That won't keep me warm in the middle of the night

In around 300BC, Euclid invented geometry, forever transforming the way people would think about space, measurement and logic.

That don't impressa me much.

In 1859 Charles Darwin shattered his own religious convictions, effectively ruining his marriage and jeopardising his standing in Victorian society, by publishing a book which finally shed light on what remains the most astounding idea in science: evolution.

That don't impressa me much.

On July 21st 1969, Neil Armstrong became the first human to set foot on the surface of the moon. This historic moment was the culmination of the considerable intelligence, ambition and bravery of various NASA heroes.

That don't impr- OK. Enough of the contrived Shania Twain referencing. It seemed like an innovative literary device in my head. I always hated that song anyway. 'Shiny Train,' I used to call her. Because I'm funny. My point is that, of all the great achievements that mankind can boast, none comes close to matching the accomplishment our eldest daughter made last week.

After at least a year of ignoring it, screaming at it, sitting pointlessly on it for fruitless hours at a time, and being caused by it to not poo for days on end, she has finally mastered the full and productive use of her potty. I had to interrupt typing the last sentence to dispose of a brown monster that she laid - without the merest hint of fuss or hesitation - within its confines. She didn't even blink. This was a matter-of-fact faecal production. As I type this sentence she is busy training her doll to use its own toilet in the doll's house. The apprentice has already become the master. She has even taught her little sister to run around the house shouting "POOPOO" in exactly the right joyous tone.

The relief shared by my wife and I at this development is palpable. We have endured many long months of well-meaning friends and relatives enquiring pointedly about her progress. The pointedness was probably a figment of our paranoid imaginations, to be fair. But it's a fact that - while we find it easy to proudly imagine her as advanced in most things - our daughter has been a bit late to the table in this, toilet-based respect.

We have on numerous occasions attempted to be ruthless in withdrawing the nappy option from our daughter. But, invariably, she would simply hold it in until (and I hope that, in years to come, she will forgive me for sharing this) her number one bit got smelly and her number two bit got incredibly painful. Ruthlessness is hard to maintain when your tough love extends to endangering the health of your toughly loved one. So our determination would always expire after a few days or so. Eventually we resolved to be less resolute, deciding instead to take a laissez-faire approach, whereby she would somehow make it known to us when she was ready.

But then we received confirmation that our daughter was to start nursery school in a few weeks' time. Mildly panicked at the prospect of the awkward nappy conversation taking place on her first day there, we had no choice but to go zero tolerance. Perhaps our commitment to the cause was subconsciously strengthened by this new time limit, or perhaps it happily coincided with her finally overcoming her emotional attachment to the nappies, but within a day of our fixing the nursery date we were hearing the blissful tinkle of pee on plastic.

And she has taken to it like a toilet duck to toilet water. At regular intervals throughout the day, she'll announce her impending success as she strides purposefully towards the potty, before pulling down the necessary garments and sitting in the right place at the right time. She has even mastered helping herself to a modest but sufficient amount of toilet roll and having a little wipe. It's like clockwork. Urinatory clockwork.

There has, I believe, been only one notable accident thus far. But the sofa cushions are clean again now, so it's water under the bridge, so to speak.

Four hands are better than two.

Tomorrow I return to work after my paternity leave/holiday combo. I am less than jubilant about this, as is my wife. I have tried to convince her that my contribution to keeping our two young ladies in check is really negligible, therefore my impending absence for forty hours a week should pose little threat to her sanity. One could even argue that she will now in fact have one less child to supervise.

My case was undermined last Friday night, however, when I was granted special dispensation to make a foray into Big London City to have a rare night of fun with my friends. Of course, these people are also my wife's friends, so I was extremely appreciative of her brave sacrifice in staying at home with the girls so that I could be the social representative for both of us. This appreciation became tinged with guilt when I heard my wife's anguished description of the nightmare that had been bath time that evening. Imagine the popular redneck refrain Duelling Banjos, but with the twangy instruments replaced by screams which escalate in almost endless competition with each other. So more Dante than Deliverance, I suppose. This was a harrowing experience for my wife to endure unassisted and her sense of trepidation has only increased as a result. At least nobody had to squeal like a pig.

So the relative serenity of having one parent per child on a full-time basis is now at an end. The difficulties we have for the past month overcome together will now be doubled. How, for example, will my wife transfer both children upstairs on her own? Daughter A can make this journey under her own steam, but must be carefully overseen at close proximity. Daughter B is unable to move anywhere under her own steam, and must therefore be carried. Each activity requires two arms. They must occur concurrently. My wife does not have four arms. As such she will be left with a choice between abandoning one child's safety to the hands of fate or not doing a wee all day.

Some mornings I get up at 6:00 for work. I will now be compelled to get everyone else up at the same time (bearing in mind that my wife and younger daughter are people for whom sleep is currently at a premium) so that I can assist with the washing, nappy changing, dressing and feeding of others before I depart. The alternative will be to eat my bowl of Krave and do my morning poo in absolute silence before sneaking away and leaving my wife to deal with the getting up of the girls by herself. Again, there seems to be no desirable option here.

Similar logistical nightmares will apply to preparing meals, leaving the house, appeasing the wounded, entertaining the restless, and pretty much every activity that takes place in the course of an average parental day. All require disagreeable compromise when there are more children than parents on hand. And these are just the examples we can think of now. If only I didn't have to go to work.

We have started buying lottery tickets.

The aftermath of sneezing

"I just sneezed," exclaimed my wife a couple of days ago, "And I didn't do a wee! Woohoo!"

This, apparently, marked a rare triumph in the existence of a pregnant lady. All but the most fortunate are condemned to endure a small but disappointing leak, which serves as an unfortunate counterweight to the well-documented joy of sneezing.

Ever the opportunistic - but sensitive - chronicler of such affairs, I immediately asked if my wife would mind my relating this event to the interweb. She gave not only her generous permission, but also the suggestion that I include the following advice:

Ladies: always do your pelvic floor exercises.

Thus I discovered the purpose of pelvic floor exercises.

In other, less intimate news, the physiotherapy mooted as the solution to my wife's troublesome pelvis has been rejected, on the advice of her midwife, in favour of a chiropractor. His modus operandum seems to involve frequent but brief appointments, during which he quickly makes everything a little bit more painful than it was. I'm sure he's just playing the long game. It does seem to help with the aftermath of sneezing, at least. My wife is otherwise keeping rather well, and continues to astonish me with the level of productivity she maintains.

Our daughter has been consolidating her abilities at walking and talking. She can now traverse great distances and has begun planning her assault on Everest. She is also more chatty by the day. Happily, approximately 95% of her conversation currently consists of the word "Dada." I shall enjoy it while it lasts. Just a moment ago, she also commemorated my annual shorts-wearing day by delicately and lovingly kissing my knee.

Which was nice for everyone.