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: