My Diary of Triplet Fatherhood

What a busy week! We drove down to London on Monday night so the girls could attend their first ever TV shoot. We didn’t leave until after 7pm in the hopes the girl’s routine wouldn’t suffer too much as the filming was scheduled for the afternoon which is generally when they’re most fractious. We really, really wanted to avoid a sleepless night or lunchtime, both of which make the afternoon fractiousness spill over into meltdown.

In the end, we needn’t have worried. The girls were at their happiest all day: bright eyed, full of smiles and happy to be held by anyone. Which they were. My mum hasn’t seen them since mid-February and took every opportunity to hold and play with her first grandchildren as much as she could. My grandparents also came over in the morning. It was great to be able to introduce the girls to them without the hecticness of our last visit and for them to get a chance to really get to know their great-grandchildren.

Then we drove over to BBC Television Centre for the afternoon. If you can call taking over two hours to make a 5 mile journey driving. Luckily, the producer was very understanding even though it meant they all finished late (and we were late setting off on our journey back north).

The TV show starts is called Level Up and the segment the girls feature on is only short – a live-action version of a computer game they’re going to have on the BBC website where you have three babies and have to frantically provide nappies, bottles, teddy bears and other baby stuff in response to the babies’ demands. Not too different to my life, really. It’s fronted by the two lads who came second and third in Pop Idol a few years ago, Sam and Mark. They were nice but I’ve got to admit, I didn’t actually recognise them until I looked them up on Wikipedia when I got home.

Tune in on Monday, BBC 2, from 9.30 am, to catch a glimpse of my little starlets’ TV debut.

And speaking of film, who needs ther BBC? J has been exercising her own creativity. Yesterday she made a lovely video montage of our girls suing a website called One True Media. Check it out here.

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Edit: The Terrible Triplets game (I know, I know, the name’s awful) is now online – http://www.bbc.co.uk/cbbc/levelup/ – my best score is 94,000. Can you beat it without 7 months of practice?

It sometimes surprises me that Evelyn, Scarlett and Jemima cannot talk yet. Not because I think that they might be behind for their age, of course. If they were talking at 7 months, they’d be phenominally advanced (although, I, apparently, said my first word at only eight months). No, it’s because I already feel like we communicate.

Much of the verbal communication is one-way, of course. I’m always talking to them. I can’t help it. It’s more like a running commentary than a conversation, really. I tell them what the objects I’m using (”Look what Daddy’s got – it’s a pie!”), describe my actions (”Daddy’s eating his pie now, isn’t he? Yum. Daddy likes pies.”), name the parts of their body I’m touching (”Give Daddy back his pie, Scarlett. Let’s take it out of your hands shall we, and your hair, and wipe your face.”), the toys they’re playing with (”Have you got the butterfly, Evie? Well now. That is a beautiful butterfly, isn’t it. Now what are you going to do with it? Ah, you’re going to hit Jemima. Let’s move you a bit further over here shall we?”), or the noises they’ve made (”Who sneezed? Was it you? Did you go atchoo! Yes, you did. I can tell because ther wasn’t a bogey hanging out of your nose before was there?”).

Come to think of it, I wonder if this is why all parents become an embarrasment to their children when puberty strikes. The shamelessness that this kind of stream-of-consciousness waffle brings about means they can never again be self-conscious before their children.

Alternatively, maybe it simply unhinges us parents. After all, when you were a teenager, surely there was a point where you noticed that all your friends parents were at least slightly… eccentric?

Or was that was just my friends.

Anyway, not all communication is one way. The girls are starting to really demonstrate opinions as well as needs. The swipe at bottles they no longer want (and at Daddies who are being silly when they’re not in the mood) and grab at things that interest them (currently noses and mouths are a hot favourite). They smile or wriggle excitedly not just in response to play, but in expectation of it.

And, of course, with their ever-increasing mobility, they’re able to exercise much more control over what they interact with. Jemima is able to shuffle backwards when she’s on her front and, while not the most precise way of reachin something, it does allow her to explore much more of the room. Likewise, Evie can move along when face upwards by arching her back and kicking. Again, there are definite risks of collision, but it does the job. And all three can roll over (and over and over). As such, they no longer need to settle for what’s presented to them but can go and get what they want.

Lastly, I find that I’m still getting to know my girls better with every week that passes. I can read their moods and emotions, tell if they’re not being themselves. Already, they seems so grown up. I can’t wait to see what else there is to discover.

Out of interest (and to give me something to natter about to maintain the girls’ interest), I counted how many spoonfuls of rice-yam-brocolli-milk mush I dished out during supper yesterday. It came to one hundred and forty four. No wonder meals take a while, especially when you have to feed them three quarter-litre bottles of milk first.

Here’s what that all adds up to in a week:

3024 spoonfuls of mushy solids (now including protein such as fish pie and liver casserole!)
25.2 litres of formula milk (thank Heavens we get it free on prescription!)

And:

At least 105 nappies (changed, that is, not eaten)

Wow. That’s well over a thousand three hundred litres of milk, alone, in a year. That’s enough to fill ten fridges.

In fact, if all that milk was petrol, it would be enough to fuel me driving to Calcutta and back in my Yaris. Twice.

ANyone who’s watched TV programs about the making of wildlife documentaries will appreciate the difficulty I have had trying to capture photographs of Scarlett and Jemima’s first teeth. The stalking of your prey in its natural habitat, waiting, hiding of the camera, the thousand missed opportunities, the Dalai Lama-like patience as you wait for that one shot…

…then click and you’re checking to see if you really did get it. Well, Finally I got Lettie’s. Here she is showing off her single peggy toof.

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And here’s the best of the pictures I took trying to get Jem’s teeth.

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And Evie doing her who-needs-teeth-when-you’re-this-beautiful look.

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Dadhood has introduced me to a plethora of experiences that, just seven months ago, I would have found horrifying. Thye are mostly, to be honest, connected to my babies’ bodily functions. And that’s what makes the difference – that they are my babies has made it easy to get over. These things seem less important when your baby’s in need.

I am a living testament to the power of aversion therapy. Cleaning up sick? Not bothered!. Being sicked on. Who cares! Snot? Poo? Wee? Bring it on (which, believe me, they do). Even the phobia I used to have about cotton wool (yes, you heard right – cotton wool – it was the scritchy dryness) has evapourated under the heat of necessity.

Today, however, brought me face to face (quite literally) with a whole new level of revulsion.

There’s a game that Evie loves. No matter what her mood, if I lift her up and hold her at arms length above me she collapses into hysterics. Sure, sometimes I get a little dribbled on but after all the other stuff I’ve got used to, a little dribble is nothing.

This morning Evie seemed a little fed up so I lifted her up. As expected she started to laugh and that set me off too. We grinned at each other as I lifted her up and down, pulling faces, making silly noises, giggling, opening my eyes and mouth wide in fake astonishment…

At which point she puked the whole of the 8oz bottle of milk she’d had for breakfast into it.

Of course, she found this even funnier. I did not. I was so shocked, in fact, I had to go and wake J up form her one lie in of the week so I could elicit some sympathy. Which didn’t work – she found it just as hilarious as Evie had.

So there it is. If ever Evie declares herself ungrateful for my parental devotion, I have the perfect response, able to respond to her “I never asked to be born” with a simple reminder: “And I never asked to gargle your vomit!”

Urgh.

J tells me that the Scarlett and Jemima brought Asda to a halt the other day by holding hands and gazing lovingly at one another as she pushed them around. It’s something they’ve started doing more and more as they grow up. A few months ago I used to be intrigued by how they wouldn’t really look at one another. In fact, not only would they not pay any special attention to each other, but their gazes would never, ever stop on one another’s faces. The empty corners of the room got more attention than they gave to each other. I can only assume that they had no conception that they might be three seperate individuals.

Well, now it seems that they do. Not only do they watch each other, they hold hands, touch each other’s faces, smile, and best of all, make each other laugh. Seeing babies so young interact is one of the privileges of multiple parenthood. Singletons rarely socialise with other babies until much older. Plus I want so much for my children to be friends. Seeing them laugh and play together makes me thrill with happiness.

Yesterday, when I came home from work, the girls were already in the kitchen having ‘nappy off time’. They’ve been so under the weather for so long now that I was surprised when I wasn’t greeted by the sound of at least one crying baby when I walked through the door, even more surpised that it was laughter I heard.

Going down into the kitchen, I found Jemima holding the butterfly soft toy they love so much and flapping it about in Scarlett’s face – apparently the height of hilarity when you’re seven months old. Unfortunately, by time I’d ransacked the house looking for the camera the game was coming to an end but I still managed to capture a little of it.

http://blog.voidstate.com/video/playing_nicely_med.mov

For all I know this might be the last time they play nicely together – many multiples fight like cats and dogs – but at least when they’re tearing strips off one another, I’ll be able to slope off and put this video on and dream of what might have been.

A month or so ago we all headed off to Manchester to have some photos taken. A freelance journalist had contacted J to see if we’d be interested in selling our story and we’d agreed. The money would come in handy, of course, but most of all I really wanted some professional pictures of the girls and of us all as a family. I doubt I’m the only dad out there who has a million pictures of his family, none of which feature himself.

Well, yesterday they arrived, and, to save you the price of whichever magazine they turn up in, here’s two of them. The first features, from left to right, Jemima, Scarlett and a rather lopsided Evelyn.

I love the face jem is pulling. She’s always making me laugh with her comedy expressions. I must capture her newest – because she’s mostly toothless, when she clamps her mouth shut, she looks like a character from Wallace and Gromit. It’s hilarious. As is the Benny Hill-style tongue sticking out she keeps doing.

Evie looks worried, poor mite. At home she smiles more than either of her sisters but when there’s strangers about, she seems shier.

Scarlett, on the other hand, is just posing. Typical.

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And here’s one of all our little family.

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It’s showers that have the repuation for being invigorating, isn’t it, but I find baths much more so. Not my own, of course. The ones I give the girls every day when I get home from work. No matter how hard a day it’s been, no matter how tired I am or whether 5 o’clock has me blearily, mindlessly staring at my monitor without even the energy to type another line, the thought of my girls splashing happily in the bath tub revives me.

When we first brought them home, the bath seemed massive. My hand, supporting whoever was being washed, stretched from the nape of theri neck to half way down their back. Now it’s all I can do to keep them in the tub and keeping the water in, too, is a lost cause. Even if I manage to stay dry, the tabletop, and the towels I now position around it, are always soaking.

But who cares? The girls enjoy splashing. I enjoy them enjoying splashing. They enjoy me splashing them, singing to them, talking happy nonsense. It’s fun.

I’m feel so lucky that they enjoy bath time like they do. I don’t dare to think how much less fun my evenings would be otherwise. As it is, even though I only see my children for an hour or so in the morning and the same at night, every day provides us with an activity that is ours alone. And that’s worth getting drenched for daily.