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/

Public image

Do you ever wonder about how people see you? When you walk down the street, what do other people think? Who do they assume you are? What do they think you do?
Usually, I'm pretty easy to typecast. No make-up, a bit disheveled, bags under the eyes, pushing a buggy, two pre-schoolers in tow... I'm easily identifiable as a full-time mum to too many children. But I wasn't always this way. There was a time, not that long ago, when I straightened my hair, always wore mascara and wouldn't be caught in anything but fabulous heels. I enjoyed taking time in the morning to choose my outfit, and always made a beeline for the nearest Starbucks to get my beloved skinny latte. Striding off the Tube, sending exasperated looks at tourists as I crossed the Millennium Bridge, I looked every inch the young, professional Londoner. Even with a growing baby bump, I maintained some semblance of style. I only sacrificed the heels at four months because my physiotherapist gave me a row when he caught me in three-inch Mary-Janes when I visited for treatment on a misaligned pelvis. Those shoes were worth it though. Powder-blue suede.... Anyway, that all ended the second two tiny bundles of joy entered my life. My make-up gathered dust, my workout clothes became all I could fit into, and my beloved shoes were packed away. In short, I became a mum.

From, erm, professional...                                                 .... to wife

But that's OK, because when I go out, it's obvious. The whole world can see I'm a mother. It's who I am now.
So, it feels very strange when I go out on my own. On Tuesdays, my mum always takes little M for the afternoon, so once I've dropped the twins at nursery, I have no one to take care of but me. Even after a few months of this routine, it still feels strange. Not least because as I pay for my shopping or order a coffee, the person I'm talking to doesn't know I'm a mum. If a woman walks past pushing a double buggy, she probably mistakes my sisterly smile for politeness. Or pity. She doesn't know that I know. I'm in the club too. One day, I will go back to work and become a journalist again. Or a shop assistant or a librarian or a fireman. Well, probably not that last one. But the point is, I will also be a mum. Forever and most importantly, a mum.
It feels very odd when no one knows that.

 ...to container ship....

...to Mum!

If a stranger looks very closely, the rings on my left hand tell them I'm a wife. But unless they actually lift my top and check out the stretchmarks, they have no way I've knowing I'm a mother.
This week, my sister is visiting and as she and my mum walked down the road with the buggy, it occurred to me that people would assume she's M's mum. I didn't quite know what to make of that thought. I wasn't jealous. That wouldn't make any sense. It just unsettled me. I'm so proud of my clever wee girl, of all my beautiful wee girls, it felt weird to think that people would be unconsciously giving someone else the credit. That makes me sound awful, doesn't it?
But I can't help it. Being a mum is my job now, and everyone wants a good performance review, don't they? Those girls are a reflection of me. And I'm a reflection of them. I guess even if sometimes the outside world doesn't know I'm mum to three wonderful young ladies, I do. And that's enough.
Would be nice if folk didn't just think I'm a slob though...

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?

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?

I Dreamed a Dream in times gone by...

I've been thinking a lot this week about the paths not taken. About the dreams you have in childhood that just seem to be washed away by the years. About the dreams I had. Dreams that a few years ago, I might have still harboured some faint hope that some chance encounter would lead to fruition. But dreams which now, I have to confess, are gone. And that I don't really miss. Because that's the advantage of parenthood. I don't need dreams. I have three little girls whose dreams are still out there. Whose dreams I can help make true.
Wow, I really have come over all philosophical haven't I? No, not philosophical. Weird. Rereading that first paragraph, I feel like maybe I might be channelling Oprah. Oh dear. Apologies, but it wasn't me, it was Les Misèrables.
In a very rare occurrence this week, I went to the cinema. I used to go all the time, but three small children have meant that for the past three years, the closest I've got to culture is singing: 'Use your hands for turning, turning, turning, turning, clapping, clapping, up, down,' along with the Little Einsteins to Brandenburg Concerto No 5. (Honestly, that piece is ruined for me now. And Eine Kleine Nacht Musik. I love balloons, I love, I love balloons...) Anyway, for some important things, I make an effort. Important things like musicals.
I love musicals. Hollywood, Broadway, Gene Kelly, Doris Day... Love them. While I lived in London, I was lucky enough to see a few incredible shows. Guys and Dolls had me actually bouncing up and down in my seat, partly out of excitement, partly in an effort to stop myself running onto that stage. In another life, I would have been up there. OK, so it's a life where I am infinity more talented, but oh, it would have been fabulous. My real love is dance, but sometimes, just the idea of being up there on stage is enough to carry me away, acting or singing, Ophelia or Adelaide, or Eponine...
As my mum and I joined in the spontaneous applause as the closing credits rolled, we could barely look at each other. Mum scrambled for tissues as we both fell apart. Les Mis was fabulous. We spent half the time crying, the other half fiercely planning revolution. Well, not a whole half. Because there was a little part of me also remembering the dream. I would have loved to have been up there, Dreaming a Dream, or being On My Own... But whereas the 25-year-old me might have imagined stumbling into an audition and being discovered, the 35-year-old mum-of-three lives slightly closer to the real world. It ain't happening. But it's not just me. This realisation comes to us all.
While watching the cricket the other day (well, he was, I was probably removing my own eyes with a pencil to avoid having to watch), my husband turned to me and sighed: 'I think it's time to announce my retirement from international cricket,' he confessed. 'Probably not going to get that call-up from Roy Hodgson now either.' I think his recent 37th birthday (and the fact he is an accountant and not a decorated England sporting star) has brought to the same epiphany that I've had. We've had our shot. It's the kids' turn to dream now. And truth is, I wouldn't swap my average stay-at-home mum life for even the most glittering of West End careers. I have a gorgeous husband, three beautiful children, a lovely home and a life I love.
All three girls are already showing an interest in dance, and if that turns out to be their dream too, then I'll do everything I can to help them. But if it doesn't that's fine too, because it isn't about my dreams any more, it's about theirs. Unless of course, we can find a way for their careers to make me famous enough by association to get invited onto Strictly... Well, a girl can dream...

Special needs

G and T - 3yrs  M - 14 months

So that's it. I'm no longer a mum to three under 3. The twins have had their birthday, and all I can do is sit back and try to take it in. I did it. I survived. I've been changing nappies constantly for three years, I don't remember how it feels to not have the steriliser running and I long since said goodbye to any semblance of order. And I've laughed. A lot. But sitting here now, over three years after this crazy adventure began, I can't really take it in. I used to dream about what it would be like when the twins were a bit more grown-up, a bit less dependant on me. I thought about the time I'd get to spend with M, the one-on-ones she'd missed out on as a baby. Only now we've all made it, I don't really know how to feel.
For a start, M is only mildly interested in one-on-ones. She'd far rather be doing whatever G and T are doing. Yes, she still runs to me whenever things don't go her way, but she's such a big girl already.
'Read it to M,' she demanded earlier, ramming a book into my face. Her language is staggering, thanks largely to 14 months of hearing two chatty toddlers going on and on and on. She has been walking for six months already and is often spotted flying past after her sisters, exclaiming: 'I running! I running!'
The twins, meanwhile, although they seem to have saved the worst of the 'terrible twos' until after their third birthday, are such little ladies. They will quite happily play for hours without any input from me. They love spending time with Granny, like going to playgroup, and will soon be starting nursery. They just don't need me like they used to.
When we were out the other day, as so often happens, their cute hand-holding attracted the attention of every pensioner in town.
'Aw, are they twins?' asked one lady. 'How old are they?'
'They just turned 3,' I smiled. 'And the little one's 14 months.'
Then she said it. 'You have your hands full!'
That's another thing I can't remember. The last time I went a whole week without someone saying that to me.
'That's for sure!' I laughed for the millionth time. But this time, as I walked away, I couldn't help going over what I'd said. 'They just turned 3.' I could have easily just said: 'They're 3 and the baby's 1.' Why did I feel the need to emphasise the fact that they had only just had their birthday? To play up their youth? To make the gap between them and M seem as small as possible?
Because, I realised suddenly, I was going to miss the attention. As the girls all get older, our family will begin to seem no different than any other. We'll stop standing out. Loads of people have three kids, don't they? We won't be special any more. I won't be special any more. A childish reaction? Of course. One I'm proud of? Certainly not. But raising these girls has been bloody hard work, and I want all the recognition I can get. I want to draw out those looks of admiration and shock as long as possible!
I never planned on having so many kids so close together, but a very successful bout of IVF then a little miracle ensured that I was a mum to three under 3. To three under 2. And I survived. I'm proud of that, and of how my girls are turning out. Yes, loads of people have three kids, but not many do it all in two years, so what's wrong with letting people know that I did for just a little longer? My babies aren't babies any more, and life is nowhere near as tough as it used to be. I was a mum to three under 3, but I survived.
But no one needs to know that just yet, do they?

Best behaviour

G&T - 35-and-a-half months  M - 13 months

As a parent, you spent a lot of time worrying about messing up your kids. Will a few too many cartoons every now and again stunt their learning? Will resorting to fish fingers one night irrevocably ruin their future diet? Will giving in on one too many argument create selfish, miserable adults? Well, no, probably not. But we worry anyway. But every now and again, your kids to something to remind you that you're not so bad as this parenting lark after all.
I live about 50 yards from a handy little shop, to which I can easily pop to grab any provisions. I say easily. That was before M could walk. When I realised I needed milk the other day, I got the girls all ready and started to put M in her buggy, but she put up such a fight, I thought I'd treat her by carrying her instead. She didn't see it as a treat. She struggled all the way there and back, desperate to gain her freedom and refusing to see anything but injustice in the fact her sisters were allowed to walk by themselves. The following day, I ran out of bread (I know, I know, why didn't I buy that the day before? Well, I have a lot of kids, you know. Things drop out of my brain fairly easily these days...) but this time I had a plan. The twins still had their little animal-shaped backpacks and a little (well, a lot) of searching (and increasingly frustrated mumbling to self) didn't reveal one of the clip-on reins, but did uncover a clip-on strap from an old handbag. So, I got the twins into their coats, and M into a ladybird backpack and an utterly adorable all-in-one rainsuit, clipped on the strap and set off, feeling smug about my own brilliance.
M will love the walk to the shops now. I'll get my bread, and we'll have fun...
Turns out, toddlers don't see being on reins as freedom. M completely refused to go where she was bidden, determinedly aiming for every open gate, constantly fascinated by the kerb and completely fixated on a little terrier being taken for his walk on the other side of the road. The 50-yard trip took a good ten minutes, with me cajoling, tugging, carrying and persuading, all the while desperately trying to also keep an eye on the twins, calling at them to stop, frantically paranoid that every passing car was suddenly going to swerve from the road and plough into the precious little girls just out of my reach.
But when I finally made it back into the garden, bread in hand and nerves in tatters, while the girls all splashed happily in a giant puddle in the drive, I realised something. I needn't have worried. Although I did have to keep shouting to the twins to wait for Mummy, they stopped immediately at every call, waited patiently at every kerb without having to be told, checked carefully for traffic and didn't even come close to stepping into the road, instead walking carefully alongside the garden walls. In short, they were perfectly behaved. Perfectly behaved because of me. Yes, they are good girls by nature, but their dad and I have always been careful to drill road sense into them, stopping and looking at every junction, always waiting for green men, no matter how frustrating the delay, and doing our best to instil a healthy respect for traffic. And it worked. I know plenty of people who shudder at the idea of letting their 2-year-old walk off the reins, but I have complete confidence in my girls. They know their limits and, more importantly, they have common sense.
It's not just out in the street either. When we do make it to the shop, we're their favourite customers. All the staff love the girls and we're always being told that the twins are the best behaved visitors they have. They are polite, attentive and friendly. Of course the girls argue when tempers fray, but they are very good at sharing and making sure their sisters get an equal share. T refused to deliver G a rice cake the other day as one of them was broken. Everyone had to be equal. I've always made sure the girls have as many choices as possible, as much control of their own lives as I can give them. They select their own clothes each day, decide between them what they'd like for tea, and I always give them the chance to hand back stolen toys or apologise and make up before I resort to the Time Out corner. Of course, it doesn't always work, and all three girls have the power to drive me completely insane. But I am so proud of them. And of their dad and me. When I see how clever and caring G and T are, and how M is shaping up to be just as sweet, I have to admit that I might just be quite good at being a mum after all.

Who's in charge here anyway?

G&T - 35 months  M - 13 months

So, as predicted, as soon as G decided G was ready to be potty-trained, there was no going back. There have been no puddles for a week, and she's quickly moved on from the potty to the toilet. We're still having a few issues with the more, erm, solid deposits, but I have no doubt we'll get there. In fact, I'm sure we'll get past there. G is working the system.
The twins love JellyBelly jelly beans. I hate them having them, but their dad is a softie, so they do get the occasional little bag, which always sends them into raptures. So, it seemed logical to introduce a couple of jellybeans per pee to help motivate G. And it worked. A little too well. She's gone from only two or three big pees on the floor a day, to sometimes 10 or 12 tiny ones in the potty or toilet. Each time, she leaps off in delight. exclaiming: 'I did it! I did it! Three jellybeans please.' (Cue beautific smile). She's no fool.  I've also had to re-introduce treats for the long-since toilet-trained T, who suddenly started having 'accidents' when she saw G being rewarded for something she did for free.So I've had to introduce a rating system, whereby the bigger the pee, the more jellybeans it earns. Now, G leaps off exclaiming: 'I did it! I did it!' (examines potty contents) 'It's a two jellybeaner!'  I find myself wondering how I got here. How on earth did I reach the point of grading urine?
Well, I did because I always do. Kids are sneaky. They know they're cute, they know you love them and they know your weak points. T has a different approach to getting her way. She's adorably affectionate. She'll look into my eyes, stroke my face, tells me she loves me... and get whatever she's after. Even M is learning the power she has, though thus far, she's going for the physical approach. She's started using her body to get out of things - the 'I don't want to get in the buggy' reverse C-shape, the 'I have been wronged' dramatic floor drop and cry, the 'Don't pick me up' arm lift... The girl knows what she wants - or doesn't want - and isn't afraid to show it. I'm a (relatively) mature, (relatively) intelligent women, who built a (relatively) successful career in a job where people relied on me and trusted my judgement. Now, I'm constantly out-witted by toddlers. So is it true that pregnancy actually costs you brain cells? Or has motherhood just softened me?
My girls have boundaries and rules and they know what's expected of them. I am tough when I need to be and won't let them get away with bad behaviour. But when they turn on the charm, I'm mush. I just hope I'm preparing them well for their lives ahead. Not to use their looks to get ahead, but that sweetness works better than temper. I know I'll have to phase out the jellybeans soon, and I will. I'll ignore those big brown eyes, and those sparkly blue ones. I'll say no and stay strong. Soon. Honest. Just not quite yet...

A golden miracle

G&T - 35 months M - 13 months

It's been a few weeks since I've managed to find time to write this blog. We've had tummy bugs, baby jabs, horrid colds, more vomiting, doctors' visits and very nearly a stay in hospital.... In short, it's been hell. But amongst it all, a little chink of heaven has shone through. We've had a miracle. Six whole months since I began the process, I finally, after countless trials and traumas, have two totally toilet-trained toddlers. Well, kind of...
What with little M arriving when the twins were 22 months, then us all upping sticks and moving from London to Scotland a few weeks later, I didn't even start trying to potty-train the girls until they were nearly two-and-a-half. All the signs were there. They had long since had the language and understanding of what was expected. They were incredibly enthusiastic about potties and pees and big girl pants. They were ready. And after a few messy Dettol-filled days, T just got it. She soon started asked for the potty at the right time, then quickly got the hang of the toilet. We swiftly moved out of pull-ups to go out, into pants all day, and she never looked back. I turned all my attention to G, praising, rewarding, cajoling and cuddling. My reward? Nothing.
Frustration soon set in. Aware losing my patience wouldn't exactly help, I gave up and put her back in nappies, waited a few weeks and tried again. And again. And again. Even little M taking to sitting on the potty and announcing 'Poo!' didn't spur her big sister on. I began to panic. I hadn't expected this to be a completely seamless process, but, honestly, how long was it going to take? Would she be trained before she was due to start nursery? Before school? Before her baby sister?? It soon became obvious where the problem lay. G was having fewer and fewer accidents, and had clearly gained control of her bladder. But when the time came, something was just stopping her using the potty instead of the floor.
Five six months in, I decided to just go with it. I put her in pants whenever we were in the house, and just accepted that I'd have to be on the ball and clean up any spills before a curious M got her hands, mouth or anything else on them. It actually wasn't too bad, though I'd only recommend this course of action if you have wooden floors... And after about three weeks, it just happened. We had a living room full of guests when G told her Daddy she wanted to try the potty in the dining room and voila! A pee! A golden stream of wonder! It was a warm, wet miracle! Within days, she was doing everything in the potty, and has even made the odd attempt at using the toilet. I honestly can't believe it. After all this time, it seems to have just happened. Accidents are few and far between and, despite all my fears to the contrary, I have no doubt she will be totally trained before her third birthday next month. The past six months have suddenly become worth every pee-obsessed second.
I've been trying to think of what tips I should be passing on to mums who have all this fun ahead of them. Of what pearls of wisdom these tough few months have afforded me. Only I can't. I don't have any. This isn't an exact science, and I don't have a magic wand to wave.
In hindsight, perhaps I shouldn't have tried to train the twins together. But which one would I have tackled first? Both ticked all the boxes, both were equally willing and able. Should I have been more consistent? Gone with one reward system and stuck to it through everything? Maybe, but it isn't that simple when you have two other toddlers to chase around. And when it comes down to it, I'm not sure it would have changed anything anyway. G started using the potty when G was ready. Not when the books told her she was, nor when I decided she should be. Whatever mental block was stopping her, she simply decided one day to step over it, and that was that.
It's easy for me to say now, and I know I ignored this very advice myself mere weeks ago, but the only thing you can do with potty training is relax. All the experts in the world can't tell you about your own child. T and G have the same level of language, the same comprehension, enthusiasm and sense of fun, but they are two very different people, and I can't force them into boxes to suit me. T has always been more willing to try new things, she's more compliant and trusting. G is a fiercely individual soul, who likes to observe and assess and wait until she's fully ready before she does anything. And that's OK. It's more than OK, it's who she is. It's who they both are. Who all three of them are. I call the girls 'the girls' out of convenience. They are not a set, a neat little group of Russian dolls. They are three wonderful, crazy, challenging, separate little people. And no matter how many heartaches that causes, and how much money I spend on Dettol and kitchen roll, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Smug and proud

G&T - 2yrs 10mths   M - 1

OK, I'm going to say it. I'm going to stand up, take a deep breath, and admit it. My name is Amy, and I'm a smug mummy.
I was reading a very funny blog recently about the snobbish mums spotted rummaging in their Cath Kidston change bags and turning their nose up at soft play cafe food, when I stopped mid-guffaw.Only the previous night, I'd been online perusing the Cath Kidston website for a bag to carry M's things in, to match the one I already have for the twins' bits and bobs. Had I become exactly the kind of mother I'd been laughing about? I do talk about my kids a lot. I boast about their achievements. I honestly believe they are the cleverest, most beautiful girls out there. And the lack of nutrition in those cafes does worry me... Yup, no doubt about it, I am a smug mummy. But is there really anything wrong with that?
I used to have a somewhat glamorous life, with a somewhat glamorous magazine job, a somewhat glamorous London pad, a very glamorous dishy husband... I talked about my work, my friends, my social life. I was probably quite interesting. Now I'm a classic baby bore. I'll tell anyone who'll listen about G's latest incredible memory feat, T's impressive drawing skills, M's stunning walking and talking... And that's not the worst of it. I talk about poo. A lot. Whether it's dismay how many times M's filled her nappy, or delight at T's perfect potty training, I just don't know how's it's come to this. Well, no actually I do. This is my job now. My crazy, unpaid, over-worked, fabulous job. I have nothing else to talk about. Or get excited about. I have a Cath Kidston change bag (or two) because it's just so darned pretty. I used to but great new handbags to go with my outfit or my mood, and now I need to transport spare clothes and nappies, there's no reason why I can't do it with a little style.
I remember buying the twins a new buggy when theirs started to fall apart when they were about one. I simply fell in love with a red sporty City Jogger from John Lewis. After I'd seen it, nothing else would do. I then found the same buggy on Tesco.com for nearly £100 less. No-brainer, right? Well, no. It was black. It just wasn't the same. I was actually mid-huff with my husband over his refusal to pay the extra before it dawned on me that I was being ridiculous. Of course we bought the black one and I still love it to pieces, but that little twinge remains. Because it's all I've got.
I heard a woman on Radio 4 recently (oh yes, I now also listen to Radio 4 a lot. And I bought a pestle and mortar. And I just started a button box) berating the big groups of mummies cluttering up her local cafe. I used to be one of those mums, meeting my NCT friends for our weekly coffee and chat. But I bristled at the interviewee's venom. We weren't yummy mummies swanning around, lounging our days away. Those meet-ups were a lifeline. They were human contact with like-minded people who would not only listen to those endless stories about poo, they were genuinely interested in the contents of every nappy. We were all figuring out this motherhood thing together, and the support got me through some pretty tough times. Becoming a mum is a huge change. You have to give up so much of yourself. But there's no reason a little of the old you can't shine through.
I used to express myself by having fabulous handbags or sleek stylish outfits or to-die-for shoes. Now I put all my energy into my girls, who emerge in adorable ensembles and prettily coiffed hair, while I stick in a rough ponytail and grab my trusty old trainers. But flashes of the glamorous journalist still sneak out. I bought proper fancy dance trainers when my old ones died, even though all I manage these days is a weekly Zumba class. I treat myself to expensive moisturisers and serums, even though nothing can truly hide my epic lack of sleep. I have a flashy buggy and a Cath Kidston change bag addiction. I might be a baby boring smug Mummy, but I'm no worse than the magazine boring smug journo I used to be. So I shall continue to boast and crow and generally go on and on about my bright, brilliant, beautiful girls. My name is Amy, and I am a smug mum. And I don't care.  

Baby talk

G&T - 2yrs, 9mths   M - 11-and-a-half mths

Am I the only one who'll miss the baby talk? Compared to my kids, speaking with adults is just so, well, dull. In the few weeks since I've found time to write a blog post, little M has picked up at least 15 words and counting. I simply could not believe it when she crawled over to her plastic shopping basket, fished about, held up something and proclaimed: 'Banana!' And there in her hand a was indeed a plastic banana. She also now loves to drop things and shout: 'Bang! Bang!' which, at the dinner table might be carnage, but it's still pretty impressive! But her absolute favourite word is 'flower', which she delights in shouting every time she sees one. You can imagine the noise whenever we're out and about...
Hearing her say it for the first time brought back a memory of something I'd managed to forget. When the twins first started speaking, they couldn't pronounce the letter F, instead replacing it with S or Sh. So, a frog was a 'srog' and they'd count 'one, two three, sore, sive...'. Flower was 'shower', well at least it started off that. Then it sort of mutated. Into something rather unfortunate. I have a very clear memory of taking the girls to London Zoo with their grandad. As we walked through Regent's Park, admiring the beautiful summer gardens, I brimmed with pride as the girls attracted smiles and admiring comments from all the tourists. Then G spotted the flowers.
'Shite!' she exclaimed. 'Shite!'
A little part of me curled up and died. What must people have thought? To this day, I've no idea how Flower turned this way but, within a few weeks, it had turned back and instead of being relieved, I realised it was a little sad. When would speech ever be so amusing again?
Actually, the twins are still pretty cute. T has an adorable toddler lisp, and both girls still insist on pronouncing pillow as 'piddow'. T caught me eating a biscuit the other day.
'What you eating?' she demanded.
'It's called a Hobnob, honey,' I replied. 'Would you like a piece?'
Of course she did. She took a bite and screwed up her face.
'I don't like pob-a-nob-as,'she declared solemnly.
I don't really understand why McVities didn't name them that in the first place.
So, although I make a point of saying things correctly, secretly I'll be devastated when they start saying pillow and Hobnob. That's just so boring. At least I've got little M to amuse me for a while yet. I wonder what gems she'll come up with? Let's just hope they're not too profane...

The bogeyman

G&T - 2 years, 9 months   M - 10-and-half months

With three children born in the space of two years, we've been through it all here. We've had tummy bugs and tantrums, divas and dramas, and more sleepless nights than I care to remember. But there's one thing with the power to ruin my life like no other. The common cold. No one has been sleeping, everyone has been whining, and I am shattered. This is the worst cold I can ever remember the girls having, and even though the worst mercifully seems to be over, they all still have horrid hacking coughs. It's such a pity, as we've otherwise had a pretty momentous week.
After nearly three years, I finally took the plunge and left the twins with someone they're not related to. Predictably on their first day of playgroup, I cried. Even more predictably, they didn't. After a bit of initial nervousness from G (T shot onto the nearest slide without a second glance), they absolutely loved it, and didn't mind me leaving them one bit. So, we decided to make a big girl week of it, and converted their cots into beds. To say they were delighted wouldn't even be coming close. G, with her fiercely independent streak, was utterly overjoyed to be able to get out whenever she pleased and kept stepping to the side and getting back in, whereas T loved the 360-degree legroom and immediately resolved to sleep sideways. But despite their enthusiasm, once the door was shut, they left M alone to drop off, and played happily (if a little loudly) without causing any real trouble until they eventually passed out. Can't believe we didn't do it sooner. And they're not the only ones knocking down the milestones. My little M has taken her first steps and said her first words! The other day, she managed an impressive six steps, and I'm hoping her newfound skills on the floor distract her from her more vertical obsession of climbing up on everything... At least I can always hear when she's up to something. She shocked us by suddenly moving from babbling to copying whatever we say, then quite clearly being able to say cat, chair and Charley Bear all by herself! The twins were always ahead with language but M is speaking months before they did. I can only assume she's getting an early start just so she can get a word in...
But just when we were revelling in how clever they all were, T started sniffling. She doubtless picked something up at playgroup, and I knew straight away we were in trouble. Within a day or so, all three were sniffing and sneezing and coughing. M, who still uses a dummy to sleep, had no choice but to learn to go without it, as she simply couldn't breathe, while the twins once-rare night-time cries became a constant alarm call. It was a nightmare snot relay. One night, I spent over an hour in the girls' room settling M and finally got her in her cot, only for T to instantly wake up, screaming in distress. It was hell. The house smelt of menthol and cough medicine, and on one morning sick as M decided to top it all off by vomiting her breakfast up over her high chair. The twins spend the days whinging about being tired or fighting about absolutely everything, while M just shrieked and sobbed constantly.Sometimes, I really understand why people look shocked when we say we have three children under three. Most days, it's just all I know, and I wouldn't change it for the world. I always wanted to have children close together, and I still believe it's best to get these toddler years over in one go. But no one said it was going to be easy. It's anything but. It's bloody hard work, and at times like these, I really earn my money. Not that I get any money. Or holidays. Or days off. Or nights off. Erm, why did I think this was a good idea again?!

We are family

G&T - 2 years, 9 months   M - 10-and-a-half months

As soon as people see you have twins, their first question is always: 'Are they identical?' It has nothing to do with what they're wearing, their hair or eye colour. I've even known mums of boy/girl twins who've had the same question. It's just one of the things people say. And I don't mind. I like how the fact the girls are twins makes them stand out. But they don't look anything alike. Not even remotely. Willowy G is a mass of long limbs, with a headful of blonde curls and big brown eyes. Powerful little T is shorter and stronger, with long brown hair and bright blue eyes. Their personalities too are poles apart, and I've been very careful never to treat them as a pair. They don't have 'matching names', they don't dress alike and I never buy identical toys unless they both fall in love with the same one. They're twins simply because they happened to share my womb. Above all, they're sisters.
Since I moved back to my hometown from London nine months ago, I've had to get used to hanging out with my own sister again. We've always been close, irrelevant of geography, as we both are with our big sis. But I'd forgotten what it was like to live in the same town. I am forever getting funny looks from people in the street. Sometimes they seem curious, confused. Sometimes downright offended, as though annoyed I haven't said hello. It only clicked when my sister and I started going to the same Zumba class.
'Are you two twins?' asked the lady dancing next to us. Of course! Everyone here thinks I might be her!
My sisters and I are all carbon copies of our mother, who's a double of her mum before her. We have some pretty powerful genes. My eldest sister has the advantage of extra height to set her apart but, although I have darker hair, my little sis and I are similar in height and build, and always being mixed up. We don't mind being mistaken for twins (well, I don't, as I like to think it means I look younger) but it does make me a little sad that my husband's genes managed to break in on my three.I've mentioned this before, but T, and now M, are following in their mum's family tradition. Comparing pictures of the two of them to each other at the same age, then to my sisters and I is quite breathtaking. But G fell from a different tree. She is the image of her dad. I love how my twins have each other. They are confirmed best friends and, although they fight, a lot, I know that they are always there for each other. But will they be missing out because the rest of the world doesn't know they're sisters?
My family complain about being mixed up but we all know we love it really. It's tribal, I guess. We're family, and everyone knows it. T and M will doubtless spend their lives being asked if they're twins. G won't. Who knows if she'll mind or not. Perhaps it'll make her stronger, more independent. Or perhaps this is just another imaginary problem that no one will care about except their exhausted old mum. G and T are twins and will forever share that bond, but all three of my girls are sisters, first and foremost. They're so lucky that they're going to be facing the world together, no matter who looks like who.

Playing favourites

G&T - 32 months  M - 10 months

When a good friend of mine was pregnant with her second child, she tearfully confessed to me a secret shame. She was terrified that she wouldn't love her new baby enough. After all, how could she possibly love anyone the way she loved her son? When her daughter arrived, she snorted with laughter at the very suggestion of favourites. Asking which of my girls I love best would be like asking if I love my heart or my lungs most. If I prefer breathing in or breathing out. If I'd rather have Haagen Dazs or Ben and Jerry's... Ridiculous. I'd lie down in front of a train for any one of my girls. I love each of them more than I ever thought was possible. Sometimes, though, it's harder to like one as much as the others...
We've had a diva in our house this week. G has been always been the more prone to tantrums and drama, but this week she crossed a line. Yes, the tantrums multiplied, and she spent many a fraught few minutes screaming bloody murder from the 'Time-out corner'. But I understand tantrums. Fun they might not be, but I get them. She's exerting her independence, trying to gain control. As my parents will delight in pointing out, I was the tantrum queen, and G is my karma. But that means she doesn't know who she's messing with. There isn't a strop she could throw that I can't out-stubborn. This week, however, she went from tantrums to hitting out. At her baby sister. Out of nowhere, she suddenly started grabbing M's ears, and gave her two scratched cheeks. It was all I could do to stay anywhere near in control. She seemed so vicious. It was horrible to see and really put a strain on our relationship as she took trip after trip to the corner, and my throat became raw from shouting. It was hard too, to avoid the impression that she was 'the naughty one' to T's 'good girl'. That is something I always fear - making one of the twins feel less loved. But as G first had treat privileges removed, then snacks, then puddings, I couldn't punish T too, and had to tread a fine line of emphasising T's good behaviour without branding G 'bad'. It was one of the worst days I remember having since becoming a mum. Even bedtime didn't bring relief. Having calmed briefly with Daddy's arrival, the volcano erupted once again when it came time to go upstairs. An argument over a straw escalated to her refusing to walk up and being carried, screaming like a banshee, to her bed. There followed five minutes of chaos as she sobbed and roared and tried to climb out of her cot. Then... silence. I went upstairs to check T and M were calm enough to settle, then gritted my teeth and headed over to G. She was lying on top of her covers, fast asleep yet emitting pathetic tearful gasps, clutching the all-important straw in her little hands. I almost wept with love. She was so sad and beautiful, it was all I could do not to scoop her into my arms. I didn't, obviously. I ran. But I couldn't believe the change. That sleeping beauty was my real G, and I knew that nothing she threw at me could change that.
We've had two more hard days, but slowly, my cheeky charmer is on her way back. M is still a little wary, pushing her away if she gets too close, and that breaks my heart. G was by far the more enthusiastic about M from the start. T was indifferent and a little irritated by the screaming bundle that had invaded her life, until M became the interesting playmate she is today. G however, adored her from the beginning, and the main problem we've had is her being a little too keen to cuddle and kiss her. I can only imagine this phase is G trying to hang on to a bit of being a baby. With T pretty much fully toilet-trained, I'm once again trying to get G interested, but she's still resisting. I think anxiety combined with a few disturbed nights thanks to M teething combined to cause the pressure cooker to boil over. I just hope that's the worst of it over. I want my bright little button back. I hate feeling nervous when she's around M. I hate getting angry. I hate not trusting her. I hate not liking her. But just as T's tired whining can drive me crazy and M's tooth-induced refusal to sleep has nearly brought me to breaking point, they are all my babies and I love each one as fiercely as the next. Especially when they're asleep.

Games girls

G&T - 32 months  M - 10 months

I fear I may have damaged my children. They have developed an uncontrollable compulsion, and it's all my fault. Whenever I turn on the TV, they start to scream... 'Go GB!' Yes, we have Olympic fever!
I love The Olympics. Adore it. Get so caught up in it. But last time it came round, I was a young newlywed with no responsibilities and all the time in the world to get completely addicted to sports I didn't even remotely understand (fencing anyone?). Now, with three small kids around, I feared I wouldn't have time to enjoy it, but the girls have turned out to be addicts too. Usually, the TV stays off all day, save a little news for me, and a CBeebies hit for them to give me space to make tea. For the past week, it's been on constantly, as athlete after athlete reduces me to an emotional wreck. And I've dragged the girls down with me.
'Is he a GB one?' 'Where's the GB lady?' 'Go GB!' 'Mexico!' (I think with the last one, they just like the word...)They don't have a clue what's going on, but they love it anyway. T announced that she wants to do running when she's bigger, 'like that GB lady' (Jessica Ennis), while G fancies spinning and tumbling like the gymnasts. Even little M has been getting in the spirit, proudly wearing her cute GB flag nappy!
I remember having my own sporting dreams as a young girl. I was never the fastest or the strongest, and my sporting achievements were limited to a few hockey games for my school, but I always dreamed of being a dancer. I can't say I really regret never properly pursuing that West End career. After all, I wouldn't trade my girls for the world. But I do get wistful, imaging a life of bright lights and high kicks. The twins are both great little movers already, so I'm going to take them to dance classes when they're 3. Not to live out my fantasies through them, just because I know how much I would have loved it if such things had been around for me, and an innate shyness hadn't stopped me pushing myself. If they don't like dancing, fine by me. We'll try something else until they find their own dream.
I don't mind if they become dancers, or gymnasts, or heptathletes, or doctors, or shop assistants. I just care that they don't want to be reality TV stars famous purely for the sake of it. I love that they're getting to see strong female role models celebrated for their achievements and hard work, rather than the size of their cleavage or how many footballers they've bedded. Some people complain there is too much sport on TV, but if it inspires our children to forget about Peppa Pig and rush outside to race their twin sister round the garden, it's done its job. Who knows, it might even inspire the not-so-young amongst us to get up and move. Now, where did I put that dance school timetable...

Single trouble

G and T - 2-and-a-half    M - 9-and-a-half months

When you have twins, you get a lot of attention. Everyone coos at tiny babies, but the comments and cuddles soon peter out, don't they? Not when you have twins. I love that people still smile at them in the street and stop to say hello. Usually, they'll wink and add: 'Double trouble, eh? You've got your hands full!' And they're right. I do. With my singleton.
M is into everything. Well, not everything. Just everything I don't want her to be. She's a lightning-fast crawler, pulls up on anything she can gets her hands on and spends her days cruising round the furniture trying to join in the twins' games. She made a grab for the laundry basket by my bed the other day. Unfortunately, it's a pop-up one that crumpled beneath her. She missed the corner of the bedside table by millimetres. But while I leapt up in a panic, she simply wiggled round and reached up for the table instead. She's fearless. And I'm exhausted.
When summer finally made an appearance this week, we all piled outside, delighted to be set free. But no sooner had a popped M down on the picnic mat than she was gone, heading full pelt towards the nearest stone she could get in her mouth. Gone are the days of her sitting happily playing in the shade while I hang up the washing. I've spent two days on constant watch, snatching her up seconds before she heads down the stone steps or tumbles into the flowerbeds. The twins are great at diving dramatically to retrieve stones and bits of soil from her chubby paws, but they're not the most reliable babysitters. Far too easily distracted by a manic game of Ring-a-Ring-a-Rosies. In the end, I decided to pick my battles. Just hope Daddy isn't too upset by the rather naked-looking plant I sacrificed in a bid to distract her...
When the twins were this age, life was a bit simpler. We lived in a flat then, and I simply caged them. We got ourselves two metal playpens and joined them together to essentially turn the living room in a toy-filled jail. Of course, the girls weren't trapped in there all the time (tempting though...) but it at least meant there was a safe but fun place for them to be when I needed access to both hands simultaneously. Things are very different when you have toddlers around. Babies don't care if you go out much. G and T get cabin fever. When they were little, I was in charge of what was on the floor. Now, there are crayons, stickers and all manner of little toys just waiting to be popped into a curious baby mouth.
I always wanted to have my children close in age, but it does have its drawbacks. The twins always start with good intentions of keeping forbidden items out of reach, but they're toddlers. They have fish-like memories for anything other than promises about after-dinner sweeties and trips to the playpark. I'm certainly not going to deprive them of toys, so little M is having to grow up fast. It's looking very likely that she'll be walking before the twins did at 11 months, and I'm hoping that when she can join in their games properly, she'll be less of a handful for her exhausted mum. Or she'll just be able to get into even more mischief. I'm not getting a rest any time soon, am I?

Panic stations

G&T - 2-and-a-half   M - 9 months

What is it about being a mum that turns you into a neurotic, over-anxious diva? Honestly, what is it? Is it the hormones? The post-traumatic shock of having had to actually give birth to the things? Or does your sense of perspective simply exit your body with the placenta?
This week, we confronted yet another parenting rite of passage. At the grand old age of 2-and-a-half, we finally ditched the twins' dummies. I never wanted to use soothers. There weren't any in my hospital bag, or at home, waiting to be popped into two mewling newborn mouths. But after about ten days of constant breastfeeding, refusals to be put down and crying relays, I cracked and sent Daddy off to Boots for two little plastic lifesavers. And I think they did save my life. Or at least my sanity. Sometimes, when there are two people screaming at you, both demanding all your attention, now, you run out of options. The dummies gave me breathing space, provided blessed relief from the agonising sound of them crying for a mummy who couldn't get to them. As the twins got older, I limited the dummies more and more. I've never liked the sight of a child playing silently, sucking away, so the soothers became nothing more than a sleep aid. I intended to go by the book, and have them vanish entirely by the time the girls were 1.
But they've just started sleeping through the night. I don't want to rock the boat... 
OK, they'll be gone by 18 months.
But now I'm pregnant. I can't be getting up all through the night again. I'm so tired... 
I'll ditch them by the time they're 2.
Getting rid of dummies with a new baby in the house? I'm not crazy... 
So here we were, at 2-and-a-half, and every nap and bedtime, the twins would pop a dummy into their mouth and drift off. But I knew it had to end, so I scouted baby mags for tips. I knew I couldn't just sneak them away. The girls wouldn't stand for that. And a suggestion about burying them in the garden sent shivers down my spine, imagining the carnage the next time the girls were set free with their sandpit spades... So we plumped for the dummy fairy. I explained how we were going to be posting the dummies away, and how the grateful fairy would deliver gifts. Helpfully, the girls had apparently had their eyes on a few goodies, so were quick to suggest appropriate presents. My heart raced as we popped the dummies into the envelope and walked to the local postbox. The twins waved them goodbye then, overexcited by the prospect of presents, insisted on running all the way back. The sight of Igglepiggle and Upsy Daisy on the doorstep stopped them, wide-eyed with wonder, in their tracks. There was a wobble at bedtime when the reality of going into their cots alone sank in, but after about half an hour of singing and hilarity, and without a single cry or dummy demand, they both dropped off. Simple as that. Turns out it was yet another parenting dilemma I'd blown out of all proportion in my mind.
Sleep training, getting rid of bottles, changing from sleeping bags to duvets... Every time, I've spent days agonising over how the twins would react, and every time, they've barely batted an eyelid. Even potty training. OK, so it's not been easy, but I've realised that's only because I've got it double. T has been relatively easy and if I'd only had G, I'd simply have realised it wasn't her time and tucked the big girl pants away for another day. So what's with me? I don't think of myself as an anxious person. I'm pretty easy-going most of the time. Has becoming a mum made me this way? Am I resigned to a life of stomach-churning fear every time the girls go to school, or to a sleepover, or on a date? Seemingly it gets even worse when you become a grandparent. My dad, who spent my childhood returning to the house, shamefaced, with a grubby, happy child and a broken buggy, because, 'They'll remember the experience of the speed down that hill,' makes a grab for my daughters if they so much as stand on a chair. He can't explain it, but he sees danger everywhere, imagines every worst case scenario. I scoff at him and tell him that they need to learn to fall, but really, I'm no better. Having been determined to be an ethereal and serene earth mother, I never imposed a routine on the girls, but they ended up choosing one for themselves, and I ended up clinging to it, terrified of anything that would stop them sleeping. Stop me sleeping. I think that's the answer. It's self-preservation. My days are exhausting. Full on and fun, but exhausting. I need every precious minute of sleep I can get, and I live in fear of those bad nights when my body aches to be lying in bed, but just can't get there. So I'll keep dreading the changes, and with any luck, the girls will keep proving me wrong. I'll keep right on being an over-anxious diva of a mum and look forward to the day I can be an over-anxious diva of a granny instead, and just sneak off home for a good night's rest.

Flower fairies

G&T - 2-and-a-half  M - 8-and-a-half months

My house is full of flowers. Pink ones, white ones, red, yellow and blue. In the living room, in the dining room, the kitchen and the playroom. Tall, short, big and small. All supplied by the twins' fantastic imagination.
In the past few weeks, the girls' ability to conjure up whatever they want has exploded. I first noticed it in the nightly bath they share. G grabbed the plug chain and turned to T. 'Which banana you want?' she enquired. T thought it over. 'The purple one,' she decided. So G plucked it off and handed it over, before T scoffed it. I don't know where they've even seen bananas on trees, but it was just the start. The following day in the garden, T spotted a small piece of wood, which she placed upright in amongst some gravel, then asked for her little watering can. I filled it for her, then watched with a mixture of pride, amusement and overwhelming gooiness, as she watered the stick, and instructed me to come and look at her 'beautiful pink flower'. Now, every time they start up a little game, there is some element of the fantastic involved, making it even harder for me to guess what's going on inside those gorgeous little heads. After tea tonight, for example, they started chasing each other round the table (much to M's delight, by the way. She's feeling the benefits of their flights of fancy too). Suddenly, 'T started shouting: 'I'm a pancake! Catch me! I'm a pancake!' Soon, G was 'a pancake' too, much to everyone's utter joy. Yes, they're weirdos, but they aren't half cute! And it has been a very welcome light relief from what's been a tough few weeks.
They do say things come in threes, so I really ought not to have been surprised when toilet-training and tummy bugs were immediately followed by teething... Just when the girls all started sleeping through the night without feeling the need to wake up screaming and bringing up the contents of their stomachs, cheery little M suddenly became a fist-gnawing, bottle-rejecting, whining, crying nightmare. I know 8 months is hardly early for a first tooth, but it took me totally by surprise. I didn't get any teeth until I was one, and although G got her first at 9 months, T was 11 months before hers appeared. Recently, as her personality has been emerging more than ever, it's become obvious just how much M is like her middle sister. G is Daddy's girl, in looks, in personality, in everything. But T has always been my wee copy. She looks like me, acts like me, delights in tormenting her sister like me... If I look back at videos of the twins at M's age, the similarities are truly breath-taking. Yes, M as a singleton is a bit bigger, but she is the absolute double of T, even sounding just the same. And so far, they've been going toe-to-toe in the milestones. Holding their heads, creeping, crawling, pulling up... All within a few days of the other. So I just assumed the teeth would be the same. But sure enough, I can see two little white outlines beneath poor M's red raw gums already. It was a wake-up call I think I needed. 
I'm always telling Daddy off for comparing the girls, for calling M 'T mark two'. But it seems I was doing it too. And after all these months of the nagging worry that M will always be left out, I now find myself worrying about G instead. I have no doubts that the other two will spend their lives refuting suggestions that they are the twins, that G is the odd one out. Will she begin to resent her perfect little face? Her blonde curls and big brown eyes, amongst all the blue-eyed brunettes? So far, she's just delighted whenever anyone points out how much she looks like Daddy, and I hope that continues. In a way, I'm glad that G's the different one, rather than T. She's so independent, so sure of her own rightness, whereas T is a little more sensitive, outgoing and friendly, but deep down, a bit more insecure. So I guess maybe nature has been rather clever. G and T will always have such a special bond, but now M has an obvious connection too. They are all sisters, and that's all that matters.
I often wonder what it would have been like any any of them been boys. As one of three girls myself, I can understand my three, their bond and their closeness. OK, so the teenage years will be interesting to say the least, but I'm on safe ground. Hormones, I get. Queues for the bathroom and fights over hair straighteners, I can understand. I've been there. But boys are a mystery to me. Of course, had I had one, I'd have loved him completely and delighted in the new experiences, but I'm secretly pleased to have got all my little ladies. Their poor dad maybe could have done with a little testosterone around here, perhaps one less to worry about discovering boys, but it suits me just fine. Lots of pink and cute little dresses. Plaits and bows and imaginary flowers. Sugar and spice and all things nice. Unless one of them is getting a tooth, of course.

Something's been bugging me...

G&T - 2-and-a-half   M - 8 months

This week, I finally took a break from thinking about poo, as my brain was freed to focus on higher matters. Namely vomit. With a 2am wail of despair, M experienced her first proper puke. She had no idea what was going on, and was distraught as I lifted her out of her sick-filled cot, before she let rip again, covering me, herself and the bedroom floor. And so began our week of fun. The following day was spent with a tired, emotional eight-month-old, two increasingly fractious toddlers and the slowly dawning realisation that the next phase was unavoidable. Sure enough, the next night saw four outfit changes for G, then the following morning, any hope of T escaping vanished, as she brought up her breakfast all over the dining room table, prompting G to perform an encore on the floor. Don't you just love a tummy bug?
Having all the girls ill at the same time did at least allow for a little reflection on how far my babies have come. Dealing with the twins was, in many ways, easier than taking care of M. At least I could help them understand what was going on, explain that it was temporary, that it would help them. Poor little M, who had no way of understanding, simply clung to me, worn out and scared. Despite the crushing exhaustion, it was agony to put her back in her cot and attempt to get any sleep myself. Recently, as she's been babbling away, crawling and attempting to pull herself up, she's seemed so big, so grown up. But that frightened little mite snuggling into my chest was suddenly my tiny baby again. The twins were struck by a similar bug at about the same age. My bubbly little girls vanished for a few days, replaced by two tearful little urchins, who refused to do anything but cling to Mummy and Daddy. Two years on, they coped so well, bless them. G cried as she was sick, but straight away asked to go back into her cot to get her desperately needed sleep, while T somehow managed to take even throwing up in her stride. Yes they were whiny and cranky, but I was so proud of them. I'm hoping, however, that their courage isn't called on again for a while.
I lost count of the sofa cushions and cot bedding I cleaned, all the while swallowing down the nagging nausea that suggested I'd be next. It turned out I wasn't. Daddy was. As I sat in the girls room on night three, settling a still off-colour M, I heard him rush into the bathroom and, well, let's hope I never live to hear those noises again. Poor bloke. An intended business trip to London had to be postponed, and the following day, he and the twins spent most of their time cuddled up on the sofa feeling miserable.
Mercifully, I was spared anything more than nausea which, having been pregnant twice, I was well-practised in putting to the back of my mind while I got on with things, and by day five, things were looking up. The girls all had a bit of colour and even some appetite back, and Daddy felt almost human. So he rebooked his flights and, on day six, headed down to London. After a tough day with the still grumpy and over-tired toddlers, I got them into bed and finally breathed a sigh of relief as I started to settle M. We'd made it. I  gazed down at her chubby cheeks and allowed myself a subconscious pat on the back for getting us all through this. M wiggled a bit, looked up at me with her big, beautiful blue eyes... and projectile vomited all over me.