Behind the graffitied wall and above the green canopy of cherry trees, dark clouds gather. Churned sand sits uninvitingly in sodden clumps. Fat raindrops pearl off metal and rubber, out of the wood seeps a dank mossy smell.That moment on a wet day when the rain fleetingly holds its breath; we are alone in the playground.

Our shoes squeak as we clamber onto the plastic trampolines. Two children dwarfed by school bags trudge past in yellow anoraks and glance enviously in our direction. Up and down, side to side, one foot, the other foot – we jump and shout and shriek and spin. I am as thrilled as my children: snatched pleasure on a day we’d given over to jigsaw puzzles and colouring crayons.

As the first new drops fall, tiny and barely perceptible, we jump more furiously. The heavy summer air presses down upon us, but this is a moment to be extended not curtailed. Our arms flail as the wind whips around the climbing frames and nudges the swings.

The rain falls faster and harder now. I know my cotton jacket will not hold. Hoods low over our brows, defeated but still elated, we abandon the playground to deluge and march homewards. Tugging a breathless, soggy child with each hand, I shiver inwardly, deliciously happy to be here.

“Window,” he shouts, “A window!” One hand points skywards and the other tugs at my skirt insistently. It is an ordinary morning along our ordinary route, but my son has seen something exceptional. Though all the houses along the street are fronted with windows, I know by the piercing excitement in his voice and the determination of his point, that I am yet to spot the intended one. I follow his gaze beyond the ground floor, up the side of what appears to be a large windowless wall, until my eyes alight finally upon a tiny, very high window, interrupting the grey concrete’s monotony. I, too, am thrilled of course. “You’re right – a window,” I say, “What a surprise.”

Another day, we are indulging in strong coffees at a pavement cafe whilst watching the world – an activity that feels long barred to us by the constraints and unpredictability of small children. But now, as has been the case the last month or so, the children play happily around and beneath the table, clambering back on to our knees for fleeting cuddles and slurps of apple juice. It is one of those precious moments you think your life has not been too drastically changed by the arrival of your children after all. Then goes up the double strength shout, “Ants – ants! Look ants!” Both children crouched by our feet stare with the intent of zoologists at cracks in pavement, in and out of which trails of ants scurry. It seems to me, I have not paid any attention to ants (apart from the vicious biting type in my parents’ back garden) for years, decades indeed. But there, on the pavement, in amongst the bikes and the dogs and the chatter and the lingering wafts of distant cigarette smoke, the little crawling ants do appear miraculous.

They have a way, these children, of re-opening my eyes to the world. When I think about it, they must have always been seeing things differently from the moment they were born, but it is since their impressive and powerful acquisition of language that this new perspective of theirs is particularly compelling. Walks in the park become a flurry of aircraft spotting and shopping expeditions the place for marvelling at the bounty of fruits on display. It as if I I have been swept into a magical world of little balls in airports (metal spheres topping posts marking off the security section); tiled kitchen floors scattered with near invisible individual pumpkin seeds and raisins, and skeleton grape bunches decorated with those tiny, remaining, stunted grapes.

And it is not just what they see, but how they see it. Objects and images are constantly reinterpreted. The Nike tick on their father’s trainers is a moon; the yoghurt pot a bucket; a cartoon snake on a pair of socks a worm. It is an infinite and imaginative list, which I wish I’d had the foresight to note down at each fantastical occasion.

But beyond the anecdotal, I suppose these observations are most interesting when we start thinking about how learning must be a two way thing. Children are so much more than the passive receptors of information. They spot and spy and learn from all sorts of things we lofty-headed, over-educated, washed-out adults might never have seen. Their ideas are for listening to and their marvel for relishing in. If I accept their view of ordinary as exceptional, perhaps they will one day listen intently to what I can tell them too.

Seeing your children exert their will is exhilarating, initially. Thereafter – let us be completely honest – these young expressions of self-determination can, at times, serve to test rather than enhance parental devotion.

I had always been faintly perturbed by people insisting on how important it is to show your child that you are the grown up and they the child; a code, you see, for these children having to get used to doing exactly what their parents tell them to do. Unfairly probably, but never mind, the attitude reminded me of certain dog owners who, with their sharp voices and ludicrous threats, seem to revel in simply being master of another creature. I did not want my children following rules created for rules’ sake, nor behaving in any overly prescribed way. So far so liberal. 

That was, however, until I found myself stood in front of the changing table locked in lengthy and complex negotiations with my half-clad, two-year-old daughter. “No, woof woof nappy,” she said fixing me with her steely eyes. “But there aren’t any nappies with pictures of dogs left in the pack. You can wear one next time, before bedtime.” This was my halfway position. “No, woof woof nappy.” Her look and her resolve hardened. The exchange continued with offers of all the animals in the pack, and even the promise of a biscuit when we’d completed the job, but to no avail. Ten minutes in, I surrended and opened the new pack. She granted me a smile.

A sparky child, I have always felt rather proud of seeing her charge off to the opposite corner of the playground with her own clear intentions in mind, and of her distinctly purposeful disregard for most of our and other people’s suggestions. I admire her pluck and will, neither of which I would ever want to risk breaking. But then, when for a second and a third time I found myself scrabbling round in the cupboard for a specific nappy, my liberal principles began to waver.

Surely there is a line. And given that roughly only one in five nappies in the packs we buy is a woof woof nappy – my attempts at passing a cow off for a dog failed miserably – this could well be it. I am the grown up after all, and she the child. Or, possibly, it is simply an indication that we are ready to embark on a new adventure – potty training, which is another form of self-determination after all.

We strung balloons along the table and bunting in the trees. A large floral blanket covered the paltry grass, which was still recovering from the brutal vicissitudes of last winter. Like the blossom on the surrounding trees, the excitement was tangible. Green party plates and white paper cups stacked neatly on the table; it did look pretty – and so thought our children. 

They pointed animatedly at the colourful decoration and exclaimed with glee as we lined up the drinks. Previously unknown quantities of apple juice and breadsticks were unveiled before them and they were allowed to take as much as they liked; something special was happening, though they were not sure quite what. That didn’t matter. 

There is always something, no? And it is never quite what you could have imagined it to be.

Our mornings had been disrupted recently by a “no t-shirt” campaign. The old playful time we used to spend getting dressed had become an obstinate battle of wills. Sitting on the changing table, soft arms exposed in his white vest, my son’s small chin would set firmly in an uncannily adolescent way as he met every t-shirt proffered with a vigorous shake of the head, dismissive wave of the hand and the proud shout of “no t-shirt”.

At first, a doting mother, I was rather charmed by his articulate and meaningful adoption of the word “no”, and his strong opinions: this bode well for his future I thought smugly. But a few days in, the arduous process of running through his entire wardrobe, though admittedly limited in its scope – no more than six or seven with most caked with crusting smears of tomato sauce and porridge at any given time – was trying. March had not yet fully blossomed into springtime, so I battled on, my chin set just as obstinately as I pulled the first t-shirt offered over his downy head. With a bit of insistence the phase would pass I thought.

But then one morning after a few, albeit short, tearful episodes (on his side), I, tired and disliking the discontent, relented and put a cardigan directly over his vest. Half an hour and a good bowl of porridge later, he trotted up to me and questioningly said “t-shirt”, pointing to his little rounded chest, at which we went off to his bedroom and happily pulled it on. The next morning the t-shirt was immediately accepted, though I grant the success to it being his favourite cow t-shirt rather than my skills of negotiation. And the next morning? There was a little pause, a bit of playing and then the second t-shirt offered went smoothly on.

It probably comes down to deciding something for himself. Fair enough really. And now I know, whether he wears the t-shirt or not, I am much happier to avoid our bull horns locking. In the future, I will not meet obstinance with obstinance.

Odd the phrase “what we are told to feel about motherhood” or so it seemed to me, when reading an article about books on early motherhood. I don’t remember ever being told what to feel about motherhood, or deciding to give it any proper thought myself. As a child, sometimes, I had imagined myself as a mother, as most girls do I suppose, not in any concrete way but rather as an emulation of my own mother. As a young woman, the idea became very distant; I was too busy learning, working, falling in love – just thinking about other things. Holding other people’s babies, I never toyed with the idea of them being my own.

Then came that moment on the doctor’s bed. “Look, there, you can see the two heartbeats,” she said. Those home pregnancy tests, though leg jittering and exhilarating, had not seemed very real. Laying prostrate, neck craning to see the unintelligible blur of the ultrasound image and mind sluggish in that oppressive, sanitised heat of doctors’ surgeries, I experienced my first maternal flash – a fearful image of a child with two hearts, “What does that mean?” I asked concerned. “That you’re having twins.” The relief was immense, “Oh goody,” I chirped, “All’s okay then.” What was it I felt? A sudden and instinctive sense of devotion and responsibility.

For those long months that followed, as my belly got bigger and heavier, drifting floor-wards with distinct limbs protruding towards the end, my maternal attitude remained quite static. I was protective: crisscrossing lanes in the local swimming pool to avoid the flailing arms and legs of neighbouring bodies. And I was devoted: eating carefully to provide enough of the good stuff, and conscientiously attending all prescribed medical appointments and still arranging a few more, despite my aversion to those dry, white waiting rooms. I was proud, too: smiling smugly when the gynaecologist told me our unborn daughter had long legs, and letting friends place their hands on me to feel those writhing tots inside.

By static, though, I mean that my idea did not (and could not) develop much beyond this waiting game of pregnancy – enough of a preoccupation in itself. My thoughts were mostly with my own body working hard to grow those children. How I would feel about them as individuals in the future, apart from a vague notion of loving them, and how I would feel about myself as a mother, were impossible to tell. The children’s presence was an abstract concept, made only slightly more tangible by the folded up pram and the two gleaming white cots in our spare room. Looking back, some of these practical preparations were momentary insights: I was sure I wanted us to have slings to carry the children in, breastfeeding was a must, and the thought of them sleeping in one bed at first was rather sweet. Still, this was no grand maternal theory at work, just certain aspects of life with little babies which seemed important.

Perhaps other expectant mothers read lots of baby books. I didn’t. Seizing the moment of precious quiet, I read the types of books I was always meaning to read but never quite finding the time – history, philosophy, gorgeous, weighty fiction. The one baby book – pastel fronted and brimming with photos of smiling infants – lay untouched until close to the end when I dutifully got on with reading it, only to forget everything it advised by the time the children arrived. When they finally did, the excitement of meeting them, tempered by that post-natal extreme fatigue, was enough to prevent any conscious deliberation about what I should be feeling about motherhood and how this compared to what, if anything, I had been previously told. A subconscious choice – instincts seemed easier and more realistic than the prolonged thought of soul-searching.

Now – the children nearly two – I have more time and that delirious tiredness has become a distant memory, marked only by the dark shadows under our eyes in those early photos. I suppose I do think more about motherhood and me, but rarely in terms of how I expected myself to be. There is no sense of comparison, nor of set standards here. Rather, I find myself continually surprised by the strength of my feelings, though fluid and specific to the situation, the power of instincts and the ease with which most maternal decisions come.

It is perhaps for these reasons, that I was caught off guard by the journalist’s phrase. It implied an existing consciousness and a set of absorbed cultural norms, uniform and dogmatic, which women are somehow drilled to believe prior to bearing children. It also presented “motherhood” as quite distinct, separate from anything else we might experience or set out to achieve. In doing so, it left no room for the individual, or for intuition. And therein lay a danger: that we are making too much out of all of this, creating something of a cult of motherhood – with huge expectations, frustration at any limitations and a desire for perfect infants. You see, we are told to feel all sorts of things at various stages in our life, but no one insists or expects you to faithfully believe them. What about what we are told to feel about love? You could say that “what feels right” is simply a product of everything we have previously been told to feel, but that seems a bit paranoid, simplistic and counter-intuitive to me.

Our neighbourhood is awash with children. Wide prams jostle on the pavements. Rival toyshops display their red windmills and ice-cream cone sand scoops competitively to attract the grabby fingers of the passing throngs. Local supermarkets stock the very latest baby food inventions, brightly packaged in orange, green, and pink, immediately edible and prominently placed. On each corner is a playground, filled with sand, slides and excited shrieks. On every other corner is a play-cafe, outside which, in bad weather, these prams with their serious suspension and rugged, muddied wheels line up like parked jeeps, the shrieks piercing hot stuffy air instead. They are lucky, our children, for this glorious world they inhabit. 

I suppose I should consider myself lucky too. Next door I can flick through rails and rails of beautiful children’s clothes. Downstairs and across the road, we can attend classes in early musical education, dance and movement, mother and child yoga, you name it, the list goes on. Nurseries, though somewhat short on places, are so plentiful you are bound to find one nearby, as we did. Should either child have the tiniest twinge of hunger as I pile milk, carrots and potatoes between the rugged, muddied wheels of our own enormous pram, a squeezy burst of organic pumpkin, pear and apple in a neat foil pouch will placate them until the shopping has been done. And what about all those mothers jostling on the pavement or protecting their coffees in cafes, just bursting to share their maternal anecdotes with me. “Stewed apple came right back out of his nose, you don’t say!”

To deny the pleasure and convenience this child-orientated environment brings would be untrue, and unfair to those whose livelihoods depend on creating it. We have a lovely time, mostly; never short of somewhere to go and always meeting our friends on the streets. So what’s the point of this description and the tinge of satire running throughout, you might ask.

You see, it came to me one grey afternoon in a cafe, too hot and hard at play, that there was something contradictory at work in this delightfully colourful place, however good its intentions. It was not so much the children – they were behaving in the expected way, dashing down slides, squabbling over toys and gorging themselves with soya hot chocolate and gluten-free banana cake – but the parents whose behaviour could perhaps be described as wanting. One father sat in the corner frowning at his laptop screen, a mother gabbled away to a client on her phone, whilst another flicked through a magazine. In their defence, they could have been simply enjoying the opportunity to park the children and get on with something else, which we all do, and need to do, from time to time. But why come here, I thought, to this place designed to celebrate the communion of adults and children, to read your emails?

I don’t suppose would mind so much if this plentitude of children’s play areas and apparently health-giving dried fruit bars was not accompanied with the parallel rise of child-friendly mobile phone applications and the near constant availability of children’s TV. With all of this, it seems there is something going on in these days of small and late families living in big, hostile cities, with busy parents who have constant access to the external world’s demands. We want our children to have fun and to be well fed. We also want to continue and succeed in our old highly pressured lives, whatever that conventional idea of success might be. Lacking the time to adequately fulfil both desires, we strike a compromise: a children’s world, pretty, diverse, distracting, pacifying, but most importantly a work of artifice.

This is not to say that children must always sit at the very centre of our entire attentions: most dissatisfying for adults and stifling for children – mine are not, and I don’t expect that of anyone else. But it is to say, my task as a parent is not simply to push my children into a separate, artificial world in which they are conveniently distracted, but rather to help them understand and take pleasure in the adult world, which they will have to fully inhabit one day. So now is the time for me to stop browsing the Mothercare website for adorable rainbow print t-shirts and to start pointing to the rainbows in the sky instead.

“Take the red one”, the nursery teacher said. My child obediently bent his little knees and picked up the red brick from the floor. My mouth fell open. “Now the blue one.” He let the red brick slip from his sticky fingers onto the carpet with a thud and reached for the blue. A smile of cheerful satisfaction spread over his rosy face. “And now where’s the yellow brick?” This time there was a second of hesitation, his hand gliding deceptively towards the green brick. Bah – I thought to myself, realigning my jaw, it is a question of luck. “No, the yellow one”, said the nursery teacher firmly. The hand still teasingly waited – oh the suspense – but then complied. His smile grew wider. I was amazed. Flabbergasted. He knows the colours, and I was unaware of it! What other remarkable, as yet unknown, capabilities does this child possess?

Of course I tried the trick myself that afternoon when we got home; it would take a stronger parent than I to resist. Forgetting, in my excitement, our usual afternoon routine of yoghurt, crackers and a bit of fruit, I pushed both children straight into the playroom, rummaged through an array of more obviously entertaining toys, and proceeded to arrange four coloured bricks neatly in front of him on the floor. For three minutes I successfully held his attention whilst he proudly placed a series of coloured bricks on the table at my behest – until out of the corner of his eye he spotted his wheelie ladybird and scampered off to whizz through the rooms on that. His less biddable sister had more quickly realised that this was perhaps a parrots’ game and had been tearing up old newspapers under the kitchen table for some time.

For all its brevity, I was hooked. This – in my eyes – exemplary achievement, which had been nurtured and then displayed by someone other than me, filled me with a new sense of pedagogic duty and ambition. And though I remembered the yoghurt, crackers, even the fruit, my mind was elsewhere, whirling with the possibilities of further child improvement. So there it was, the following afternoon, that I found myself sitting on the floor in a play cafe repeatedly naming and pointing at the shapes in a jigsaw puzzle hanging on the wall. “Circle.” “Where is the circle?” “Square.” “Where is the square?” On and on I went, until both children gave me what I deemed was an adequate response. But it did not last long: bored, they wriggled off my lap and wandered over to a miniature table, bedecked with crayons and paper. Enthusiastic scribbling ensued. Unperturbed by this lack of interest and abandoning my hot coffee, I came quickly after them and sat down in a miniature chair. Taking a crayon, I drew a big circle on both pieces of paper, and then a square and then a triangle. The pointing and naming began again. The children looked dismayed, and pushed my hands away from their drawings. Thus followed more enthusiastic scribbling, and no shape naming.

At this complete (and in retrospect, understandable) rejection, I returned to my coffee and spent a moment contemplating what I had done. The vision of an overly ambitious mother, standing draconically over her children until they could immaculately recite the times tables for a local competition flooded my mind and filled me with a sense of foreboding. What was I hoping to achieve? The only way I’d ever learned anything was when I could see some benefit in it for myself, and usually where some fun was involved. I was definitely taking all the fun out of it, and the benefits were minimal. They would learn from me too, but without the laboured repetition. So I have decided to limit my pedagogic efforts to enthusiastically pointing out vehicles (admittedly, sometimes with the mention of the colour at the same time) as we walk down the street and to reading funny children’s books which don’t appear to be ‘teaching’ much, beyond a love of stories and fantastical pictures, at all. Genius (well, some level of intelligence perhaps), if they have it, will grow of its own accord, and the thing is, I could never really see myself tending a greenhouse.

In another room a clock ticks noisily; an abject reminder of the time I have been waiting here for these fidgety children to fall asleep. I feel that certain stiffness of impatience creeping through my limbs. Each minute is another stolen from those precious moments both children sleep simultaneously in the day. But for all of this, I still look upon the almost edible cream clad calf protruding vertically from bed – a determined indicator that its owner has no immediate plans for colluding – with utter adoration.

I have read many times, in this book and that book and then another, that the process of falling asleep must be markedly different from the excited revels of playtime – if you ever want your child to learn the miraculous gift of falling asleep effortlessly day and night, that is. Successful parents, these pages tell me, remain sternly straight-faced, ignore any impish sideways glance and refrain even from flinching at the little fingers poking up their nostrils. My fountain of knowledge may as well run dry: I can never resist a sneaky glance back or a gentle return tap on the nose. It’s true, I am a terribly soft touch.

Once upon a time, in a previous life, I managed a team. For the first months, I acted out hard the role of a stony disciplinarian, frowning when someone dashed in late balancing a desperate, pick-me-up, take-away croissant and coffee, or raising an eyebrow – a look borrowed from my most feared teacher – when the least urgent of work remained inexplicably incomplete. On my way home at the end of each day, I would feel my cheeks relax and a weight lift from my forehead; perhaps my frozen face’s way of telling me that I would rather be smiling. Worn out from this performance, I inevitably lightened up. And to my surprise, more work got done, and we were all happier for it.

I had fallen into that common managerial trap of thinking I could be commanding by behaving like someone completely different. What foolishness. I already knew that I had never responded well to strict, dictatorial orders, the sort of thing that can only lead to mediocrity. No one ever produces anything in exactly the shape you envisioned it, so why try to be so controlling. You see, managing is not about commanding but a complex process of suggesting, listening, coaxing and inspiring. And I could never be inspiring when frowning.

Now, advice books aside, it is my hypothesis, and you are at liberty to disagree, that it is this same approach we must apply in parenthood. This is not to say that children can do what they like, when they like, but that they are more likely to respond positively in the long term to gentle persuasion and a few slightly unfortunate direct experiences of limited failure (such as spilling a cup of cold water all over themselves when repeatedly playing with it at lunchtime), than to a rapid fire of short sharp commands.

So to return to bedtime: as my theory would have it, this period of gentle, sleepy playtime is what happens to be essential in helping our children eventually fall asleep without too much boo hoo hoo. To sternly face the other way, when they are at their most charming, would only disconcert and worry them with thoughts of where their greatest admirer had gone. Perhaps it works for steelier sorts, but that is just not me. Squaring up to consistency in my case is to smooth out those flickers of impatience and to see these moments of little fingers tickling my chin as far more precious than any email I will ever write. Let the clock tick merrily on.

“You must call me, if anything happens,” I said insistently, catching sight of my face in the mirror and finding it garish and unfamiliar with its smears of lipstick and eyeliner, “I can always jump in a taxi and come home.” The children sat wide-eyed either side of their father in our bed, warm milk bottles and cheery cardboard books in hand. How clean and cosy they looked. The usual routine – one kiss, another, and then gently pulling the door closed.

Twenty minutes later, I was not in the living room listening the quiet snuffly sounds of children trying to fall asleep. Instead, my ears were being pounded by the fashionable sounds of a DJ whose name was unknown to me, and my eyes dazzled with the smokey brilliance of chandeliers against the dark grey of industrial concrete. I have never been so struck by what an overwhelming sensory experience we create to impress and entertain; though most religious institutions mastered that art centuries ago, now I come to think about it.

We were being visited for the weekend by a glamourous urbanite friend, who was determined to take me to a party for which she had two invitations. I was rather game of course, having not left the flat past 8 o’clock in the evening for about two years. That is a slight exaggeration: I have been thrice to the cinema and twice for dinner with friends, but never so far away as to need a taxi nor to such a splendid venue that I should worry about the yoghurt stains now permanently ingrained on the shoulder of every garment I own. So, as you can imagine, this was going to be very exciting.

The first sip of cocktail prickled my tongue. Quelling a sudden desire to cry, “Look at me – I am out, drinking a cocktail and wearing an expensive silk dress. Aren’t you impressed?” I haughtily surveyed the large space crowded with people who looked distinctly like they did not have twins. Taking inspiration and doing my best to look equally cool, I stalked behind my friend to the indoor beach bar. It was here amongst the artificial palm trees that I saw a message flashing brightly on my phone telling me both children were quietly slumbering. A wave of satisfaction more powerful than any spirit passed over me.

Over time, we were encircled by a variety of my friend’s colleagues. They were mostly cheerful, trendy, and as yet childless types. Assessing their attire, I began to wistfully regret my high neckline and low-heeled boots. Perhaps I should have worn earrings. And how chic I’d felt on leaving the flat. They took polite interest in me for a while, asking the usual questions of what I did and where I did it. But soon they realised that I, with my days of nursery schools, raisin rolls, and green whale t-shirts, was not of much professional use to them in this moment.

I was glad when a heavily made-up lady walked past, bearing branded trinkets in a deep tray slung over her shoulders, giving me grounds to slink away and ask, “Are they to give away?” I had noticed stretchy sequinned headbands, glittering in one corner and thought my babies would love those. When she nodded, I reached in eagerly and took two, only to be greeted with a sharp retort of, “Only one per person.” Just as I was about to meekly implore, “but I need one for each of my children,” my friend swooped in and took one herself, which she pushed into my hands as the lady turned away.

We watched the party people come and go, and dance and drink, and smoke and drink and dance again. We watched them talk and smile, and laugh and drink, and laugh and silently appraise each others equally fashionable clothes. A deep yawn contorted my face, and I peered at the screen on my phone. “I should go – it is nearly midnight.” I said, rather lamely. My enjoyment of the party’s spectacle and its actors was ebbing with tiredness. At the cloakroom, I dug around in my handbag pulling out unappealing handfuls of well-used tissues. The ticket was in my wallet, which when opened revealed two chubby faces staring at me with expectations of energetic early mornings. Children’s rising times are somehow not compatible with all night raves.

I slumped sleepily in the back of a taxi, with sore feet and a familiar but almost forgotten post-party buzz in my ears. Then I crept up the stairs, opened our door as silently as could be and slipped out of my smokey party clothes. I hurriedly dragged the make up from my face and swilled away the stale taste of rum left behind by one and half cocktails. The sounds of heavy breathing whispered through the flat, each chubby face peeking out of a bed cover, rosy and peaceful. Banal as this may sound – it was fun to go out, but it was even more special coming home. Oh, and yes, they did well and truly love the sequinned headbands.