This is not the type of post I usually write, and I hardly know where to begin. The issues I'm about to discuss are difficult, heart-rending ones, but I can't really write about anything else, as I've been struggling to think about anything else.
I was heartbroken to read a Tweet about a week ago from a fellow blogger who I follow, Jennie at Edspire: 'Our beautiful daughter Matilda Mae was taken from us last night to join the angels in the sky x RIP Beautiful angel daughter x We love you x' She was just nine months old.
At first, I tried to convince myself that this was some perverse joke, that some mentally ill individual had hacked Jennie's account and written these terrible words. But no. Jennie has since explained that Matilda died in her cot on the day she learned to crawl, tragically finding her way under her blanket and suffocating. Cot death. The words every parent dreads from the moment they hold their child in their arms. But though it is the stuff of all our nightmares, none of us really believe it will happen to us. But it does happen. And it happens to people just like me.
I follow Jennie and read her blog because we are alike. Very alike. We are the same age, we both struggled to have children, and we were both blessed with twins thanks to IVF, then, less than two years later, we both welcomed a miracle baby girl we never dreamed we would be able to have naturally. Our little ones even have similar names. I never imagined our lives would suddenly split in such a brutal and devastating way. I feel so utterly overwhelmed by sadness for what Jennie, her husband and the twins are going through, and so angry and confused as to why that beautiful little girl was taken. I feel guilty, too. Because I still have my baby. I can hold her, hear her laugh, see her smile. It's so unfair. And I feel helpless. I want to help, to somehow support Jennie through the nightmare, but my efforts seem so pathetic. I've replied to her Tweets, but my words hardly seem enough. I just hope the volume of the voices joining together to tell her we care is helping in some way. Jennie says many people don't understand why she has turned to Twitter, and I can't imagine that's where I'd want to be right now, but it doesn't matter the tiniest bit what I'd do, or what anyone else thinks. Whatever Jennie wants or needs to do, is the absolute right thing. And all we can do is let her know we're there. We all wish so desperately that we could make this unhappen, but we can't. It did happen, it does happen and we're all having to face that.
I can barely watch an episode of ER if a child is dying, and have so far refused to read one book by my favourite author, as it concerns a family's loss of a little one. But this isn't a story. It's brutal and cruel and incomprehensible. But it's real. Whenever my brain tries to get me to think about what it would be like if my little M had been the one taken, instead of Matilda Mae, I can't get it into focus. I simply can't process the thought. The idea of life without one of my girls is horrific, and I can't imagine wanting to go on. But I'd have to for the other two. Just like Jennie has to for her beautiful twins.
So it is Jennie I've turned to to know what to do. She asked that we all hold our children close, tell them we love them and don't put things off. I have been showering the girls with more cuddles and kisses than ever, the urge to hold them close is almost overwhelming. M fell asleep in the buggy yesterday as I brought her back from dropping her sisters at nursery. I parked her in the sunroom while I got on with tidying up. After about an hour, she cried and I went to get her up, but when I lifted her, she snuggled in and fell straight back asleep in my arms. Any other day, I'd probably try to get her back in her cot and make the most of my twin-free time to get things done. But I didn't. I sat on the sofa and held her until she woke up. She's 16 months old now and the early days of being trapped under her as she refused to sleep anywhere else are long gone but cherished memories. I savoured the weight of her, the warmth against me, the feel of her hair. When the twins got home, I didn't try to get the kitchen clean or put the laundry away. I built elaborate train tracks and sang endless nursery rhymes. I made the most of every minute.
And that's what I will do my best to keep doing. Of course I am going to get exasperated with the girls, frustrated by their demands and overwhelmed at times. But I will never forget Jennie's wish. I will do it in your name Matilda Mae. I will do my best every day to honour you by being the best mum I can. Sleep tight, angel. I hope you and your family all find peace.
Thursday, 7 February 2013
Saturday, 26 January 2013
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.
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.
Monday, 14 January 2013
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...
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...
Saturday, 29 December 2012
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?
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?
Tuesday, 20 November 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, 11 November 2012
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...
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...
Saturday, 3 November 2012
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.
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.
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