Secret Lives: The Mystery of Childhood

There have been times of late when I have felt that there has been an almost imperceptible shift in my family. It took some time for me to put my finger on precisely what had changed but I felt like I woke up one day and everything just seemed that little bit easier; that little bit less of a struggle. There was a little more time to put the dinner on, put the clothes away and get the hoover out. Fortunately, I managed to restrain myself from doing any of those things. Sure, I am still answering copious summons to the toilet where I am often greeted by a bare bottom being thrust in my direction thereby allowing me to “check” that the use of the first half of the toilet roll was sufficient but the other needs, whilst still plentiful, are not relentless in the way they once were. My children are discovering their independence and I am celebrating and lamenting in equal measure.

Where are you going? 

For the first born, the start of school has heralded a change in our relationship as she now spends the majority of her waking hours during the week away from me. I realise that the concept of school is not a new one and I probably should have been prepared for this but I don’t think I was ready for the her having a whole world away from me and for me to know so little about it. Don't get me wrong, I ask lots of questions, of both her and her teacher to try and gauge the pivotal moments from the day but the answers often just act to generate more questions. "Is she happy?", "Is she popular?", "Is she confident?" "Did she actually eat those peas she said she did at lunchtime?" I suspect I know the answer to the last one.

The school girl 

Meanwhile the youngest, while still having a temper like a bear with a migraine is, on occasion, to be found entertaining himself in his bedroom when his sister is not in the house. He can largely communicate to us what he wants (or "neeeeds") and whilst it may generally incur a negative parental response the resulting tantrum is half hearted and short lived. 

His two days at nursery are the highlight of his week but once again, due to his ability to mingle reality with a Paw Patrol storyline and his inability to understand the concept of time, his day often remains a mystery too.

He spent the day in a stab proof vest.
A STAB PROOF vest people!

It would seem that my babies are forging their own paths (albeit not too far away) and have elements of their own lives in which I am not allowed to partake. This theme seems to extend to their own sibling relationship. I longed for the day that I would take on the role of understudy; no longer being roped into playing pretend and having to act out multiple scenes from various Disney films but when I chance upon them playing together and hear the resultant peals of laughter I desperately want to join in. Unless, of course, it is Peter Pan then, quite frankly, they are welcome to leave me out of it.

The thing that I am struggling to define is exactly how I feel about it. I swing from the ache of a huge void that must be filled to relishing the freedom to pretend that I am doing the laundry when I am really scrolling down an Instagram vortex. Whilst I am (extremely) tempted to start the process all over again I am not sure one more child would ever be enough for me and that is ignoring the fact that with the life choices we have made we can barely afford the two we already have.

My friend once said that she often heard of someone with two children debating the third but rarely heard of the parent of three debating a fourth and therefore we must deduce that the third is one too far. However, she then went on to have a third so I don't listen to her anymore.

I think for now I am going to enjoy the minutes of freedom that their nugget of independence affords me and open a book or run an extra mile. I might just savour the relentless having relented even if only for a moment and spend a little more time choosing to ignore the housework rather than having to.

They still hold my hand... For now. 

Some Day I'll Be Saturday Night: The Week That Never Ends

Well it has been quite the week on the rodeo of life that is parenting small children. The universe seemed to delight in making the stars align in such a way that an astrological apocalypse was created, if you believe in that sort of thing, interfering with my week as a working mother of two young children.

Let me walk you through it:

Monday

As we were on the 2.5 mile round trip to school, the wheel of the pram (and sole transportation device for the highly time pressured morning drop off) snapped beyond repair leaving it to limp sadly along the road with an air of Del Boy's Reliant Robin. Having coaxed it back down the hill and waved my husband and the The Toddler off to coax it home, I headed into the office to start my working week. As I settled myself down to work, opening my laptop and passing some light chit chat with my colleagues about the weekends events (theirs lavish and fun-filled, mine protracted and potty-based) I answered the phone to a rather distressed husband who, upon returning home had discovered that we were imminently about to be revisited by all of our son’s contributions to the family reunion in Pooland and was requesting the number of a "decent drain man". I have quite the little black book, clearly.

Tuesday

I woke with renewed optimism as the drains had been remedied and a new wheel was winging its way to us in the post. This was extremely fortunate as it was a day when optimism would be crucial as I had to run the gauntlet that is swimming lessons; solo. Now you may think that I am being overly dramatic and I am sure that there are parents in their droves who routinely deal with two small children in a swimming pool without too much anguish whatsoever. However I am not one of them. Dealing with two hungry, grumpy, slippery dictators who are reluctant to leave the fun of the pool never mind help in their drying and dressing is akin to wrangling a lubricated, enraged octopus into a leather one piece. Twice.

In all honesty though, the ordeal of swimming was merely the cherry on the top of this day following our impromptu voyage into town after the school drop off. Mixing a borderline potty trained toddler who has a penchant for trying out all the local facilities available to him with the first real cold snap of the year (rendering his bladder overactive and thimble sized) was, perhaps in hindsight, a touch cavalier but you will recall that I was feeling somewhat optimistic that morning. Having merely vacated the third premises a matter of moments earlier, the toddler emitted a shriek for "potty!" at such a pitch that it would have been injudicious of me to ignore his plea. The nearest convenience was (inconveniently) four floors above and only accessible by a single lift which moved at the pace of a fatigued snail so by the time we reached our destination the toddler was shedding clothes at a terrifying rate of knots as he ran towards his target. I too, ditched everything I was carrying in order to airlift him onto the receptacle in time.

We made it. My phone? Not so much.

Wednesday

Wednesday was a fiasco from beginning to end. My mother routinely treks across the country to provide childcare for us on a Wednesday thereby allowing me to hold down some form of employment without bankrupting ourselves on nursery fees. Today however, an ill judged petits four after lunch with the girls on the preceding day had resulted in a fractured front crown and a trip to the emergency dentist which meant I was left to partake in a business call with my youngest attempting to sit on my head. Totes profesh.

Thursday

Thursday was doomed before it began. I returned from a late hospital appointment the previous evening to the news that The Toddler was lurgy filled, spiking a temperature, intolerant of everybody and everything and, as a result, had taken to his bed at an unprecedented early hour. We settled on half hourly checks (never ones to overreact) and my mother called at half past ten to relay her concerns of meningitis. Needless to say sleep was sparse. It was determined prior to his waking that a GP visit was essential so the husband delayed his own GP duties to drop the Big One off at school to allow me to partake in the ridiculous system that our medical practice operates whereby patients must present on the morning to be seen as part of a triage system. With a two hour wait ahead of us (and a mandatory training course on the other side of the country beckoning) I was a touch frustrated to see the toddler terrorising the rest of the waiting room as "Spider Max" showing no signs of being anything other than brimming with health and vitality.

Damn you child.

Friday

Husband had to go away for the weekend and I was entirely understanding right up until the point that there was a double danger nap. At five o'clock. Enough said.

Saturday

Today is still ongoing and whilst I generally like to remain open minded, being that this day started at four thirty and has involved liquid poop I feel that perhaps I should just submit and wait until the stars shift or Mars does its retrograde thing.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Get Back Up Again: When Parenthood Doesn't Go To Plan

Now I know I said I was going away for a while and you may be thinking that that initial declaration was somewhat insincere being that I am now here again a mere two weeks later but, much like an aged rocker answering the call to play his greatest hits, I am back but this time on request from one of my favourite people on the planet. You see, as a family we have been dealt a rather cruel hand of late and whilst the details of this particular person's predicament are not mine to tell they have occupied my thoughts and tainted my daily experiences to such a degree that my tales of merely surviving parenthood seemed to fade into a banal triviality. There seemed little point and an overriding sense of self indulgence in sitting down to write about my toddler's unwillingness to reunite his poo with its long lost family who reside in the sewars of Edinburgh (we'll get to that) when I could have been spending my time worrying (with its proven innate protective powers), consoling, falsely reassuring or researching the many methods in which to restore this person to her previous salubrity.

Superhero he may be... 

However, this weekend I took an enforced leave (by my husband) from parenting my own children and went to see her hoping to assuage my own concerns and dole out some intense, medicinal hugs. We talked, we laughed (probably harder than our pelvic floors were prepared for), we ate (a lot of superfood based meals) and we identified at least sixty two examples of her three month old's intellectual prowess. Parental leave well spent.

Time spent squeezing babies is always time well spent

Now whilst I cannot begin to compare any experience that we may have had as parents to what she is currently going through there are elements of her current situation which bring rather unsettling memories to the fore.

Feeling Short Changed by Life

When we learned of the complications of our first pregnancy and the ensuing differences that my daughter was going to have to live with for the rest of her life, I distinctly remember feeling like we were incredibly hard done by. We had done everything right. We had waited for (almost) the right time financially, we had been living a healthy lifestyle at the time of conception (although maybe not by Gwyneth Paltrow's standards) and we had a strong track record of robust health on our side. 

Complications in pregnancy were minimal in the family tree and there was certainly nothing beyond the point of getting those two pesky precursors to unite so with that first blue line in the all important window there was part of me that felt we were home free.

So when it all began to unravel I felt cheated. I felt angry. I felt like we were undeserving of such a cruel turn of events. Why us? What had we ever done to deserve this?

The harsh truth of the matter is nothing. We had done nothing wrong. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair and we definitely didn't deserve it but life doesn't dole out your allotment based on what is right or what is fair. As it turned out, we were merely asking the wrong question of the universe. Rather than asking why it was us we should have been asking why not us?

Everything Will Be Alright

The Lost Maternity Leave

After my daughter hurled herself from the womb two weeks early, undersized and brandishing her nine fingers and ten toes in our general direction we were immediately treated differently. We were whisked into a side room and striked from the list of routine post delivery checks to be performed by the junior doctor and etched onto the much shorter list for the consultant paediatrician to perform where the assessment would be carried out in the most painstaking and methodical manner.

All the plans for baby classes and mummy groups were instantly discarded and replaced with doctors appointments and dates with scanners. Development milestones loomed in the distance with an aching desperation, not for her to excel but for her to merely attain within an acceptable window of time. Baby clothes were not purchased based on their aesthetics (except by my mother) but for their ability to provide easy access to her various bandages and equipment. Sleep was lost, not solely based on her partiality for nocturnal activities but due to the terrorising worries that would pervade my mind in the small hours of the morning.

It was only when the date for my return to work appeared on the calendar that I realised my maternity leave had ended before it had even begun.

Back to Work 

The Cruelty of Genetic Testing

When the first mutterings were made that there may be a possible genetic cause for my daughter's differences, we were struck dumb. To learn that the essence of your being, the part of you that made you who you are before you were even a person, may have been predestined to sabotage you and those you love in one of the worst ways imaginable is a horror that I would not inflict on my worst enemy.

Although we learned (when our daughter was 3 months old) that there was no obvious genetic cause for her individual handprint the intervening period was quite possibly the greatest test our marriage will ever have. My husband and I recently discussed this time in our lives and found our experiences to have been significantly different. Where a positive (in the worst way possible) result would likely lead to our daughter either having profoundly increased needs or a dramatically shortened lifespan my husband envisioned us remaining a stoical family of three; standing strong together and enjoying the time that we had to the best of our ability. In stark contrast, I couldn't envision how we could possibly stay together in the knowledge that our genetic make up had come together to punish our daughter in such a cruel fashion. What would we do if it happened, albeit accidentally, again? 

I can honestly say that I have always loved my husband but I seriously contemplated divorce at this juncture. I don't think either of us was right or wrong and neither of us are more invested in this marriage than they other it was just an instinctive reaction to an unprecedented turn of events.

Hey ho, it was negative. So married we stay.

Marriage: The Ultimate Test

The Test of Friendship

No one should ever feel tested as a friend but unfortunately there are occasions in life when friendships will be truly tested and, hopefully, forever cemented by the shared experience of something truly awful happening to one party and I choose to find something rather heartwarming in this. When the worst happens the nature of the human condition is to expose their true self and act on their gut instinct. People either prove themselves to be the best of friends, surprise you with a devotion that you didn't know they felt or leave you feeling a little disappointed in their lack of understanding or empathy.

Sometimes the worst times of our lives bring out the best people we never truly knew we had and whilst I would never chose to have gone through what we did I do appreciate everyone who helped us on the way.

Every cloud and all that

Slipping Through My Fingers: Her First Day of School

Today it happened.

I knew that it was coming and, to be honest, more recently it has gone from being a vague August date pencilled in to the not too distant future, to a craved, crossing off the calendar- type, event. For today, my daughter has started school.

At four and a half, she is on the younger side of the permissable age range but I never really worried about her starting or contemplated deferring as she has always possessed an insatiable curiosity that in more recent times I was struggling to assuage. She has never shown anything less than emotional maturity but more recently she has been bedevilled by an effervescence of spirit that borders on insanity. 

It has been hell.

In my sensible parenting hat I realise that the volume and mania has all been due to nerves and the fear of the unknown with her school date hanging in the periphery. I know that she wants to love the experience of school as much as she is being told that she will. I am aware that she possesses a desperate need to please and will refuse to admit that there is anything less than unadulterated excitement coursing through her veins but that her anxieties also need an outlet. 

That outlet is cacophonic to the extreme.

When words fail her she moves to singing, tapping, banging, drumming, rattling and even devising her own language which she is willing to teach to any unsuspecting passerby as long as they are willing to swear allegiance to her totalitarian regime. She has been impossible. So, as the first day loomed I wasn't particularly emotional (despite pretending to be) as she had filled me with her own false confidence. This was what she needed; she was desperate for it. Her pre-school had served its purpose but was no longer challenging her in the way that it once had, her friends were making her feel inadequate as a person and she craved stimulation in every sense of the word. School would save us all.

School ready

So, on the 23rd of August the uniform hung in her room like the gown of a young bride; a promise of the amazing life changing day she was about to relish. She would look at it adoringly savouring it's textures and distinct tartan that would identify her as a member of a community; a posse, a clan. She would belong. Breakfast was the same as always with encouragement required to desist from incessant, nonsensical chatter to consume even the meanest morsel. Donning the garments which she had been yearning for followed with only three separate attempts by her parental unit at tying a tie being required. She was ready.

Poised and ready

There was then a 1.5mile journey to contend with; on a scooter. We made it with only minutes to spare. She told us how excited she was and how much she was looking forward to her day. We were dismissed with a distracted wave of the hand as, with tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth, she started furiously colouring a picture of three children skipping through the school gates with wild abandon. 

No tears, from anybody. We had aced this. She was ready, prepared and made for this. School was going to be her domain; her haven. 

Pick up did nothing to dispel our beliefs. Whilst waiting outside the classroom amidst the other anxious faces we could hear her voice ringing out. Despite exchanging rueful glances, my husband and I were secretly delighted that she had clearly retained her joyful enthusiasm for life and everything that school had to offer. Her constant chatter continued throughout the afternoon and evening with any query about her day being met with nothing but unadulterated zeal. 

"I love school!"
"Best day ever Mummy!"
"I am going to love school even more than you did Mummy!"

Well that was an odd comment but I initially dismissed it until her eyes filled with tears.

"There was this one thing though Mummy. At lunch I was in the playground and I couldn't find anyone. The girl I was meant to stay with kept running away from me. I missed you then Mummy." She sniffed. "It was just that one thing though Mummy."

My heart broke.

I put her to bed. I told her how awesome she was as a human being and how lucky the friends, whom she is yet to discover, will be to have her in their lives.

Then I took myself off and wept. 

No one warns you about the second day of school.

She is awesome.

Come Together: Selling the Idea of Group Parenting

Now I don't want to make anyone nervous or fear that I am trying to indoctrinate you into some sort of cult which requires the sacrifice of a first born at every new moon but I have recently been thinking about the advantages of communal living. Bear with me.

We have been staying at my in law's house with my sister-in-law, her husband and their newborn daughter. Now, a hyperactive 4 year old, a somewhat impassioned 2 year old and an infant who is trying to come to terms with not being physically cocooned within her mother being couped up in the one house may seem, from the outside, chaotic or perhaps even a tad stressful. Honestly though, it wasn't. In this situation the adults far outnumbered the children and there were six pairs of hands to three demanding bodies which meant that adult ablutions could be done in private, hot drinks could be consumed whilst still above room temperature and role play could be evenly distributed thereby reducing any one person's suffering to tolerable levels. 

Many hands make less role play

Communal living meant that my husband and I could run together for an hour everyday. Now I realise that this might not be everyone's chosen activity when given a hour to one's self so replace "run" with "soak in the bath", "reading a book" or "catching up on the side bar of shame" if that's your bag, but it gave us the chance to chat, shoot the breeze, wax lyrically about our amazing children like we actually loved them and not through gritted teeth. Living with other people gives you the ability to do these things. Every single day! 

It also allowed me to take the edge off my ever present craving to "go again" by inhaling the newborn's scent and stroking their tiny, hairy limbs whilst they slept in a frog like position on my chest. I had all the joys of an infant without the torturous sleep deprivation, swampy feeling around the chesticles, drenching night sweats and tender undercarriage of days gone by. The new parents also got the opportunity to savour naps during the day, safe in the knowledge that, should their beloved progeny stir, there would be a number of loving bodies vying for the position of Chief Cuddler until they awoke from their slumber.

Just taking a big whiff...

The children seemed to thrive too. They soaked up the various sources of attention as efficiently as my socks soak up the errant urine around the toilet bowl whilst my son potty trains. In other circumstances when we have lived with other parents whose children are of similar ages and temperaments there have even been brief periods where we have been left to, hold on to your hats people, chat. 

The negatives (and we always knew there had to be some) would be rather vigorous selection process that would be involved. Your parenting prowess would need to be on par as you couldn't have Nigel and Bev from NCT consistently showing you up with their prodigy who has slept 10 hours a night since conception, gifts his finest cuddly toys to the local dog shelter as a matter of principle and is a self taught concert pianist by the age of 4. You need to find yourselves some parenting kindred spirits. 

In our case we are looking for a couple who rate fun and kindness over etiquette and tidiness. We need a couple who can appease an irate toddler while teaching a preschooler about evolution, gravity and breast feeding (she has some questions.) In return we can offer some strong voices during story time, a relaxed approach to feeding time and methods and a love of an early night, thereby freeing our alternates up for some nanights on the tiles whilst we hold down the communal fort.

We have even kept an eye out
for nearby properties

Nigel and Bev need not apply.

You've Got a Friend In Me: An Open Letter to My Friends

Dear Friends,

I am sorry. 

I realise that I don't call, email or even text you as much as I should. I know that there are times when you must feel like I am selfishly absorbed in my own little world and have forgotten the pivotal role that you played at that particularly bad time in my life or how we used to live in one another's pockets without even having to verbalise our shared thoughts because we already knew what one another were thinking about every aspect of every day. I am conscious of the fact that you have things going on, things that as your friend I should be aware of and should be there to offer counsel or merely act as a sounding board, allowing you to vent your frustrations or voice your concerns; things that I would be aware of if I was more present in your daily life.

Me: in your daily life

Whilst, I am not normally one to blow my own trumpet but I like to think that I used to be pretty good as friends go. I realise that my ability to pick up the phone has always been somewhat lacking, fearing the conversation unnatural and stilted, but I made up for it in other ways. I used to be good at just "checking in" or dropping a text or Facebook message when I came across something that reminded me of you or us. I used to make the effort to visit, even if just for one night so that I could see you in person, feel us ease into our relationship like we had never been apart and put the world to rights; solving everyone else's problems and making light of our own.

I used to be a good friend.

Putting the world to rights

Now I struggle to remember birthdays or anniversaries, even when I played a key role in the ceremony. Now, I reply to messages a week later, having received them whilst wrestling with my toddler who is reluctant to get his nappy changed despite smelling like a blocked swear drain and being unable to sit down for fear of sending poop into crevices from where it shall never be recovered. Now, I see or hear things that remind me of you and induce a smile and I put them on the list. I put them on the list of things to do as undoubtedly when I experience such a memory I will be herding the small people from one activity to another or in the middle of a very complex role play. Now, I think of arranging a visit to spend time with you and I have to sit down with my husband and work it when he can alter his rota to accommodate the lion share of childcare. I have to factor in continuity for my kids, resident training required for work and my husband's extra curricular activities at which point we get distracted by a child crying out, unable to sleep and seeking parental comfort and the planning is forgotten for another few weeks.

They can be distracting

But know this, I love you and I miss you. I do remember the way we use to be and I hope and pray that one day we will be there again. 

I ask for you to be patient. 

For my children are two and four. Their world's are hectic but limited and they are the centre of it and I am their moon; their constant. They are the best thing that I have ever done but they devour my time, attention and thoughts like I could never have imagined. They are relentless in their capacity and need for love and attention and I must be there to give it. When I am not there I am desperately trying to look like a professional in a job where I constantly feel out of my depth but valued at the same time. I am spread as thinly as the lactose intolerant would spread butter on toast but it won't be this way forever; one day I will be back.

Continuity

One day we will have girls' weekends and extended conversations over WhatsApp where we discuss everything and nothing. One day we will get the chance to relax together and be us again. 

One day, my lovely, we will be the best of friends once again.

Stand By Me: The Art of Staying Married with Children

Today I saw one of my favourite sights in the world. It is a sight that makes my heart sing like a toddler channelling Elsa. It is a sight that makes me realise, even in the darkest times, that the world is not such a bad place. It is a sight that, one day, I hope to be able to re-enact. Today I saw two elderly people holding hands, and when I say elderly, I truly mean old. This couple were less spring chicken and more wise old owl, they had spent less of their life with Google and more with encyclopedias, and their gait was less strident and more shuffling in form but they were beautiful. They were still strong and independent and their hand holding visibly affectionate rather than based in a need for physical support. 

6 years and counting....

Now, I am usually a cynic and I realise that this pair of octogenarians may have only been together for the past two years having endured bitter divorces battled out in court or cruel, untimely bereavements which left them seeking solace in one another. Perhaps, as they walked the streets of Edinburgh, they were amidst a torrid love affair fuelled by a cocktail of Irish coffees and Viagra, downed while their better halves were distracted having devoted themselves to more charitable activities. Perhaps this was the case, however, I am choosing to believe that they had shared their entire adult lives together. I am choosing to believe that life had neither been exceptionally cruel nor unusually kind to them but having set their caps at one another they had chosen to stick together; they had chosen to recognise the value of what they had invested in one another.

39 years and counting...

So today Husband, I ask you to wait. Wait for the day when my hands are free to be held; when they are not so busy wiping streaming noses and wriggly bottoms. Wait for the time when my hands are not constantly engaged in the intricate princess tea parties and trainset assembly. Wait for the day when my arms are not consistently wrapped around a small person who is inconsolable with rage or fear and wait for the day when my body is no longer a climbing frame; a safe house or a buffet station. Just wait.

For I too am biding my time. I wait for the day when our home is flourished with nice things and is no longer a shrine to the Gods of vibrantly coloured plastics. I long for when we spend our time together, not apart, even doing the banal administrative tasks of adult life and not constantly having to pass the relay baton of parenting so that we can go to the bank, do a supermarket run or get a much needed haircut. I want for the day when we argue over things other than who is better placed to pick up the childcare slack when nursery falls through or who is bearing more of the weight of responsibility for earning the money for nappies, formula and education.

45ish years and counting (actual years rarely disclosed)...

I want us to travel; climb hills and scale mountains. I want us to socialise together, not apart. I want us to run a marathon in a place we have never been. I want us to go on dates and kiss like teenagers again. I want to see you for you and not just the amazing dad you are.

But right now, I am relishing every moment. I am treasuring each clammy hand wrapped around my neck or placed in mine without request. I am cherishing each inconsequential toddler secret that is uttered in my ear and for which I am sworn to absolute secrecy. I am savouring every first be it step, word or school day but most of all my love, I am delighting in sharing it with you.

59 years...

For one day we too shall be old and we will likely have travelled to those exotic locations, scaled the numerous mountains and spent evenings and weekends with friends old and new but as we walk the streets I know we shall be discussing our two greatest achievements and everything they have brought to our life together. That day, my love, we too shall hold hands. 

Unless I have said something rude (then our bellies will "shake with laughter, and we shall live happily ever after")

Parallel Lives: How the Other Half Live Child Free

Now I am not one who enjoys comparing themselves to others; I tend to find that I am never clever enough, funny enough, pretty enough, slim enough, fit enough or kind enough. However, this weekend I have retreated to the in laws for the Easter break where we are in the company of my husband's twin and her husband and I find myself searching my pockets for my yard stick once again and plotting our differences against one another. Now these differences are not in relation to our personal qualities (because obviously we are both equally as kind, beautiful and clever) but our experiences of similar events over the weekend.

Parallel Lives

1. The journey

My sister in law messaged the family WhatsApp group to inform the family of their arrival time, including elucidatory details of their planned journey. These tantalising nuggets included "the quiet coach", "M&S picnic" and "watching MasterChef en route". 

Meanwhile, I was wrangling with a 2 year old who refused to sleep despite the late hour and degree of exhaustion (loosely translated from his anguished screams of "I NO LIKE!!"). Attempts to ease him into the realm of unconsciousness whilst my husband attempted to concentrate on the road in the driving rain included, but were not limited to: 

• soothing tones and reassuring phrases issued in his general direction with reassuring pats of his legs. Response: "SHHHH! I NO LIKE!"

• putting on an over- exaggerated display of pretending to fall asleep myself. Response:  "MUMMYMUMMYMUMMYMUMMY MUM-MY!!"

• listening to the same banal nursery rhyme on repeat for an hour, slowly but surely feeling the will to live ebb from my body whilst also wondering if the vocalist every thought to question their life choices. Response: "AGAIN! AGAIN!"

Fighting a losing battle

2. The wake up

A fact universally acknowledged by the extended family is that this pair love a lie in; forever reluctant to stir from their recumbent position and face the world beyond their snug and warm duvet. Well, this weekend was no different. It was 9 o'clock before they emerged from the haven of their bedroom, loosely disheveled and in a dreamy haze; wandering down the stairs to greet the day and the youthful inhabitants of the house with the enthusiasm and vigour that only 8 hours of uninterrupted slumber can bestow.

We acknowledged their presence with subtle nods over the brim of our tepid cups of coffee; issuing a jaded greeting in their general direction like war veterans who were unable and unwilling to convey the terrors they had already lived through. We were broken. 

Bouncing into the day

The children had not transitioned from car to bedroom as seamlessly as we would have hoped and had needed frequent parental intervention for such emergencies as "the night is too dark", "my blanket is tangled" and "mummy, mummy, milk, mummy". They had, however, apparently been well rested enough to accompany the dawn chorus (the joys of countryside living) with their own dulcet tones and start the day with relentless enthusiasm for all forms of physical play; particularly those which involved sitting astride their mother and bouncing simultaneously with gay abandon.

Much like this...

3. The relationship

This twosome have been married for just over two years, a date I have etched on my calendar as my rascal child had penned in his arrival for two days later meaning my husband never got to see his twin be walked down the aisle, raise a toast to her future happiness or dance with her on her wedding day. Instead he was lucky enough to spend the day on labour ward being glowered at repeatedly (especially when being offered tea and biscuits mid contraction), have his beloved mutter audible profanities about him for putting her in such a position and being able to wipe the sweat from his wife's upper lip (I suffer from a very sweaty face) as she tried to expel an unruly grapefruit through the eye of the needle.

Parallel Lives

Despite being two years into matrimony and about 11 years into their relationship this other couple retain a display of physical affection that would be more suited to a fledgling romance; one that has not yet weathered the gastric illness, utility bills and domestic chores which come to all long term relationships. Hands are proferred for holding, armpits are snuggled into when seated on a couch and hugs are spontaneously bestowed upon each other freely and without ulterior motive. They appear very much in love.

Snuggle-tastic

We, on the other hand are comrades in arms, passing the undetonated (and sometimes detonated) bombs between us with an unspoken understanding. All physical affection is showered upon our offspring; hands are too busy carrying or wiping to be held, nooks are prefilled with small children who need a reassuring cuddle and spontaneous hugs are saved for times of childhood injury or uncertainty. On the rare occasions that we may try to bestow a loving touch or unsolicited kiss upon our other, we are met with outcry from our progeny. They appear to find it both unsettling and unfair; did we not realise that all affection must be lavished in their direction? 

Now, you may have read this and felt a twinge of pity for me or a hankering for those magical days where you weren't responsible for keeping another human entertained/fed/law- abiding/alive but I urge you to take solace in this fact: the other couple are expecting a baby. 

Oh Brother: The Art of the Sibling Relationship

Most people have them, some people like them, a few people resent them but no one gets to pick them; I am, of course, referring to siblings.

Brothers from the same Mother (and Father)

I, myself, am one of three. As the youngest and only girl, my relationship with my brothers has taken various forms over the past thirty odd years. There were many times in my childhood when I felt decidedly left out purely by virtue of not being a boy, a fact that as a toddler I was somewhat ignorant; I was known to take a wide stance facing the toilet, squeeze my belly button with both hands, aim resolutely at the back of the bowl and drench the floor when the call of nature was upon me.

However, upon graduating to the pre- school years and having come to terms with our anatomical differences, I adopted and alternated between two clear strategies:

1.  Taking advantage of the idea of my "weak" girl like status

This involved preying on the more susceptible of the two brothers and convincing him that he should allow me to sleep in their shared room rather than abandon me to spend the night in solitary confinement. On one occasion, having been granted admission I casually suggested leaving the bedroom door slightly ajar thereby admitting a shaft of light and appeasing the deep seated terror of being left in the dark and was informed that it must be closed fast to halt any flames that may be in the process of incinerating the rest of the house while we slept. Brotherly love.

We are all friends until someone mentions being consumed by flames in their sleep 

2. Attempting to be seen as "one of the boys"

This method took various forms throughout my childhood but the memory that holds fast is that which led to my first, and only, nickname: "The Crayon Cracker". Upon identifying my forehead to be slightly bigger than the average brow (or a "fivehead" as acutely described by my friend) my brothers deduced that it would be the perfect structure upon which to fracture our childhood drawing implements. This discovery resulted in a series of hard blows to the skull which I bore enthusiastically; numbed by the sheer joy of feeling that I had impressed them and dismissing any concerns with a shake of my, rather concussed, head.

I was in.

Basking in the heat of a 90s British summer

As we have grown up, left home, found significant others, actively encouraged each other to lose those significant others and found new significant others, our trio's bonds have varied in strength (perhaps never quite rivalling that of when I was being physically assaulted) and now each individual relationship is unique in its own way. We may not be the best of friends all of the time but sometimes we really are and the loyalty of one sibling to another is never in question.

The Trio

Where I was one of three and could choose a particular ally befitting my mood or activity, my children will only ever have each other and I can recognise that this has both its merits and its disadvantages. I watch them as they forge, what I hope to be, a life long friendship and I like to think they are well matched. Whilst I recognise that there are periods, when their relationship resembles that of the Gallagher brothers (the younger being Liam, obviously) and I fear a fight to the death for ownership of the toy pram, I feel that more often than not they replicate a Scout and Jem Finch dynamic; happily alternating between squabbles and intense love affairs with an unshakeable bond of friendship holding strong.

No matter how often she has to concede on her favourite toy.

They love each other really