Better

Instagram, the platform for the perfect photo, the sponsored post that only becomes clear at the end, the heavily filtered selfie that represents a heavily filtered life, the place where celebrities post a picture with a strawberry on their child’s face, would show that I am a good parent. There are many thousands of pictures of my girls at all stages of their lives and in every single one, you would see that they are happy and healthy, well dressed and clean, articulate and funny. And I could accept pats on the back for the role that I’ve played in that. Even on my instastories, a disappearing snapshot of the days, where I am a little more honest about things that I might be finding difficult, you would still see me as an active, engaged parent.

In truth, I am bordering on average. I am impatient, I rise quickly to anger and I shout at them more than I should. I put them on time out if necessary and though I try to do all the right things, explaining calmly what they have done and why I am cross, I don’t always and they reel away from me, a bit bewildered eager for cuddles and kisses once they have counted to twenty in the time out spot in the hall. Yes, I also praise them extravagantly, I scoop them up for kisses and tell them over and over how much I love them. Today, I told Grace that she was spectacular and you have never seen a more proud little girl. Spectacular! What a big word.

And she is. They both are. They are true miracles, the start of a family that I never thought I’d have and I would step in front of a train for them. But they are hard work, exhausting and frustrating and I struggle sometimes, often with the overwhelming feeling that I am somehow failing. Failing them mostly but also failing at the only job that actually really matters to me.

Until Poppy. I was worried, as I’m sure most second (third) time mums are, that I wouldn’t cope, that it would be too hard, that I’d end up in a heap in the corner, three kids running rings around me. But the truth is vastly different. The baby makes me feel competent, and that competence seeps into my parenting of my big girls. I feel able to compartmentalise what I have to do, to be calmer and more understanding, to not obsess over the fact that Grace had three accidents yesterday or that Isla seems to have forgotten how to speak at a normal volume.

Babies require confident, regular care. They require you to be on top of jobs, have the right amount of bottles ready for the night feeds, have a stash of nappies close by so your tiny infant isn’t left flailing on the changing mat waving their scrawny chicken legs as you run from room to room collecting the things you need. They also like cuddles and to stare at you for hours but that is the fun stuff, the bit that I didn’t get with my twins and the bit that I’m savouring now.

Older children require emotion. They require consistency and rules but those rules must be delivered compassionately, never changing, never shifting, even just slightly, even if they desperately want those rules changed.

I never imagined that the introduction of another child would make me a better parent. I imagined myself stretched more thinly, stressed and emotional at the thought of what I had put my girls through, the disruption that a baby had bought to their lives. But it isn’t the case. I am a better parent for having Poppy, a better parent for my big girls and the best parent for her.

Just better.