How Many Babies Do Squirrels Have?

The incident began on a particularly damp Tuesday in our local park, right around the time I was wondering if it was socially acceptable to drink a lukewarm thermos of coffee at 9 a.m. Maya and Chloe had their faces pressed into the roots of a massive oak tree, pointing at a small, pink, hairless lump in the mud.

Within three minutes, I had received three entirely contradictory pieces of advice about what to do with this fallen creature. A council worker in a hi-vis jacket paused his leaf blower just long enough to tell me I should leave it alone because the mother would inevitably drop from the branches and attack my face. My mother-in-law, whom I had foolishly texted in a panic, replied via WhatsApp that I needed to immediately construct a makeshift incubator using a shoebox, a desk lamp, and a hot water bottle. Finally, an elderly bloke walking a highly aggressive Jack Russell wandered over and swore blind that squirrels only ever have one infant at a time, meaning this must be a rat, and I should probably just kick it into the bushes.

I stood there, covered in toddler drool, holding a half-eaten rice cake, staring at this tiny, shivering alien. I literally typed "how many babie" into my phone with a freezing thumb before autocorrect could even kick in, desperately trying to figure out if I was dealing with a lone survivor or if there were half a dozen more of these things about to rain down on my children's heads.

The great litter debate

As it turns out, the bloke with the dog was spectacularly wrong about backyard wildlife. If you've ever wondered about the actual numbers involved in local rodent reproduction, it’s honestly staggering. From what I can gather through frantic internet searches while holding back a crying two-year-old, a mother squirrel typically has somewhere between two and four infants per litter.

But depending on the exact type of squirrel hanging around your bins, that number can apparently shoot up to eight or nine. Maya now aggressively points at every rustling bush and shouts "babi!" – her new, slightly inaccurate catchall term for anything smaller than our neighbour's cat. And frankly, she's not wrong to assume they're everywhere. The most absurd part of all this is that female squirrels usually do this twice a year. Once in the early spring, and then they decide to endure the whole ordeal again in late summer.

I find this biologically arrogant. I've twin girls, and the mere thought of organizing a single birthday party leaves me wanting to lie face down on the kitchen floor. The fact that a squirrel is out there coordinating two separate litters a year, foraging for acorns while functioning on zero sleep, makes me feel incredibly inadequate. They build these massive, messy nests high up in the trees called dreys, which basically look like a pile of rubbish I’d sweep up from the patio, yet they somehow manage to keep up to eight squirming babies alive in there.

Tiny pink aliens in the grass

When they're first born, they don't look anything like the fluffy acrobats that terrorize your bird feeders. They're officially called "kits," but wildlife rescue people apparently call them "pinkies" because they're entirely hairless, completely blind, and deaf. They weigh about an ounce, which is roughly the weight of the stray Lego bricks I find in my coat pockets.

To keep the girls from accidentally trampling the tiny thing while I tried to formulate a plan, I threw down our Organic Cotton Baby Blanket with Squirrel Print. I had panic-bought this exact blanket when the girls were born, and it remains one of the few baby items we own that hasn't completely disintegrated. It's made from this double-layered organic cotton that somehow wicks moisture away, which is ideal when you're throwing it onto damp London grass. The squirrel pattern felt a bit ironic given our current situation, but the girls sat on it happily. The fabric is shockingly soft, and more importantly, it hides mud stains reasonably well after a 40-degree wash (page 47 of my parenting manual suggested buying only white items for aesthetic reasons, which I found deeply unhelpful the moment we discovered outdoor play).

Anyway, whatever you do, don't try to feed the tiny squirrel cow's milk from your toddler's sippy cup.

What the woman at the rescue centre actually said

Because I'm a millennial who physically can't make a decision without consulting an authority figure, I rang up a local wildlife rehabilitation centre. The woman on the phone, who sounded like she had already explained this to fifty other weeping parents before breakfast, gave me a heavy sigh and some actual instructions.

She told me that squirrel mothers have incredibly intense maternal instincts. If you just leave the thing alone, the mother will usually scale down the tree, grab her kit by the scruff of the neck, and haul it back up to a backup nest. Yes, they build backup nests. Meanwhile, I can't even remember to put spare nappies in the boot of the car.

Her advice, filtered through my own mild panic, boiled down to a rather undignified process:

Don't offer it snacks: Apparently, attempting to give it water or milk will just cause it to choke, and human food will wreck its tiny digestive system.
Build a makeshift elevator: If it's uninjured, you're supposed to put it in a small box or basket lined with leaves, and wedge it safely into the lower branches of the tree so foxes don't get it.
Retreat and hide: The mother is probably watching you from a branch, entirely judging your parenting skills, and won't come down until you back away.
Watch the clock: If she hasn't returned after a few hours, or if the thing is actively bleeding, that's when you actually call a vet.

So there I was, gently scooping up a hairless rodent with a spare pair of toddler socks, placing it into a plastic Tupperware container I had meant to use for grapes, and awkwardly wedging it into the crook of an oak tree while my daughters cheered me on.

The gear you actually need for park safaris

If you're going to spend your mornings standing around in damp parks waiting for wildlife to retrieve their young, you quickly realise that your kids are going to get filthy. While we were waiting, I broke out the snacks. I used the Waterproof Space Baby Bib on Chloe. Honestly, this bib is just okay. It has a massive silicone pocket that successfully catches the mashed banana she drops, and it’s completely waterproof, which is great. But the space theme feels a bit random when you're sitting in a forest looking at rodents, and no matter how much washing-up liquid I use, the silicone holds onto a very faint smell of yesterday's spaghetti hoops. It does the job, but it's not changing my life.

On the other hand, my wife recently picked up the Colorful Hedgehog Bamboo Baby Blanket, and it’s brilliant. We had it stuffed in the bottom of the pram as a backup. It’s a bamboo and organic cotton blend that's somehow even softer than the squirrel one. The girls love the little hedgehog pattern, and because bamboo is naturally thermoregulating, it doesn't get all clammy when a toddler insists on wearing it like a superhero cape over their coat. If you want to encourage your kids to sit still for five minutes and seriously observe nature instead of trying to eat it, having a decent mat to sit on is half the battle.

If you want to look at our completely inadequate collection of park gear and find something that genuinely works for your family, have a browse through the organic baby essentials over on the main page. It might save you from ruining your own coat.

The absolute chaos of the wildlife phase

About an hour later, true to the exhausted rescue worker's prediction, a rather frazzled-looking adult squirrel bolted down the trunk, grabbed the pink lump from my Tupperware, and hauled it back up into the canopy. The girls applauded. I drank my cold coffee.

It’s a bizarre phase of childhood, this sudden obsession with every living creature in the dirt. You spend the first year of their lives frantically sterilising bottles and making sure the floor is spotless, and by year two, you're actively encouraging them to look at rodent nests and dig for worms. The sheer volume of acorns a toddler can fit into their pockets is a scientific anomaly. I found seven acorns and a remarkably smooth stone in my washing machine yesterday. It sounded like someone was tumbling rocks in a cement mixer.

But getting them outdoors, letting them figure out that the world is much bigger than our living room, feels important. Even if it means I've to spend my Tuesday mornings Googling wildlife facts and acting as a makeshift park ranger.

Before you head out to inevitably find more creatures your toddlers will try to adopt, maybe stock up on some things that really wash well. Check out Kianao's baby blankets collection so you're prepared for your next impromptu picnic, and try to keep your kids out of the mud. (You won't, but it's a nice thought).

Your deeply unhelpful questions answered

What do I do if my toddler genuinely touches a wild squirrel?

First, try not to scream, because that just upsets the toddler. Get them to drop it, wash their hands immediately with soap and water or a massive amount of hand sanitizer, and check for bites or scratches. If they've been bitten, you absolutely have to ring your GP or NHS 111, because wild animals carry bacteria that you don't want anywhere near your kid's bloodstream.

Do mothers really abandon their young if they smell humans on them?

The woman at the rescue centre essentially laughed at me when I asked this. Apparently, that's a massive myth. Most mammals, including the squirrels in our garden, care a lot more about their babies than they do about the faint smell of my hand lotion. They will absolutely take their baby back if you've touched it to move it to safety.

Can I give a rescued kit normal milk?

Absolutely not. The bloke at the park might tell you differently, but cow's milk is basically toxic to their tiny digestive systems. Giving them liquids when they're cold or in shock can cause them to aspirate and drown in the fluid. Instead of panicking and throwing cow's milk at it while shouting for help, just back away slowly and let the mother handle it.

How long should I wait for the mother to come back?

The general consensus from people who seriously know what they're talking about is around two to three hours, assuming it's daylight and the weather isn't freezing. If it's getting dark, the mother probably isn't coming back until morning, at which point you should probably call a local wildlife rehabilitator so the poor thing doesn't freeze.

Why do they look like tiny pink aliens?

Because nature is terrifying. They're born completely undeveloped—no fur, eyes fused shut, ears closed. They don't even open their eyes until they're about a month old. It takes them roughly ten to twelve weeks before they look anything like the bushy-tailed thieves stealing the fat balls from your bird table.