Rosa’s the more walky of the pair, but with Ruby’s boundless courage and energy making up for her slower start, she does very well. They both move as though their legs have gone to sleep, but they don’t seem to mind. In fact they seem delighted, though they don’t yet get anywhere fast, and resort back to a highly polished power crawl when speed is of the essence.

I’m told once they’re regularly walking outside, we’re looking at a £50 per month shoe habit - and that’s just one measly pair each - eek!

Anyway, they were delighted to be pounced on (Ruby was there too, the shatter occurred right under her face and hands, it was she I was more concerned about), whisked to the bathroom, hosed down and given a basin of water each to splash in, sleeves up to elbows, and not even close to bedtime. Jolly fun… Then I changed their clothes for good measure which they didn’t like, and our day got all boring again.

The table’s outside now in the rain. Though I loved it, I don’t care two hoots that it’s gone. It’s nice when old things die and are ready for the bin - makes way for something new. Paul on the other hands likes things to stay the same forever. But that’s a whole nother post…

As I prize them off and sneak in the silicone teat (actually they love the bottle, humph!), I recall planning on a year, or at least to try for a year and then to see. However - what I planned and what I feel now seem to be just a little at odds. And I think breastfeeding mothers the world over will totally understand what I’m on about. Actually, if truth be known, I don’t want to stop just yet at all, but I think it will have to be.

Because although with these babies I have no desire to go on for much much longer (in practical terms it’s become very tricky), I’m afraid I’m going to stick my neck out here and say that I’m not one of these prudes who’s shocked by extreme (as Emma would say), or extended, breastfeeding. Nor do I hold with the view that this complete food, natural and unmodified, offers no nutritional benefit for babies over the age of one. The studies that aim to prove this commissioned by formula companies perhaps? But what business is it after all, of anyone other than the involved parties, whether or not a large baby or small child tucks in to a nip of most delicious elixir of breast a couple of times a day? 2 year olds, 3 year olds, 4, 5? Don’t mind me - fill your boots! Free food can’t be bad after all. And your mummy gets to eat all the pies.

If I’m honest, I think we might be designed to breastfeed for two years or longer. Which is what I’ve done, in a way, but condensed into one year, shared between two. And when you consider that at my lactating peak I was producing at least 1.5l of milk (pumped volume: actual volume usually assumed to be significantly higher) each 24 hours, I’d say there’s a fair chance I’ve met my quota and some…

And here’s what they get up to these days.

Launch in external player

New to the idea of spoon feeding, Ruby spreads chocolate pudding more around than in her mouth…

Rosa digging her bread.

At precisely 5.25pm yesterday, Rosa crawled right across the kitchen floor. She’s been trying to get her knees in the right spot under her chubby belly for some 10 weeks now, and then suddenly, at this precise moment, as if in a crawling masterclass having had the technique finally explained, she was off. Ruby at the time, was in her hight chair, back to Rosa, scoffing a particularly large chunk of cheddar, oblivious to the athletic milestone being passed beneath her.

Precisely one hour later at 6.25pm, Ruby, having tried to get her knees in the right spot under her own (slightly less) chubby belly also for 10 long weeks, crawled obligingly right up the corridor to her waiting bath, as if she too had suddenly fully understood the functions of her quadriceps, patellae and hip joints.

This is very exciting, and must prove to my mind, their split egg-ness; exciting mostly, because I’ve just saved myself £90 on DNA zygosity testing. Pint, anyone?

I’ve been observing my babies. Doing their best to crawl, damp sticky fingers making good contact with less than squeaky clean floor, occasional pause for rest, contemplation maybe, then thumb (in Rosa’s case), straight into mouth. Yum.

Now given that babies have been carrying out this kind of reckless behaviour for centuries without even a hint of extinction, not to mention the insertion of any thing to hand into the favourite orifice just on the off chance that it may be quite delicious, who on earth decided that food that had escaped the the plate need be condemned to the bin? That breaking the rule just once, would leave one struck down with some terrible debilitating infliction?

My house and its contents are relatively safe; cave baby might have fared a lot worse, I suspect, dead rodent, decomposing bird… But anyway - I reckon for more most people, whether to salvage floor food or not would depend a bit on who’s looking. Which reminds me, it was my brother that told his small son that it was “fine to drink from the carton (of juice) as long as nobody sees you doing it”. Not sure about that, but it does make me smile.

Even I (who scrapes mould off food) would be delighted to chuck a Mr Kipling away using the floor as an excuse, but the slice of home made tarte tatin I had recently? I’d scrape that off the carpark…

As for who masterminded the current fashion in germ hysteria - food production industry bigwigs probably (shift more units), in cahoots with fear mongering antibacterial soap makers. And who invented that ghastly stuff? Probably the same people who peddle those pricey little shots of probionic gloop, bacteria for the gut. Oh - so we’re OK to eat bacteria then? Oh, these are friendly bacteria, I get it.

Thrush, incidentally, I’m told is rife nowadays, under the fingernails due to that antibacterial soap stuff, mostly among women. So there’s a good reason not to buy it, rant rant…

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.

And she’s damn right, it’s fine advice; reminded me in fact of the midwife in hospital that told me on day 3 no less to stop trying to be Superwoman. Shit. Slow learner… 6 months old they are now.

So anyway - you know who you are - you’ve made me think. Where’s the sense in putting life on hold until everything is perfect?

So thanks, I mean it. x

What it is (as they say in Bristol), my wonderful boyfriend has suddenly decided he’s into cooking after all. (And in the way that men seem to do, has gone right out and spent a lot of money on equipment right at the outset of this new flirtation with the kitchen.) Only I sincerely hope it’s not a flirtation, and not because of the gleaming fifty pounds’ worth of rasor sharp new knife we now own, but because not only do I get to spend my time doing something else, I eat like a queen!

For the man to whom preparing food were akin to painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel; for someone who cooked me something fairly rotten by all accounts on our first meeting, this is a breakthrough indeed.

And as for my yaki soba, we had it last night too. Apparently it wasn’t perfect. He’s re-seasoned his wok 3 times today, and is making the same dish all over again. I proclaimed it utterly delicious the first time, so can only wonder at the standard of fare I’ll be served up tonight!

Masterchef? Bring it on!

Well of course they have slept. Of course. But like the durbrain new mummy that I am, I have only just realised just how much sleep they actually need. And the answer is, blimin loads.

So while they were writhing around, shredding dummies (that noise - oink oink oink, furiously chewing, trying not to cry) wanting to be held the whole time (which I couldn’t manage; did my utmost, have a pile of redundant double carriers in every style), they were just utterly exhausted, and I didn’t get it!

Then all the efforts I did go to to get them to sleep, just for a bit (it was only ever for a bit); I seduced them with every womb imitating prop under the sun, as I missed each sleepy cue, and the whole crucial sleep window thing each twatting time. I’m ashamed to say that just a few weeks ago they were each taking their miniature little daytime naps in their own battery operated swing, sucking their little cheeks hollow on a dummy, or paci as they like to say in the US (don’t think we can get away with that), with various white noise machines playing a colourless harmony of nothing supposed in some way to imitate the sloshings of my amniotic fluid and pumping of my blood. How embarrassing.

Despite these tools however, they were rarely asleep for long, and seldom at the same time. My day was spent caring nonstop for (quite rightly) grumpy babies, and driving me round the bend. Caring for? No, just existing - we were all just existing, and they were probably longing as much as I was for the end of each trying day when we could all finally sleep. (Having had a bedtime routine established from six weeks, that bit was easy.)

Funnily enough (not really funny at all actually) such appalling days made the nights (up 3 times to feed, that is if they fed together, otherwise I’d expect 6 wakings on a good night) seem easy. And they were easy, because I knew what I was up against, and there was consistency. Yummy Mummydom, needless to say, has so far evaded me.

So anyway, not a moment too soon I made a fundamental shift in my approach, and set about restoring health, sanity and order under the rule of my cast iron routine, without which I would still by rocking, plugging, and white noising them to sleep.

I’d observed long enough to know just how long they were able to stay awake and read enough to have a good idea of the average 3 and a half month old infant’s sleep needs. Armed with figures I planned our day, and bloody well told them to get on with it. And to my amazement, they did! They seemed to accept quite willingly that I’m the one in charge, and did as they were told. I do admit to letting them cry just a little bit, well maybe a lot by some standards. (And then more guilt, and more tears: mine.)

In the first days of this ’sleep training’ as people like to call it, I felt a kind of permanent, low level background guilt for causing their pain, and for not stepping in to save them. But had I continued each time to step in and save them, they wouldn’t have learnt to fall asleep unaided, and the misery and fatigue would have continued.

Previously the whole focus of my day was to alleviate all pain, and sooth all crying, whilst a granny in each ear urged me to let them cry a bit (I wasn’t having any of it). I never did leave them to scream themselves into sad and lonely sleep, but regardless, I did find it painful at the start. However - my rational and unemotional side took charge, concluding that I hadn’t a choice - they need to sleep, and I needed to teach them how to get there. Simple as that. Actually, I was giving them the space to learn how to get there alone (with plenty of support and encouragement), a crucial skill if I’m to get any sleep.

So now, 3 weeks in, and the payoff is that they seem positively relieved when I prepare them for bed and put them in. We have a little song, some hypnotic words, and a very special cuddle. Not bad at all really, I reckon I’d quite enjoy being put to bed that way myself, if there are a pair of giant and willing arms out there anywhere? Mostly, they’re asleep within minutes. We do have tears at bedtime on occasions, but overall they are a million times happier. No, a googleillion. Really… And me too.

And suddenly, I have time once again to write.

A quick glance on the web for reviews of the particular model on offer unearthed this gem. Rather than describe the various merits of the new contraption myself, I thought I’d leave it to pinkpeglegs2 to do so in her own very fine words…

Hi its me again with baby review
I am giving a review on the travel swing by graco
costing off good old eBay £45

This is a swing that you put your baby into it as lights 4 at the top green yellow blue orange all the colours that babies love,
there is music 15 songs, that is nice for the baby to listen to while there sleep, it as around 8 speeds to the swing but my goddaughter just likes the first speed .

It runs on 4x 1.5v battery ,I must say you do go threw a couple of them it depends on how mush you use it,

my goddaughter loves this ,she will not have her afternoon nap any where else only in her swing, but you can only put them in it up to 9m old or by weight , as it can tip over whit the moves from your baby .

I told my sister the other day I am a bit worried when she gets to big for it as she loves her swing, and it will be hard to get her to go to sleep with out it, but we will come to that bridge when we come to it,
it’s a bit like a dummy once they have had one its hard for them to get out of it,

but she loves her swing she sits in it watching cbeebies, then she falls off to sleep, when she not in her swing she plays up a bit so be careful buying this swing may be a good idea at the start, but I know there will be trouble to get her out of it,
when she is to big for it , as the other day the battery went, well she kicked off big time screamed the house down for a about a hour, until I sent someone up for batteries then she was fine, then she went to sleep good as gold , great idea to have them but not all the time., i am trying to just put her in it a few days a week not all the time to make it easyer on her when she gets to big
my sisters tells me i am worring to much as when she grows out of it she will be in to something else, i do see her point she will be older i was just worried i give it 7/10

Beautifully put Madam.

“Are you feeding them yourself?” As if somehow they’re afraid to utter a rude word out loud.

To which I feel like replying “Oh yes. With my breasts. MY BREASTS!” In a really loud voice, and hopefully in a busy public place.

Obviously I am a novelty feeding two with my very own you know whats…

It’s just a gert bit of fabric, all wrapped round. Sweet…

I’m working on the development of a rectal evacuation device to assist mothers the word over. Should be a best seller.

It was a strip off, hose down, clean threads were donned, and we were back on track. She didn’t like it, but then nor did I.

Bad baby…

Oh yes indeedy. There’s no looking back - I’ve put the Cow and Gate Organic firmly in its place (the larder, though the bin was calling) and sent the hired mint green milking machine back to the chemist (to be met by an astronomical bill: £80, have now bought myself one on eBay for £12, oops…) and we’re off, plugged in double-wise in front of the telly every time the girls lick their pretty 8 week old lips.

Being plugged firmly into my hungry pair feels far more satisfying than being sucked at by a pair of lifeless funnels on that machine I can tell you, and the ladies do love it. Oh yes.

For anyone else out there attempting the same? Don’t give up (unless you want to; that of course is completely allowed). And if you want some help? Email me. Text me. Call me. Come over, hell, move in… I’ve had so much help myself, I’m 100% willing and ready to give a load back. I mean that.

And this would be the point to mention (mention? Herald!) Sally Inch and Chloe Fisher at the John Radcliffe Hospital’s small but world class breastfeeding clinic. These are two of the most dedicated (yet underpaid) specialists in their field of infant feeding - a pair of amazing women I am truly privileged to have met, and certainly couldn’t have done without.

They willingly offered me two patient days of support, wisdom, excellent humour and homemade orange cake; having turned up a wreck believing myself possibly beyond repair I left a competent breastfeeder. I made a remarkable week’s progress in the space of each single day.

I’m very happy about all this. It was worth it. When they look in my eyes and give me two milky smiles at the end of a big fat feed, the struggle of the last eight weeks is a distant memory.

Bring on the next hurdle - I’m ready!

So I was thinking… With the right amount of nipple stimulation and a little hormonal treatment, I could get Paul to help breastfeeding. Sure, men can’t produce as much milk as women, but enough for the odd night feed perhaps? I’ll just check with him….

…he’s not keen. Something about the lads at the gym.

Ah - says here that male to female transsexuals may also produce milk due to the hormones they take to reshape their bodies. And they would want more realistic, developed breasts wouldn’t they? That work, you know, tried and tested?

Brilliant - this could save my shredded nipples from disaster just in time. I’ll pop an ad in the village shop in the morning. ‘Wanted - M to F tranny wetnurse wanted for hungry twins.’ Could be a mutually beneficial arrangement methinks…

The bad latch on incident (and now, I realise, many bad latch on incidents) has turned into a severely wounded nipple complete with blood blister and a dead patch on the end. A piece of skin is falling off it; I can no longer make it work. Actually it’s more that I can no longer stand the agony of subjecting it to my well meaning but vicious litter of terriers.

Here’s what I do - express on that side (yawn…) and nurse, as they like to say in America, on the other. Think about it… that means more bottles; I rotate the go on the breast, they take turns to chomp. So what happens next? Almost overnight, they:

FORGET HOW TO FEED! (If there were a font that said horror movie voice over echoing down eerie monastery corridor, I would use it now)

Unbelievable. I offer them my delicious plump left mammary on Friday night, and they dutifully each open a cute little mouth, and… wait. And wait, and wait. For the milk to come. To be delivered onto each lazy princessly tongue I presume, for the little madams to delicately swallow at their leisure. Absolutely no sucking takes place whatsoever. In the space of 24 hours, they’ve totally forgotten it all! Girls, this is not how it’s done! You have to work for this dinner dammit!

A long story short: More tears from me (floods), then the WHOLE of Saturday spent re-learning basic nutritional survival skills, as per week one, only in the next size babygros. By Sunday we were starting to get back on track.

Now I’m juggling the delicate balance of nipple preservation, baby feeding skills practice, and adequate suckling to enhance milk production. Oh and adequate infant nutritional provision. But evidently that’s not been much of a problem - these monkeys are growing faster than Clifford the big red dog.

So the vicious cycle goes thus: I need to feed loads to keep them in training, avoid feeding to allow nipple repairs and then be sure to feed plenty to improve my supply. See? Tricky’s not the word. But rubbish is.

Anyway - that was that, but then there was this - yesterday morning my beautiful Rosa fed, and lying perfectly content on my chest, turned her head to me. With a cute sideways look gave me not one, but four of the biggest smiles her 6 week old mouth could manage. Amazing. Nipple pain? What nipple pain?!

I am so happy, but understand completely why mothers of twins resort so often to bottle feeding (stubborn, me…). I love it when they feed from me, despite the fact that my left nipple feels like a piece of raw flesh being chewed in the grip of a terrier’s jaws for the first 10 seconds. They are ruthless - just one bad latch 3 weeks ago that I overlooked because it had taken an hour to achieve, and the pain still persists.

Top tip girls - NEVER persist with a bad latch. Even if it took a week to achieve.

At 9am I got up, then single handedly (which is a misnomer as I’ve got two hands - luckily) and simultaneously picked up two babies, changed two babies and plugged in and fed two babies, yes, on the breast, and both totally at once, yes!

I called Paul, and his mum to come and witness; I ordered Paul to take a photo. Then I reached for the phone just within my grasp and telephoned people with the news. Then I sent text messages of my achievement. Having bored the whole world to tears with my story, I’m now blogging about it.

Now of course I think I’m superwoman…

It was however, as always, a case of two steps forward one big one back. The rest of the day was rubbish. Ruby pursed her lips for most of it, refusing to drink the precious nectar I make for her with love, opting instead for some muck by Milupa. Bad baby…

(Yep, they both fed today; hallelujah!)

Today we had a breakthrough. Rosa fed once in the night (properly, I mean breastwise), and then again at a sensible hour in the morning, closely followed by her beautiful sister. Ruby has shown no interest so far in my diminutive mammary glands, but today proved that she knew exactly what to do with them. It was bliss. We all had another big sleep in the spare bed, and when I woke I noticed 2 months had passed and it was spring.

Breastfeeding is hard. I had no idea it could be so hard to get a baby to do what it’s supposed to do naturally. I don’t know how much is to do with the fact that they arrived early, the fact that there are two to teach, or the fact that hospital was a stressful early environment. Although resolve wanes periodically, I am determined to make this work. It will be a joyous day when they both want to feed from me. And at the same time? That would be too good to be true. We can only hope…

Not a great start that brought severe anxiety for me resulting in my sleepwalking on the ward, looking for my babies in my handbag in the middle of the night, and hallucinations. I would wake frequently to see them limp and hung up around the walls on hooks with my clothes, and leap out of bed to rescue them, believing them just seconds from death. As each day went by I lost a degree of control, strength, and ultimately sanity until I felt like I’d been sectioned.

Pronounced obstetrically fine around day 3, it was the babies that supposedly needed attention though in my opinion the extended stay was unnecessary, and actually counter productive after day 3. The worst thing is that we seem to be paying for it now in breastfeeding difficulties, so hard was it to establish this with the stresses of the hospital stay. I’m lucky if I can get them to feed on the breast once each per day; I feel like a bad mother letting her children down.

On day 5 things improved a little as I was moved to a private suite; perhaps fearing they might find me limp outside beneath the ward window if something didn’t change, and I shudder now to remember the thought actually crossing my mind. I didn’t know I had such a strong aversion to hospitals; obviously I didn’t enjoy my pre-natal visits, but something else entirely kicked in when my strong healthy babies were subjected to in my opinion endless distressing and unnecessary tests and unpleasant treatment.

Why didn’t I just leave? That’s the hard part. I would have been happy to. I took advice on their jaundice (the only reason they were kept in) and made an informed decision that the levels were so low that they were and would continue to be fine. Apparently sleeping by day in a window would have been adequate. The fact is that I’m not the only person responsible for decisions over their care. And that’s all I can say on the matter. I do believe we’re paying for it now, but that’s just the way it is.

For the entire duration of our stay they were known as twin 1 and twin 2. Naming them inside just wasn’t going to happen though we had ideas. The staff kept asking; I kept saying we hadn’t decided yet, embarrassed as each day passed. But I knew when we finally got home, it would be a pleasure to do.

We arrived home on Monday evening, a week after their birthday; it was bliss! They had names the next morning. It’s difficult, and I struggle with coaxing them to breastfeed daily, but it’s still bliss. They truly are lovely.

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.

Anyway it came as such a surprise, I laughed. Then I left.

“Reckless” they probably thought.

“Barmy” I definitely thought.

So the diagnosis is this – I am pre-eclamptic, but it’s being controlled, fretting not required, and a normal vaginal delivery can be expected in anything from a week’s time. This is all good, or at least as close as I can reasonably expect to get to the natural, non-invasive drug free birth that a hippy like me would like. Induction, probably, but just don’t slice me up! Thanks.

So I when I said rather arrogantly, or optimistically depending on how you look at it, that I was going for 40 weeks, I didn’t have fat legs then. Sorry, I thought I could manage. Then it all started. Now I see…

If I were to believe every word uttered from the mouth of every caregiver I’d believe I was critically ill one day and perfectly fit and healthy the next.

Take Dr Sour for example, who left his bedside manner in the car park a few weeks ago. Seems I had him all wrong. Completely - and I’m not saying that just because he was the only one that approved of my going home (albeit blood pressure dependent, but that’s OK, I cracked it - deep breaths and think of lavender – works a treat).

Why he’s now Dr Cool
He seems to be the only one that doesn’t indulge in hysteria or over react. I approve of that. Like I said, not ill, pregnant. PREG - NANT. See? There are certain symptoms associated with pregnancy that don’t necessarily need drugs, bed rest or imprisonment. I guess when I marched in the other week insisting I needed an ECG, he did the same – didn’t freak out, took my pulse, told me it wasn’t necessary. When I finally persuaded one of the hystericals to order me one, the result was normal. At that time, I wanted to be taken notice of – but get too much attention, suddenly all you want is to be left alone.

So Mr Sour, (and it seems you are ‘Mr’ not ‘Dr’, my mistake) you are now Mr Cool, and welcome at my bedside anytime, manner or no manner, it’s all the same to me…

Finally re-united with my computer (been imprisoned in my fetid NHS bed on an overheated ward without sniff of a wireless connection for a good week) I’ve read back through the last 3 or 4 posts and concluded that I’m not really giving value for money here. Thank you all for your concerned messages, but the story of my fat legs is becoming boring. Correction - it’s become dull as fuck, and you really don’t deserve to be subjected to such blatant self-pity any longer.

And just so you know, I’m no longer upset by it. Yes it’s shit, they hurt, I move like an eighty year old arthritic, but they look so daft, it’s actually quite funny, and apparently this temporary situation’s doing me no harm at all.

So last night we took some pictures; you might get to see them. But for now, I have a little catching up to do on events in the last week or so when my progress reports were non existent. I’ll fill in the details in some sort of order; lots to say, but for now, just this - my faith in conventional medicine is waning more than I ever thought possible.

My legs throb and ache and I don’t know where it will end or if it’s dangerous. My skin is sore and looks ready to burst. Paul has put the end of my bed up on blocks. I’ll report on the effectiveness of this in the morning. Can’t talk about this any more, it upsets me.

Same tests all over again, some very kicky babies (with LOVELY growth charts, “mmm yes, beautiful” she said, the gentle midwife with the lisp), nothing up with my blood, blood pressure acceptable, and nothing to report from the sticky pad heart machine.

I gently suggested that I stop coming in so much, expecting resistance - to my surprise my freedom was granted. I am evidently considered less of a risk now, though twice weekly blood pressure and weekly blood tests will be done by my midwife. (Never mind that, I’ll be doing my own pressure every day thank you very much. I have my own machine you know…)

So that’s all good. What’s not good (and they seem uninterested in this) is that my tubby legs are expanding faster than ever; my taught skin now stretched to the limit, shiny and pink from toe to thigh feels sunburnt by the end of the day, an odd sensation in winter. I tried the popular advice of resting with them up - a disaster - with this much fluid (I can put on 1/2 a stone in a day) in just half an hour it’s shifted to such an extent that I can’t bend my knees. Not funny!

Like some kind of Frankenstein creation, my beefy legs and skinny arms appear to have been sourced from different bodies, so mis-matched are they. Even my chav velour track pants are beginning to groan under the strain…

Stretch mark cream now reserved for legs as tummy seems to be coping so well.

This time their measurements are almost identical, just one millimeter between their head sizes, and the same story with femur length and abdominal circumference. One cross slap bang on top of the other and both still slap bang on that desirable middle line on the chart. Now once again I can’t help wondering if that points to identical twins, as why would fraternals at this late stage be so similar?

Speaking of which we were told again that they weren’t due to the presence of two chorions, the outer sacs. “Oh” I said, looking out of the window, pretending to accept the well meaning nurse’s explanation. Paul’s becoming increasingly frustrated with this, and speaks of taking in some good teaching material, calling a staff meeting and giving a brief lesson on the exact permutations of twins and their amnions, chorions and placentas. Go Paul…

Such a common misconception is this, that I heard of a mother in the States recently that scooped first prize two years running for her baby sons in the ‘fraternal twins that look most alike’ competition. (Do we have those? No, didn’t think so…) The following year DNA testing found that they were in fact identical. Oops!

The combination perhaps of my precise list and a different doctor meant this time, to my surprise, I was taken utterly seriously. Immediately an ECG was ordered, then the other machine, after which the registrar sent a message that he’d like me to remain in overnight for observation. I got exactly what I wanted, which was to be taken seriously, but was now caught between feeling pleased at my success and nervous of what I’d started.

Against medical advice I declined the offer of a comfy night on the ward and the promise of some great food (Jamie - you’ve done school canteens, now it’s time to get onto the hospitals…), and feeling a bit rebellious, settled myself in front of Celebrity Big Brother with a curry that I couldn’t manage more than a mouthful of. Bad idea. I do struggle with food, but this was properly rank. (Jamie - when you’re done with hospitals, get onto the curry houses.)

My own bed was well worth going against medical advice for even if NHS food might have proved a better option than the gunk I ordered. The deal with the equipment was that I remain connected for 24 hours, without bath or shower (swimming pool OK presumably), and record all activity along with precise times and symptoms. Putting on the light to note that I’d got out of bed for the toilet at 4.54am (no symptoms to report), was tedious I have to say, but remembering that I’d brought this upon myself, I dutifully obliged…

Some poor sod now has the job of tallying my scribbles with the machine’s readings and making some sense out of the data. As for me, it’s now 3pm and I have some slimy stickers and wires to remove. Phew…

Today when my own checks reveal a reading of 170/100, I actually admit myself without struggle or permission. Over the space of 4 hours I’m subjected to various blood and other tests, fetal activity monitoring (they’re squirming as usual, oblivious to my issues and seemingly perfectly happy with textbook heartbeats), but with no real conclusion as to why my ankles look like cold custard poured into a pair of tights, and why my blood pressure has gone from a healthy low to an alarming high in a matter of days.

Since it’s customary to comment on the staff, I won’t disappoint. I was lucky enough to spend most of the time with the kindest, most helpful, caring, attentive and wide angel on earth (nurse, midwife? I never have got the hang of hospital uniforms). Then, the tranquility shattered as Dr Sour arrived, clearly having left his bedside manner in the car park.

Not only did he pay little attention to and dismiss most of what I said, he had scant disregard for the obvious concern of my GP, midwife and the angel, with the air of someone who has better things to do with his time. (”Why did you come in?” he asked).

Like many people, I have a blood pressure monitor at home, but bought it when on special offer more for curiosity than serious medical need. However in this case it proved a very useful first alert, with the readings tallying pretty much with those of the calibrated hospital machines. Obviously displeased at what he seemed to consider my intervention, he asked why I possessed one. I paused saying that I didn’t know how to answer. I spent the afternoon in a large, clean and pleasant room, though clearly too cramped for his ego.

When he left the angel apologised to me for his manner. I felt sorry for her having to do that, but it did make her even more lovely. When I asked for his name and confided that I found him a bit abrupt, there was a certain rolling of the eyes that said it all. “You and me both…” she said, her halo glowing brighter than ever.

The answerphone message I got from her said she’d be with me before midday; she didn’t expect me to be out, as I’d obviously be resting. I didn’t know I was meant to be resting. It must be worse than I thought. I’m very happy though, not to have to heave myself back into the car to go to the surgery again (I move as though crippled).

I’m glad he took this seriously. Ankles fatter than your head is obviously not a good thing, and this is the third time I’ve pointed it out to my care givers.

I’ll interpret rest in my own way, as duvet, daytime TV and plenty of cake.

Mornings used to be my best time, for energy, enthusiasm and a general lust for life, albeit one that often waned exposing harsh reality by lunchtime. This morning my legs felt too weak to hold me up even for the time it took to make two pieces of toast and peanut butter. I was back in bed by 8am, though did manage to see to a load of washing and get a beef casserole going in the slow cooker first before I slumped. At least I don’t have to cook tonight. Love the slow cooker, it’s like someone else has made you your tea…

Lucky me that I can go back to bed - I’ve just guiltily realised that some do this with a child or two already. I have no right to complain.

Woke at 9.30 to the cleaner doing all the jobs I’m delighted to avoid. Bliss. A second breakfast is way more delicious than the first when you’re watching someone else clean the sink.

(One little girl’s stock answer “No, he’s got a willy and I haven’t” seems to do the trick.)

I thought I was more of the cavewoman mentality, you know, tie the baby on my back with some animal skin, then off we go, not a buggy, changing bag or one of those handled carrier things in sight, but it would appear I’m getting a little sucked in…

Speaking of buggies, I refuse to buy a double, or at least, not just yet. The idea of negotiating my car boot, kerbs, and slimline shop doorways with a weighty monster of hulking travel equipment for two tiny 7.5 pounders is not my bag at all I can tell you.

I’ve secured myself a used but sound and lightweight single buggy with carrycot; they can jolly well share that for a while or take turns between the sling and pram, and when they’re too big I’ve cleverly chosen a model that converts to a single pushchair for those occasional separate outings I’m told are a must for one to one parent child bonding. God I’m good.

I’m not falling for this consumerist pressure before I’ve even met the girls; a good double buggy seems to cost upward of £500, and apparently many twin families repeatedly buy in error not finding the right one until contraption number 3! This way suits me fine, and you can be sure I’ll let you know how I get on. Trouble is, I’ve not heard of anyone else adopting this approach meaning I’m either truly a pioneer, or quite deluded.

Do I get velour, cotton jersey, or stretch towelling? I’m not a big fan of gratuitous patterns, logos, and frills (Spartan Scottish roots) so that rules out a few, but I suddenly felt anxious about infant fashion faux pas, taking my young girls out in something equivalent to a grown man turning up at the office in underpants and a mesh vest. Sniggers from the hospital staff for sure. (I know all about that; I’ve been collected from school by a mother in odd shoes. Not good…)

So is it just a matter of fashion, and preference, if not, where’s the rule book please? How many layers, how warm, how? I thought I knew a bit about babies, held lots, changed nappies, that sort of thing, but suddenly I falter at the first hurdle. Paul caught up with me dithering in Mothercare, and in a flash I’d shoved the armfuls of gear I was clutching on the nearest shelf and marched him towards the exit.

As he responsibly tightened the final screw to exactly the required torque, he turned and gave me a solemn look that showed full acknowledgement of impending dadhood. We have baby furniture; it’s the end of an era.

A very familiar conversation goes a little like this. People ask how I am, (often commenting that I look well, which I find hard to believe with my bad hair, frumpy clothes, dark eye circles and iffy skin) and I reply that I’m OK, things are generally good, I’m just quite exhausted much of the time, and struggle with simple everyday tasks due to lack of energy. I then get the reply, ‘Oh yes, Sarah/Anna/Michelle was very tired, yes, it is tiring.’ But if I remember rightly, (and I most certainly do) Sarah, Anna and Michelle carried ONE baby at a time; they were PREGNANT, not carrying a bloody litter as I am.

People really seem to think they know what this is like – they don’t, unless they’ve done it. If I ever meet a mother of triplets or more, permission to shoot me if I make the same error and believe I understand slightly what such a pregnancy might be like.

Then there’s my cervix, which at 41mm long apparently tells then I’m highly unlikely to go into labour before 34 weeks, which means I should just get the tour out of the way first. Excellent, because waters breaking on stage isn’t something I’d be very happy about.

Seems I’m doing very well - the fact that I feel rubbish wasn’t something that concerned them in the slightest. No comments to make on the staff this time, except that the person who took my blood didn’t take it gently even though she said she would. Said I would feel a little scratch as she plunged the vicious tool in my arm. Ow…

My chances of having a natural vaginal birth are increasing as time goes on it seems which I must say I like. Birth is starting to feel imminent; perhaps time to start buying bootees and churching up the nursery.

Actually, I am going to comment on the staff: my consultant - I liked her. For being calm, extremely helpful, and making me feel as though I had all the time in the world to ask daft questions.

“When’s it due? You’re not about to give birth now are you?” (I felt feint and needed a seat briefly in Marks and Spencer Simply Food today). “Are you having Braxton Hicks’? Would you like someone to walk you to your car?” (Yeah, perhaps take me to my car, I could always give birth there. Or perhaps I’ll just drive myself right on down to the labour ward)
“No no, I’m fine, actually I’ve got 3 months to go yet.” Look of confusion, horror even, such that I can’t help clarifying with “it’s twins”. Now a look somewhere between pity and awe, followed by a third and final “Are you sure we can’t walk you to your car?” Anything to get out of 10 minutes on the checkout missy. I downed a pint of milk, noticed a customer occupying my assistant’s time, and made a swift exit.

Yesterday was good. Someone said I looked as though I had something up my jumper. I confessed to keeping a large medicine ball up there, trying to match her level of humour. Her look told me I’d failed; we were quite clearly on different planets.

Later I was asked when the baby was due. When I explained that they weren’t due until March, I got the reply “Oh I thought it must be twins. Either that or an elephant”. Luckily I saw the funny side. Have you met my husband, Mr Jumbo?

Oh and finally, someone asked my due date, then “…yes but have you been given a date, a date to have them, an early date?” I suppose she was meaning a slash me open and whip them all out date. Now where shall I start? This is a whole nother post for a whole nother day. You know what? They can come out through the normal hole, at the normal time…

I thought it was winter, but the room we were in was having a tropical heat wave. Cowboy boots + swollen feet + hospital heating turned up to 11 = severe footwear induced claustrophobia, resulting in impaired information absorption facilities. Spent the whole time wondering if removing them would be a faux pas. Noticing that the girl opposite had neat little soft pumps on made me feel desperate - I’m getting some of them tomorrow. It’s time.

The tour of the special care baby unit stuck in my mind (boot discomfort suddenly insignificant). Permanently etched on my brain is the image of a tiny baby in his perspex bed, screaming from weak, not quite ready lungs, barely making a noise, and no-one with him. Seemed like a very lonely and frightening start to a tiny life and I felt quite sad. On the other hand he probably has an excellent chance of survival with 24 hour care and machines to make up for those missing weeks in the womb. The alternative I suppose is no life at all, but it just made me determined to keep these special girls inside for as long as I possibly can. So many twins are delivered early and have to fight for their health the minute they arrive. I’d like to think these two can have the same treatment as a singleton - watch this space - I’m going for 40 weeks!

All is not lost though, they do have some similarities. Said their mother “They both love apples and grapes, and their favourite television programme is Teletubbies.”