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...
Sunday, 5 August 2012
Wednesday, 25 July 2012
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?
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?
Thursday, 12 July 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, 30 June 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, 14 June 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, 3 June 2012
Twice as nice
G&T - 2-and-a-half M- 8 months
So, one week on, and potty training doesn't seem that bad after all. A few accidents, yes, but many requests for, and deposits in, the potty, a sticker chart full of rewards, a few toilet attempts... All in all, progressing very nicely. Well, it would be if I was only training one child.
The other day, T just got it. We managed to time it right to catch a couple of pees in the potty, and that was it. She suddenly started telling me when she needed to go, and the puddles virtually disappeared. OK, so she's having a bit of a timing issue with more solid deposits, seemingly telling me she needs only when they're actually on the way out, but we're getting along very nicely thank you. And as for G? Nothing. She just won't do it. Stickers, chocolate, cuddles, pretty pants, princess-themed toilet seats, twin-induced peer pressure... Nothing can convince her that potties are the way forward. Yes, I might just have to accept that for all her intelligence and language, when it comes to this, she's just not ready. But I don't think that's it. She's just waiting. Waiting until she's seen her sister test the water first. Waiting to assess all the pros and cons. Waiting until she can do it perfectly before she even begins.
That's my little G all over. It was exactly the same when they learned to walk. G took her first steps within a week of her sister, at 11 months. But whereas T went on to slowly build up her ability a few steps and tumbles at a time, G just went back to crawling. Nothing could convince her to get up and walk again. Then, when she was 13 months old, just when I was beginning to worry she was being left behind, she simply stood up and strolled across the room. Within days, she was just as proficient a walker as T. It was the same recently when they discovered the mini carousel in our local shopping centre. At first sight, T launched herself at it, attempting the scale it herself and demanding Daddy feed it money. G meanwhile stood back, observing. Waiting. Then,the other day, after several weeks of careful observation, she turned to me and said: 'My go now, Mummy.' And we haven't looked back. She's the carousel queen, grinning and waving as she trots round on her favourite horse. She just likes things to be just so, just right before she commits. In this, as with everything else, she takes after her dad. A scientist and an accountant, he's careful and considered when it comes to anything new, analysing all the variables before making a choice. It turns out, G is not only his double in looks, she's a little mathematician in waiting too. But she has an advantage her father didn't have. She's a twin. And she's a twin with a sister who takes after her mum. T, like me, is more of a leap in head first, think about the consequences later type of girl. She's perfectly happy to be G's personal tester.
Once again, I'm in awe of people who have just one baby. My girls are so lucky to have each other, and the fact that they are such opposites does them both good. Sometimes we just can't believe they are so different, that of all the possible embryos created during IVF, fate gave us one perfect little clone each. (M, by the way, is shaping up to be a Mummyalike too. Not that I'm keeping score...) So, I'm just sitting back and letting the twin-ness work its wonders. G's back in pull-ups for now, until she decides it's time. Until she's let her whirlwind little sister show her it's all OK. And that's fine by me. When I found out I was expecting twins, although I always knew I might be, I was still shocked, still a bit apprehensive. Scared even, about the challenges that lay ahead. But now, it just makes sense to me. Of course children should come in pairs, each with a ready-made friend and confidant, a foil for their little quirks and a ever-present rival to push them along. Sometimes, I'm even a little sad that M isn't a twin. Until I think about having to potty train two at the same time all over again. Maybe singletons aren't that bad after all...
So, one week on, and potty training doesn't seem that bad after all. A few accidents, yes, but many requests for, and deposits in, the potty, a sticker chart full of rewards, a few toilet attempts... All in all, progressing very nicely. Well, it would be if I was only training one child.
The other day, T just got it. We managed to time it right to catch a couple of pees in the potty, and that was it. She suddenly started telling me when she needed to go, and the puddles virtually disappeared. OK, so she's having a bit of a timing issue with more solid deposits, seemingly telling me she needs only when they're actually on the way out, but we're getting along very nicely thank you. And as for G? Nothing. She just won't do it. Stickers, chocolate, cuddles, pretty pants, princess-themed toilet seats, twin-induced peer pressure... Nothing can convince her that potties are the way forward. Yes, I might just have to accept that for all her intelligence and language, when it comes to this, she's just not ready. But I don't think that's it. She's just waiting. Waiting until she's seen her sister test the water first. Waiting to assess all the pros and cons. Waiting until she can do it perfectly before she even begins.
That's my little G all over. It was exactly the same when they learned to walk. G took her first steps within a week of her sister, at 11 months. But whereas T went on to slowly build up her ability a few steps and tumbles at a time, G just went back to crawling. Nothing could convince her to get up and walk again. Then, when she was 13 months old, just when I was beginning to worry she was being left behind, she simply stood up and strolled across the room. Within days, she was just as proficient a walker as T. It was the same recently when they discovered the mini carousel in our local shopping centre. At first sight, T launched herself at it, attempting the scale it herself and demanding Daddy feed it money. G meanwhile stood back, observing. Waiting. Then,the other day, after several weeks of careful observation, she turned to me and said: 'My go now, Mummy.' And we haven't looked back. She's the carousel queen, grinning and waving as she trots round on her favourite horse. She just likes things to be just so, just right before she commits. In this, as with everything else, she takes after her dad. A scientist and an accountant, he's careful and considered when it comes to anything new, analysing all the variables before making a choice. It turns out, G is not only his double in looks, she's a little mathematician in waiting too. But she has an advantage her father didn't have. She's a twin. And she's a twin with a sister who takes after her mum. T, like me, is more of a leap in head first, think about the consequences later type of girl. She's perfectly happy to be G's personal tester.
Once again, I'm in awe of people who have just one baby. My girls are so lucky to have each other, and the fact that they are such opposites does them both good. Sometimes we just can't believe they are so different, that of all the possible embryos created during IVF, fate gave us one perfect little clone each. (M, by the way, is shaping up to be a Mummyalike too. Not that I'm keeping score...) So, I'm just sitting back and letting the twin-ness work its wonders. G's back in pull-ups for now, until she decides it's time. Until she's let her whirlwind little sister show her it's all OK. And that's fine by me. When I found out I was expecting twins, although I always knew I might be, I was still shocked, still a bit apprehensive. Scared even, about the challenges that lay ahead. But now, it just makes sense to me. Of course children should come in pairs, each with a ready-made friend and confidant, a foil for their little quirks and a ever-present rival to push them along. Sometimes, I'm even a little sad that M isn't a twin. Until I think about having to potty train two at the same time all over again. Maybe singletons aren't that bad after all...
Friday, 1 June 2012
#Tippingpoint Writing for Syria
G&T - 2-and-a-half M- 7-and-a-half months
I can't read it. I've tried several times because I know I should, but I can't read it. I get a few paragraphs into the now infamous Times front cover on the Houla massacre and I have to look away. The details of the horrific killings are just too much.
I didn't use to be able to watch animal programmes. There was a blanket ban in our house on Animal Hospital or Animal Rescue, for fear that a pet cat or dog wouldn't make it, and I'd be reduced to a gibbering wreck. But ever since I've become a mum, I've found it's the news I have to be wary of. I'm a journalist by trade, and I believe in the power of the media, in the responsibility of the press to tell the stories that we need to hear. But now, every horror story involving a small child just makes me think of my own, and my brain shuts down at the slightest suggestion it could happen to them. The reports from Syria tell of scores of dead children. Dead babies. Dead, mutilated babies. It's the 21st century. How can those words even fall in the same sentence? When I tried to read the Times article, I thought about someone looking into my girls' innocent, trusting eyes, and... I couldn't even bring myself to finish the thought. I shut down the computer, snuck upstairs and just looked at them all asleep in their cots, resisting the almost overpowering urge to scoop each one up and never let go. But if you feel you can read about what happened in Houla, you should. http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/news/world/middleeast/article3430302.ece?shareToken=9ff5af6c6f90f29bcc1634dd0ae942bc Because we have to do something. We have to know. We have to remember. We have to shout. And we have to be heard. That's why I'm writing this piece, even though I'm struggling to keep it together as I do. Even though it makes me never want to let my girls out of my sight. When we're thousands of miles away, the only thing we can do is care. One person can't be heard. But what about a thousand? A million? Please, sign the Save the Children petition. http://action.savethechildren.org.uk/ea-campaign/clientcampaign.do?ea.client.id=7&ea.campaign.id=15098&ea.param.extras=tracking:HmPg&utm_campaign=SyMay2012&utm_medium=web&utm_source=SyMay2012HmPg Add your voice to the cry for change. Join the #tippingpoint roar on Twitter. Write about it, talk about it. Be enraged.
Suddenly, all my potty-training stress seemed silly. Celebrating getting a good night's sleep seemed so small. But it's not. Life's little victories are exactly what's been stolen from those children. All that's left now is to pray that their parents died with them. That they didn't have to live having seen them die. Those mothers and fathers would have given all they had to clean up accidents or tend to their baby at 3am. And they would have got stressed and annoyed too. Because it's hard work. It's stressful, tiring, frustrating. And wonderful. And we owe to those parents to live, to become exasperated at the difficulties and revel in the victories. And we owe it to them to do it all in their name.
I can't read it. I've tried several times because I know I should, but I can't read it. I get a few paragraphs into the now infamous Times front cover on the Houla massacre and I have to look away. The details of the horrific killings are just too much.
I didn't use to be able to watch animal programmes. There was a blanket ban in our house on Animal Hospital or Animal Rescue, for fear that a pet cat or dog wouldn't make it, and I'd be reduced to a gibbering wreck. But ever since I've become a mum, I've found it's the news I have to be wary of. I'm a journalist by trade, and I believe in the power of the media, in the responsibility of the press to tell the stories that we need to hear. But now, every horror story involving a small child just makes me think of my own, and my brain shuts down at the slightest suggestion it could happen to them. The reports from Syria tell of scores of dead children. Dead babies. Dead, mutilated babies. It's the 21st century. How can those words even fall in the same sentence? When I tried to read the Times article, I thought about someone looking into my girls' innocent, trusting eyes, and... I couldn't even bring myself to finish the thought. I shut down the computer, snuck upstairs and just looked at them all asleep in their cots, resisting the almost overpowering urge to scoop each one up and never let go. But if you feel you can read about what happened in Houla, you should. http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/news/world/middleeast/article3430302.ece?shareToken=9ff5af6c6f90f29bcc1634dd0ae942bc Because we have to do something. We have to know. We have to remember. We have to shout. And we have to be heard. That's why I'm writing this piece, even though I'm struggling to keep it together as I do. Even though it makes me never want to let my girls out of my sight. When we're thousands of miles away, the only thing we can do is care. One person can't be heard. But what about a thousand? A million? Please, sign the Save the Children petition. http://action.savethechildren.org.uk/ea-campaign/clientcampaign.do?ea.client.id=7&ea.campaign.id=15098&ea.param.extras=tracking:HmPg&utm_campaign=SyMay2012&utm_medium=web&utm_source=SyMay2012HmPg Add your voice to the cry for change. Join the #tippingpoint roar on Twitter. Write about it, talk about it. Be enraged.
Suddenly, all my potty-training stress seemed silly. Celebrating getting a good night's sleep seemed so small. But it's not. Life's little victories are exactly what's been stolen from those children. All that's left now is to pray that their parents died with them. That they didn't have to live having seen them die. Those mothers and fathers would have given all they had to clean up accidents or tend to their baby at 3am. And they would have got stressed and annoyed too. Because it's hard work. It's stressful, tiring, frustrating. And wonderful. And we owe to those parents to live, to become exasperated at the difficulties and revel in the victories. And we owe it to them to do it all in their name.
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