It was only three hours, and I was only in the other room. I went in to see them more than once too, just peeking my head around the corner to check everyone was alright, catching a baby’s eye and giving him or her a smile before sidling back to the study to work. At the end of my self-inflicted isolation and on my proper return to the living room, I was greeted by such glee. Shouts, knee bouncing, hand waving – the works. What a treat for me, as I first scooped one child for a hug, kiss and a quick dizzying spin around the room – a current favourite – and then the other. “Oh, I’ve missed you,” I exclaimed in happy raptures, “Let me give you a nice bit of banana.”

I am working on a little project, so this has been the pattern these last three days, and will be for the next four. I rather like it, going off to the other room and thinking about something else for a while. The babies don’t seem to mind too much either, as long as they have someone jolly chasing them round the flat and slipping them the odd tasty snack from time to time. It seems a happy compromise between devoting myself to my children and keeping my mind in gear.

The interesting aspect of this experience, beyond my mental gymnastics, is that I am so determined to lavish them with love when I let them come crawling back into my arms. In these moments, I will do anything to see them smile; more so, if I am honest, than the rest of the time when I am likely to start unloading the dishwasher or sneakily browse my emails whilst they clammer at my ankles. I offer them food though I know they are not hungry, carry them around though they would be happy enough crawling around on the floor, fling them up into the air knowing it will make them chortle and strain my back.

Spending these few hours doing something else seems to make me a more attentive parent, at least for a little while. But imagine if I were to spend forty hours each week away from them; I would have to concentrate my desire to please my babies into such a small period of time. What a fine line there must be between indulgence and over-indulgence. I suppose striking the balance comes with experience.

Babies are so insatiably curious, crawling to every corner, peering into countless drawers, staring intently at each passerby. How joyful the discovery that the third kitchen cupboard contains rice and lentils, and the sound the packets make when pulled one by one onto the floor, even better! Of all the babies we know, I am yet to meet an uninterested one. It would seem, limited though my anthropological knowledge may be, that curiosity is innate.

By contrast, I am struck by how many adults are not very curious at all. In a new environment, they gravitate towards strangers most similar to them in social background and experience. On holiday, they recreate a little home from home to make sure they are comfortable. Rarely would they walk down a street simply because they never have before. Why constantly adventure, when you have already seen what the third kitchen cupboard contains, you might say.

But you meet plenty, old and young, who, almost as insatiably as babies, hunger for new experience, seek out provocative ideas, welcome an interruption to the regular rhythm of their thoughts. So it cannot be that knowledge and experience drives out our curiosity. Also, this lack of curiosity manifests itself in some much earlier than adulthood. Talk to the schoolteacher and they will cite examples of five-year-olds who on their first day of school are unwilling to learn anything new. Still, it is hard to believe that some people are simply born more curious than others. To return to my baby observations – they all look pretty curious to me.

My supposition is that there is an unfortunate group who, somewhere along the way, have their curiosity crushed. Babies appear to exercise their curiosity most when feeling confident and content. Post nap, their little tummies full but not too full after a tasty snack, they crawl off to a new room, throwing frequent glances back at the adults they trust the most. How much more exciting the adventure is when they know that this adult might follow shortly after vocalising an interest in the things they see, or when the same adult might throw an unknown plaything into their path. This must be a learned experience. Babies (and adults) who don’t always get enough sleep, the right food, enough encouragement and security probably do not go off exploring with quite the same zeal.

I scratch only at the surface of this quelling of curiosity. Whatever the multifaceted and all too complicated reasons may be, I feel an inner compulsion to build my children’s curiosity as high as it can be, to help them feel secure to enjoy a life varied and exciting. There is simply so much magic to discover. I want them to marvel at the daybreak, to ask why the bird has a beak, to unravel metaphorical string to its final threads. It seems to me that indulging their imaginations whilst giving them the confidence to set out into the world on their own in whichever direction they may choose is, beyond the basic needs of nurturing, one of my primary parental responsibilities. Think of the fun we can have.