If poachers make the best gamekeepers, do siblings make the best babysitters?

Had things turned out differently, we would have had the classic two-and-a-half years between our two children. But life and death intervened, and so we ended up having a gap of nearly five-and-a-half years between our daughter, born towards the end of 2009, and the son who would probably not have been thought of had our second child survived.

At first, the big gap seemed charming. In the weeks after our son was born, we would pick our daughter up from school and be delighted at how proud she was to show off her brother to her friends. Her lap was just about broad enough to bear her sibling, even though she was more focused on the telly than the baby.

As soon as the baby became a toddler, the age difference became palpable in less pleasing ways. He wanted to throw stuff or shout at ducks; our daughter had homework to do or play dates with friends to think about. For years they have shared fond moments, but few real interests.

At least during Covid lockdowns we could force them both out for a family walk once a day; now the only times they’ll spend embroiled in the same activity are computer-based and mostly silent. Perhaps they bicker less than children born closer together, but I’d not bet on it. And if that is the case, it’s probably because one of them is at the swimming pool with their father, while the other is being taken ice skating by their mum

Anyway, the point is that it’s been a modest pain in the backside having children at such different life stages. But we – their poor, tired parents – may be about to reap the benefits at last.

I inadvertently set the ball rolling about a year ago, when my wife was out one Saturday and I realised we desperately needed something from the shops – you know, falafel or anchovies or something equally crucial. I told the children I’d be back in 20 minutes and that my daughter was in charge and that if anyone rang at the front door, they weren’t to answer it. I figured they’d probably be fine, and sure enough nobody seemed to have come to any harm by the time I got back. In fact, I don’t think either of them had moved or even noticed that I’d gone.

Initially, my wife was outraged that I’d left the kids home alone, especially with our son being only just eight. But over the summer, with my daughter now a teenager, and both children unwilling to entertain the idea of a countryside stroll unrequired by a pandemic, we decided to leave them again. We meandered along the canal, even stopped for a drink, before heading back home. The house had not burned down during the hour of our absence; all was well.

We’ve repeated the exercise a couple of times, convincing ourselves that our children are learning some valuable independence – trying not to think about how their brains are being dulled by whatever they’re probably watching on YouTube. The big question, however, is whether our daughter will soon be ready to take charge for a whole evening, which should surely be possible when she’s 14 and our son is nine. After all, she has recently proved herself capable of making biscuits unsupervised and her brother can largely be relied on not to overflow the bath or break the cat.

If they’re clever, which they are sometimes, the kids might recognise that our economic incentive to dispense with a paid babysitter could turn out to be their financial gain too. Getting the 17-year-old daughter of a friend to mind the kids for three hours ends up costing £40. A fiver to our daughter for successfully minding her brother, plus a couple of coins to our son for putting up with his sister would leave everybody quids in. Call me mercenary if you like. You’ll find me in a restaurant on the high street; hoping not to hear sirens.