Best behaviour

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

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

Who's in charge here anyway?

G&T - 35 months  M - 13 months

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

A golden miracle

G&T - 35 months M - 13 months

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

Smug and proud

G&T - 2yrs 10mths   M - 1

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

Baby talk

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

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

The bogeyman

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

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

We are family

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

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