I took this picture just before the girls and I walked down to their first day of pre-school. Each has thier best skirt on, as well as the colour of bobbles they have chosen so that the play-leaders don’t get mixed up while learning who’s who: pink for Evie, purple for Scarlett and blue for Jemima.

So here we are, the girls and me, sitting around the table, eating tea. Evie is playing her current favourite game, pretending to be a baby and making her own foghorn-like version of a Baby’s cries while Jemima holds her hand and guides her fork to her mouth. For a few chews, the bellowing becomes mercifully muffled before resuming with even more gusto than before.

“Shall we talk about pre-school?” Tettie asks.

“Sure. What about pre-school would you like to talk about?”

“We did play cooking and drawing and cutting and Mima cried.”

“And I cried, too, because I couldn’t find you,” Evie adds, “And the teacher said ‘he’s inside’.”

Which is a pretty fair summary of our morning; the girls’ first at pre-school.

We were a little bit late so there were a lot of kids and their parents there already by the time we arrived. You could tell the new kids by the parents hovering nearby with brittle smiles, pouring out overenthusiastic words of encouragement. The girls were shown their coat hooks, each with thier own symbol - a rose for Evie, a sweety for Jem and a cherry for tettie - and, having hung up their jackets, they then took a name badge, also marked with their symbol, and put it onto a wall chart alongside the names of all the other children who were there that day. The play-leader talks them through it all but they won’t speak back, just returning her sunny charm with hard mouths and harder stares.

But within moments, Evie had spotted the sand play area, and Tettie the table where children were threading brightly coloured beads. Jem, though, stayed clinging to my leg until I went with her to the bead-threading table. We played there for a while and slowly the girls got drawn away to the other activities - dressing-up clothes, a play kitchen, water play - while I tried to let the play-leaders take over, standing quietly near a wall, only replying with a smile when they looked over.

A few times Jemima insisted I join her in whatever she was doing, which I happily did. But I’d slip back to being to my wall as soon as her attention was consumed.

The third time it happened, I found myself having my own first-day moment; looking up from the toy cars we’d been playing with, I realised I was the only parent left.

Nerves gripped me, although not for the same reason it would most toddlers. In that moment I felt like an intruder. The kids and play-workers all had a reason to be there. Should I have left, too? But then Evie looked over and smiled and I shrugged off the feeling. My girls are very young to be going off with strangers. I’d stay all day if I needed to.

After a couple of hours, the kids were allowed outside. Evie, Tettie and Jem scattered into the yard, drawn to slides, scooters and ride-on toys. I sat down on a crate in the corner and watched them play, happy that they were gaining confidence but also a little sad that they were so enjoying this taste of independence.

A few times they wandered over to ask me something. I tried to encourage them to ask the play-leaders instead but their voices are so quiet and when they did that I had to repeat whatever they had said. Still, at least they were saying something.

For a while I chatted to some of the other kids, making them laugh with silly conversations about whether you eat trees and tigers, and by making the funny faces lemon juice makes you pull. I even popped back into the building to chat to the play-leaders about how J and I didn’t want our girls ever to be referred to as “the Triplets”. No-one seemed to have missed me when I returned to the playground.

Eventually, Scarlett came and told me she needed a wee so I took her inside. Then, once finished, we went and did some cutting now there was less demand for the scissors. And that’s when I heard the crying.

“Daaaaaadeeeeeeeeeee!” I recognised Jemima’s panicked wail, counterpointed by Evie’s deeper sobs. Both girls ran into the room and looked around. Jemima’s face was red, her cheeks tear-streaked. Evie was crying, too, although less than her sister. Presumably it was Jem’s tears that had set her off. Both girls were holding hands.

They didn’t see me and turned to run outside again. I caught up with them before they’d taken half a dozen steps, scooped both of them up into my arms. Evie settled quickly but Jem was distraught, repeating “I couldn’t find yooooooooouuuuuuuuu!” over and over again.

So much for growing confidence.

Poor Jem. She’s been very attached to me these last few months. Even as Evie has become less clingy, Jemima has turned more so, claiming the Daddy’s girl crown that Evie has held for so long. If she wakes in the night, only I can calm her down. She asks me not to go to work when I leave here with her grandparents on Wednesdays. When she falls, it’s me she runs to.

Eventually I calm her down with cuddles and jokes and quick changes of subject and we all do cutting together. But she doesn’t leave my side for the rest of the session. And I can’t bring myself to leave hers either.

Less than a week to go now until my little pirate crew takes its first shore leave; Mad Dog Evie, Red Scarlett and Jem Lad will set of on an adventure of their own, away from the watchful eye of Captain Dad.

You see, pre-school begins next week. For three hours each day, my three girls will be experiencing their first taste of school life, with all its highs and lows, unfamiliarities and excitements. And all without me or J there to watch out for them. I’m sure the fact that there’s three of them should make me worry less, but it doesn’t. They’re still so young. Only a few weeks ago they were still two years old.

And it seems so unfair that I should be losing them already. Their due date was in September. But by being born prematurely in August, they have jumped ahead a whole school year. That’s one less year of piratical plundering, one less year of fun, one less year I get to keep them to myself.

And I know it’s selfish to not want the bubble around us to be popped. They’ll probably love the whole experience. We have fun at home but don’t get to draw, paint, glue and cut as much as I’m sure they’d like to. Pre-school will give them an environment where they will get to engage in activities I’m often just too busy to supervise.

And they can make friends, learn, be stretched. Learn independence.

And then, one day, far away in the future, they’ll sail away, find their own first mate, recruit a crew of their own.

It’s surely every parent’s responsibility to teach their children right from wrong. How to treat others with the same dignity you would expect from them. Not to lie, steal, cheat, hurt or otherwise abuse the property, persons or emotions of others. To give as well as take, to acknowledge that others have feelings and rights, too.

These are not easy things to grasp when you’re just turning three years old. It’s just not in the nature of small children to look past their own immediate environment. Both the future and other people come second to whatever need or activity holds their attention at a particular moment, and it’s up to the adults in their life to guide them from this state to one where they will be capable of guiding their own children towards responsible adulthood. It’s up to us, in other words, to civilise the little barbarians in our lives.

And in this it strikes me that multiples have a natural advantage. From the moment of birth they are learning to share. At first it’s the attention of the parents they must share, as well as learning to accept that they must sometimes wait for feeds and changes.

Then, as their awareness grows, they must learn to share toys and play time; interacting with another person who is at exactly the same stage of development providing the perfect opportunity to figure out how to make the situation work without one or another sibling being much stronger or older than the other.

And although they are getting there (”I don’t mind sharing with my sisters” being one of Scarlett’s recent catchphrases), it’s always us, the parents, who are there to settle disputes, to point out rights and wrongs, to guide their learning.

Which brings me on to the subject that has been troubling me of late. On our recent holiday, it struck both J and I that the time when we could go for cheap days out would soon be ending. As it was, we generally only had to pay for adults, under threes being allowed free entry into most activities (another advantage of young multiples).

We love taking the girls out for the day and even when not on holiday, tend to do something most weekends. So the thought of cutting back on the number of trips we make was upsetting. Of course, it next occurred to us that no one would necessarily know if the girls remained two for just a little while longer than their actual third birthday. Not long, you understand. Just another ten, maybe twenty, years. OK - maybe not quite that long, but you get the idea.

Yet there was one obvious pitfall to our cunning plan. What would happen if we asked for two-year old tickets in the girls’ presence? Surely one or another of them would pipe up to correct our mistake. And so we warned them not to worry if sometimes Mummy or Daddy told people that they were two years old when they weren’t really. It was just “a joke”.

As with so many things at that age, they took in what we said without question. Only - and this is the bit that has been troubling me - it wasn’t a joke. It was a lie. And one that, for them, was both obvious and serious, because the difference between two and three is a big deal when you are the three year old in question.

As I reflected on our conversation, I realised that what we were essentially telling them was that their Mummy and Daddy lie, that it’s alright to lie and, even worse, we were involving them in the lies that we were telling, encouraging the exact same behaviour that at other times they are punished for. Talk about mixed messages!

Looked upon in that light, I can’t help thinking that an extra few quid in the pocket is too steep a price to pay for both confusing my children and failing in my own responsibilities as a parent. It may seem trivial but in my (admittedly limited) experience of parenthood, it’s all about small steps - small lessons learned each day. I find my children respond best to simple messages conveyed with consistency and that, despite being young, they have a sharp nose for any incongruity in those messages.

So it is that while, as triplets, my daughters may have a small natural advantage when it comes to learning the harder lessons on the path to becoming civilised, without J and I must mark the way for them with our own actions, it will do them little good.

And I guess they’re not the only ones benefiting from this recent bought of conscience. No, I’m not referring to the owners of local attractions who will get three child entrance fees added to their daily takings. Having to act responsibly for the sake of my kids has made me shine a light on my own morality. What value do I place on truth? How do I rate it in relation to the other things I value? When is it OK to lie? How should the issue be handled around children.

It’s obvious, really. How can you shape the values of others without examining your own values first?

As we pull together the final preparations for the girls’ third birthday this weekend, it strikes me.

Can it really be three years? As I look at my little girls, I feel torn by a paradox. On one hand, I find it hard to credit that so much time has passed. Shouldn’t they still be my little babies? So many days have gone by that I won’t ever get back. This fatherhood thing is all going too fast. I want to slow it down, to have time to reflect on what’s happening.

But then again… so very, very much has happened. Life has never been so intense. I’ve been through more emotions and had more new experiences in the last three year s than in twice that time before parenthood. I’ve been challenged, and I’ve grown. Life was easy before parenthood, and while easy is nice, it gets you nowhere. Only when pushed do you get to learn who you are, as you rise to the challenges you’re facing.

So much has passed, yet time has flown so fast.

"Where?"

"Over there."

"There’s a monkey? Over there?"

"A monkey. Over there."

I peered throught the bars of the gate we’d just left the lakeside through. I could see ducks, a goose, some fishermen, a few ramblers. No monkeys though.

What did she mean? A picture of a monkey, of course! I looked again. Nope. No pictures of monkeys. No pictures of anything even remotely simian. I looked for patterns in the reeds, for treestumps. Nothing. I got down to her eye level but it was no good. I couldn’t see a monkey anywhere.

"Show me, Evie," I said, pushing the gate back open.

She was getting a little frustrated by now, pointing and saying very loudly and very clearly, "a monkey", in what it occurred to me was a rather good impersonation of English people abroad.

We all followed her. She continued to point furiously as she approached the lakeside.

I exchanged looks with J. Of the three girls, Evie has the greatest tendency to be a little off-the-wall. Was she just being silly?

We were two feet from the ramblers at the lakeside now, all four of whom were watching us with interest. "A… Monk… Oh." Evie laughed. "It’s just some people."

I followed her gaze, looking up at the woman rambler in front of me from where I still crouched at Evie’s eye level. She was middle-aged. Her face was a quite wrinkled. Her hair was shoulder length, brown, and the exact same hue as her jumper. She also had on brown trousers and boots.

Evie was still pointing.

I smiled at the woman and ushered Evie on to the lakeside. "Look, girls. Fishermen."

"Can I have another nut?" Tettie asks me, as we all sit around the garden table. She’s finished hers quickly. Her sisters sit quietly on either side, mouths still busy crunching away.

I look at her and raise one eyebrow, hoping my expression will be enough of a prompt. It isn’t.

I wait a moment longer then give in. "Ask nicely, please?"

"Please," she immediately replies, which would have been sufficient until recently. But we’ve moved on now, and are trying to get please added to requests to start with, and so avoid this whole ritual of asking for a "please".

"Uh-uh," I counter. "All <i>together</i>."

But instead of "Can I have another nut, please", all three girls reply in unison:

"Pleeease!"

I should know by now that it’s not that easy.

Thought I’d post a quick update. Evie is doing much better now.

For the last few weeks she has been terribly worried about anyone touching her shoulder, flinching away and saying "pick up on a bum bum" whenever anyone went to pick her up. And if J or I forgot, she’d scream and cry so hard it was heart breaking.

So concerned was she that she wouldn’t even play Jem and TYettie’s current favourite game - climbing onto the windowsill and leaping like monkeys over the back of the sofa to land on the cushions.

Speaking of which, her sisters’ jealousy also seems to be subsiding. At first they were merely curious. Then they were concerned, asking Evie "Are you well yet?" and "Are you better, Evie?" throughout the first few days. And after that they both started developing injuries of their own, letting out anguished cries of "Hurt a shoulder!" and "Need to see a doctor!" the more attention Evie got.

Evie hasn’t been vying for the attention she’s got. She’s quieter than usual and more anxious. For the first time she’s stopped sleeping well, waking up several times most nights, crying.

When we were talking about their upcoming birthday, Tettie and Jem got really excited at the prospect of getting a present.

"What would you like if you could have anything in the whole, wide world?" I asked them.

"A great, great, great, great big Igglepiggle," Jem said at once. As you might guess, she’s not one to think small.

I don’t think such a thing had occurred to Scarlett but she jumped in quickly, as if the chance might slip away. "A really, really, really, really, great, great, great, <i>great</i> big Pakka Pakka."

"And you Evie?" I thought I new what was coming. They’ve divided the main Night Garden characters up between them. Evie’s is Upsy Daisy. I was wrong.

She cuddled her teddy, Beer, close and began to suck her thumb.

"Well Evie?"

"Just want Beer."

A little later as we were about to go bed, we talked briefly about our wedding, telling the girls that they would have special dresses to wear just like Mummy, and that there would be a bouncy castle and all their friends there.

Evie looked sad again. "I will be all alone when you get married," she announced and clutched her bear tight again.

We never did manage to understand what she’d misunderstood, poor thing. I just hope that her shoulder healing makes her anxiety fade, too. Her fall has been a big shock. I’m just glad things seem to be getting back to normal.

I keep seeing it replayed in my mind’s eye. Scarlett and Jemima running off, laughing, towards our bedroom. Me and J turning to follow them. I shout, "Come back, you two! It’s time to go downstairs and get dressed." I think I might have called them pickles or, maybe, monkeys. The usual post-bathtime chaos. In the corner of my eye, I see Evie starting off downstairs on her own.

Then she falls.

I don’t remember if she screamed. I do remember her cartwheeling forwards and landing on the side of her neck, arms thrown out sideways. Then over again, arms and legs still flailing. And bang! She hits the wooden hall floor with the back of her head.

Everything stops. I’m frozen, looking down over the banisters. Suddenly the stairs seem incredibly steep.

I glance over at Jemima and Evie, reflexively checking that they’re alright. They haven’t even reached the door to my bedroom yet. Everything has happened so fast that they’ve barely taken two steps. They look round, still laughing; but quieter now, as if they can sense something has happened.

At the bottom of stairs Evie draws in a massive breath and breaks the silence with a scream that makes my stomach tighten. Jan thunders down the stairs to pick Evie up. I scoop up her sisters.

"What’s Evie done, Daddy?"

"She’s fallen, love. She’s fallen down the stairs. Don’t worry. She’ll be all right."

I hope to myself that I’m right.

By the time I’ve carefully picked my way downstairs, a crying J is sitting on the sofa holding s o tightly to an inconsolable Evie it’s as if she’s in danger of falling all over again. Tettie and Jem stand watching as I put my arms around them both.

I shudder every time it comes back to me; I forget what I’m doing; I find myself staring into space as I see my little girl tumble and thump down those stairs.

We spent most of that evening in A & E. The doctor we saw wanted her to stay up for a few hours to check she didn’t start being sick or show any of the other more serious effects of a head injury. Evie had calmed down by then. In fact, she was remarkably perky, playing with the toys, chatting away happily. Probably because of the attention she was getting. We realised, as we sat in the children’s waiting room, that this was the first time in her entire two-and-three-quarter years of life that Evie had been alone with both her mum and dad for any length of time. I can’t say that thought alleviated my guilt very much.

Nor did the doctor asking flatly whether it was normal for her to be allowed to walk down steep stairs on her own.

I told the doctor that I was worried about her shoulder, but she could reach up when he lifted a toy so he didn’t pay much heed. When I’d first held her, her shoulder had felt horribly loose, like it wasn’t in its socket. But by then it was back to normal and although she said it hurt, we assumed it must just have been bruised.

That night she slept in her parents bed, between J and I, where she couldn’t possibly fall out.

A couple of days afterwards, she was back in A & E. Her shoulder had been making her cry at night (I’d last been woken with "Daddy! Shoulder hurting! Need to see a doctor!" cried over and over). She screamed if any weight was put on it when she was lifted. This time the hospital x-rayed, which revealed a break in her collar bone.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so pitiable as her sitting there having her arm strapped up in a little sling.

I’ve had a few comments recently asking if I’d post a more recent photo. To be fair, it’s about time I did. The girls have changed an incredible amount in the last few months. Every month sees them grow upwards by an astonishing amount. Trousers that were too long a few months ago are now ankle swingers. Age 2-3 clothes rarely fit. Puppy fat’s long gone.

<img src="images/fountain.jpg" alt="[image]" style="margin: 5px 0px 5px 0px" />

This is from a day out me and the girls went on to possibly their favourite place in the World: Tropical World. Terrapins, bats. Crazily huge Amazonian fish. Meercats. They know every inch of the place by heart, rushing through it, dizzily excited by the prospect of what’s coming up, at such a pace that we’re through the whole experience in half the time it takes most families.

On the day I took this picture, we’d got to Tropical World so early, in our excitement that we were there an hour before it actually opened so instead went exploring and found a fountain (or "mountain" as the girls call them) in the grounds which kept us entertained for a while. Until, to be more precise, the game of seeing how close you could get before the gusty wind sprayed the water into your face had us all shivering with cold.

Fortunately Tropical World is (as you’d expect) nice and warm inside.

<img src="images/gruffalo-grandad.jpg" alt="[image]" style="margin: 5px 0px 5px 0px" />

And here they are having their favourite story read by their one of their favourite people: Rara.

Rara is what they call their grandad, a leftover nickname from when "grandad" was too much of a challenge to pronounce. Actually, it’s generally said "nanarara", nanna and grandad being conglomerated into some kind of super-relative.

Nanarara came to visit today as it happens despite it being Monday. They come every Wednesday to look after the girls during the middle part of the day so I can do the half day of my two and a half part-time days.

When I announced that they were coming over breakfast, everyone’s faces lit up. What a fantastic surprise. Then a worry crept in.

"Are you going to work, Daddy?" Jemima asked.

Three questioning faces turned to regard me.

"In a minute," Evie pronounced on my behalf. They know the routine.

So when I said, "No", they all looked astonished. "Not today, " added, quickly. "Daddy’s at home all day. And Nanarara, too."

The grins returned. Mine the widest of them all when Scarlett announced, "I love you, Daddy. I love you at home all day."