Amazing. She’s totally got it, and it all seemed to fall into place around their due date last Friday.

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.

Today the three of us achieved something I thought was way out of my short term reach.

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…

Out of pure laziness (I deserve a break now and again) we gave both girls a bottle in the night rather than suffer the uncertainty of breastfeeding. As a result, I woke this morning to find my breast tissue had been replaced by lumps of wood. By 11am however having had the pair of them chawing on my nipples for a good 2 hours between them, my norgs as Paul likes to call them had been restored once again to the limp flat spaniels’ ears I’ve become accustomed to.

(Yep, they both fed today; hallelujah!)

Right now I’m strapped to a mint green plastic milking machine, bottles strapped to both breasts via a bikini top I adapted. I’m ingenious like that. The best bit is when you remove the bottles, and your vacuum enlarged nipples explode through the jagged cuts in the fabric like bullets firing out of a pistol. My readership has gone beyond friends and family now so I won’t post a picture. It’s very funny. In a kind of Hannah-Barbera way. You’ll have to imagine.

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…

And next, we spend a traumatic week in hospital. Although they didn’t go into special care, our first week didn’t get off to a great start with an incubator and invasive photo therapy for minor levels of jaundice, along with an obsession with feed quantities, nappy contents and blood tests.

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.

They tried to induce me today. Quite suddenly, without warning, as I was in for a routine check. By that, I don’t mean that they slipped a quick dose of prostaglandins in my tea, or whipped a pessary up under the covers when I wasn’t looking; they did ask my permission, but it didn’t feel very much like I had a choice.

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

“Reckless” they probably thought.

“Barmy” I definitely thought.

So that was Mr Cool. Mr K, on the other hand (AKA Mr easy on the eye / Dr Fit, yep, I’m with you there ladies…) had me believe belly slice delivery imminent, and that I was reckless for not allowing him to dose me a big fat wallop of steroids there and then, the minute he found my blood pressure up a mere smidge (white coat syndrome, I’m convinced of it). The steroids are to mature the babies’ lungs; a practice my health authority insists on for 4 additional gestational weeks after the rest of the country considers it unnecessary.

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…

Well… so much to say. Sorry for the absence, but I was in prison. Imprisoned I mean. And thanks to the episode of limited, rather no, freedom, I now understand a great deal more about the various beliefs and approaches of hospital staff, from midwife to top level consultant, and their hugely differing interpretations of test results and hospital protocol.

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…