Two Under Two

Having one child prepares you for having a second in the same way that having a pet dog prepares you for having a pet snake. Some of the skills – even some of the equipment – are transferable. They both need food and warmth and attention. But don’t overestimate your level of experience, or you’ll find yourself trying to put a collar on a snake, saying,

“I’m sure this worked last time! I just need to figure out where her neck is. Maybe she doesn’t have a neck? Maybe she’s all neck?? Can you Google ‘baby neck normal’, please?”

In the third trimester of my second pregnancy - as I limped across the playground after my chihuahua of a toddler with 20lbs of python coiled inside me – I should have guessed at what was to come. I had imagined there would be some benefits to having children so close in age. They’ll play together, I thought, they’ll have the same interests. And if they can entertain each other, they won’t need my continual attention.

But you cannot leave your snake and your dog in a room together. You cannot pop out to answer the door or use the loo, because when you return, you will have to prise open your snake’s dislocated jaw to retrieve your soggy, yelping, half-digested dog from its throat. Or you’ll have to chase your dog around and around the kitchen screaming, “That’s a snake not a stick! The snake is not a stick! Drop it! Leave it!”.

Learning to be a mother was extremely challenging, but by the time my first daughter was one-and-a-half, I felt I had mastered the most important skills. For example, when you have one child, you quickly learn to do everything one-handed. My eldest was an effective communicator and deeply attached to me (loud and clingy). Putting her down triggered a wail as chilling as an air raid siren, so I figured out early on how to eat with one hand, how to get dressed with one hand, how to put in contact lenses with one hand, how to drive with one hand, how to extinguish fires with one hand, how to play piano sonatas with one hand, how to wrestle a bear with one hand, how to perform open heart surgery with one hand. Even how to crack an egg with one hand.

Just when I thought I had attained impressive levels of ambidextrous athleticism, my second baby was born. Now, each hand has to work independently to tackle two different - and sometimes conflicting - tasks.

One hand changes a nappy, while the other rocks a crib. One hand wipes a nose, while the other butters toast. One hand scoops gravel out of a mouth, while the other makes a frog-puppet sing 80s pop ballads.

The problem is, I only have one mouth, and one brain. This week I attempted to prevent one child from spitting quiche on the floor while coaching the other through a difficult poo.

One hand strokes a back: “It’s ok, you can do it.”

The other catches a flying fork: “No, you can’t do that.”

One hand wipes a sweaty brow: “Easy. Just let it all come out.”

The other wipes quiche off the floor: “No, you keep it in. Chew it and swallow it.”

“Push, breathe.”

“It’s yummy.”

“You’re nearly done.”

“Oh, it’s everywhere.”

“You need a bath.”

It’s like being a one-man-band, strumming a guitar with my teeth, smashing cymbals with my elbows, comforting an overtired baby with my big toe. But rather than performing these amazing feats out on the streets in front of an admiring audience – snake round my shoulders, dog on its hind legs - I am at home, alone. My one witness is my own disassociating soul rising above my body in moments of intense stress, observing the chaos of my existence with a mixture of panic and bewilderment.