By Brigid O' Hora
So, when I found out I was pregnant with three little babas I burst into tears. If I’m very honest, my blood ran cold and I panicked at that moment, that the midwife would find more. It was one of those surreal moments, where for a second or two, you feel like you’re on the outside looking in.
Your brain is not computing fast enough to grasp what the nurse is saying. They’re just words, empty words at that point. But the thing is they’re not empty words.
They’re the most fully loaded words you could receive. So, by the time I leave the hospital, completely in shock (obviously), I have decided to basically evolve myself into a cocoon for the next nine months. You know, just in case I ingest anything or inhale anything or be around anything or look at anything that might harm these precious little peas.
Pregnancy was a teetotal, slightly boring, fruit-filled nine months. Then at the prospect of bringing three premature babies’ home, the house was sterilised with industrial size cannons of alcohol gel and the door policy was so strict, the like of Studio 54 back in the day would have been proud. Only the best for my little preemie peas. It was Operation Baby.
Fast-forward two years later and I’m pumping onion rings into them and biscuits are fast becoming my weapon of choice. Oh my god! What has happened?
Oh yeah, I have three neurotic two-year-olds and I’m literally spending most days living on the edge. Each and every day you wake up and say, ‘right today is a new day’. I won’t get cross, I won’t get irritated, I will be a Jedi zen individual. But then you have one two-year-old pouring excessive amounts of water from one plastic cup to another, leaving pools of water all over the tiled kitchen floor.
You have another two-year-old who is in full tantrum mode, losing his absolute banana over the fact you gave him cereal instead of toast (epic fail of all proportions ).
You have the final demented two-year-old that has managed to sneak by with their bowl of milky cereal and is leaving a trail of milk around the house that Hansel and Gretel could follow. You’re pushed to the brink, a place you never knew existed. You used to think you were stressed in your job, or in college doing exams or even your boyfriend stressing you out being a bit of a muppet.
Now you’re a referee of three irrational, lunatic, highly emotional, highly strung, frantic little individuals, who are too cute to be true, but my god, are living the ‘terrible two’ nightmare.
I constantly find myself asking would you like a bag of crisps, would you like a biscuit, would you like to play with mommy’s phone? Would you like a can of Bulmers? Ok, I’m obviously not going that far. But it’s incredible how much you and your perspective changes when your head is in the meat cleaver.
You just can’t even think anymore. You need a second. In that second you re-charge your fuse.
They’re too cute for oranges now, even raisins, or chocolate rice cakes. They’ve been to the dark side in public and now they want the good stuff. Onion rings, chocolate digestives, chips, pizza and they’re only two. Aaaaaaah.
Look let’s call a spade a spade, they most likely won’t end complete chocolate addicts or end up living on pizza seven days a week, but you do what you do to get by.
They get their fruit, veg, water, all the rest of the garden of eve stuff to be fair, but for now, I have to have an artillery of some description. They’ll soon tire of onion rings and chocolate biscuits and then that will be my chance to hoodwink them into vegan, gluten-free Monster Munch and dairy free Hagen Daas.
