They say that when choosing a baby’s name, you should test it in various ways. One is to imagine calling the name out in a crowded place. The mother of ‘Miracle’ seemed perfectly happy yelling the word last Sunday in the crowds of Southam car boot sale; I could only speculate on the specifics of Miracle’s conception as I observed her mother rounding up a flock of assorted children with the skill of an experienced sheepdog.
Yesterday I found myself in a certain well known chemist that I won’t mention because they don’t need any more advertising, surrounded suddenly by what seemed to be every single female member of staff. And they were, it transpires, all pregnant. Well not all, but most. This squeaking, giggling flock of womanly curves girls swooped on my double buggy, quite taken with my two apparently identical babies.
It just so happened, on this day, that my precious cargo were dressed alike. Worse than that, they were in pink velour, with identical flowery tops. I don’t know how it happened; a total accident, I promise. I don’t even like the pink velour. These impeccably groomed, fragrant ladies laughed when I had to come around to the front to identify each baby - this always raises a smile - as if I could tell them apart by the top of their hooded heads…
They loved my buggy with its lambskin lining and suspended toys (’Alton Towers’ Julia called it, when on our first outing in the grown-up seats, I positively loaded the thing with attractions, lest our new mode of transport prove unpopular and scupper my shopping plans); They loved my cute girls, all grins and wriggles, relishing the attention they’re quite getting used to. Twins fascinate - especially a perfectly matching pair, in the same twatty outfits. None of these were carrying twins, they said with the usual sigh of relief. (You so love mine, but you shudder at the thought of getting a pair of your own.)
Now I can’t help wondering how that one off the cosmetics stand will look in the midst of grimy labour. Sweat ploughing clean furrows through the obligatory facial gunk, revealing the real face beneath? Or will she re-apply Touche Eclat between contractions?
Anyway, back to my girls. Thing is, they get attention, then I get attention. Remind me next time to try and find a pair of trousers without sick on, and a brush for my ratty hair. They kindly said I was looking good for a new mother of twins but I know that if I wear black, suck in my belly like billio and swing my handbag swiftly round to mask the remaining postnatal bulge, in poor light I can almost get away with it.
But you’ll not catch me in a binki as my granddad used to call them.
So yep, we’re onto solids. It’s going fairly well. And I was even congratulating myself on the quality of fare I serve up to the smallest members of the family, as I tucked in to their leftover sweet potato dish. Yum, pretty good…. But then as I savoured the last smooth little baby spoonful I remembered that I’d mixed it with my own breast milk… Yuk. Not as bad as drinking your own pee, but still very, very wrong.