Turns out, I completely messed up my first child. But at least I still have some hope for my third.
With my first child I was uber-Mum (or at least I thought I was).
Lots of educational one-on-one experiences.
Lots of stimulation. Baby Einstein. Play doh galore. We read picture books, and squeezed onion bags filled with plastic (don’t ask, just know that I went out and bought the bag of onions specifically for this task.)
There were hours spent painting the cardboard bits of toilet rolls and sticking sparkles on them. And lots of puzzles that I completed quickly before he ate all the pieces.
There was simply lots of me.
I was giving him what he needed. Intense one-on-one play and attention. Or at least I thought I was. (You still with me? Please stay. I’m not that much of a wanker anymore, I promise.)
By the time baby number 3 came along, I am lucky if I have the time to take her to the toilet alone. Books are read along with her two brothers, Lego is built (well, strewn across the floor) in a group, walks are generally only for the purpose of getting somewhere these days and when she plays it is usually with her two brothers, or alone.
It is hard to find the time to sit with her and play dollhouses, and to be honest after three kids it is hard to summon up the enthusiasm.
Of course, she has more love than could possibly be ever heaped upon a 3-year-old and more affection and kisses and fun than one child needs, but what she doesn’t have is my full undivided attention.
Her brothers are here for her to play with and anyway, I can’t quite compete with the fall-down-laughing joy she gets from clowning around with them.