Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.

I cringe whenever I hear war employed as analogous to sport, so I apologise in advance for this post. You see, I appreciate very clearly the temptation to employ what we think we know of war (understanding that thinking that we know something about something is very different to knowing about something). So, please forgive me for clutching at the metaphor. In my defence I offer my own well worn tale of child-induced weariness.

The cumulative effects of a new baby with still-confused patterns of sleep, and an older prime physical specimen who has appeared to have prematurely entered that phase famously called the “terrible twos”, have wrought a grave toll on my nerves. I feel for my health.

Even without concerns about the security of my manhole, it is safe to say that both mind and body are struggling at the moment. I have endeavoured to keep the intake of fresh fruit and veg up, and the reliance on caffeine down, yet the constant interrupted sleep is inevitably taking its toll.

While I was at work (at a very important meeting, upon which I shall expand tomorrow) Jen, Hen and Ez met up with Alice from the West today, and took some sea air along the Bellerive promenade. I was heartened to hear that the stroll did something to improve the imperious infant's temper. Perhaps it may also help knock the spritely newborn's understanding of day and night into shape. At the very least, I was relieved to hear that Henry did not dump Alice into the drink. I doubt very much that she has had the time required to adjust properly to Tasmania's frigid winter waters, being more used to dodging the sharks on Perth's warmer beaches.

But I digress, I was talking toddlers. The older infant strikes me as existing on a plane somewhere between classically-understood bi-polar disorder (manic depression, for our older readers) and a charming – but ultimately ill mannered – drunkard. One moment they are the life of the party, the most amiable, charismatic and generous-natured chap that one might ever hope to meet. The next, they have spilled their drink, thrown a chair at you, spat food on the new carpet, kicked you in the shin, soiled their pants and are curled in the foetal position on the floor, wailing about how all the inequities of the world are loaded against them (and only them).

The stereotypical image of familial bliss most commonly found in baby powder commercials this most certainly is not. Think more a mobile triage unit located on the Somme in 1916, and you might be getting closer to the mark.

Yet, as in war, often the most heart-warming examples of the human spirit can be found in horrors like this. It can be seen in Ezra’s sweet little smile (so what if he is only doing a poo, it's still real to me, damn it). It exists in Henry’s kind offer of a kiss and a hug (even as I nurse the black eye from that kick to the head at breakfast). It is no clearer than in Jennifer’s stern command that she will take sole sentry duty, ordering me off to the spare room at three in the morning because I have not slept a wink all night. In these moments, beauty is magnified ten-fold. Just as in the work of Paul Nash, there is a kind of terrible, but moreover beautiful exquisiteness that can only be appreciated because of the brutal exertion that has preceded it.