Why Multiples?

I warm up to each blog like I’m warming up for a marathon. I stretch, I shake and I will the creative juices to flow into deadened cells. Unfortunately, the only juice to flow this morning was my period, which must be said, is always a relief to see. You can take all the precautions in the world but until you see scarlet you never really know. Maybe that’s just me. Having spent the last four years being pregnant it’s weird getting used to not ‘finding out’ again. My womb and I gladly pass the baton on to anyone who wants to join the baby train. Our little unit is done. I often have to pinch myself to realise we are a family of five. FIVE! There are moments though. Moments like this morning…

Dawn is cracking through the edges of the black-out blind and the birds begin their morning chorus, so sweet and loud that I have to get up to shut the window! Ruddy birds. Snuggling back into my warm bed I wonder how long it will be until the ‘rabble’ wakes.

It starts slow. A murmur here, a yawn there and all of a sudden, my son, whom we should have named big-foot, comes stopping out of his room. He’s three. He turns on the bathroom light, which has an automatic fan attached to it which must be the biggest interior mistake I’ve ever made. The light switches on so does the monotone whir of the fan. The lad sits on his throne for what feels like hours as I lie in my bed listening to the whir of the fan. The baby also hears the whir and takes this time as a vocal warm up before her morning chorus of ‘mama’ begins.

My eldest is also disturbed by the fan and slowly floats out of her room in a sleepy haze which makes her look drunk. She and my son begin a discussion about the toilet and once he slips off, she slips on. Bladders empty they slowly push open the door to our room. They creep in like two stealth assassins. Husband and I lie there pretending to be asleep, firmly under the assumption that if we don’t move, maybe they won’t see us. One gets a foot hold on the mattress while the other slips through the bars at the bottom of the bed. In one synchronised movement they both land on us laughing heartily under our groans of pain. It’s in this moments I wonder, why multiples?

I look to the window and see the blind now unable to keep the sunshine at bay as rays of light pour through and land on the floor. I must have fallen asleep for a few more hours after the bird song. No child has ever woken before 7 in our house. They are simply not allowed to. Years of strict routine and discipline has given us its reward of 12 peaceful hours each night, bar the odd bout of teething or sickness. Which again is rarely allowed between my walls. It seems dust and dirt are the only thing allowed to flourish in my house and it does so with gusto. I feel my Dyson judge me every time I lift it from its dark corner. What I would give for a cleaner. Probably a child.

Once the baby is lifted from her cot it’s all go for breakfast. A herd of elephants couldn’t compare with the noise my herd make. A diatribe begins over the porridge which sends sachets into the air and of course they were opened before the tussle began so its oats all over the floor. The baby begins to eat them and I’m half tempted to pour milk onto the floor and offer out straws. Husband trots down dressed for work and slips into his seat and begins eating his breakfast. Boy needs a poo. Babies already done one and before I know it husband skips out of the house to work. Ah the daily grind.

All dressed and ready for the school run, we drop the big girl off and its back to the house for operation clean up. The smaller two hit the play room like a hurricane and I slip upstairs for a wash. A shower is very much out of the question until adult supervision can be found. I grab my face cloth off the radiator but don’t get a proper grip and its only then I realise that after everyone’s emptied their bladders, and back passages, that not one of them has flushed the toilet. I look down and watch my face cloth soak into the contents of the toilet bowl. Its then I ask myself, why multiples?

Even now I type with one hand as baby tries to chew the screen. My hair looks like it’s been washed with olive oil and I smell like a sweaty mattress that’s been slept in by 100 naval officers who haven’t had access to fresh water in 90 days. Yet snuggling into the folds of my babies neck I know why we had multiples, but again, one look in the mirror or down at my snot stained top I ask myself; why multiples?

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