So my babies are nearly three. The teeny, tiny bundles that I held in my arms in the special care baby unit back in December 2009 are now upright, vocal, two feet on the ground, don’t mess with me little warriors.
And dare I say it – suddenly, it doesn’t feel quite so hard. The nappies and bottles have gone. The cots have been dismantled and delivered to the local charity shop. No more fiddling with buttons on a baby gro. Sentences are beginning to take shape and the intense
frustration at not being understood seems a little diluted. I have three extra people in my life now. Three, couldn’t be more different, don’t you dare bunch us together, human beings who want to smother and squash me with love and who think I’m just the best thing ever. Even when I’m being the worst.
“It’s my mummy,” says Theo flinging his arms around me as though his life depended on it.
“Not your mummy, mine.” Says Miss Ella ferociously yanking her brother by the hair as she tries to jostle in and take prime postion on my lap.
“He’s all our mummys,” says Louis wide eyed and anxious – a little mixed up but with the most adorable of intentions.
Yes, my darling. I’m all your mummys and right now, I can’t quite believe we’ve come this far.
We did it. We’re three years in.
High fives all round. I’ve got a feeling the best is yet to come.
And they’re sleeping through. Did I mention that they’re sleeping through?