To say I am impressed by the chic of other mothers at the playground is an understatement: amazed, flabbergasted, utterly and longingly envious are perhaps more accurate. I look down at my clothes and see the pale smears of yoghurt and toothpaste, the dusty marks from little shoes banging against my thigh, and scuff marks on my trouser knees from crawling around in the sand, all worn like the scars of a soldier at war.

When friends with other lives come to visit, I cast forlorn glances at their stylish ensembles, and think sadly to myself how pointless it would be to buy such a pretty and expensive jumper, as it would only end up with chunks of porridge in its chunky cashmere knit. My battle dress is drawn from a narrow section of my wardrobe, which, these days, is rarely found hanging neatly alongside its more glamorous and delicate compatriots, but instead heaped over my bedroom chair and chosen for its machine washable qualities and ability to protect my decency whilst crouching by the railings of the duck pond in the park.

My envy goes beyond clothes. These other women, these high-heeled Madonnas, wear make-up, have manicured nails and complicated braids twisted into their hair. How do they do it, I wonder, when my two-stage ‘beauty ritual’ consists of a modest pulling my in-much-need-of-a-trip-to-the-hairdressers hair into a messy knot and brushing my teeth before leaving the house each morning. Exfoliating and moisturising belong to another age. And the high heels? Shoes these days are determined by being comfortable and hardy enough to march around the streets for two hours each day, whatever the weather.

Back at the playground – one child, they must only have one child, I say to myself reassuringly. Then I remember a line I read somewhere about the aesthetics of motherhood. There is a chic in old jeans and slightly stained and rumpled t-shirts, too, right. I meet the eye of another woman equally stained and dishevelled. She must also have twins, I think, or at least two children close in age, and offer her a comradely smile: she is on my side.

Silly to parade at the playground, I think smugly. Who are they trying to impress anyway, my three-horned, yoghurt-stained, green-eyed monster mutters cruelly under its breath.

To treat children equally is not to treat them the same. A slightly jaded educational tag line bandied around by Dave and his Big Society? Not this time – it is my most recent half-baked theory on child development. 

Two weeks ago the children started nursery. Our plan was for them to spend the morning there and most likely only four days a week, depending on how busy I was to become with other things. For all its modesty, this was nevertheless seen as a significant development in all of our lives. Reality is yet to meet expectation. For I say ‘started’, but more accurately, my little girl has jumped straight in and my little boy has merely gingerly dipped in one of his baby toes.
Each morning at five to nine we traipse down the road. We take off our coats and shoes in the miniature cloakroom and then I wait outside the open playroom door, perched on a tiny bench with my back pressed against a hook bearing the picture of a duck, whilst the nursery school teachers attempt to lure the children away with plastic cars, paintbrushes and all the other lovely temptations they have.

My little girl is routinely seduced. Off she trots, her unsteady legs barely able to match her enthusiasm for plunging into some game of the older children. They, in turn, are delighted to see her, charmingly chanting her name when she appears at the door, and squabbling over who gets to hold her hand for a little walk around the room. The nursery school teachers are pleased with her progress and say I could easily leave her there quite happily for an hour or two. I agree – I don’t think she would miss me at all.

My little boy behaves quite differently. After the rush of excitement in the first few days, when he too was tempted by the toy whisk in the child-sized kitchen and all those big yellow building blocks – and I sat smugly thinking to myself that this separation business was going to be a doddle – he started to realise that being inside the playroom meant being away from me. So now he refuses to go inside, preferring to stand at my knees in the cloakroom, shaking his head at whatever delightful toy is pushed his way, demanding to sit on my knee when anyone else gets too close. Every so often I attempt to gently encourage him back inside, pointing out his sister’s exciting antics, only to be met with that determined shake of the head again and an appealing wordless request to go for an amble around the cloakroom to inspect the tiny sinks and toilets in the adjoining bathroom. And so it goes on until an hour is up and it is time to go home.

This period of my sitting outside the room is supposed to have ended days ago. According to nursery school plans, we should now be increasing the time the children spend in there and I spend out of sight and out of the way. We all begin to realise that were we to do this, he would get very upset. Nobody wants this, of course. The nursery teachers suggest that I leave her there, as planned, and I take him home again with me. We are to continue like this for the next few days until she is staying happily for the required time. Perhaps he will be pulled along with her, once he realises she is going without him, they say. And they are worried that if I don’t go now, she will get too used to having me in the corner and not to want to stay there either. He evidently needs more time.

A pragmatic approach. Why then, do I find tears springing to my eyes as I pull on his coat and tie his laces? I feel guilty and rather sad. It seems unfair that she should be deprived of my attention for this short time and he be lavished with all of it. Walking down the road, pram half empty, I start to wonder mournfully if she does not have such a strong bond with me as her brother. Picking up her favourite tofu in the supermarket, I realise I am also somewhat relieved that they are both not clinging to my legs: dealing with two of them not wanting to leave me would have meant even more hard work. Yet more guilt at this relief: it does not help that in the morning I had read an article on how British children are some of the unhappiest in Europe because their parents cannot give them enough time and try to compensate with material gifts instead.

What angst, you say. Quite right, too – by the dairy section, I am resolved to stop worrying with every turn about what future deep psychological damage I am potentially causing and to concentrate on actively responding to their needs in the present. I am being sentimental, I say to myself. Just because they have always been together, side by side, head against head, since the moment of conception, does not mean that they cannot be apart for a few hours for a few days. She is happy and enjoying herself, and we do want them to spend more time there. Don’t we? But what if he loves being at home with me on his own? He will be fifteen before we can wrench him away from his mother’s tender embrace. Then I start to wonder if I am jealous that the nursery teachers will see her making that adorably funny face when she first tastes peppermint tea. Oh dear, will motherhood be so full of conflicting emotions forever more.

The present, I remind myself. Pragmatism, I remind myself. Half days, four days a week. You will still see them more than anyone else in the world, and he will learn to enjoy it in his own good time.

I had been saying for weeks it could happen any day now. But it didn’t and it didn’t again, and I suppose, deep inside, I never quite believed it. Seeing it in my mind’s eye was an impossibility. So let’s say, it took me by surprise, though I suppose it shouldn’t have done.

“Little girl, you’re walking,” I exclaimed. “Look at you, you’re walking!” “My oh my, little boy, you’re walking too! You two, you’re so clever. Just look at you, you’re so clever!” My words were gushing, faster and more riotously than an African waterfall.

I slipped backwards across the floor, backing out of the door with my arms outstretched towards them both. Still, they tottered on towards me, one a few feet behind the other, their little feet padding slowly in perfect, uneven baby steps. And what a phrase that is – baby steps – one which I will now forever use with far greater accuracy; something or somebody hesitant, bewildered, shaky, but for all of that utterly compelled by nature to move forwards.

Oh the sweet elation and utter astonishment. Fleeting, wretched thoughts dragged up by sleep deprivation and the occasional, drudging monotony of childcare all forgotten in an instance. The air, their and my faces, overflowed with exceeded expectation. The world, in that moment, was full of promise and possibility: those tiny creatures I cradled in my arms those many months ago, if they can now walk across a room all alone what else can we do? Anything, anything at all.

I clapped my hands, and exclaimed still further. They did too. And then, they simultaneously fell to the floor and collapsed into confused sobs. It is alarming, I suppose, to walk upright and alone with its thousands of possibilities and many miles of potential distance. But I think it was also relief. They had passed the test they set themselves, and now with it behind them the world is theirs to conquer.