We met our Health Visitor yesterday and she confirmed what we, and our friends and family have all been thinking for two weeks (two weeks?!), that newborn Ben is astonishingly like newborn Sam. The Health Visitor was a nurse on the Health Visiting team when Sam was born and she remembered the baby rages and my frazzled outlook on life!

Leo looked like Sam at birth but had a completely different nature. He was all about eating, burping promptly and sleeping at civilised hours. After our preparing for a colicky, sleep dodging infant with new carriers and a cosleeper crib, Leo was something of an anticlimax.

Ben however, has not disappointed. He slept through most of his first day, recovering from his rapid and business like entrance and since then he's had some pretty active spells between 2am and 6am. Over the past couple of days he has been holding onto trapped wind like his life depends on it whilst simultaneously raging at us and popping on and off to feed at around the same time every evening.

We officially have another colicky baby. The good news is, we are no longer first time parents. My mood has been low with hormone surges and tiredness at some points but at non point have I thought Ben crying was a result of an error on my part. When he wails, the first thing he gets is milk. If that doesn't work he gets a cuddle on Euan's burp persuading shoulder. Then he gets a clean nappy and if none of that works we start again. Colic holds no fear for us any more. We're totally zen. Well, about that. Everything else is chaos.

This time around is dramatically different in another way. Ben has not one but two big brothers. The next in age is a little abrupt in his affections but affectionate nonetheless. When Ben cries, Leo fetches things, blankets, muslins, pieces of duplo. He never passes without patting Ben and saying "awww". And he learned his name the day he was born. He still just yells imperiously when he wants Sam's attention but Ben or "bibeeBen" is said quietly and clearly.

Sam is taking the role of biggest brother very seriously. He holds and cuddles Ben at every opportunity. He listens to every baby gurgle and sigh intently and often asks for a translation, sighing in frustration when we admit we can't actually speak baby. He supervises nappy changes and tells everyone that this is our new baby and "him is a cutie-pie".

The two of them and their love for Ben make my heart swell. They also climb furniture, stash toys everywhere, randomly refuse food that was previously a favourite, shout without warning, bash each other and themselves and act up spectacularly just when we think we have things under control. But this too shall pass and once it has, they'll still be brothers. And that is all kinds of wonderful.

Look at the gloriously beautiful lady and squished up cosy baby above. Look at the light in her eyes and the security in his body language. I could revel in the image of Ben meeting my granny for hours.

Except I couldn't. Couldn't revel because I was so so tired. Because my right boob was sore. Because my left shoulder ached from the weird angle I tried to lie at to make it easy for Ben to nurse while I dozed through Saturday night in an effort to get just a little rest between the cluster feeds.

On Sunday the hormones and broken sleep and diary dates we couldn't cancel caught up with me. The notion that even though I'm tired, so tired and even though my friends and family are telling me not to overdo it and to rest more, I had to carry on as normally as possible.

On Sunday I was short with my husband because he is more realistic than me and knows that no-one actually cares that we haven't arranged the baby cards in an easy to see and Pinterest perfect display.

I wanted to sell my firstborn when we arrived at the Halloween party he hadn't stopped talking about since Wednesday and threw a fit and wanted to go home. I didn't believe anyone who said I looked great or I was doing great to be out. I assumed they were just trying to be encouraging in face of the zombie I'd turned into.

On Sunday I had an actual urge to squash my middle child when he kept crashing in to me as I nursed Ben from my agonisingly sore side. Because he loves to pat the baby but that means I have to deploy ninja reflexes to make sure no head injuries occur.

Ben was all snuggled against me that evening because I couldn't face another round of will he settle in the moses basket roulette. But I needed him to because all of the stuff.

The stuff that needs recycled. The stuff that needs to be put away and added to the thank you list. The cards about to fall off the mantelpiece. The clothes that need folded and put away. The moby wrap abandoned in a heap on the couch. The toys which have broken free from the playroom and mounted a large scale invasion of the living room. And don't get me started on the current condition of the spare room. But in reality, none of it mattered on Sunday night and the stuff that still hasn't been done still doesn't matter.

The rational me knows gorgeous Ben definitely has his days and nights muddled and since he's still a teeny wee squish, I'm doing my best to roll with it. Over the next few days he'll get more and more alert and be more awake during the day and more sleepy during the night. If I remember to rest either in the morning for a while or get in bed early, I'll be more prepared for the midnight parties and less freaked out that I'm going to forget he's in bed with us.

The rational me didn't come out until some tears had passed and I'd eaten some chocolate. Until my husband who is by now well used to my new mother behaviour pattern had given me a hug. Until my mum had (kindly) told me to pull myself together and remember I'm not Wonder Woman. Until some friends had reminded me that I am the only one who judges me so harshly.

I am putting those feelings firmly away now. I'm going to get back to revelling.

It's been a long long time since I dusted off the blog. But the arrival of our newest boy has prompted me to write his little story. I think I'll probably revisit Sam and Leo's stories too in the next week or so because Ben's debut has the memories stirring.

On Monday morning I woke up horribly grumpy. I had tossed and turned and muttered and sworn at every twinge and grind of my pelvis. I had been too hot, too cold, too hungry then heartburny, too thirsty and then bursting for a pee.

I told Euan that if I didn't have the baby soon I was going to lose the plot. I had convinced myself that Sam and Leo were being done out of a somewhat capable mother and having to put up with a whale sized automaton. I was pathetic and whiny and to top it off, I felt sick and and over emotional.

Euan had been working from home for a week and while it was great to have him close at hand, I was at the stage where I was getting a bit ungrateful at the moments where the boys were ignoring me completely to try to suck his attention away from his laptop.

When the midwife came out to do my long awaited stretch and sweep, she was doing her best to warn me that while things looked more favourable than the at the last one, there was no guarantee of things starting. But that was the point I decided that birth could be a mental process too. So while Leo slept and Euan was out collecting Sam, I got on my yoga ball and started swaying.

I am by no means unsceptical about the real power of meditation and visualisation but the rarity of a quiet house convinced me to concentrate on my body being open and capable. I also spent a lot of time dismissing the more negative aspects of my memories of Leo's birth and instead picturing what labouring at home would be like. Before Sam the whirlwind got home and Leo woke up, I felt a couple of big downward squeezes.

After lunch Leo and I went for a walk. I was enjoying the one on one and watching how confident he is about his own abilities now. I really enjoy the moments where I can see his little personality taking shape. He is by no means shy but loves to keep a hold of me so he knows I'm seeing what he's seeing. He's chatty too, Sam was always a man of action rather than communication so it's fun to be doing something a little different.

The late afternoon saw a few more of those big squeezes and in between playing with the kids I took the time again to visualise the baby moving down and my body opening up to meet him. I had a warm bath while Euan took over at dinner time and by the time the kids were in bed I was getting more willing to describe the big squeezes as contractions.

I was maintaining to Euan and myself that I wasn't in labour as I had been so disappointed after a false start at 39 weeks. But I did decide to organise the playroom and tackle the mounting pile of clean clothes that needed rehomed from beside the tumble dryer to drawers and wardrobes.

Around 9pm I messaged my mum that I was 85% sure I was contracting. I favoured a small glass of wine and more wiggling on the gym ball rather paracetamol to see if the discomfort lessened at all and when the squeezes carried on I took my mum's very good advice and went to try for some sleep.

Sam hardly wakes through the night now that we're settled in to our new home but for some reason he hopped onto our bed at 2am. I was disgruntled, not at him but at my own body, I'd been asleep for nearly three hours and thought that the whole process had stalled again. I woke Euan just to tell him I was grumpy. He managed to sound genuinely sympathetic, he is a far better person than I am! I told some of my mummy friends via WhatsApp that I didn't think anything was going to happen and I went back to sleep.

Around three in the morning I felt the contractions start again so I kept an eye on the time and breathed through them, resisting the urge to screw my face up or tense my muscles against them because I'd been rereading my faithful Ina May Gaskin and how tightening up one part of you tightens the rest. I stayed on my left side and was vaguely aware of the baby getting lower.

At four I was moving around the room deciding whether or not to phone for the midwife with contractions ten minutes apart as I was also quite hoping to get a little more sleep. A couple of the bigger waves of pressure had me thinking longingly of the gas and air cylinder downstairs in the home birth kit so I woke Euan and asked him to bring some of the stuff I had ready to our room while I made the call. I got back into bed and timed my call to the labour ward and my mum between contractions so I wouldn't be out of breath. Then the community midwife called back to see how I was doing and she was so chilled out that my anxiety disappeared.

I was on my feet again not long after, covering up the carpet and asking Euan to listen out for the midwife and my mum. As the midwife arrived I heard her tell Euan to turn the thermostat up for the baby and I wished that newborns didn't need things quite so toasty because I was getting warm and shaky between the stronger waves. I say waves because I was leaning over the bed and was aware of the sensation of my body working perfectly to bring the baby down. The pain was making me worry a little and I considered asking Anne if I maybe had time to completely abandon the natural childbirth ideal and head in for an epidural! It all felt a little too much as I thought I had another couple of hours ahead.

Anne asked when my contraction stopped how far apart they were. I just had time to say about four minutes as the next one overtook me. Euan had been bringing the kit up to our room and Anne asked him to phone for the other midwife. The gas and air cylinder wasn't working but at that point I had other things on my mind and focused on what another wise mummy friend had said, embrace the pain rather than resist it.

My waters were intact which was a first for me. The pressure against my cervix was phenomenonal and I had my moment of conviction that the baby would be stuck when I realised it was actually his head ready to arrive. Anne and I both shouted for Euan who had gone downstairs to let my mum in. I was relieved that he made it into the room in time for the baby surging on out with one long, leg trembling push. I think Anne was more relieved by the arrival of my mum aka the indomitable Sister Robertson to provide an extra set of hands.

And then I was laughing because voilà, a baby was handed up to me and he was shouting and warm and perfect and pink. With a bit of clever manoeuvring I was helped on the bed with not a splash of anything getting on the sheets (Kitty does not approve of unnecessary housework) and Euan was cuddled up next to me with our newest boy. I think it was my mum who cut the cord when it stopped pulsing and my own midwife arrived too in time to help with all the after care.

Sam was awake by the time I was all cleaned up and Euan took the baby through to meet him. Then he joined us in bed to chat about the noises babies make. The midwives, mum and Sam went downstairs for paperwork and breakfast, my cup of hot fresh nectar (tea made in my own teapot) was brought in and I got lots of lovely skin to skin time with the baby. We were in no rush to find a name because he looked just like his brothers. Leo was only up slightly earlier than normal to meet his new brother and was more excited about the possibility of extra breakfast.

It was the loveliest, calmest way for a baby to join our little family and I'm still revelling in the peace and faith I had in my own body. Ben is just over 48 hours old now but being home the whole time makes us all feel like he's been here forever.

Playgroup is back in session, hurray! We had planned on Sam starting school nursery this January but since moving catchments, it's likely that he'll keep on with his three mornings at playgroup until next summer. I love their outlook and the atmosphere there and I love how happy he is to be back. And if I'm totally honest, I love speaking to the other parents at drop off and realising that I'm not the only one feeling like my firstborn has been occasionally body swapped by a tiny autocratic dictator.

I wrote the following a couple of weeks ago and things are getting a bit better as we develop ways of accepting and helping Sam with all the big feelings he's feeling, but I will be honest and say that the cup of tea I'm about to have without him rampaging in the background is what I've been looking forward to all morning!



Sam is in a screamy shouty phase. I realised I have fallen into the trap of shouting back more often than I should. So I'm stopping because it makes no difference and upsets Leo too. I am at the stage where I feel like I'm missing a piece of the puzzle and must be letting him down somehow.

Sam is intelligent, and funny. He can be kind and thoughtful. He is strong and brave and wonderfully coordinated. He loves fiercely. I appreciate and cherish all of those things. But...

He is relentlessly loud and screams at me just about every time he needs to poop. He argues about every damn thing I say to him. He uses my furniture as gymnastic equipment and frequently knocks over his brother no matter how many times we talk about controlling his body and respecting other people's bodies.
He has developed a sense of entitlement over the TV and is downright unpleasant if I impose restrictions on what and how much he watches. He will either be completely helpful or without warning throw a massive tantrum because I ask him to pass me something.

I feel like the good stuff has nothing to do with the parenting I do and the bad stuff has everything to do with the long and painful struggle I had with making an attachment with him, when I couldn't seem to do anything about his sleeplessness and my crippling postnatal depression and anxiety.

I know this is all part of him being three. I know that this too shall pass. But as I write this, he is crushing against my belly singing a wordless tuneless song and repeatedly dropping a library book. Give mummy a break dude...

Away back in April, I realised that we'd had a potty or two lying in the house for going on a year. Not to mention the stories about potty training and the reward charts and stickers and an ever growing collection of big boy pants brought to us to encourage Sam out of nappies.

It was also getting a bit of a squeeze to fit Sam's slim but long frame into  our much loved cloth nappies and oh, the washing, the endless washing from having two cloth bums in the house.

Also, I was having one of those lovely periods of crippling self doubt when I was sure I was the most inept mother in the world and as a result my firstborn would probably walk down the aisle in a pull up.

So one sunny day, I stationed one potty upstairs by the loo, put the training seat on the toilet seat, placed another potty in a convenient corner of the living room (this was the the old house so no super convenient downstairs toilet) and with no further ado, I told Sam to pick a pair of big boy pants.

I sat him on the potty every 40 minutes for 5 minutes at a time. We talked about big boys not needing nappies. We talked about how it feels when you need to pee or you know...We talked more about bathroom habits than I ever have or ever want to. He managed to pee on the potty twice and near it a couple more times. He also soaked through every pair of pants and trousers he owned. And there was an incident with more *ahem* solid waste that I don't want to think about, never mind write about.

The potty training articles and books all talk about readiness. At the end of that day, I realised that age aside (why do we fall so often into the trap of considering what other kids are doing?), Sam was probably not ready and I definitely wasn't ready to put us both through another day of trauma.

An important part to admit to here is that Sam gets his mile wide stubborn streak directly from me. I knew that butting heads with him was only going to lead to stress for both of us and that doesn't seem like a productive learning environment for anyone.

We tried again with similar results in the middle of the May. On reflection, it was lousy timing, both boys (and mummy) were on edge as the house was in uproar with clearing out and packing up. But he was at least at the point where he was talking about the process and if he happened to be streaking in the garden he would tell me that he needed to use the potty.

That carried on to the new house so we set aside Euan's week off (lucky lucky daddy) to take the plunge. And Sam took to it like a duck to water. Barely any accidents and after the first day, he lost interest in sticker rewards, he just accepted that big boy pants were the way forward. We even went out with minimum fuss and he managed to let me know when he needed a toilet break after one change of clothes after he got too absorbed in playing.

As he'd pooped happily (sorry, I ran out of euphemisms) on the potty on the first day I was starting to feel a teensy bit smug. Ha, I thought to myself, nailed it. Bring on next year and Sam can potty train Leo, he's obviously a pro.

Ah but, or indeed butt, did our wee pro not decide to put me back in my place and start refusing to poop a couple of days later. We have been filling him with fibre, plying him with drinks and stool softener and words of encouragement but no matter. He has decided that since this is something he can control, he will control it.

As I write on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I have heartlessly abandoned my backed up toddler, bewildered baby and beleaguered husband to hide away from the tenth round of Sam versus Poop. There is screeching, there are tears (mine mostly) and there are two stressed out parents. There is so far, no poop.

But I'll hang on in here, stop being grumpy with my husband and possibly eat my body weight in chocolate later because I foolishly forgot that an important part of potty training success is a glass of wine for mummy at the end of the day and left it until I was pregnant and on an enforced dry spell. Send poopy thoughts everyone.