By 25 June 2012 No Comments

I tell myself, on an almost hourly basis, that if I can just hold on until the end of the year when the triplets turn three then everything will be SO much easier. I’ll have well and truly turned that mythical corner and the quality of my daily life will dramatically improve. I have to say that today I’m having a crisis of faith when it comes to that belief. I feel like I’m pushing a giant boulder up the side of the world’s steepest mountain and that any minute now I’m going to lose my footing, hurtle to the ground and be crushed flat like Road Runner but without the Disney style ability to instantly pop back up and carry on going. When I chat to other mums -friends or random, lovely strangers who strike up conversation in the supermarket queue or at the playground it’s always the same message and I think I’ve been in serious, serious denial. It doesn’t suddenly, magically get easier – it just, all together now, changes. Okay, so right now I’m dreaming of the day when they’re out of nappies, the screaming tantrums have subsided and they no longer feel the need to pull every item I own off every shelf in the house. But at least at this stage I can plonk them in their cots at six thirty and zone out in relative peace, basking in the relative silence. My heart sank today whilst having a quick coffee with a friend who was letting off steam about the nightly craziness at her house and how at nine, ten pm her nine and six year old are still running around upstairs, fighting, messing about and (I can barely say it) refusing to go to bed. Please see this as an official warning: it will be a dark, dark day when my triplets are still running around at anything past about seven fifteen. My evenings are the only thing keeping me sane and I don’t say that lightly. The knowledge that I’ve got a few precious hours between their bedtime and mine is what keeps me from running, screaming down the road – probably naked. When that day comes, as it inevitably will, the neighbours will barely look up from what they’re doing, they’ll just shrug and say ‘there goes that crazy lady with all the kids and only one nipple.’

Emma Campbell

Author Emma Campbell

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