Twinfo

So, quite by surprise, and on the very same day I’m booked for an induction (that I’m adamant I’m not going to accept), out they slip, and all of their own accord.

3.45pm February 11th. With the unsettling sensation of warm fluids trickling uncontrollably from between my legs, I’m feeling all together a mixture of concern for the twins’ prematurity, relief that the pregnancy has finally come to an end, then embarrassment that perhaps this isn’t my waters breaking at all.

On the phone at the time to good friend Charlotte, discussing the delights of twin pregnancies, (she’s carrying indenticals) I brought the call to an abrupt end, then instantly regretted spilling the beans; what on earth would I say when they sent me home, tail between soggy legs, not actually in labour at all? By that time she’d have excitedly told everyone that things were on the way, and I’d have to admit that actually I’d not really done my pelvic floor exercises.

Well thankfully I’m not yet in the market for Tena Lady Extra Plus. I was indeed in labour; they were coming, and pretty fast it would appear too.

It was an ordeal; weak from the last sedentary month of swollen pregnancy, and without the flexibility and vitality I’d expected to see me through all the planned labour positions of my active birth, I was fairly static from fetal heartbeat monitoring the whole time, and did the hardest part on my back in stirrups. “Not very NCT” said the midwife, and she was right. But falling properly asleep between contractions, I was glad for the support.

Felt at one point like I couldn’t go on, but hearing somewhere in the fuzzy distance that baby number one was a little tired, and to prep me for theatre, I summoned all the strength I had left, pushed my face into a contorted purple blob, and squeezed the first of my modest litter out at 7.47am with the help of ventouse. It was agony. Pain with a purpose? My arse. Next time I’m having everything, but I fancied being a hero and trying at least once without intervention.

Number two arrived about twenty minutes later, and with them both safely on my deflated football of a tummy, Paul and I looked at each other, relieved, exhausted, and emotional; a family.

And I almost forgot - who stepped in fresh onto his morning shift with neatly pressed shirt and imaculate suit at the last moment to steer my little angels into the world? Yep, Mr Sour! He bossed me around to just the right extent (I was unusually compliant throughout the whole episode) to get the job done, but without intervening more than my hedge monkey ethic would accept. He didn’t flap, or over-react; I consider myself extremely lucky to have had almost the most natural twin birth I could possibly expect - I don’t doubt that under anyone else, the mention of theatre would have become a reality, 16 hours of labour then a slice. I can only shudder at the thought. Mr Sour, once again you have redeemed yourself. I salute you. Big time.

It was only when I tried to stand up later that day that I realised how drained I was. I had a shower held up by Paul, then spent the rest of the day checking that my babies were breathing.

This entry was posted on Saturday, February 24th, 2007 at 12:40 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.