Twinfo

So I’m craning my neck, covered in jelly (warmed today, nice touch) with an uncomfortably full bladder, trying to see the action. I still don’t know why it has to be full, the last sonographer said it was because we had to get a good look ‘down there’ as if I would know what that meant. Today’s had short bright red hair and bling jewels in her teeth, seemed to enjoy her job, and was quite unphased by my endless curiosity. The first kept cursing her useless printer, all the time with a sour look, and told us our babies weren’t identical which isn’t necessarily the case - lucky I have the interweb and can put the professionals straight. It was the end of the day and she had certainly had enough.

We have two fine babies. Each as large as would be expected for singletons, and weighing 2lb and 1.9lb each. I don’t know how long they are because I can’t read Mrs Sparkletooth’s writing. The heavier one’s coming out first, and they’re still girls. We are all in fine shape.

Paul dressed up today. I though he must have a client coming later. I asked him who he was seeing and he said his daughters. He wore a checked country shirt tucked into those black trousers with porridge on that make his waist look even slimmer, and his best shoes which even clients don’t always get these days. He told the nurses he was my husband.

These girls have definitely had growth spurts. My belly’s visibly expanded in two days, and feels achy low down. My heart seems to be working like mad, beating really hard at times, extra blood I suppose. The Babycentre (who right on cue send me a mail explaining about the lower abdominal aches they expect I’ll be experiencing just now) tell me the baby is now a whopping 35cm from crown to heel. Enorme, no wonder. And inside that very trim tummy, one foetus is expected to look like this:

Only I look more like this:

This was in the days before they’d invented double buggies, and women drank Irn-Bru. That’s not a smile, that’s a grimace. My girls are so learning to walk.

Ah, chicken. It’s Sunday, and I’ve had chicken. Not just some flimsy piece of battery reared sponge in a ’service’ station sadwich, this free range chap had sturdy athlete’s legs and a flavour thanks to 40 years of painstaking recipe development, the latter half of which I’ve been absent from, or at least oblivious to (cooked by my father, Murdoch, a superb cook - the right mix of confidence, intuition and creativity). My absence - I’ve been away some time, in the land of vegetables; a vegetarian, and a proper one, a check-the-label-pretty-carefully type.

I’ve always eaten well. I understand about nutrition, I can cook, although food is far more than just nutrition. In fact I often think of it as pretty good value entertainment, or at the very least, a good basis for entertainment.

So I’ve avoided all this for twice as long as I’ve participated in it, but I’m back.

There’s only one person, I reckon, who could get me to do this. And thank god she did. As my symptoms (permanent headache, light-headedness, dizzy spells & extreme fatigue) were being dismissed by my healthcare providers (”you’re pregnant, it’s normal - take a paracetemol…”) I was lucky enough to have the care of someone with a bit, no a lot, more insight. My blood pressure was dropping (it’s very low anyway), my thyroid not functioning properly, metabolism grinding to a halt; I wasn’t well. I know to expect tiredness in pregnancy, but this was extreme.

Meat for me (and this took a lot of getting used to) I think is probably a necessity, for the moment at least. I’m sorry to desert the vegetarian club, but the change in my health has been dramatic. It’s simple - in a twin pregnancy, you need mega amounts of good quality protein, frequently. And in my case, lovely nuts, lentils and beans just weren’t up to the job. It was a struggle to change, I had a habit, and didn’t expect ever to eat meat again; but in fact habit was all it had become in a way, and this just had to be done (I braced myself, held my nose, and scoffed the stuff, like a child with sprouts). But now I just eat. Food.

All food is food now, though principles are still intact - it’s got to be happy meat; I shall never eat veal, battery chickens, fois gras…

Ruari went to school with twin brothers Sean and Shane - great names for encouraging real individuality…

Seems it might be known as infrasound, that destructive low frequency sound technique I spoke of. I couldn’t elaborate however, as my eyes glazed over pretty much the minute I found a relevant webpage on the subject.

I don’t think you can hear infrasound and you can hear a drill so my unscientific brain deduces that we’re not facing the same problem here. Anyway I don’t think Bosch make drills that can do that so we’ll be OK. If anyone with glasses and a large head wants to put me straight I’ll be all ears, even if my eyes are a bit shut.

Today I stood on my head quite a bit. It’s supposed to be good for the babies. Really.

It’s all the rage in India, this kind of thing, or so I’m encouraged to believe.

Oh and also, if I don’t hold a brick between my upper thighs regularly and squeeze like billio, the twins will burst my pelvis open and I’ll be in a wheel chair. Quite common with twins, apparently. Super.

Since I’ve reached the stage where putting on my own shoes is a struggle, the DIY I undertook for most of this weekend brought certain problems too. Everything’s fine until I have to bend down, at which point the over-inflated football gets properly in the way, severely restricting lung capacity & making me gasp like a heavy smoker.

Although I’m the man in this household in the DIY domain, I had to get Paul to drill the serious holes as I got it into my head that the vibrations of the hammer action on masonry absorbed by my body coupled with the sound of the screaming power tool’s engine would unstick my placentas and starve the babies a bit like that WMD they (allegedly) developed during some war somewhere. This weapon apparently transmitted a certain frequency of sound that jiggled your internal organs to jelly leaving you no option but death. Rumour has it that development was halted when they couldn’t find a way to stop jiggling the weapon operators to death meaning the tool was somewhat counter productive, killing more of their own than the enemy. A fatally flawed idea. Probably all a load of rubbish anyway. I’ll just look it up and see if it’s true - oh the versatility of the interweb…

Tonight we went to see the quite brilliant Chip Taylor and Carrie Rodriguez

I’m told that babies may be calmed by hearing sounds after birth that became familiar to them in the womb, and that by now (24 weeks), their hearing is fairly developed. It’s also said that if you choose a particular music to repeat to them with the view to using it as a calming tool later on, it’ll obviously have to be something that you can stand to hear repeatedly. No question for me then, it can only be Chip and Carrie. And what’s more, if a full first set’s worth of the most pronounced and enthusiastic wriggling I’ve yet encountered is anything to go by, my girls loved it too. Yep, they were dancing in there; my little ladies like country music. Phew - I’m rearing children with impeccable taste. So far so good…

Carrie’s violin playing has me mesmerised. Since last time I saw them, 18 months or so ago, she’s playing around even more with those laid back but driving shuffles, this time more syncopated and all in bluesy double stops. This time she’s also playing an unbelievably sweet little Epiphone electric mandolin, 70s I presume, so cool, solid body, single strings. My Davidson is lovely, but an electric would be a very nice addition indeed (pause, check eBay… nothing). She says she can’t really play it. That’s what I say but she seems to have tackled some chords which I would love to achieve.

Seeing them play made me think. A lot. About my playing, my career, what next, music? No music? How can I not do music, they inspired me so much! And in the short term, how I’ll be up on the same stage (in fact many of the same stages, with the same promoter, Homespun do a very similar UK tour) in just two month’s time with my own fiddle, voice and mandolin, two month’s fatter, clumsier and (I only properly realised when Carrie asked me the question) at the time of the last date at The Cluny, Newcastle, only 5 weeks and 5 days away from my due date…

I’ll need a stool for this gig, and no pedals, and Tony is definitely carrying ALL the gear. I’m going to think of it more as a last trimester holiday/retreat, away from cooking, cleaning and washing clothes; there’ll be long lie-ins, shopping for baby clothes, and room service, oh and a quick hour on stage every night as my only commitment. That OK Dave? Good.

Last night was a very bad night. I was awake for much of it. Well actually that sort of between awake and asleep state that doesn’t let you rest, and doesn’t let you wake enough to sort out whatever the problem is.

In the day, along with some not exactly painful but unusual abdominal twinges and aches, I seemed to have endless Braxton Hicks contractions, so many and so close together that I though I should time and count them and maybe call the midwife. The book said call if you have more than 4 in an hour. I seemed to be having about 10 in an hour. But I didn’t count, and I didn’t call. Instead I left the vague back-of-the-mind anxiety hanging there ready to be distorted and embellished by half sleep dreaming. Once asleep I milked it for all it was worth, spinning it out over what seemed like about 4 fitful hours, until I was definitely in labour, and imminent single handed twin delivery before daylight a certainty (Paul doesn’t like to be woken when he’s in a deep sleep).

When I finally came round enough to be realistic about the situation, and gave myself a (silent but) firm talking to, I let go of the half dream and slept well. I like the way you can do that - but until you wake up enough to be objective, the drama continues.

I always love it when they kick when I wake - this morning I particularly loved it. And I did ring the labour ward today though, just to be sure. I’m fine. What? I knew that…

Today I’ve been really tired. It shocks me how little I can do compared to before I was pregnant. I went to yoga today, did the recycling, then straight onto the supermarket, the deli, dropped stuff off at a charity shop, at the Handyman Centre I discussed ply and battens at length and finally ordered the damn shelving ingredients, then home, by which time I needed a big old sleep.

I suppose it was a lot to do in a (non stop) day, but I still can’t get used to how quickly I get worn out. I tend to think “I’ll just get these few things done then rest”; ‘these few things’ take ages, and before I know it I’m exhausted, and much of the day has gone.

Didn’t start work till 4 pm today, but at least we have loads of good food in, including Booja Booja chocolate truffles which were the first items unwrapped (the babies wanted them).

Life just doesn’t seem to let up, but I need to find a way to sift the essential tasks from the non, and streamline my activities to make the most of my time. Probably a good idea to learn that now in preparation for extreme fatigue and task overload when they arrive.

Reading back my post, there’s a clue in ‘discussing ply and battens at length’ as to where I’m going wrong. Discussing ply? Exactly.

That’s a bloody relief then. And it must be true because James Lynch said it, Elaine Martin said it (truly brilliant Iyengar teacher, second only to Bob Phillips) having told me I looked ropey the time before (no mincing of words), and Ruari said I looked really well. I’ve always maintained these intelligent people know what they’re talking about.

Blooming is good. It’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re up the spout as Johnny put it. Only I’ve not felt particularly bloomly really. In fact they’re wrong. I look a mess.

Did you know that you can have twins with different fathers? A strange thought, but obvious when you think about it. Of course it would mean sexing with two different men in the same ovulatory (did I make that word up?) cycle.

You could have a brown one and a white one together. Hey but don’t anyone make assumptions about the bedroom habits of mothers with rainbow coloured twin kids - I’m sure there are other reasons for such happenings.

OK. An odd dream that might be better not shared. But ever the blabbermouth, I will.

It seemed to last all night, this dream, and was about a 1960s Silver Cross pram in a charity shop. Actually it wasn’t Silver Cross, but that type, coachbuilt, chrome… On first inspection it was rubbish - dusty, shabby and really expensive. I knew they were unpractical, dated, and that I certainly didn’t want one. Just couldn’t leave it alone - I knew it was no good, but was willing it to be. The more I fussed over it, the cleaner it got; the chrome became shiny, I kept finding unused accessories to it in original packaging. It got cheaper until it was £95, but I didn’t want one! Just couldn’t get the thought out of my head that Caroline had said they were good for babies’ daytime naps under the trees outside (sort of nanny in the park, Peter Robin style; she dreamily reminisced, how we all used to be cute…).

The decision to have it or not was an immense struggle over a whole weekend (big waste of time, strangely familiar, that inability to make decisions) that no one seemed to be aware of. I was around lots of people who were oblivious to my crippling difficulties. Next I seemed to have bought it (just couldn’t let it go), and was wondering why on earth I had, it seemed such a burden, more stuff, making me sluggish.

Ok, two analyses:

1. Liking something unsuitable, and willing it to be right knowing it never would be; being attracted to things that make life difficult, are testing…
2. Perhaps just liking something is difficult - needing to justify that desire through practical, tangible reasons, a desire for the sake of desire not enough perhaps?

Answers on a postcard please…

Oh and then I was at a nudist lakeside holiday resort.

Phew - it’s great to know mothers everywhere are supported by some truly inspired retail products - got to get some of these. Hand knitted organic veggie baby rattles. Far out.

Of course I need to know if they’re identical; obviously if they are, I’ll be getting matching outfits and giving them rhyming names.

I love knowing each baby’s sex, but equally like not knowing their zygosity, i.e. whether they’re identical or not. I wouldn’t want the entire surprise of sex discovery at birth, but it is exciting to wait and see if they resemble one another when born. I’m assuming they’re fraternal (non identical), because that’s most likely - 2 out of 3 pairs of twins are.

If they do emerge looking alike, we’ll have to see how they develop to get a clue about zygosity; that will be interesting to watch too, I like to think we have something to discover over time. Identical twins don’t necessarily look alike at birth or even later on however, and contrary to the (mis)information we got from the 12 week sonographer, the presence of two amniotic sacs doesn’t necessarily mean fraternal, ditto two placentas. It’s surprising how many parents of twins are under that assumtion having also been given the wrong information by NHS staff. One placenta can only mean identical twins, though two placentas can fuse, and be delivered looking like one. Monozygotic twins resulting from an early egg split may have a placenta each.

Monozygotic twins resulting from one egg share 100% of their genes, whereas dizygotic share half - different hair colour at birth I guess could be the first clue for us.

Blimey.

…but Paul’s already plotting their tennis careers. I think he’s just realised - same sex, same age sibling = instant training/doubles partner. What opportunities that brings… With a dreamy, distracted look, he was murmuring something about being at Wimbledon, watching Venus and what’s her name play the final (I know all about tennis). Kerr-ching! Paul, you’ve got a $ sign in each pupil.

In the space of two days they’ve gone from making barely any discernable movements at all, to squiggling, wriggling seemingly all the time. It’s all good. I expect a time will come when I’ll say it’s not good. Perhaps when foot meets ribs, or fist punches soft internal organ in closest proximity?

Maybe they’re fighting. I would. Must be horrible in there…