And we had the sort of intimate chat we'd not had for a long time - when you lie together dissecting the events of the previous evening: repeating amusing things said, trying to piece together everything that happened and chuckling about the things that are only funny afterwards.
But before long I slipped off downstairs. The babies wouldn't be sleeping much longer and there was work to be done. A birth pool to empty, clean and deflate - 180 gallons of bloodstained water to be siphoned off. A placenta to photograph, make prints of and then whizz up in the processor with a load of fruit - a birth-recovery smoothie. And the general clutter of a birth to remove from the living room before the grandparents arrived.
Then Luna woke up. And Willow woke up. And life with two children began.
Sal and Willow needed peace and quiet and rest and Luna, aged thirteen months, was quickly becoming a bundle of wild, toddler chaos. So I put her in the sling on my back and we left them alone. And when, that evening, I’d just got Luna to sleep in our big family bed, Willow suddenly cried, and Luna woke and let out a terrified scream – who was this new little creature, where had it come from? Their screams met and filled the room. I quickly gathered the clutter of our night – teddies and pillows and books – and took Luna along to the spare room, which soon became our room.
I wanted to hold little Willow, but he needed to be held by Sal. I wanted to change his nappy, but Sal could do it on her knee in bed. I wanted to spend time with him, but there was Luna and her chaos which disrupted the bedroom.
And so I learnt that it’s different with two. The dynamics change again. And perhaps it’s really only the lesbian mothers – the ones who’ve both given birth and watched their partner give birth – who ever know how different, how very, very different it is to be the non-birth parent.