My Diary of Triplet Fatherhood

I keep seeing it replayed in my mind’s eye. Scarlett and Jemima running off, laughing, towards our bedroom. Me and J turning to follow them. I shout, “Come back, you two! It’s time to go downstairs and get dressed.” I think I might have called them pickles or, maybe, monkeys. The usual post-bathtime chaos. In the corner of my eye, I see Evie starting off downstairs on her own.

Then she falls.

I don’t remember if she screamed. I do remember her cartwheeling forwards and landing on the side of her neck, arms thrown out sideways. Then over again, arms and legs still flailing. And bang! She hits the wooden hall floor with the back of her head.

Everything stops. I’m frozen, looking down over the banisters. Suddenly the stairs seem incredibly steep.

I glance over at Jemima and Evie, reflexively checking that they’re alright. They haven’t even reached the door to my bedroom yet. Everything has happened so fast that they’ve barely taken two steps. They look round, still laughing; but quieter now, as if they can sense something has happened.

At the bottom of stairs Evie draws in a massive breath and breaks the silence with a scream that makes my stomach tighten. Jan thunders down the stairs to pick Evie up. I scoop up her sisters.

“What’s Evie done, Daddy?”

“She’s fallen, love. She’s fallen down the stairs. Don’t worry. She’ll be all right.”

I hope to myself that I’m right.

By the time I’ve carefully picked my way downstairs, a crying J is sitting on the sofa holding s o tightly to an inconsolable Evie it’s as if she’s in danger of falling all over again. Tettie and Jem stand watching as I put my arms around them both.

I shudder every time it comes back to me; I forget what I’m doing; I find myself staring into space as I see my little girl tumble and thump down those stairs.

We spent most of that evening in A & E. The doctor we saw wanted her to stay up for a few hours to check she didn’t start being sick or show any of the other more serious effects of a head injury. Evie had calmed down by then. In fact, she was remarkably perky, playing with the toys, chatting away happily. Probably because of the attention she was getting. We realised, as we sat in the children’s waiting room, that this was the first time in her entire two-and-three-quarter years of life that Evie had been alone with both her mum and dad for any length of time. I can’t say that thought alleviated my guilt very much.

Nor did the doctor asking flatly whether it was normal for her to be allowed to walk down steep stairs on her own.

I told the doctor that I was worried about her shoulder, but she could reach up when he lifted a toy so he didn’t pay much heed. When I’d first held her, her shoulder had felt horribly loose, like it wasn’t in its socket. But by then it was back to normal and although she said it hurt, we assumed it must just have been bruised.

That night she slept in her parents bed, between J and I, where she couldn’t possibly fall out.

A couple of days afterwards, she was back in A & E. Her shoulder had been making her cry at night (I’d last been woken with “Daddy! Shoulder hurting! Need to see a doctor!” cried over and over). She screamed if any weight was put on it when she was lifted. This time the hospital x-rayed, which revealed a break in her collar bone.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so pitiable as her sitting there having her arm strapped up in a little sling.