll still be just as proud of her as ever. I just have to work on being a little bit proud of me too.

Nothing ventured...

So, we did it. The twins have completed their first week at nursery, and we've all survived. The twins have been exploring new toys and meeting new friends. Little M has been enjoying having her Mummy and Granny to herself, and I've been enjoying all that luxurious me-time... Well, I've tried to. I really have. Turns out though I'm not very good at me-time. I'm sure I used to be quite good at that relaxing thing. I must just be out of practice...
Our week began with an hour-long nursery visit. I wasn't worried about that. I'd be there the whole time. What could upset me in that?
Turns out, everything.
Oh, the twins were fine. As we were being shown round, I could feel first T, then G pulling their hands out of mine as the variety of fun on offer proved too tempting. They played happily for the whole hour, even joining in on snack time and washing their own dishes, while I filled out all their paperwork. Perfect. Well yes. But then again, no. Whenever I looked up to see what they were doing, the girls just seem so small. The nursery has both 3-and 4-year-olds, but even amongst their peers, the twins were the littlest. They weren't premature (born at 38 weeks) or particularly tiny (6lb1 and 5lb4 respectively) but I think G and T have inherited their mum's small stature and still fit into clothes for 2-year-olds.
As T started ordering about another little girl who wasn't quite understanding the complexities of the game she'd invented, and G focussed studiously on feeding a baby doll,  however, it flooded over me that small they may be, but babies they aren't. It was the oddest feeling. The paperwork didn't help either, happily announcing regular activities such as music class and gym. All fantastic, of course. But all so, well, school-like. I just wasn't prepared for this to feel so different to playgroup. It's what I wanted of course, and I love the independence they are being given to make choices and get into good routines, but imagining them doing all these things just rocked me a bit. Then there's the colour groups. The twins have been placed in different ones, so although most of the time they can see and play with each other in the main room, they will be separated for certain activities. As the nursery teacher explained, I smiled and nodded my agreement.
 'Just what they need,' I confirmed. 'Getting used to the other not always being there.'
I tell you, I would have made a great actress. Inside, I was torn in two. I know most kids just have to deal with all this alone, but I've always had the comfort of knowing G and T are there together, with a permanent friendly face to rely on. They shared my womb, and have barely been apart since. Now, suddenly, I had to face the fact that that couldn't last forever. Of course I had to face it. Had they asked me, I'd have said the same thing - put them in different groups. But suddenly, I started to panic that I hadn't prepared them well enough, that the separation from their sister now would make this experience too hard. By the time my head hit the pillow that night, I was overwhelmed with, well, sadness. I still can't quite put a finger on why, but I felt utterly drained. And I hadn't even left them yet! That challenge came the following day...
With M off with Granny, we excitedly got ourselves together and headed to the nursery. Once I'd helped the girls into their indoor shoes and delighted over their personalised coat hooks, we collected their name cards to be dropped off at the snack area, and I cheerfully kissed them goodbye (an actress, I tell you, an actress). They threw vague waves over their shoulders and were gone, disappearing into a climbing frame without another glance in my direction. And that was that. I was alone.
I headed home and then, well, nothing. What was I supposed to do?
'Relax!' laughed my husband when I called him. 'Enjoy the break.'
A break? Well, OK... But first I'll tidy up... 
Once the place was presentable, I checked the clock.
An hour and a half to go...
I sat down. I fidgeted and squirmed.
How exactly does one rest?
I turned on the TV. Finding nothing at all of interest, I opted for a Got To Dance I had on Sky+. I actually managed to get so into a couple of the dances that I suddenly realised I had stopped thinking about the girls. I felt awful.
What if they need me? What if they're upset?
No, this resting thing was too hard. In the end, I steam cleaned all the floors in the house.
It was pathetic. I hate housework. Bloody detest it. And I moan constantly about how much I have to do. But it turns out motherhood has totally stripped me of the ability to be do nothing. I am incapable of inaction. I've never exactly been good at doing nothing, but after three years of constant motion, my itchy feet have become chronic.
I ran a bath the other night after the girls were in bed. The house was tidied, dishes done, I had nothing I needed to do, so thought I'd chill out. I sank into the lovely warm water and got stuck into my excellent book... I lasted about five minutes before my mind started going over all the things I could be doing, all the things tomorrow would bring, what I'd make for tea, how we'd entertain ourselves... In the end, I dyed my hair just so I'd be doing something.
Does this happen to all mums? Do we just become so used to constant demands and never-ending to-do list that we forget that actually, sometimes it's OK to do absolutely nothing at all. Just sit. Maybe read a magazine. Have a whole cup of tea. Then wash the cup of course. Maybe just get some hoovering done... I'm a lost cause.