Better together?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parenting under the influence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frenemies

Best friends... or closest of enemies?

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

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

And this little bundle of cheekiness doesn't help!

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

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

On My Own

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

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

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

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

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

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

They've always had someone to snuggle up to

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

They soon became best friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

The clumsy gene!

When I look at my daughters, I see all the things I passed on. T and M have both inherited my blue eyes and small features. They are both fearless like me and embrace each new experience just like my parents recall me doing decades ago (not that many decades, though. Honest). They both have my thick hair and are shaping up to be little, just like me. In short, they're both my clones.

To M, I gave blue eyes and a sense of adventure... 

To T, I gave a cheeky nature...

But G is all Daddy. Well, nearly all Daddy. If you look past the blonde curls and big, brown eyes, past the thoughtful gaze and deliberate, scientific nature, there's a little Mummy in there. Well out there. All over the place there. It seems instead of looks or personality, I've given her clumsiness.
Tables, chairs, walls, doors... If there's something solid in the way, G will walk into it. Well, unless I walk into it first. I've always been clumsy. In his father-of-bride speech, my dad had them rolling in the aisles as he regaled my friends and family with tales of how I would never use the stairs in the traditional way. I was more of a headfirst kind of child. Thus far, the carefulness G inherited from her father has protected her as she makes her way downstairs, but on the flat, she's just as accident-prone as her mum. She proved it this week as we made our way to a friend's house. With she and T indulging in their (hugely annoying) habit of fighting over my one available hand as I tried to push M's buggy, G somehow got her foot tangled in the wheel, and over she went.

But to my big brave G, I gave a lifetime of ouchies!

As I scooped up my screaming girl, I confess I sighed. G falling is hardly unusual, and she always makes the most of it. But I soon regretted being flippant. Blood was pouring out of her mouth. I tried to keep her and her sisters calm, as I swallowed my own tears and worked out just how much damage had been done. When she was barely a year old, she toppled over on our wood floor and chipped one of her shiny new teeth. Now, I was panicking she'd knocked one out completely. T was brilliant, playing peepo with her little sister to stop her getting bored and, to my huge relief, a bit of wiping revealed G had simply scraped her nose and bitten her lip. After a few cuddles, she felt fine, and we carried on to our playdate, where she had a great time.
I still felt awful though. About rolling my eyes when she fell, yes. But also because she got this trait from me. I could have passed on a flair for language or the ability to dance, but no.I gave her clumsiness.
So I just want to take a moment to apologise.
G, my big, beautiful girl. My first-born, my clever, cheeky wee angel, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the lifetime of cuts and bruises and bumps and scrapes. I'm sorry for the frustration, the annoyance and anger you'll feel towards inanimate objects and pieces of furniture. But this I can promise you. we're in this together. I will always be there to pick you up and cuddle away those tears. I'll kiss your ouchies and have plasters and magic cream. I know what it's like, and I promise never again to sigh and complain and make you think you're being silly to cry. I made you this way and I love you this way. In your own way, you're Mummy's little mini me too. I'm just sorry it has to be so painful.

Like mother, like daughter

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

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

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

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

Under that shy exterior, G is a bundle of personality

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Power struggle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.