"In these two hours, I realised mums of young kids are superwomen."

Before 11am on Tuesday morning, I had no idea who Fireman Sam was.

While naming a firetruck “Venus” still strikes me as odd, you best believe my knowledge increased ten-fold in the couple of hours I spent with my cousin and her little ones.

Same goes for Batman, who I had previously, and wrongly, believed was an ancient relic whom the toddlers of today couldn’t pick out of a superhero lineup.

(If you hadn’t gathered, my knowledge about ‘young kid stuff’ is sub-par. At best.)

Every time we meet, it hits me that I don’t see my cousin and her children — a cheeky two-year-old and wide-eyed nine-month-old — as much as I should. Different schedules and a geographical distance limit our time together to a handful of occasions a year, making each time I get to see them akin to being introduced to a new set of tiny humans.

LISTEN: Now mum-of-four Bec Judd explains how she “does it all”. (Post continues…)

New humans with considerably bigger bodies; ones that make different noises and reach higher heights than the last time we met.

On this lunch date, which was snuck in-between breakfast and a last-minute maternal/child health appointment, one thing in particular struck me as new: their wriggliness.

Strong legs and scrambled crawls were now part of the littlest one’s repertoire. She darts from one end of the room to the other, besotted with the cricket bat against the wall one minute, and the shiny knick-knacks on the shelf the next.

Her big brother is now obsessed with three things (aside from Fireman Sam and Batman, that is): Snapchat filters, climbing stairs, and eating. Lots of eating.

As we sit to chow down on roast chicken rolls, I know we are accompanied by just two children, but somehow it feels like 20.

And yet, my cousin gets on with it.

She feeds her little girl, pausing intermittently to rescue a rogue peanut butter sandwich that threatens to slide down the side of the couch. She juggles requests for Tiny Teddies and the toilet like a pro, all while carefully walking that precarious line between smiles and tears.

For the entire two hours, the room is a flurry of movement, giggles and crumbs. I see my cousin get out of her seat so many times — to prepare lunches, to grab wipes, to fetch toys, to prevent tiny disasters — it's a wonder she hasn't collapsed in exhaustion.

She's up, then down, then trying to pry miscellaneous items from the baby's hands, then peering over the side of the couch for misplaced figurines and biscuits.

I'm exhausted, and I'm offering little more than an iPhone for temporary distraction and another set of hands to keep the eldest from smearing his food on the couch.

It's only after I polish off my meal I guiltily realise my cousin hasn't even touched hers.

I pull the baby onto my lap and watch on as she eats, bewildered as to how she keeps these little kids — and herself — alive.

Because those little things she does all day, every day — getting in and out of the car, packing and repacking bags, preparing and eating meals — are actually monumental feats.

And she does it all without snapping when I, the childless 22-year-old, complain about work hours or my reckless two-day hangover.

Now, that's heroic.

And over these two hours, I realised mums of young kids are superwomen.