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/)

Silence is golden?

At what point does listening in on your kids become spying? Although the current debate over whether of not parents should read their children's texts and emails isn't something I have to worry about just yet (though it seems foetuses will be getting iPads soon, the way things are going), it has made me wonder about when to give them a little privacy.
Obviously,with M sharing their room, we still have a baby monitor in with the twins, and can hear their every move. They are 3 years and 2 months now, and I wonder at what point most people switch their monitors off. If we continue to keep an ear on M until she's that age, it means we'll be prying into the twins' private time when they're 5. Surely that can't be right? But at what point do I cut the cord?
In truth, I could probably hear everything I need to hear without a monitor already, especially when we're upstairs in bed, no more than a few feet across the landing from the girls' room. When our monitor broke recently, I was still easily woken by M's 7am demands for milk. But I wasn't ready to let go of my crutch. we bought a new monitor, and whenever M's napping, or the girls are in bed, it's by my side. I can hear them cry, and I'm comforted by the snuffling and sounds of gentle breathing that form the background music of my evenings. Which is weird, because usually I hate breathing. Not the act of it, obviously, but the sound. My husband endures an onslaught of pushes and nudges and kicks if  the poor bloke comes to bed with a noisy cold. I feel bad if I wake (or hurt) him, but I just can't sleep through snoring.Unless it's the girls', then the gentle snuffles easily lull me into contented sleep. Isn't it strange how things you hate suddenly become adored when they belong to your children? Like feet. I hate feet. Cannot bloody stand anyone's feet other than my own ( upon which I love to lavish every luxury), however I could kiss and tickle and snuggle my daughters' feet all day. But I'm getting off the point, which is am I intruding on the twins?
Although their dad or I do have to occasionally go into to see to them in the night, it's very rare and only usually when they're poorly. They pass out when they hit the pillows at 8pm and wake up chattering to each other at 8am. They could easily get out of bed and open their door themselves if they chose to, but despite six months in proper beds, we've yet to have any night-time incursions into our room. They simply chatter away until their dad or I come in, or if one of them needs the loo or is getting bored, they shout until we drag ourselves out of bed. Removing the monitor would encourage them to start getting themselves up and about, and I trust them not to disturb M if she does happen to be having a lie-in. I do truly believe they're ready. I'm just not sure I am.
Having M in the room is a convenient excuse. Although she is also a great sleeper, I do have to sometimes comfort her in the night and, at 16-and-a-half months, I think she's too young to be out of earshot. But at what point will that change? Her dad and I have already decided we'll probably move her to a bed next winter, so she can have a nice cosy duvet and warm blankets rather than a sleeping bag. She only turns 2 in October so, as with so much, it seems she'll be hitting this milestone earlier than her sisters, whose cots we converted at over 2-and-a-half. They took to the change with so much enthusiasm and such ease that it was obvious they'd been ready for a while, so I don't worry about M doing the same. But should I also take that chance to give her and her sisters some privacy as well? Or should I take that plunge even earlier? I just don't know.
Listening in on 3-year-olds hardly seems an invasion, but on 4-year-olds, 5-year-olds? When should I stop snooping?

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.