If, ten years ago, anyone had told me that at twenty-two I’d find myself waking up to one dreamy looking baby gazing up at me from my side of the bed, I’d have laughed. That was my first thought this morning. I was always planning to be a lawyer or a psychologist or a criminologist or a doctor. I was going to drive around in a Mercedes, wear black stilettos teamed with a pencil skirt and jacket. I’d be a size 4, maybe a 6. I would go home at night to a marble floored entrance hall, enjoy holidays to the Maldives and spending what would feel like just pennies on every piece of Emma Bridgewater ever produced.
I lay there for a while. Baby Charlie shut his eyes and started to drift off to the land of nod. It was around half seven and this was the third time I’d been lying awake since the stroke of Midnight. I started to drift off too, only to be awoken by a shriek of “MUUUUMMY!” coming from my toddler’s bedroom.
I don’t know how Charlie slept through his big brother William screaming for me to come and rescue him from whatever predicament he’d managed to get himself into this time, but he did. Every morning I open William’s bedroom door to find him stuck somewhere, usually on the windowsill or in the wardrobe, and unable to get himself down or out. Every day is the same. I didn’t rush. I rolled my eyes and slowly climbed out of bed. “Yes Wills, Mummy is coming”. Sleepy-eyed, I meandered out of our room and into William’s. Predictably, he was stood on the windowsill (the windows are locked, by the way), a wooden spatula in one hand and a collection of ‘noonees’ (dummies) in the other.
“Yeah. I poopoo.”
Ah, yes. Happy Friday morning.
So I lift William from the windowsill and pull out the changing mat. This is a 3-wetwipe-packets-worth-job. Mid nappy change, of course, Charlie starts to howl too. This is the hardest part about having two kids so far. It’s not the lack of the sleep, or the keeping an eye on both babies. It’s knowing who’s poopy butt to prioritise.
I’d pretty much finished changing Wills, so I finished up his change and then started with Charlie. I note that newborn baby poops are much nicer to change that proper human style poop. When I was younger, and spending my weekends drinking cheap vodka in a field or a park with my school-friends, I would note how vomit always seems to contain carrots. Ever noticed that? It would seem even if I hadn’t touched a carrot in a week, my vodka-induced vomit would somehow always be laced with bright orange chunks. Gross, huh? I’ve recently noticed it seems to be that way with toddler poop, too.
So here I am changing a baby’s bum, with a toddler bringing me a plastic tin of sardines and telling me it’s ice cream (I wish), when I am covered in a steady fo