My Diary of Triplet Fatherhood

J went to the doctor’s yesterday to ask about the wheeze Scerlett still has after her croup. Unfortunately the doctor was so busy she has to wait until next week. She did ,however, get the girls weighed. And guess what? Jemima is now the biggest!

Their weights stand at:

Jemima – 17lb 2oz
Scarlett – 16lb 15oz
Evelyn – 16lb 5oz

No wonder carrying all three up two stories to bed is so exhausting.

While I’m relaying stats, I may as well record that Jemima also has the most teeth now. She has two, Scarlett has one (although it is the biggest) and one almost through, and poor Evie, none at all.

Evie’s made up for this by becoming the first to master rolling back from her front. She did it this morning when only J was there but must have passed on the secret because it was Jemima who was rolling around like crazy when I took over. I was so impressed (or should that be terrified) at her new mobility, I set the camera up and took a new picture each time she changed position…

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As you can see, Jemima has yet to realise she can move any distance from her original spot when she rolls. I’m sure it won’t be long though.

Or should I say, “What A Week”? Today being the first time in a week that I’ve felt well. Over the last week, the girls have had first throat infections, turning to croup for Scarlett and briefly for Evie, too, then a horrible poey-pukey tummy bug, on top of which they have been teathing for the first time. And I’ve caught it all. Except the teething, of course.

I had to leave work early on Wednesday, I felt so ill, but I would probably have got more rest if I’d stayed. Thursday and Friday are now just a blur of catching vomit in bibs and muslins, changing interminable streams of nappies, balancing miserable, clingy babies, one in each arm, watching what was a massive pile of disposables reduce at an alarming rate, all while pushing my own illness to the back of my mind, trying to jolly just a glint of cheeriness from the girls and catching whatever sleep I could.

I wish I’d taken photos of the nappy pile every hour so I could animate it into a stop motion film. A full 108 nappy bumper box went in under two days. And I didn’t even see the worst of it. Janet, on Wednesday, changed nappies as fast as she could (which – trust me – is pretty damn fast) for an hour and a half non-stop. Even as she was cleaning up one girl, more comedy poopy noises would echo from behind her, heralding the appearance of more diarrhea up the back and soaking through the clothes of another one.

Come Saturday we were both exhausted but I was feeling a little less fluey so we took the gamble of not calling of our trip to Birmingham to meet up with other parents from the TAMBA messageboard. Leaving the girls with both their Nannas and a copious list of instructions, we headed of down south. The gamble paid off… for J. She had a brilliant time, putting faces to all the people she’d spent so much time talking with throughout her bedrest and (less frequently) after the girls arrived. I, on the other hand, was forced to slink off back to our hotel room mere minutes after arriving having come down with the same tummy bug the girls had been suffering with.

Oh, well. At least I finally got to rest up in peace for a night. Well, until J marched in, arms in the air, singing Scotland The Brave at the top of her voice before jumping enthusiastically on top of me with a shout of “I’m drunk!” – an amorous advance somewhat marred by her landing on my already pained stomach. And the fact that I had been asleep for four hours. And her falling almost immediately asleep.

Roles were reversed next morning. J, squint-eyed with hangover, could hardly talk, while my tummy bug receded long enough for me to drive us home, where we found the girls still poorly but on the mend. Yet despite improvement, Sunday and Monday night were horrendous. I think it was mostly teething by then but at 3am it’s hard to judge these things. I did both nights and was up for at least four hours both times – yesterday trying to blearily deal with three hours of someone crying from 3am onwards, administering Calpol, Anbusol, water, Diarolite or milk, mixing bottles, changing nappies and sleeping bags and even sheets in pitch darkness, comforting or leaving to cry down, adjusting heat and humidity, anything to bring on sleep – for them and me. Which did finally happen… exactly twenty minutes before the alarm went off.

But it’s over now. The gauntlet has been run. I’ve earned my scars. I’ve lived to tell the tale.

And I realise now why parents of singletons give me that look. It’s a kind of gulping, slack-jawed, wide-eyed, pale-faced, stepping-back-in-horror look, normally restricted to vampire B-movies. It’s not my triplets that frightens them, it’s their own horrific memories bubbling up from where they’ve buried them in their deep subconscious. Then being multiplied by three.

Come to think of it, it was just these recountings of horrific parenting experiences that used to frighten me before I had kids of my own. What I didn’t understand, though, was that these parents weren’t complaining – they were comparing scars. Kinda like that scene in Jaws.

At the time there’s no choice. You just get stuck in and do whatever you can to help your kids ride their illness out. And you don’t mind, either. There’s an absoluteness to the love that appears when you have children that is beyond logic, beyond regret or complaint. If your child needs you to stay up all night changing nappies and comforting them, you just do it. There’s no choice, no question. More than that, it actually feels good to take care of the ones you love so much. That’s what I didn’t used to understand.

Comparing these horror stories is really a form of bragging. But, hey!, what’s wrong with bragging about how much you love your kids once in a while.

Took the day off work, today, and, having spent it alternating between marathon nappy changes and sleeping the sleep of the damned, I am truly knackered. It was OK though because, for the first time all week, I managed to get a smile out of all three girls. Hopefully this means they’ll be better soon.

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I’m ill.

Now only J stands between our little family and complete decrepitude, as, while the croup has lessened to a mere coughing, diarrhoea continues to flow.

I left work early as the lights in front of my eyes were making it pointless staring at my computer monitor but if I expected rest once I got home (which, to be fair, I didn’t), it wasn’t happening. J was battling to get Evie to eat even a little milk while Jem and Lettie lay on the floor, taking it in turns to make the most astonishing comedy farting noises. Imagine the sounds you might hear through a toilet door in a Carry On film (perhaps after the doctor, distracted by Nurse Babs Windsor bending over to tuck a sheet in, pours out a far too big dose of laxative to Mr. Jenkins in bed three – or something). Then double it.

As fast as I changed them, another nappy would overflow. It was exhausting.

Finally the peristalsis from their meager meal subsided and, with it, the explosive squittiness. Then it was bathtime, more unwanted bottles, some solids, another round of nappy changing, tidying, puttting washing on, washing a counter-top full hardly-touched bottles, a rushed supper, then back in the car to find a late night chemist so we have enough rehydration salts for the night.

And now bed… at least until ten o’clock when I need to get the girls up to rehydrate them and change nappies once more.

Not sure I’ll bother leaving work early again tomorrow. I need the rest.

If the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse each have a younger, more irritating brother, I think I may have met them tonight. Vandalism, Fussy Eating, Illness and Exhaustion have all crossed my path since I got back from work.

It seems that croup is infectious. Not only is Scarlett no better today, with a rattling chest that sounds like an old man drawing his last and a cough like a rusty gate, but Evie now has a rattle and cough to match. On top of that, all three have picked up a tummy bug that is giving them both rampant diarrhea and explosive gouts of milky vomit every time they eat. Meet Illness.

By the time I got home (late – there had been an accident on the motorway), J was exhausted. The girls had been refusing food all day, meaning every meal had degenerated into an hour or more of crying and pursed lips, because of which J hadn’t even found time to eat either. Meet Fussy Eating.

I launched straight into getting them ready for bed, doing the last feed and helping catch up wth the daily demands of triplet family life. The girls siill wouldn’t eat which was worrying; dehydration is dangerous in babies. So we called the doctor as soon as we’d settled the them and were advised to feed and change them in the night, watching for dry nappies (in response to which we would have to take them to A&E). After a night of listening to Scarlett’s racking cough and miserable cries, I had been hoping for at least a little sleep. Talk about no rest for the wicked. Meet Exhaustion.

It was getting late by the time we finally sat down, order restored (at least in part) to the house. But within minutes we were back up, a smashing sound, then the tinkling of broken glass drawing us to the window too late to see who had smashed the back windscreen of our car. All I heard was the screeching of tyres and horn as the car pulled out onto the main road. Meet Vandalism.

It seems that we had left a bag in the back of the baby bus which the robbers must have spotted as they passed. So, despite being eye-melitingly tired, we set about emptying the car, clearing up glass, taping plastic over the broken window and calling the police and insurance company. It was midnight before my head finally hit the pillow.

Yet despite how trying the evening was, I couldn’t help but smile as I drifted off to sleep, imagining the robber, speeding off in their getaway car, heart racing at the success of his theft, whooping with excitement at the thrill of having made of with… a baby change bag.

Scarlett still had that peculiar, seal-like, hacking cough this morning when I left for work. Fortunatley, despite it having had her (and J) up half the night, she seemed in good spirits. Perhaps she was just proud of her latest accomplishment. If you study the following photo, you may just be able to make it out (and just in case you cannot, I’ve added a subtle pointer).

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In case you missed it, Scarlett has a tooth! Her first tooth. It’s only a little stub of a thing but has definitely broken the gum, so soon she will be able to compliment her whacking and throwing of everything within arms reach with the ability to gnaw them to pieces. God help us when she becomes mobile.

Which leads me on to the second accomplishment of the morning. Not willing to be outdown by Jemima, and having mastered the abilities to not only hold both feet but to put them in her mouth, Evie turned her attention to the subtle art of rolling over this weekend. Unfortunately, she was unable to manage the final stage – her arm was always trapped underneath her, making the final bit of the roll impossible. This morning, however, after a valient 20 minute long battle, she did it. She was too exhausted afterwards to actually lift herself up, but was still very pleased with herself.

Again, allow me to present photographic evidence (can you tell I had my camera handy while doing the feeds this morning?):

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It’s times like this that having three children is great. Part of becoming a parent is the fact that you become irrationally proud of your child’s slightest accomplishment; it’s Nature’s way, I assume, of making sure you take time to teach them all the skills they’ll need in life. But whatever the reason, the pleasure in seeing them do these things in undeniable, and three times the children means three times the doting, happy, proud-dad pleasure.

I was planning this to be something of a celebratory post. Not only is today is the girls’ six month birthday but two days ago, they began to do something wonderful – sleep through from 7pm to 7am. I rather expect that you have to be a parent to appreciate the combination of relief, joy, gratitude and relief (yes, that’s relief, twice) that this event encumbers. I am so tired all the time now that I cannot clearly recall what it feels like to have a focussed mind or to wake up without a silent prayer for just a few more minutes. But, with the girls sleeping all night, there’ll be no more nights interrupted for feeds so I’ll finally be able to start paying back that massive overdraft I’ve accrued at my sleep bank.

We went out for lunch today to celebrate, taking the girls up to Jino’s Thai Cafe in Headingley. It was a bit risky. Lunch time is when they’re at their most volatile, and when Jemima woke up just as our food was arriving, I had visions of having to affect a sharp exit before three sets of screaming lungs drove the other customers out instead. Fortunately, the waitress was so besotted with her that she happily walked first her then, handing Jemima over to another waitress, Scarlett, around the cafe so we could finish our guay diao naam in peace. She has a baby of her own, she told us as we were leaving, but he’s back in Thailand, so it’s nice to have enough babies to spare her a few cuddles.

Not so fortunate was the peculiar seal-like coughing Scarlett developed over the course of the afternoon. The first time I thought it was just her spluttering on her milk but she did it again when she wasn’t eating, a few minutes later, and then progressively more often, for longer and more loudly as the day went on. Soon she was also weazing and was really unsettled even when I held her or walked her about. By 5 o’clock we were worried enough to call the doctor and J took Lettie down to the out of hours prctice around six, where she was diagnosed with croup – the baby equivalent of laryngitis.

Poor thing. I feel really sorry for her. And helpless. All we can do is ensure her environment is humid, keep her fluids up and watch for dehydration or a worsening of her symptoms (in which case we have to take her to A&E). Croup can lead to hospitalization in severe cases but hopefully it won’t get to that and should clear within a week. Hopefully.

I can’t help but wonder at the simplicity of life when seen through the eyes of an almost six month old child.

As an adult, I’ve moved so far from then. But with choice, independence, knowledge, experience and all those other things we like to think we’ve picked up as adults, it’s easy to get caught up in the baggage that accompanies them. Demands on our time and energy, choice overload, juggling plans and commitments; sometimes it all gets so complicated.

But if there’s one thing life is not for Scarlett, Jemima and Evie, it’s complicated. Sure, life is hard sometimes but all it takes is a cuddle, a bottle of milk or a brightly coloured piece of stuffed cloth and all life’s problems vanish. Without expectation, there is no disappointment. Without plans, you can throw yourself into whatever will make you happiest at any given moment.

One of the wonderful things about being a parent is that not only do you get to witness this blissful innocence but that you get drawn into it. When you make your child happy just by being there and doing what comes naturally, those actions have an importance that transcends the day to day demands that it’s so easy to get caught up in. A cry can be like an alarm that pulls you out of a relentless, panicked dream, focusing you on what really matters.

A cuddle, a smile or, best of all, a laugh, from your child is a reward no amount of time or money will buy you. It brings you back into that simple, six month old world where, for a while, life’s problems still can be solved with a smile.

It’s six thirty on Sunday morning. Another weeks is coming to an end. The girls are upstairs in their cots, singing and chatting quietly to themselves as they come to, just as I am, downstairs. Coming to, I mean. I’m far too tired for singing.

But that’ll change, I’m sure, once I bring the girls down for breakfast. They love nursery rhymes now and so I can’t resist singing for them, especially Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, which brings forth calm even when they’re most frantic, and I still love to tell them the poems I used to recite when they were in the womb: Disobedience, Lines and Squares and The King’s Breakfast by A. A. Milne, The Owl and the Pussycat, Colonel Fazackerly. Or maybe we’ll just mess about on the playmat, making up silly games as we go along.

The girls have a new playmat – actually a single duvet – as the crochetted blanket JoAnne so kindly made is no longer big enough to stop them whacking or kicking each other now that they can all turn sideways (or further – more on which in a minute). It’s covered in a fantastic jungle design with monkey, lion, giraffe and tiger faces poking out from the foliage.

I miss the old play blanket, silly as that sounds, partly because I was so touched at it being given as a gift from someone I’d never met in person from half way around the world and partly because I am a soppy, nostalgic old fool. Just as when they grow out of clothes I’m used to them in, I can’t help feeling a twinge of sadness that another bit of this special time has passed.

Actually, it’s has been a week for new things. We were finally forced to move a third cot into the nursery yesterday. Even lying diagonally, the girls were beginning to kick each other. Again, the nostalgic in me can’t help feeling sorry that I’ll no longer see them lying in bed together, silly as that sounds.

The girls have continued to take well to the new solids we’ve been offering. This week it has seen the arrival of apple, courgette and yam (which they all found yammy!) It turns out that Evie doesn’t dislike food, just bottles, which is a relief. Even when she’ll take no more milk, offer her anything on a spoon and she’ll eat for England (although her attempting to lick at the food like a cat can still make progress slow at times).

Scarlett also said her first word this week – “baboon”. As a proud dad, I am, of course, undeterred by the inconsequential fact that there were no baboons in the vicinity at the time. Obviously she is so advanced for her age that the mere sight of a jungle playmet has her naming all sorts of jungle-dwelling species, a theory upheld by her very next word: “bonobo”. Not entirely sure what a “Bobonooboo”, “booboo” or “nooboono” are, but, as I say, she’s very advanced for her age so I’m sure if I was to do some research I’d be able to crowbar them into my increasingly flimsy theory somehow. Ahem.

Last Sunday, we also took the girls swimming for the first time which was fantastic. Their godmother, Kate, came with us so that each baby had one carer. I wasn’t sure how they would take it. They’ve always loved their baths but a noisy, unfamiliar pool full of splashing children and bright lights is a different matter altogether. I needn’t have worried. They took it in their stride, splashing happily, laughing when we played with them, looking around at the murals and other kids. We’re going again next week, with Kieran this time (who, it now occurs to me, goes by the pdeudonym, DJ Baboon – could that be what Scarlett was saying earlier this week?) and I’m really looking forward to it.

It’s fitting that I’ve saved the biggest first for last. Pretty much the first thing anyone ever said to Jemima was when Sister Shepherd, the head of Transitional Care, gave her her first milk and Jemima guzzled it ferociously. Sister Shepherd translated that as “I may e last but I’m gonna be the best,” and this week, when Jemima was the first to roll over, I can only assume it was her way of agreeing.

I was surprised because she’s practiced much less than her sisters but there’s no arguing with the sight of her stranded on her front like the opposite of an upturned tortoise. Well done, Jemima!

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I coudn’t help chuckling out loud last night. Sitting in the gloom of the nursery giving Scarlett her night time feed I noticed that somehow, since bedtime, her hair had managed to form into a single tuft erupting directly from the centre of her little round head, making her appear somewhere between a punk and a turnip.

Not that I have much room to criticize. I’ve had enough bad hair cuts myself in my time. All in the name of expressing myself, of course. Greasy curtains to express the maudlin self-pity of teenagerdom, that green mohican to express that fact that I had a right to grow a green mohican (and which I shaved off after only a few weeks because I felt too bad about all the old ladies I was forcing to cross over the road to avoid me), the time I dyed it ginger to express… actually, I’m still not sure why I did that.

I wonder what, when their turns come, my girls will find it necessary to express?

Somehow that thought sits strangely with me. I can hardly imagine Evelyn, Scarlett or Jemima talking or walking, am only just getting used to who they are right now, without the thought of them independently setting out to make their own mark in the world. There’s so much potential there, so much undecided; so many paths, so few footsteps. It’s just not possible to know what directions they might take.

And maybe I shouldn’t want to know. To horribly misquote Socrates, perhaps “a truly wise dad is one who knows he knows nothing about his children”. My role isn’t to make these choices but to equip my girls with the life skills they’ll need to choose for themselves. Confidence to make brave choices, intelligence to make wise ones, kindness to make good ones.

Unfortunately, when it comes to fashion choices, they’re on their own. Some minefields need to be crossed alone.

If there’s one big downside to feeding two babies at once the way we do, it’s not the inability to satisfy the scratch that inevitably appears on the tip of your nose as soon as you no longer have a free hand to scratch it with, nor the oceans of tea you watch go cold before your eyes, nor even the legions of missed phone calls. Even the strain of lifting well over a stone of baby one-handed to wind is bearable.

No, the real downside is one’s inability to react to the unexpected.

When the baby you are winding turns her head and spews a bellyful of milk down the neck of your shirt, by the time you have lowered her to the floor so you can lean over and retrieve the perennially just-out-of-reach muslin to wipe it away, it’ll have not only pooled nicely in your belly button but run down inside your trousers, just as whoever spewed starts crying in outrage at her meal being interrupted and whoever is still on your lap begins to slip perilously towards the floor. Meanwhile the third baby will see her chance and grab at the cold cup of tea you were sure was out of reach ten seconds beforehand, the postman will arrive with a recorded delivery that if you miss can only be collected for half an hour a day from an office half way across the county and your number will simultaneously appear on the screens of telesales callcenters across the Indian subcontinent.

I’d call it ‘getting in a muddle’ but that would be an understatement. Fortunately, I’m lucky enough to be the kind of person who sees the funny side of these situations. A little chaos keeps life interesting, after all.