I am afraid.
Very, very afraid.
I could very well die of the panic.
Turns out, contrary to my previously held opinion, I cannot keep the Two locked in a pram for the rest of their lives.
Yes. It has taken me until they are nearly three to realise this.
In my defence, I really and truly thought it would be completely acceptable to push them around in their second home until they were at least 4. Or maybe 6.
OK, so I was planning on letting them out of the pram at the age of 10.
However, the thing with multiples is that there is multiple. children.
Two in my case.
And two children are heavier than one.
Twice as heavy in fact.
Pushing them around, whilst great exercise, is becoming increasingly difficult.
In terms of my serious turning circle skillz, the heavier the Two get, the harder the pram is becoming to navigate.
Also, they have figured out how to twist and turn out of the harnesses.
So if I don’t teach them how to walk safely and in an orderly fashion soon, I’m screwed.
For my birthday in January, my mother bought me two child leashes.
She thought I would find it funny, and mildly offensive.
I found it hilarious. Even more hilarious was the look on my mother’s face when I did not take the bait.
You can call them what you will, but I call them leashes – and I do not think they are cruel.
At least, being attached to a safety strap (I think that’s the PC term) is much less cruel than being attached to the road.
As in squashed by a car.
And so I have begun allowing one or both boys to begin walking the last block home in an attempt to give them a little taste of freedom but also teach them the basics of life outside of the pram.
And oh, the anxiety!
Oscar seems to think he has an open invitation to everyone’s driveway – because really, who wouldn’t invite two nearly-3-year-old boys (with a love for throwing their own poo at each other) over for afternoon tea?
Fraser is determined to beat me home, so that he can take up residence on my front step and stop the rest of us getting inside (whilst we are all busting for the loo).
And that, my friends, is why I am afraid.
Not only is there the possibility of squashed toddler on the menu, but my pelvic floor really can’t take this much longer.
Although, the cute is almost worth it…
Tips? Constructive ones only, ploise. Commiserations? Only if you don’t tell me any horror stories. Wine? Always welcome, please contact me for postal address ASAP.