Yesterday was Carnival in our nursery – a German thing, rather like a big fancy dress party but where making fun and chaos is taken very seriously by everyone (adults and children) involved. The children were expected to come in costume and the day would deviate from its normal safe routines, allowing for dancing to pop music, watching a little video and eating party food; there were limits, however, on the amount of sweeties and cakes each child was allowed to amass on his or her plate.

We talked for at least a fortnight about what costumes our children would like to wear. We started at a lion and a cat, lingered on the idea of Hansel and Gretel and finally, having done a careful survey (a breathless dash around the local shops the day before) of affordable capes and polystyrene props, plumped on a somewhat predictable knight and princess in the end. I must admit I had dallied for days over the idea that I would make costumes by hand but the pressure of potential filial disappointment, when they realised their costumes were nothing but clumsily adapted versions for their own clothes, pushed me down a more commercial route. Next year – I will start earlier and make our own.

In any case, the afternoon before was filled with excitement. How they paraded, sceptre and sword in hand, our sweet damsel and brave soldier, tripping up over dress hems and peeking out of polyester helmets. They would have slept in character, if we hadn’t been worried about the flammability / suffocation risk. And again some convincing was required in the morning that is was simply too cold outside to walk there already robed. Buzzing like bees, we rushed up the road and round the corner, trailing pink netting and silvery armour in the brisk wind.

But anticipation was the sweetest part. When we were greeted by a great big green frog and a golden-robed lady (barely recognisable as their trusted nursery teachers), both children recoiled and buried themselves in my lap. Some coaxing and much explanation later, they stood hesitantly, but at least now costumed, peering into the noisy room where usually an hushed hum of child’s play reigns. “That’s too loud for me,” the little princess said, looking at me with great big eyes. The music was lowered, her hand was taken by the now-recognised golden lady and she was convinced to join in.

Hours later, slobbing at home in trusted old tracksuit trousers and tomato-stained t-shirts, eating a near-monastic meal of boiled potatoes and fish, they claimed to have enjoyed themselves. I believe them only partially. I can believe they liked eating donuts. I can also believe they liked wearing their costumes, and having them admired by their little friends. But beyond that, I think they probably prefer normal days. You see, when I picked them up, their expressions were dazed, and their reactions dulled. At the age of nearly three, so many costumes and extraordinary experiences had all been too much.

I am forever grateful for efforts made to please our children, but a little sensitivity and a lot less face paint possibly would have made it a happier day. A slight breach of normality is exciting and funny – costumes in the living room for instance. But there is a reason, clowns are almost universally feared by young children. Far too strange.

I have a clear recollection of my five-year-old self, perched on the edge of a hard chair, feet dangling high above the pavement outside a French cafe, carefully measuring out precious orangina, no more than an inch at a time, into a tall glass. I was trying to make it last longer. And it did: I also remember that particular feeling of smugness on seeing that my brother had finished and I had at least a third left. The early actions of a highly competitive pedant, you might say. But to question my childish attitude towards consumption never occurred to me, until I witnessed my two-and-a-half year old daughter employ the exact same approach this Christmas.

Her behaviour would not have been so striking to me, had it not been for her twin brother doing the exact opposite. Both relishing the heretofore unknown access to chocolate, they indulged in the opportunity in quite different ways. He ripped off the silver foil and crammed the chocolate into his mouth in its entirety, chewing rapidly. She, by contrast, slowly peeled off the wrapper, tiny bit by tiny bit, and then proceeded to lick and nibble at the chocolate for another ten minutes, despite our objections to the impending melted mess.

Most interestingly perhaps, aside from the unfathomable proliferation of chocolate smears in places those little hands without some feat of magic could not possibly reach, was that the incident threw up the suggestion that such behaviour is more intuitive than learned. It would be easy to assume on seeing a small child shovelling in food, without pausing to catch breath, that this was something the child had observed in their parents and therefore deemed an acceptable, yes normal, way to eat. Not so, it seems. Neither of our children has been told how to eat a chocolate, nor more broadly instructed in any particular way about the speed at which they should eat any other food. Their experiences of food to date have been pretty much identical – they eat the same meals with us at the same time. You would think, therefore, that their table (and chocolate) manners would be similar rather than so divergent. After the chocolate experiment, there appears to be something more fundamental going on.

Of course, an additional ‘learned’ explanation may lie in the fact that he tends to display more anxiety that she, his darling sister, might take things off him (particularly his most prized possessions – like chocolate) if he does not protect them from her. We have other examples of this: hiding miniature cars under the bookshelf when (he thinks) no one else is looking, stowing little plastic men in his pockets, consuming four large chunks of pear in close succession, when the threat of another little pair of hands was hovering over his plate. She tends to be more relaxed about these things. But I don’t think he felt threatened this time. She had her own chocolate, and we were there to police the situation.

I actually think he, though by no means a greedy child, just enjoys eating quickly, and she likes to savour whatever she might have. With no implicit merit to attribute to either method, I suppose we should just let them get on and revel in it, whilst we clear up the chocolate stains.

I am struck, watching my two small children grow up in Berlin, how different their childhood is from mine in England’s industrial north in the 1980s. We are very integrated here – most of our friends are German. the nursery the children go to is German, and the places we frequent are almost completely German. Instinctively, my children say ‘guck guck’ instead of ‘peepo’ and ‘Aua!’ instead of ‘ouch!’. They drink fruit tea with their afternoon snack and heavy dark bread is nothing unusual. Yes, for now, it would seem that my children are German, with only a streak of English.

I don’t really mind this, though I sometimes feel nostalgic for the things they cannot know: the jangling bells of the ice-cream van on a long summer’s evening; the feeling of a school uniform tie tight around a buttoned up shirt neck; grubbing around the back garden in a private kingdom. They will be city children, who remember going to public spaces to play out their fantasy games (parks and playgrounds), who slouch around grandiose nineteenth century city school buildings in jeans and the latest trainers, and only think of ice-cream as being from the organic ice-cream parlour across the road – if we stay here, that is.

It is inevitable that childhoods change over the generations. My parents experienced the tail-end of rationing, and most girls they knew became teachers, secretaries or nurses. When I was five, they bought a chunky desktop computer; its green and black screen still vivid in my memory. I was scolded for telephoning for hours, wires twisting around doors and handsets secreted into corners. Most girls I know became lawyers, business women and journalists. Now in this modern digital age, smart phones and tablets are ubiquitous. I don’t suppose my children will read many paperback novels. What they will have access to in fifteen years time is unimaginable, such is the current pace of technological change.

But bringing up my children as an expat, especially in an environment where they mostly speak a language that is not my own, adds another layer of difference, and at times, a sense of remoteness. As they absorb words and cultural norms that I have only learned and distantly experienced as an adult, I find myself consciously emphasising the aspects of our lives that make them English – perhaps in a way that I wouldn’t were we living in England: I insist we open our Christmas presents on the morning of 25th December, at birthdays it is always a sponge cake, and I parade in my old London-faithful wardrobe at the playground. If and when we move back to the UK, I can imagine my German husband will feel more precious about being German again. Christmas will shift to the 24th, and fruit tea will be back on the table. Until then, it is I who can understand in the tiniest of ways how migrant communities become so deeply entrenched in the traditions of the homeland – because it stops home and your children from feeling so far away.

They catch you unaware, those knee-knocking, heart-stopping, tear-inducing moments of absolute parental adoration. Chance would have it that these swoops of love, at once all consuming and utterly debilitating, mostly occur when you’re supposed to be doing something sensible – making a sandwich, buying a stamp or laying down the law about how many biscuits small children are allowed to eat in one sitting, perhaps. Chance would also have, it seems, that these come when the object of your affection is invariably doing something he or she should not – oh, I don’t know, eating peanut butter by the spoonful, running a little hand along the back of a mud-encrusted car, stealing another child’s plastic scooter at the playground, or something; you get the gist.

So it was today that we were marching (sensibly) hand in hand, in new wellington boots (them not me), to the local shops. Rain had fallen incessantly all morning, and this was our ten minute, pocket of blue sky dash for the sake of fresh air, sanity and a new writing pad. Now, wearing wellington boots instills a certain sense of pride in any two year old, and that they were new added to the sense of exuberance at suddenly and unexpectedly being outdoors. Possibly, this was at the root of it all.

Ever the indulgent mother, I encouraged them to test their boots (one red pair, one blue pair), pointing out the smaller puddles and encouraging them to run through. A few splashes were within the realms of acceptability, I thought, in my sensible Saturday morning way. More fool me: every puddle became a target – the bigger the better, of course. Before I knew it, two little hands slipped away from my grasp and both pairs of boots were charging off to the newly formed lake lapping gently over half the pavement. “Don’t! Don’t jump up and down in there!,” I called after them, “It’s too big … .” Too late. It was then, as the water dripped over the tops of boots, tights and trousers quickly darkening with mud, and the prospect that we could get anything sensible done washing away with the old leaves down the drain, that I had to stop, catch my breath and marvel at the wondrous, hilarious, soaking wet children, I could call my own. I forgot my writing pad and shivered with pleasure, as their shouts of laughter echoed around the houses and their boots pounded the pavement, water leaping around them.

It’s probably not the done thing to tell people how enraptured you are with your children, but I suppose every now and again is forgivable. The new boots must have gone to my head too.

It was when the green Spiderman pants ended up on the grocery shop counter that I realised I had entered a new phase of motherhood. The porridge oats, big pack of raisins and check out woman all looked at me rather unforgivingly as I balanced yet more unlikely items – a rabbit-headed whistle, two toy cars, a miniature helicopter with moving propellor blades, a book about farm animals, three used tissues and a rubber band – alongside. My wallet still eluded me.

Red-faced and too many minutes later, I was out of the shop with an overflowing handbag slung over my shoulder; porridge and raisins in either hand. When did I become a walking children’s junk collection, I wondered crossly pounding across the road. This impossible, unpractical, unliveable fullness of my handbag had encroached on me unwittingly; its smart exterior belying its contents which were dominated by the beloved accoutrements of two year olds and those essential maternal supplies. I started to work backwards.

This cross-contamination of child and adult spheres – my handbag had been exclusively mine up until only a few months ago – must date to the absence of nappies, I worked out. The children drinking out of cups and normal water bottles might also share some of the blame. More significantly, at the same time as gladly abandoning those bulky artefacts of babyhood, we had consigned the big red bag (which with its Mary Poppins’ capacity screamed ‘small child’ even when not dangling off the back of the buggy). Of course, these events, these markers of childhood had brought associated joys and increased levels of independence, but my handbag had certainly suffered.

You see, now there is new stuff. Which self-possessed child would go anywhere without a toy car and rye cracker in hand? Which self-possessed child would accept having snotty tissues pushed back into their own pockets? And which self-possessed mother would go anywhere without a spare pair of green spiderman pants ? Then, invariably, within five minutes any beloved item is cast aside in favour of a more interesting object, usually belonging to another child. Before I have remembered to cast out the unwanted paraphernalia, the car becomes a digger, the pants must be accompanied by socks, and the crackers have crumbled into a thousand crumbs leaving a perceptible trail over my every last belonging.

This morning in a moment of exasperation and knowing I had three childless hours ahead I switched handbags. Paying for an expensive face cream, I found Mister Clever and a strawberry hair slide. Perhaps this is another sort of coming of age.

Outside dusk is falling. I am sat on the floor between two cots, one child sleeping soundly, the other, bright-eyed, sits staring at me like a prisoner through the cot bars. “Lie down,” I say in an urgent whisper, “It’s late. It’s time to go to sleep.” He shakes his head petulantly. I have been in their bedroom trying to coax them to sleep for more than an hour. My stomach rumbles and my patience wears thin. The hope of ‘achieving something’ this evening gives a final flicker and fades away. The irritation seeps into my voice, as I command, “Lie down now and go to sleep” and try my best “I mean it this time” stare, but to no avail. “No,” he replies audibly this time, “More stories – about a mouse, a giraffe and a spider.” Charmingly sweet in other circumstances but tonight it’s far too late for that. Still, I back off and change my tack. “If you lie down now, I’ll tell you one more story.” “No,” he says frowning, “Sitting up.” Desperate now, “If you lie down now, we can go and get an ice cream tomorrow.” As if magic words, he smiles at me, lies down, closes his eyes and two minutes later I am standing in the kitchen eating cold rice from the pan.

We are widely discouraged from bribing our children. It will set a precedent, we are told, and soon the child will only be willing to behave as requested when there is a defined reward. And then, continues the finger wagging warning, said child will stop accepting the initial level of reward and want more and more and more, until we are left with a rotund spoilt toe-rag – the mind conjures the image of Violet Beauregarde for the Roald Dahl fans amongst us. The child needs to learn what is right and wrong, and understand the benefits for themselves in following their parents’ taught moral code, for the sake of being nice, friendly people that go to bed on command. Of course, I agree in principle but in reality so often feel very tempted down that chocolate-coin-paved path. If only it weren’t so effective at producing the desired results, at least in the short term.

So as I nibble my cold evening meal, instead of behaving like a respectable parent and chastising myself for the successful bedtime ice cream promise, I find myself thinking it rather hypocritical that we adults disapprove so strongly of bribery. Surely, adult life is filled with bribes to get us doing things we would rather not – the biggest difference being that they’re called incentives once you turn 25. What is a salary bonus, if not a bribe? Or, in the spiritual arena, the promise of eternal life? Or, on a smaller, more ice cream equivalent scale, work drinks on a Friday evening? We even bribe ourselves – think of all the diet books which encourage you to treat yourself to other things – manicures, facials, a new pair of shoes – whilst starving yourself of food. Bribes, bribes and more bribes. I admit we are at times driven by other motives: social expectation, a feeling of obligation, even genuine human kindness also play their role. And we are sceptical about the positive impact of bribes when they become too large and disproportionate to the matter they serve to reward – think of how recklessly all those super-charged bonus earning bankers have been behaving. Small bribes, however, seem to be perfectly acceptable, and in fact, widely utilised for the common good.

Pausing briefly before picking up a nectarine to wonder if eating fruit so late at night is wise, I proceed recklessly and am struck by another profound thought. What is punishment, if not a form of inverse bribery. When parents actively punish their children beyond scolding words: stopping of pocket money, going straight home from the playground, taking away a particular toy – something I am usually loathe to do – the incentive becomes not having the fun spoilt, not being deprived of something. So where does that leave us? It must be about finding the right bribe. Say I want to encourage in my children a love of reading, therefore bribing with another story is probably okay. I don’t mind if they have an occasional ice cream, particularly when we know so many of their friends will be at the local ice cafe. That too, though only once in a while, seems to be acceptable.Trampolining is the latest big hit: the promise of that the next day yet another approved method. With that, I promise myself that if I manage not to become irritated at bedtime for an entire week, I’ll treat myself to something special too. Tired but cheerful now, I take myself to bed.