Tiny Despots

The babies parade about the living room on their adult chariots. For pre-verbal creatures, they're pretty effective communicators. If one of their minions stops walking, stops bouncing, or - god help us - sits down, the commanding baby screeches until full service resumes. From their perches draped on our shoulders, or sitting up on an adult arm, they survey the wreckage of our adult lives, and finally,imperiously, they smile.

And goddamn them, the smile gets us every time. Our indentured state is assured.

I feel wholly bullied, and there's not a soul I can complain to. Last night, I passed an important milestone. At 6AM, wrestling with Felix while trying to keep a dummy in Max's mouth, I finally and utterly dropped the analysis. No more spinning rationalisations: they slept less than usual today/ perhaps if I hadn't drunk 2 coffees/ Felix is teething/ if I had picked Max up first maybe I'd have got him down before Felix woke... There is no logic, no system, no cause and effect. They are just unpredictable, adorable bullies. And all the bedtime routines, early weaning, dietary adjustments, baby massage courses and special songs I throw at them won't make them quiet placid babies who sleep through the night. But it won't always be like this.

Some day, when they're willful pig headed toddlers who won't do a thing we tell them, we'll look back at this time longingly. Strangely, that knowledge doesn't quite help.

Dispatch from Dingle

We have moved to Kerry for 2 months, to avail of a loving grandmother, a bigger house, and less rubbish-strewn streets. The babies are having their first encounters with nature: with beaches, cows and hedges. And though I love Dublin 8, it would be churlish not to seize the opportunity to move to the country when we can, while I'm on paid maternity leave (and I do know how fortunate I am to have this), and Simon can work from a little broom cupboard downstairs.

But let's be honest here. A baby is a lot of work, and two babies is a lot of baby. I miss the support and solidarity of other mums I know in Dublin. It's all a bit of a gilded palace: I look out at the magical light, hard and clear on the hills climbing behind the house - but I can never leave the babies, so I can't get beyond town.

Both babies are teething. Felix lies on his playmat, a menagerie of jungle animals suspended just above him; Max wails helplessly in my arms. Felix is remonstrating loudly with a favourite toy, the one we call Colonel Giraffey. Pacing the kitchen, I interpret his crescendoing acks.

"Your time is up, Giraffey! We will institute a no fly zone!" (Felix has been mandated to negotiate with the Colonel by Nelson Mandelephant).
"Screw you baby!" replies the Colonel. " Our plan is to live and die in Libya. You will never secure a UN resolution in time."
"Well at the very least I'll have you indicted by the International Criminal Court" insists Felix, whose grunts are growing more urgent.
"Ahahahahahaha!" The giraffe laughs evilly. "But Libya does not recognise the jurisdiction of the ICC!"
Felix responds with a shriek of pain. "We'll get you... in Switzerland!" he protests weakly. By now though he is crying uncontrollably, and can't be left any longer.

I put Max down, to continue the negotiations, and pick Felix up.

Simon appears to make coffee. "I suppose if you're going to go stir crazy" he says, "you might as well do it somewhere with a view."