Chapter 7

Lucy and I fostered two boys from just a couple of weeks old, (the other came to us at age four) but I never dreamed how I would feel when I held the tiny bundles that were my son and daughter. Of course, I hadn't been present when the two boys were born, either, so I had no warning of the deluge of emotion I felt at the appearance of the two red, wrinkled, smeared, beautiful little creatures. I wasn't the only one; the midwife looked at the tears flowing down my cheeks and smiled gently;

"It gets to me, too," she said, "every time."

Amy was breast-feeding. We had bottles, and steriliser, and solution because babies need water sometimes as well as milk, and we had some formula milk in case of emergencies, but she was the one bearing the burden of being woken up at irregular intervals to put them to the breast; she was the one with sore nipples. But I did what I could, changing nappies, bathing them, and walking up and down patting their backs when they cried. Being twins, they were obedient to Murphy's law; sleeping one at a time, needing feeding alternately ... I'm sure you get the picture. It was some time before Amy was able to do any meaningful work on her degree.

After a few weeks, they did settle into a routine of sorts, and if we were both sleep deprived, at least I needed less than Amy. I got used to pushing a double buggy (I almost said, pram... ) and got into the habit of biting my tongue when I was taken for their grandfather...

I knew about milestones; the time they began to hold their heads up, the moment they were able to sit up, or roll; first solid food, first teeth ... Andrew decided the best mode of progression was sliding on his bottom, Lucille preferred crawling. Both took their first tottering steps before they were one year old.

Mother ... I mean, Parent-and-toddler groups ... mostly proud young women with their offspring — I was a two-week-wonder until they got used to me. Playgrounds; we never had climbing frames and toys like that when I was that age...

The wonder of it, and the wonder of our love. How love can grow to include children without diminishing the love between the parents ... sometimes. Our eyes would meet and we could read the love there. I took every opportunity to touch and caress her, and tell her I loved her; she would cup my face with her hand and kiss me.

The summer they were one and a bit years old, we holidayed in the Yorkshire dales, we each had a sort of sling to carry one child. We visited Settle, and sampled real Wensleydale cheese in Hawes; we walked on Ingleborough and Whernside, and wondered at the atmospheric ruins of Fountains Abbey.

That Christmas, they were old enough to enjoy the boxes and wrapping paper. Apart from the pushing toys that they could trundle around with, they weren't much interested in anything else. Except, of course, touching the decorations on the tree.