I learned early on, after having babies, to lower my expectations considerably. I think it was about day three with Poppet when I finally realised that having a shower and getting dressed were about all I could really expect to get done in a day with a screaming newborn around.
Nobby took a while longer to adjust. I swear he uttered those immortal, marriage limiting words 'What have you been doing all day?' more than once when he came home to wall-to-wall baby toys, nappy sacks, breast pads and no dinner on the table in the early days.
But he too adjusted and soon started to try and praise his poor woolly headed wife for all the things she had done rather than the thousand and one things she hadn't. 'Thanks so much for washing my pants, don't fret, I'll eat tomorrow night, dear.'
The children have seen fit to throw us a curve ball or two over the years. Like Pickle and the 100 foot tree episode. He still likes to tell the story now of how he could only see the top of my head as I wandered beneath a fir tree looking for my four-year-old son who I could hear calling 'Mummy!' but couldn't actually see... until I looked up.
Then there was Poppet on that bouncy castle and the resulting ride in a French ambulance to fix her broken leg.
I should have seen today coming, and indeed with my history and parentage I full expected the diagnosis. I still remember the day I was told by the school to make sure and give a letter to my Mum after one of those 'routine' doctor visits when I was seven years old. Not the nit nurse this time though, a proper doctor.
I did my best for them, marrying a bloke with disgustingly perfect vision. But I was startlingly unprepared for the Hungarian Opthalmologist telling me this evening that both my kids have succumbed to my batfink gene and developed myopia. It was with a heavy heart that I walked them downstairs to the specs shop to pick out frames for their new glasses, which in their own mysterious, chummy little way will be exactly the same prescription.
They, on the other hand were chuffing delighted!! You never saw more excited parading in front of the mirror, weighing up chunky pink versus delicate lilac frames, and Cliff Richards versus John Lennon. I am insulted by the choice they get as well. That miserable day back in 1977 when I was told to pick out some NHS specs my options were pink, blue, clear plastic or tortoiseshell.
I kid you not, Pickle tried on three pairs and looked amazing in every one, the little bugger. Poppet took a while longer but ended up with some gorgeous dark red 'Chippies' with tiny puppy dogs emblazoned on the arms. We are collecting them on Wednesday and they absolutely cannot wait.
I really didn't expect that at all.