Lets rewind a bit, it’s 2011, we’ve just bought our first house after spending years and years renting. We manage to save for a deposit, we didn’t go on holiday – EVER, we didn’t go out (much), our wedding cost about £250 and we saved and saved and finally we got there. Literally a year later the first born came along.
So, there we were, new parents in training. We spent nine months reading everything we could and once he arrived we Googled anything we were unsure about. This usually took place at 3 am with one of us pacing back and forward in the bedroom, the other bleary eyed and squinting at the phone screen. Often threats of divorce were thrown around, accusations that the other one got more sleep, snored and woke the baby or just generally being mean to each other (OK so I was meaner – but in my defense I was also more sleep deprived). But the following morning we did the very healthy thing and never spoke about it, ever. We were friends again and it was like all that shit didn’t happen, until it did again, the next night.
I would spend my days attending baby groups, breastfeeding clubs, baby massage, weaning workshops all that jazz. When the husband returned from work he would take over nappy duties, I’d get to have an actual hot shower. We were totally nailing this baby shit, he had a routine, he got his naps, our lives changed to completely revolve around him. Then the second one arrived and we realised how difficult we had made life for ourselves by doing all of the above, because compared to two, one was a breeze.
By the time the third one was born we were wise to the shit we could get away with. Stuff we could do which got the job done quicker but would still result in having three safe and reasonably good looking kids at the end of the day. So here is a quick run down on how different it was, for us, from one to three.
Preparation – By preparation I mean preparing for the big arrival. Cots, car seat, clothes, prams, hospital bags that sort of thing. In readiness for the first born the pram was living with us way too early after being donated. The cot was assembled four months before he was due to make an appearance and his clothes were washed and ordered by size, then labeled so Dad would know which ones to get as and when. By the time the third one was nearly cooked we were sitting at night telling each other we really should get the cot up, get the pram back from the grandparents and find the bags of clothes. The conversation usually ended with an ‘oh yeah’ while he sort of eyed my baby belly like he was wondering how it got there and muttered a vague promise to do all of that at the weekend. Or two days before number three arrived, whatever came first.
Sleeping – None of our children were born with the ability to sleep, either during the day while not attached to a boob or, through the night, while not attached to a boob. Probably one of the few occasions my husband is grateful he doesn’t have boobs. However, when the first born arrived we did that thing where we both got up for night feeds. We felt really optimistic that teamwork is what made the dream work. Me feeding the kid, the husband changing him, the kid falling asleep on one of us. Us taking it in turns to sleep, the conversation going something along the lines of (me) “no, you get some sleep, you need to get up for work”, (him) “oh no, you should get some sleep, you look like shit”. That sort of thing.
By the time the third one arrived, night feeds went something along the lines of me getting up, me feeding the kid, me changing him, me settling the kid. Me punching the husband in the face while he slept, me growling “fuck” 57 times. Me giving an excellent surprised expression the next morning when the husband gently touched his face and stated that he must have banged himself on the side of the bed in the night.
Bath time – The first born had baths every night, it was a novelty to bath the kid even if he did scream the house down. He would smell lovely and babyish. He would be clean and not have a yellow bum. He would look so cute surrounded by all the bubbles. As he got older he would splash and have loads of fun and we would look upon his little happy face with smiles, grateful that he was living a joyous filled life. The third one is basically thrown in the shower with Dad for a bum clean.
Meal times – The first born was weaned gradually, it was all mushed and sloppy and a lot of hard work. When he was constipated I mushed and sieved prunes by hand to mix in with his Wheatabix. He hated it and I don’t blame him and it’s a time in my life I will never get back. When I made family meals I didn’t use stock cubes or anything remotely salty, so we basically ate cardboard for three years. Both the second one and the third one were weaned on real food, food with flavor, taste and texture. The little one eats baked beans, fish sticks, spag bol, chicken chow mein, crisps, chocolate, squishies and unicorn ice cream. The first born didn’t try a chip until he was 6 and he’s only just ventured into the world of fish fingers. I swear the kid thinks we are trying to poison him if we try to slip anything new onto his plate.
Clothes – The first born had an endless supply of lovely little outfits, the girl always looked cute, she was a girl and I was desperate to get into the girl section at the shops. Although now she just loves to wear her brother’s clothes. The little one lived in baby grows until about three weeks ago when it started getting hot, at which point he’s started to wear the girl’s undies as shorts, an old football shirt sized for a three year old and those socks you get a trampoline parks instead of shoes (see shoes below).
Playing in the garden – As a new mother I was terrified of everything and believed all of the stories I’d ever been told about shit that could happen to kids. I lived in constant fear that I would somehow blink and he would have swallowed cat poop, sat on a nettle or the ducks would have attacked him (yes we had ducks). Therefore, in the garden he was suitably tied down to a pram where he could not get into any trouble, pick up any stones, get dirty or have any fun. When he was granted a minute of freedom he would be suitably supervised, sitting under the shade of a large sun umbrella and playing with child appropriate toys. Number three loves to be outside and he will use any opportunity to his advantage to shoot out the door and leg it down the back lane. In the garden he likes to lug Dad’s massively heavy steel watering can around, play with the ‘chicken stick’ (the stick Dad uses to stop the cockerel from attacking him), sit in the flower beds and eat the stones.
Buying first shoes – Buying your baby their first shoes is a big deal. I read somewhere that appropriate shoes are a necessity to ensure their feet don’t grow all deformed. So, we took out a small mortgage and off we went to Clarks for a nice family day out. The first born screamed the shop down resulting in us just agreeing to whatever shoe we had managed to get onto his feet and Dad nearly fainted when it was time to pay. Obviously I’ve kept all the shoes we’ve bought with the intention of them paying for his university fees later in life. The girl also got to have her own ‘first shoes’ experience and I have hers tucked away. Obviously we had good intentions to do the same for the third one and not deprive him of the wonderful experience of getting his feet measured, which usually always involves screaming. Instead, thanks to lockdown, the deprived (aka third) child has had to make do with whatever I can find in the loft. So far the only size I’ve managed to squeeze his chubby little feet into are size 6 sandals that belonged to the girl when she was at least 3 years old. Not sure why the third one has such big feet but he will now also have deformed feet. He is now living in these so he wont look like a complete scruff when he next escapes.
I can honestly say that it was only when number two arrived that we realised one child was easy, we just made it hard for ourselves by trying to be perfect. Then when we thought two were hard work, number three came along and we realised shit just got real. The husband says we just need to have number four to open our eyes to how easy three are. I told him to fuck off.
