Twinfo

Went into Mothercare today, it seems about time to buy some things, but looking at the sleepsuit/babygro things (are they the same?) I realised I hadn’t a clue about what to get – what do they wear, babies?

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.

Paul erected the new flat packed baby changing table today, and I filled it full of soft things. Until recently I had no idea such items existed; I’m sure I was never changed on one.

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.

Blimey – yesterday I had such unbelievably strong baby movement while lying in the bath, my belly distorted into such odd shapes and so quickly I thought about auditioning for a part in a sci-fi movie. I had lumps appearing and disappearing, and travelling like a cartoon mouse under a cartoon carpet under my skin. What are they doing in there? It was quite amazing actually. I’m glad they have such strong limbs already.

OK. What I find slightly irritating at the moment, is the complete lack of understanding about the difference between carrying (and caring for, as I’m sure I’m soon to discover) one and two babies.

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.

And these are no longer a novelty, starting to get boring now. The result? A result for sure. All is still good, in fact better - both heads down now at 28 weeks and unlikely to move due to lack of space; both my precious ladies still on the 50th centile and growing well, we were very pleased to learn.

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.

I’ve had so much attention today! If an oversized bump generates this much, matching babies haven’t a hope in hell of anonymity.

“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…

Tonight we went to a twins parentcraft class offered by the hospital. It focused more on pregnancy than parenthood, but was still useful, though I suffered the whole time from footwear anxiety.

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!

Don’t know how I came across this, but here’s a multicoloured set of twins, and not surprisingly they made it into the Daily Mail.

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.”

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.