Mind the gap

A friend, who has one child, asked me the other day what I thought was the ideal gap between children.

Is there such a things as an ideal gap? I don’t know. The Littleboys are 19 months apart - a similar spacing to the children of at least five other couples I know well. With most of us, I suspect that child 2 was conceived a little bit quicker than expected. (Why? I have a couple of theories. First, as the first child approaches one year old and life becomes a little easier, sex life suddenly resumes and you’re so relieved to be getting some action that attention to contraception flies out of the window. Or, it could that people start ‘trying’ at this point with a 2 year gap in mind, and for some reason are much more fertile than they think…)

There are a few benefits to this age gap. The Littleboys are close enough in age that they can enjoy the same things without the older one sneering and finding them too babyish –so splashing in the bath is still hilariously funny, and they can both sit, transfixed, watching Pingu while drinking their bedtime milk. And although we still have two in nappies (Littleboy 1’s neverending toilet training saga will probably end just as his brother starts) dressing them is a bit like a production line – pop them on the mat, on goes the nappy, Sudocrem and clothes and, voila, they’re ready to go.

Clothing, incidentally, is also not a problem – rather than having to pack away outgrown clothes for several years, it’s only a few months until the younger one fits them. You can virtually transfer things from one chest of drawers to another.

But would I recommend this age gap? There are, shall we say, challenges. At the moment, aged 3 and 1, they are both essentially still toddlers – albeit one slightly bigger and less likely to fall over. And like all toddlers, they have monstrous egos, little sense of danger, no sense of fair play and a massive capacity for destruction.

Sharing is anathema to both of them. Everything is MINE. They both want to go first – whether it’s getting out of the car or bath, or getting a cuddle from Mummy. They both subject you a series of physical assaults (eg.flip flops, in the face, at 6am) and relentless demands (more milk Mummy, the bath’s too cold, I want to read the Gruffalo NOW). It's a bit like being Naomi Campbell’s PA.

Food throwing is a competitive sport; cleaning up after each meal resembles a rescue operation after a major disaster. Competitive toy throwing is also popular – so our once-smart wooden floor is dented from the repeated batterings with Megabloks and matchbox cars.

In the playground, they both go off in different directions; and while Littleboy 2 is the more vulnerable, and the one to be followed at all costs, his brother is also liable to get stuck at the top of the climbing frame or lose sight of me and start screaming. And at the supermarket, they are both still small enough to sit in the trolley, whereupon they scrap like a couple of puppies.

I hope one day that the Littleboys will be the best of friends, and thank me for bringing them into the world so close in age. But for now it’s a case of damage limitation. As another friend put it to me the other day, one baby is a pet; two is a zoo.