Sanity is starting to prevail in your home.
You even find time for a fortnightly physiotherapy appointment to mend the back that is now lifting two hefty babies on a daily basis. Who would have thought that your two premmies would end up the Goliaths of your mothers’ group?
Between bouts of “he stole my toy” unhappiness, you witness endless fits of the giggles.
At times you even wonder if they’re ready for some stand-up routines at the local hotel. These kids are really funny. Their sense of humour and witty repartee, which of course no-one except you and DH can understand, prove they’re clearly comic geniuses.
Your maternity leave is over and it’s time to go back to work. You’re torn between relief and fear that abandoning your children for two days a week is only going to wind up in an ugly Mr Whiskers scenario.
After assessing the logistical nightmare of getting two babies to and from childcare without a car you decide a nanny is the only option.
You go over the family budget a dozen times and finally decide that it’s worth going back to work, even if you only take home pin money after expenses.
Fortunately after failing Home Economics in high school you have no use whatsoever for pins, so you can probably splurge and spend it on something far more important like chocolate biscuits or a monthly manicure.
Twenty-five interviews later and you wonder how you’re going to give any of these strangers the keys to your home and leave them with your babies….and then she skips into your life, halo and all.
You know instantly that she is the one. You hire her immediately and wonder if she’ll sign something committing not to leave you until the boys reach primary school.
Of course that doesn’t solve the biggest problem about returning to work.
You decide it’s time to face facts. Stripping naked you stand on the scales in front of the bathroom mirror and cast a critical eye over your battle-weary body.
Hmm…about that blancmange-like roll beneath your belly-button.
How on earth are you going to squeeze that into one of your old Trent Nathan suits? Only a truly amazing bra with the ability to place you in a tortuous medieval truss is going to put your breasts back where they belong.
Still, you remind yourself that at least you’re 32 kilograms lighter than you were just nine months ago. You smile and thank heaven for support hose.
It’s Easter time and you know it’s a mum’s duty to whip out the bunny ears and take embarrassing photos of their offspring if for no other reason than to pin them to the wall at their 21st birthday party.
You finish a whole roll of film by breakfast time. One boy in bunny ears, the other boy in bunny ears, both boys in bunny ears, mum with both boys in bunny ears, dad with both boys in bunny ears….the list goes on. The final photo is mum (still wearing pyjamas) and Aunty Anita with (you guessed it) both boys in bunny ears.
The next day you race to the photo lab before work to have the film developed and can’t wait to get them back at lunch time. You go to pick them up and excitedly open up the packet.
Right on top is that final photo. There are the four of you smiling at the camera. A beautiful photo, right? Wrong.
Your eyes are drawn down and it hits you square in the face that the baby you are holding in the photo has pulled your pyjama shirt open and exposed a breast for the camera.
You can guarantee that one’s pinned on the wall of the photo lab lunch room.
It’s birthday time! Your babies have taken their first steps.
Of course this means that your house now looks like Fort Knox and you are forever slamming vital body parts into metal security gates as you attempt to step over them.
You start planning the birthday bonanza two months ahead. Grandparents are flying across the country to be there and you decide it has to be a grand affair, but after drawing up a guest list of 50 including the hire of a BBQ, chairs, glasses, cutlery and plates, you decide it might be wiser to keep it to a strict family affair.
The birthday cake: Recognising your failings in the kitchen (that high school Home Economics teacher has a lot to answer for), you pre-order two plain sponge cakes from a prestigious bakery.
If you can’t bake them, the least you can do is decorate them.
Building double layer individual dream cakes with Heinz blackcurrent jelly and icing them with Heinz strawberry yogurt, you take enormous pride in your creations.
The day finally arrives. Your guests sit down to a lunch of lasagna, roasted potatoes and salad.
The boys chow down some mushed lasagna and take delight in throwing chunks of potato from their high chairs.
Ripping through the wrapping paper on the pile of gifts, they uncover their new treasures and excitedly flap the paper in the air smiling and laughing. So far, so good.
Time for the cake. Placing each one carefully in a bowl and singing happy birthday as the candles sizzle merrily, you place your magnificent creations on their high chair tray tables.
They take one look and tip the cakes on the floor. Taking into account the 5-second rule (if it hits the floor for no more than five seconds, it’s still edible), you pick them back up, dust them off and try again. The answer is still a resounding ‘No’.
You make a mental note that all future birthday cakes will involve no more effort than a lamington from your local Bakers Delight.
The aftermath. Well the festivities are over and you cast your eye around the kitchen and living room.
The floor is a junkyard of ripped paper, empty boxes and chunks of leftover potato.
The birthday boys are smeared with lasagna and happily fighting over one of the new toys. You sigh and then the panic begins to rise as you realise…congratulations, you’ve got TODDLERS!
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