My Diary of Triplet Fatherhood

Some people seem to immediately understand when I ask if they would mind not referring to my daughters as “the triplets”. Others require some explanation. But everyone, I’ve been relieved to discover, respects my request.

Being a multiple is a rare experience but it’s that very rareness which can cause some problems, and I want to head these problems off before they become a burden on my girls. Sure, I can see why it’s natural to lump all three of them together: Their looks, their sizes, their ages; so much about them is similar. But that doesn’t mean they are the same.

They’re only similar, in fact, until you come to know them, then you see that they are as different as any three sisters, despite sharing an environment since the moment they were born.

Take personality. Jemima laughs easily and shrugs off falls or disappointments, she’s fearless and yet well-meaning; it’s often her that makes the others laugh, initiating games of peekaboo or exploration. Scarlett is strong-willed and quick; she picks up activities easily, often seems to decide what everyone will play, and generally ends up with whatever toy she has her eye upon; yet she’s also thin-skinned and finds being challenged or disappointmented hard to bear. Evie is thoughtful; more likely to sit alone, playing quietly with her toys, she cuddles for longer before pulling away to investigate whatever happens to have caught her eye and is good at copying words and sounds; yet, despite being smaller than her sisters, has already learned to not let them take her toys or push her around and despite her thoughtfulness takes the most joy in bellowing joyously at the top of lungs when the mood is upon her.

Personality, of course, demonstrates itself in how we act, not just how we interact, and all three already show different interests and ways of expressing themselves. For Jemima, the leap from rolling to crawling was a wondrous thing and yet it’s Scarlett who loves to walk. If ever I try to put her down she arches her back to end up standing, and becomes furious if I fail to take her hands and walk with her several times around the room. When we play with stacking blocks, Scarlett tries intently to balance them like I do while Jemima has most fun waiting me to build towers so she can smash them down or just quietly goes around putting the blocks back in their box, and Evie cares little for stacking, a few attempts and then she’s off to find which blocks make the best noise when whacked together.

And while they may be monozygotic they are not identical to look at, either. Despite having the same colouring, to me, at least, they look very different. In part, I think it’s that they hold their faces differently. Their personalities are already becoming written on their features. It’s especially noticable in the midst of emotion. Their smiles are unique. Jem’s is lopsided and cheeky; Scarlett’s, raucous; Evie’s, giggly and slightly shy. And the same holds true for when they cry. Scarlett’s crying is tinged with outrage; Evie’s with desperation; Jem’s, great disappointment.

I realise not everyone can see these things straight away. But I also realise people never will if they place all three girls in a box as “the triplets” and never give their uniqueness a chance to shine.

So, please, if I haven’t asked you already, while they are triplets, they are not the triplets. And if you cannot get “Evelyn, Scarlett and Jemima” out in one breath, perhaps just ask after them singly. Trust me, getting to know them each as individuals is worth every moment of effort.

I was astonished when Scarlett first started responding to “so big”. Janet had originally taught the game to Jem. She’d ask, “How big are you Jemima?”, before throwing both arms up and adding, “Are you… SO BIG?”, to which Jem would throw her own arms up and grin at the praise that copying her mum brought on.

Soon So Big joined the other copying games we play: clapping, banging highchair trays, bathwater splashing, red indian warcries, peekaboo, whatever doing that wibbly thing on your lips with your fingers is called.

Only, last week I noticed that Scarlett no longer needs me to throw my arms up first. Just the question, “How big are you?” is enough for her to know what game we’re playing. She throws up her chubby, little arms and waits for me to do it too. Which, of course I do, grinning stupidly as I swell with pride at her cleverness.

It makes me wonder what other things we she understands and feel rather sad that we never had time to pursue baby signing.

In case you don’t know, baby signing is an astonishing new discovery – that even as young as six months old, babies can communicate their needs, desires and experiences through sign language. At a stage when even babbling is barely starting, children can be talking. How wonderful to not have to go through the trial and error of working out what a child needs. Hungry? Thirsty? Cuddle? Nappy? More? Less? All these things are communicable months before vocal chords have been put into action. And it’s more than just needs. Coming home from work, my friend Al tells me his daughter relates the things she’s done during here day. That she saw two cats in a tree or other things impressive to a one year old.

Only, when you have three babies there’s not so much time to stop and pause before every action so you can perform the accompanying sign. We tried for a bit. The first signs you are supposed to teach are “milk” and “food”, adding more as those start to be repeated back. Except during triplet mealtimes you have none of a singleton’s pauses while baby chews and rests. Even as each spoonful is delivered, another baby is waiting. Besides, I’m not sure where the spare hand you’re meant to use for the signs is supposed to come from. What with bowls, spoons, picking up dropped finger food, offering bottles and wiping up spillages, even two is half the hands you really need.

Which is why the beginnings of verbal communication excite me so. I can’t wait to talk to my kids. Even when they were tiny, I’d sometimes lie next to them, trying to follow their eyes, listening to their breathing, sensing the pace of their movements, wondering just what was going on behind those little eyes that had never seen the world before.

Soon, perhaps, I’ll know.

Ah, that ‘first day back at work’ feeling. The desk, the demands, the lack of daylight; the doldrums. All the fun I’ve had over the last week makes it all seem so unpleasant despite the fact that I actually like my job quite a lot.

We went to Llandudno, in North Wales for a week; our first family holiday, booked into a self-catering holiday cottage in a village just outside town.

I’m rather fond of old-fashioned seaside towns so I knew it would be good… if only the girls would sleep. Their not being able todrop off in unfamiliar surroundings or too-light rooms spurring them to wake up early have put a dampner on several of our attempts at visiting relatives over the last year so I was nervous that we were condemning us (and them) to a week of grumpy, over-tired babies.

But I needn’t have worried. They slept fine and the holiday was lovely. Ironically, in fact, the only time our holiday wasn’t lovely was the day we went to Bangor. The girls were getting hungry as we made our way to Caernarvon (I wanted to see the castle) so we pulled off at the first place we saw – Bangor – but despite looking for something better, ended up picknicking in a fag-butt-strewn square in the company of three winos and a crowd of rowdy teenagers. There was hardly any dog poo and broken glass on the grass, however, and the public toilet had needle bins so I didn’t have that to worry about when I put the girls down on their blanket, so it wasn’t all bad. Plus, Caernarvon seemed positively idyllic in comparison.

Bangor aside, though, we managed to do lots of stuff, despite still sticking to The Routine (although whether it’s the kids or us who have been institutionalised by Gina Ford’s methods, I’m really not sure any more). We went out every morning and afternoon, returning to our cottage by one so the girls could sleep for a couple of hours, and again by six so we could throw them (not literally) in the bath. We managed to visit the beach several times, a paddling pool, a few parks (wherever we saw three baby swings, in fact), several nearby towns, and, most afternoons, Forte’s Ice Cream Parlour in Llandudno (because they had three highchairs, of course – the knickerbocker glories were merely a pleasant addition).

The only other things that weren’t so lovely were Evie deciding to depth charge the shared bath three nights in a row and the fact that all three girls have developed an acute interest in dropping things to see where they end up. Although, in the first instance, it was her sisters who took the brunt of her evacuations and in the second, whichever poor waitress ended up cleaning the floor round our table whenever we ate out.

Another thing I’d been a little worried about was how it holidaying with small children would compare to previous holidays J and I had had. With the girls going to bed at seven, there was to be no chance of having any nights on the town (if that’s even possible in Llandudno – I’m 31 and the next youngest person must have been twice my age) and, really, very little opportunity to laze around in the sunshine. The girls find being in their buggy frustrating now they can crawl and coast around but, once they are loose, the constant tingling of my parental danger sense means relaxation is out of the question.

Again, though, I needn’t have worried. Our days were so full, and Evie, Lettie and Jem so much fun to be around, that by seven o’clock I’d had more excitement and fun than any night out and I was happy to do my lazing in the evenings, chatting, reading, playing games and eating fine foods we’d collected as we passed butchers, delis and cheese and wine shops during the day.

J’s parents came down for the last night. It was her birthday, they hadn’t seen their grandtriplets for two weeks and they deserved a rest after painting our lounge when we were away (ready for us putting our wholly un-triplet-friendly house on the market). They love the girls so much. It made a great finale to the holiday to see three generations so happpy together.

It’s just a shame I have to wait until next year until we can do it again.

Oh, and if you’d like to see pictures,they’re on my Google gallery (the pics are numbered by who they show, left to right, Evie, Scarlett or Jem).

It started on Monday morning. J’s alarm hadn’t gone off (it was my turn to lie in, if you can call 7.30 a lie in) so we both rushed to get the girls up.

The smell of puke hit us as soon as we opened the door to the nursery. It had been a swelteringly hot night and the room seemed almost humid with sick. Both Scarlett and Jem were lying in pools of the stuff, Scarlett starting to groggily stretch as she woke but Jem motionless. My heart hammered up to my throat as I saw her lying there, not moving. Was she OK? Was she… Then she opened her eyes, and made a tiny moaning noise, her mouth downcast. And I could breath again.

Between J and I, we set to, cleaning up the girls, the mattresses, the floor and their clothes, in what, over the last few days, would become a familiar routine (varied only when diarrhea began entered the picture a few hours later), eventually getting everything (and everyone) straightened out in time to get to a doctor’s appointment first thing.

Jem and Lettie failed to perk up at all as we waited for the appointment time and no one would eat breakfast. They’re usually so bouncy in the mornings but on Monday they just lay there on the floor, moaning or sucking their thumbs for comfort. It’s heart-breaking to see them feeling so confused and sorry for themselves.

Reasons for their sickness ran through my mind. Had I let their room get too hot? Was it something we’d fed them (or they’d fed themselves while we weren’t looking)? Each scenario plagued me with a different cause for guilt as I wondered how they’d become so ill. But in the end, it seems their illness wasn’t my fault. They’ve caught a viral infection. Presumably the same one a friend of ours (you know who you are!) was recovering from when we went to a barbeque at their house on Saturday.

Yesterday, Jem and Lettie were a little improved – I even managed to coax a few giggles by wafting them with a sheet I was getting out of the wash for the second time that day – but Evie had come down with the virus, too, by then. As had J, leaving me to play Fergus Nightingale to the whole family.

And today not much has changed. J is a little better, and I dared to take the girls out fo the house for the first time in days as no one had been sick since Evie in the night. I just hope everyone’s recovered in time for us to go on holiday on Saturday… or that I haven’t succumbed.

And another:

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“You too!”

“Stop, Evie!”

“Even higher!”

“Forgot gate!”