My Diary of Triplet Fatherhood

My mum has come up for a visit. It is a warm October day and she, I and my girls have come to Kirkstall Abbey for a morning out. The girls love to play in the ruins, climbing on the low, stone walls, running around and, favourite of all, “having a bath”.

What they call the bath is a small, rectanglular space, once part of the refectory’s sewers, where the girls always play the same game. They all get in and sit down (it’s just big enough for them all to sit side-by-side) and tell me that they’re “having a bath”. A moment later, one of them will cry “poo poo in a bath” and they’ll all scream with laughter and scramble to get out. Then I’m told that it’s “ok now”, they all get back in and the game starts afresh.

This time, the cry is different as they all scramble out and there’s a genuine worry on their little faces. “Worms in a bath,” I’m told as they huddle around my legs and shoot nervous glances at the tub.

Crouching down I can see that they’re right. In the corner, there’s a knot of four or five worms, tangled together and wriggling wildly. “You’re right”, I agree. “Look – they’re having a cuddle.”

The girls gather round and inspect the worms.

“Do you want to touch one?” I ask, scooping them all up in my hand. Little faces turn between me and the worms. “Go on. They can’t hurt you. Just one finger.”

And they do. First Scarlett, then Evie, and after a little encouragement, Jemima. We decide that they’re smooth not rough, and soft not hard. We count them. We decide which is the daddy, which the mummy, name the others Jemima, Evie and Scarlett. Soon they’re having so much fun touching the worms I have to suggest that we let the worms go for a snooze somewhere quiet.The girls agree with some reluctance, but before I take the worms somewhere where they’ll be safe from a sudden death by poking, each of the girls takes a turn at holding them in an outstretched hand.

“Aren’t they brave,” I ask my mum as I sit back down, proud of the way they got over their initial reservations.

“Only because you stop them being afraid.”

She she’s right, I realise it in a flash. It’s so easy to not notice how you influence your children, how much power the little things you do every day have over their attitudes and personality. And now it’s my turn to be afraid. Parenthood is such a great responsibility. For a young child, you are their interface with the world at large. Your fears become theirs, your choices determine their experiences. You are their model for how best to act.

It’s frightening. But I guess I’ll just have to be brave, too.