Exploitation? My babies didn't get out of bed for less than £250

It was my embarrassing secret. Only a few carefully chosen friends knew. Even my partner wasn't sure how to react and muttered: 'If you think it's a good idea... no harm done, as long as you don't take it too seriously,'

Our twin sons, Dexter and Sam, were four months old. An acquaintance had mentioned that twins were in demand as models, adding that photographic studios often provide fabulous free lunches. Before parenthood, I would have dismissed child modelling as a hobby for over-zealous showbiz mothers with too much time on their hands and prone to screeching whenever their kid grazed a knee or lost a hair bobble. It's a rare parent who doesn't believe that their child is dazzlingly cute. But lovely enough to appear on TV? The notion of shoving young children in front of a camera seemed naff and desperate.

Yet three weeks later, I arrived at the offices of model agent Elisabeth Smith, based in Harrow, north London. She had invited us for an interview after seeing photographs I'd sent her. Smith, who reminded me of a prim but kindly dance teacher, politely ignored the unsavoury stench from my sons' rear ends and explained that 'modelling is meant to be fun. Please don't expect to make a fortune out of this'. The agency's info pack included the warning: 'It is better to arrive a quarter of an hour early than one minute late.'

Several days later, one of the bookers called, asking us to attend a casting for Boots Baby & Child magazine. My babies gawped at the other children - from tiny babies to immaculate older children - and started to roar their heads off. Lots of the other parents seemed to know each other. I felt as if I had gatecrashed a party populated by impossibly cute children, many of whom wore velvet frocks.

Although I had filled in a form, detailing my babies' ages, dimensions and agency (I left the 'special talents' bit blank), I was tempted to creep out of the bleak audition suite and knock this modelling lark on the head.

Incredibly, the boys got the the job. The harassed photographer constantly referred to me as 'Mum'. Not his mum, but universal mum, as in: 'Mum, your baby's dribbling' (my cue to thunder over and blot my child's chin with a tissue). Even the stylist with the satin clown toy that played 'The Yellow Rose of Texas' could not keep them awake. A former colleague had crowed that child modelling was 'exploitative'. I figured that, as they were photographed while sleeping on a chenille blanket, the experience could not have harmed them.

Their second job, an AA commercial, in which each of my sons was lifted from a broken-down car by a substitute dad, was shot on the hard shoulder of the M1, perilously close to my children's bedtime. Other jobs included a Johnson's Baby Lotion ad, knitting patterns and magazine work. By now, I had learned that the chaperone (usually the mother) should not appear excited. At one shoot, I heard a woman explain: 'Oscar's only doing this because we know the photographer. I wouldn't take it so seriously as to sign him up with an agency.' Parents certainly weren't supposed to hyperventilate with excitement on being offered a box of free baby lotions or an egg and cress sandwich (what happened to the sumptuous free lunches?).

However, some mothers took their children's careers extremely seriously. Many looked like ex-models and turned up in adult-sized versions of their children's outfits. I would never be like those organised mothers; I'd scrawl directions to studios on scraps of loo paper or the back of my hand and arrive at shoots to discover that my children's milk had gone off.

At an Argos casting, I saw triplet boys in identical mustard trouser suits, plus berets. I overheard a woman scolding her daughter for falling and denting her forehead. 'Parents are expected to ensure that children are well turned out,' says Sharon Obee of London-based agency Truly Scrumptious. 'We encourage them to view modelling as an extracurricular activity, like dancing, but also a job. The children are well-paid. Parents should be 100 per cent behind it.' The agency receives at least 20 photographs a day from hopefuls, from which around 10 per cent will be invited for interview. 'It's extremely competitive. We only take on children for whom we believe we can get work.'

My children's careers ended as soon as they learnt to crawl. I could no longer face lugging two babies in car seats from an NCP car park to a fourth-floor audition suite. On the plus side, I'd gleaned some wonderful pictures of my children and an idea for my first novel.

My sons are now six. Expecting them to comply with a director's instructions would be as advisable as setting them loose with scalpels in an operating theatre. In all, they were paid up to £250 a day and raked in a total of around £1,200 each. While this hardly represents deposits on their future first homes, it's decent pickings for sleeping on a chenille blanket.

· Fiona Gibson's first novel, Babyface, is published by Flame tomorrow.

• Fiction
• The Observer
• reviews

ncG1vNJzZmivp6x7tbTEoKyaqpSerq96wqikaJqfpLi0e5FpZ2xnnqTDcHyYaJ2im6SevK96xZ6Yra2imsA%3D