Nearly there!

My body feels to be officially at capacity.  My lucky trip through pregnancy has been a relatively trouble free adventure and only now is this vessel starting to give way.  Sleep is becoming more difficult as once comfortable positions are now a strain.  My hands and feet are swelling and I have to leave my wedding ring in the jewellery box.

I have been to the hospital every week for months now and at the visit last week, it was decided that due to the position of the babies, their sharing a placenta and my ability to contain them for such a length of time thus far, that a caesarean would be scheduled for 5 January.  Frightening.  Exciting.  Happy.  Nervous.  It is an odd experience to know the day that I would stop being a pregnant lady and start being a mother.

So over the next week the house became evermore ready.  I had a pedicure courtesy of a friend's gift from my lovely baby shower.  And I baked, baked, baked.  Partly for the freezer and the weeks to come, and partly for Christmas.

Christmas was a subdued affair for Thom and I.  My body is just not up for much and after some time with family, we retreated to the sofa where I have taken to spending much of the evening propping up my enormous girth with a scaffolding of pillows at various angles.

Today, back to the hospital.  Being off work for a while longer, Thom tagged along.  We waited for ages, something to which I have become accustomed.  I read the ancient magazines and said hello to the midwives I knew as they bustled past with notes and urine samples.  Thom fidgeted and cringed at the static-plagued radio tunes that tortured his ears.

But finally we were called.  Some chit-chat followed by a thorough feel-up of the bump and a scan to reveal that the little guys had shifted to an awkward position: face-to-face in the middle with their bodies curling around.  One up and over, one down and under.  'Hmm, that's unusual,' the sonographer remarked.  They want to kiss, I said.  They want to scheme, Thom said.

Then the bombshell.  The consultant reviewed the notes and giggled at the way the funny wriggly men like to be face-to-face.  She  explained that waiting until 5 January seemed too long and as certain risks increase past 38 weeks, the c-section would be moved forward to Friday.

Ok, Friday, I said.  Wait, what day is today?  Wednesday!

So once again, Thom and I left the hospital stunned.  In awe that in two days we would be holding our little guys.  So what to do with our last two days?   Tomorrow I plan to clean the bathroom and change the sheets and give Thom a last minute mohawk trim.  But tonight, I'm making extra bread to pack away in the freezer.   And I have submitted myself to be a human mould.  Thom laid out plastic sheets and draped my bump in plaster to immemorialise my shape for the times to come when this stage seems a far away memory.

I must warn you, he said with a sly smile as he smoothed the mess around me, you may find this quite erotic.  Erotic? Maybe.  But it was certainly profound to look down at this massive bump that would very soon be part of the past, and two baby boys becoming part of our life and our future.

Attack of the birth nazis

Having a baby is difficult for lots of reasons.  Time, energy, relationship changes, surrendering your body to forces beyond your control, watching it morph into not much more than a blobby baby capsule.  Not to mention the next phase of your life approaching - being a parent.

If God was a woman, she would have helped us out a little with a lot of these things.  But she might also gifted us with temporary deafness while pregnant.  It would certainly solve the bothersome issue of highly opinionated people that see a bump as justification to indoctrinate you.  I'm not referring to the general advice and strange suggestions that find their way to you from all corners of the planet.  Oh no, this deafness would be intended to help protect us from the apostles of the perfect child birth.  The ones who believe in one way, one correct form of birth, outside of which you and your offspring are doomed to an unnatural life.  A life cursed with poor health, depression, screwed up kids, a lack of hormone-induced motherly love and, most of all, the lifelong guilt of knowing that you chose this all by yourself.

I'm referring to the birth guilt squad, which broadly come in two polarised types - the medical ones and the natural ones.  If you are pregnant or have been pregnant, you may have had the misfortune of having your head bashed in by them.  They normally start with something quite disarming, like, 'It's an individual choice, but....' lulling you into thinking that you will be allowed respect for your individual choice.  But in their soft tones, it slowly dawns on you that they are trying to convert you.

Those of the medical squad would have you believe that home birth will result in certain death, of either your or baby.  And that only a dangerous fool would shun the white lab coats, scrubs and antiseptic hallways of hospital.  Reading between the lines, they sound a bit like: 'Only a real child-hater could take their life into their own hands by turning down the miracle of modern medicine'.

Those of the natural persuasion aim to convert you to the idea that hospitals are bad for you, bad for baby.  That medical interventions are meant to harm you and if you take advantage of them it means you don't trust your body.  You will have sinned against nature and the wonderful gift of childbirth nature has given you.  Consequently, you will suffer, your baby will suffer.  You can sniff these types out once you have the experience.  Just follow the stench of smugness.  

Birth is certainly a magical thing.  Our bodies are designed to do this amazing thing, equipped with all the mechanics and instincts to bring brand-new people into the world.  Doubtless, we as a species would have died out long ago if we were not capable of giving birth with nothing more than cold compress and the encouragement of a wise old woman or a grunting caveman husband.  It is a frightening and painful experience, but one that we can trust our bodies to handle.  These are the arguments of the natural-birth squad, and I must say that I agree that all this is true.

It gets twisted and nauseating when the implication becomes that those who choose some kind of medical intervention are somehow giving up faith in their bodies and abilities.  Backed  up with suspect statistics about going to hospital resulting in a higher rate of 'unnecessary' medical care, along with the assumption that modern medical procedures interrupt natural hormonal responses that encourage bonding between baby and mother, the guilt gets slapped on thick and fast.  Somehow I doubt that our ancestors enjoyed idyllic births, un-tainted by the scourge of modern medicine. 

What is the reality?  According to the World Health Organisation, the reality is that 1500 women die everyday from childbirth or childbirth related complications, almost all preventable.  Things like pre-eclampsia, heamorraging or obstructed labour.  And even when the mother survives, the babies themselves can fare much worse. Click here to check out what the WHO says about maternal mortality  The truth is that most women the world over have no choice but natural childbirth.  And while modern medicine may cast a cynical eye on the natural abilities of a woman's body and steel will, unfortunately natural childbirth isn't the blissful, magical rite of being a woman that the natural-birth squad would have us believe.  The reality is that until modern times, pregnancy and childbirth were dangerous times for women and infants alike.

It is a fact that people who go to hospital for birth end up with more medical interventions than those who give birth at home, but that statistic is not proof that the interventions were unnecessary.  Even in the developed world, some statistics indicate that home birth, while carrying a decreased risk of intervention, do carry a significantly higher rate of neonatal mortality; about twice as high as hospital births.  Additionally, around 40% of home births end up being transferred to hospital because of complications. Click to view article on Science-Based Medicine.

As for myself, prior to 12 weeks, I was prepared to give birth in my front room with nothing more than a stick of incense and some hypno-birthing mind tricks.  Then we learned that we had stumbled upon  the two-for-one special.  Twins: a whole new ball game.  The risks of death or injury in birth of twins is four times greater than a singleton pregnancy.  I guess my response, my guilt, comes from wishing for a different birth.  I want to keep things as natural as I can.  But the goal is not to prove that I am a woman or that I trust my body.  Right now, the goal is for all three of us to emerge from the experience alive.  When I have said this to various birth nazis that have crossed my path, it has been taken as proof of my fear.  Fear of the pain, of birth or of my own abilities.  One such encounter saw me up against a fellow pregnant woman explaining to me that risks of twin birth were fictitious, hospital was bad but 'If hospital is your safe place, then you should go there'.  As if being in your 'safe place' will prevent the multitude of risks that are common in birthing identical twins.

What I honestly feel is that it isn't that important where or how I give birth.  This middle-ground attitude doesn't save me and I still fall foul of birth nazis on both sides.   Not having a strong opinion on this highly contentious issue seems almost as bad as actively choosing to harm my unborn.

For me, the issue is not how or where a woman gives birth, but that she have every opportunity to go through this natural process with the greatest likelihood that both she and her baby survive.  The medical proponents and the natural birth squad each have their emotionally laden arguments.  But for the individual pregnant woman, this is a choice devoid of moral issues.

Until we evolve pregnancy-related deafness, the birth nazis will plague us, I suppose.  I wish I had known about them sooner so I could develop a stock response, like an equally patronising pat on the head and a 'there-there, calm down, dear'.  Ah well, as it is I must stick to my own mind, stay flexible and remember that no particular birth makes you a better person, parent or mother.  

Looking back: love, fate and magic

Recently, our PC had some problems.  Thankfully it was under warranty and fixing it was a simple case of sending it off by courier.  A week later it arrived back like new.  Like new in every sense, including all out our stuff wiped and completely gone.  We were smart and backed up all our data before sending it off, so no big loss.  Just a few hours of my time devoted to putting it all back on.

It started off feeling like an annoying task, but I found myself caught up in nostalgia as I re-loaded the photos.  Photos of Thom and I before we were dating.  Before were married.  Before we were expecting.  Before we knew we were expecting two!  Blame it on the hormones if you will, but it made me well up a bit.

It is amazing and humbling thinking about the twists and turns that life takes.  It doesn't seem like years ago that I was working behind a bar, trying to earn a little bit while going to graduate school.  Thom came in for a beer, stinking like an old onion and dressed in high-vis straight from work.  I imagine he would have choked on his beer if someone would have told us our future then.  And I would have probably called the police to help eject the deranged wierdo from the pub.

How things have changed!  We became friends at first, and later dated.  We had tons of fun.  I loved the way we could make a fun night out of nothing.  Or the way we would dance like idiots.  Or even the way we would both want to slope off from the crowds at the same time.  He became my man, best friend and partner.  But even then I could not have predicted that I would be sitting here now, having just seen our twins at a scan today.  Him in the kitchen fixing the taps and me tapping away about our journey through parenthood on the compter.  Even when we started dating, this senario would have seemed strange and domestic.  But here we are.

I'll let you in on a secret:  Earlier in my life, I never wanted children.  I was always told by others, mostly older women, that one day my biological clock would kick in and I would change.  I did change, but not because of some hormonal ticking time bomb.  I had always been very clear on my reasons for not wanting to join the ranks of the pro-creators.  From a young age, I did too much thinking for my own sanity.  That and some unfortunate experiences made the world seemed a cruel place.  People treated each other badly and there seemed no limit to the imaginative ways human beings could find to hurt others.  It didn't seem like the place to bring innocent children into.

Now, it sounds like a bit of screwed up logic.  Things shifted for me.  Not suddenly, but slowly.  It's hard to outline here exactly how the transformation happened.  Little things, I suppose.  Stopping to appreciate life and what a gift it really is.  Love helps, of course.  I remember one evening, stewing about not doing well enough in some area of my life and sharing my angst with Thom.  I couldn't sleep and in the darkness my worries poured out like flood waters.  I remember the shadowy outline of his face in the night.  He waited until I was done exhausting every paranoid corner of my little worry prison and then in a calm, low tone explained his perspective.  How every person is a miracle, not when they do things, but just the fact that they are alive is amazing.  For that reason, everyone is valuable and worthy of love.

In the face of such logic, but also love, my worries dried up and I lay there in the darkness, stunned that I had never before realised this most basic truth.  I had been moving towards a more accepting view of myself and others, but that moment cemented something.

So my eventual choice to have children was not motivated out of some primal, hormonal urge.  I think it was more beautiful than that.  My choice was a sign of the greater shifts in my life towards being more compassionate, more open and more able to love and be loved.

I often think about the twists and turns of fate, the miracle of nature that we are having not just a baby, but twins.  In my quiet moments, I think about the lessons life has taught me and the gifts it's laid in my path along the way.  I'm thankful for learning about love.  I'm thankful for that stinky man who stumbled into my pub.  And in my most goofy, gooey moments, I think about that love like a little bit of magic that couldn't help but make not just one, but two amazing little people.

Nest, nest, nest....now rest

I am listening to my eclectic Christmas music collection, enjoying a warm cup of tea and the inviting glow of candles and Christmas lights.  Pizza dough is churrning away in the breadmaker, its noisy kneading cycle reminding me of the tasty dinner soon to come.  Soon I'll fry up some peppers and sausages to top the pizza and the house will smell mouth-watering.

The house feels like a cave of tranquillity.  I've been nesting but now I think I need to stop and appreciate the nest.  It started out as a kind of panic nesting.  Following my last blog, with the warnings of just how early twins can arrive haunting me, I kicked into geare.  The hospital bag was packed and baby stuff was piling  up in the second bedroom.  Since then, the reality of it hit a but harder yet.

After the last scan, a week and a half ago, I was sent directly to the clinic.  I watched the sonographer and a midwife scurry from room to room with my growth charts as I began to get more and more unsettled in my seat in the busy waiting area.

Trying to breathe and keep calm is more difficult with my now limited lung capacity.  After an uneasy wait, a busy midwife called me in and talked me through concerns while preparing a massive dose of steroids she was about to stab me with.  I needed to return to the hospital again at 10pm for a second dose.  It was meant to prepare the babies lungs in the event that they came early.  The growth of one of the little guys had dropped off and it would be decided if any action should be taken when I saw the consultant myself the next week, she explained.

I surrendered a bit of fleshy butt cheek and agreed to be back that night for more.  I drove home on autopilot, got in the house and suddenly felt very lost and frightened.  What now? What would I do if they arrived by next week?  The thought of the plastic baby boxes in the special care unit gave me a chill and I wanted to cry.  But first, mamma-bear instinct kicked in.  Doing something felt better than doing nothing and I had a huge urge to make my cave totally prepared.

I decided that I could start by contacting my sister in law, Amy, to ask about borrowing her bottle steriliser.  She was enjoying a day with my mother in law, Sally.  I wasn't making much sense by text so I phoned.  in an instant, my she-bear persona gave way to whimpering, frightened baby-bear.  I found myself flooded with tears almost as soon as I opened my mouth.  Sally and Amy realised before I did that it wasn't really a steriliser I needed.  It was some kind words, encouragement and reminding that nothing is written in stone just yet.  That and a cuddle from Thom as well as ice cream after the 10pm injection helped.

Never the less, nesting kicked in full time since then.  I write that as if it is some force that took me over rather than my own behaviour.  Strangely, that's what it feels like.  So much so, that I was annoyed by interruptions to my nesting this weekend.  Thom told me we were to stop by my friend Bianca's house to check out water damage.  I was not happy.  There was Ikea furniture to assemble, cupboards to rearrange to ensure room for baby bottles, sleep suits to launder and cookies to bake and freeze.  I wanted to stay in but he wouldn't let me, reminding me that he endured Ikea getting storage and organising bits, so the least I could do is accompany him to check out mould patterns in Bianca's ceiling.  I begrudingly got dressed and dragged my feet all the way.

When we arrived, my smacked-bottom face was greeted by a group of smiling friends and a load of presents.  Surprise baby shower!  It took me a little while to figure out what was going on, I imagine partly because I've been in such solitary hibernating, nesting mode for so long.  I almost felt like I forgot how to converse with friends.  It was for my own good that nesting was set aside for a bit and that I was forcibly made to stop and enjoy this time of my life.  I may have come in with a bad attitude but left with a smile and warmed heart from all my lovely friends.  As well as a ton of presents for both me and the wrigglers.  Things to tuck away in my newly organised comfort cave.

Am I ready?   Well, now more than ever.  Best of all, I can take a moment to enjoy it, too.

Find me in dreamland: Baby baking hibernation begins

There is very little to report on the mamatastic front this week.  I've accomplished some various bits of pre-baby organisation, baked a few tasty tid-bits for Thom and added to the stockpile of nappies and baby things in the spare room.

But other than that I have been in slow motion.  Since the panic packing of the hospital bag, it's like someone planted pregnant-lady kryptonite somewhere in the house.  My little hoard of baby books and magazines inform me that tiredness is expected to return in the third trimester.  Different things are to blame than in the first three months when my body was busy sustaining the two little fellas while knitting a placenta.  The final three months see a return of tiredness because of my ever increasing size.

I suppose I have always been a good sleeper.  Give me a blanket and some place comfy and I am off to dreamland.  But this tiredness is more insistent and difficult to ignore.  Yesterday, I fell asleep sitting straight up on the sofa, waking about 2 hours after I sat down with the intention of just a little rest.  Everyday this week I've found myself waking up with a little sleep drool down my cheek, wondering where the time has gone and feeling a like a lazy hippo-person.

Guilt is what I feel, even though rationally I know it's not fair to beat myself up.  I am big and tired.  But I imagined myself as a whirlwind of productivity while off work.  Writing and organising and exercising.  Cooking a freezer-full of nutritious meals to keep us going when life gets very busy very soon.  Instead I find myself napping.  More accurately, constantly napping to the point where I'm tempted to label it hibernation.  Tonight I'm staring down a to-do list next to the computer that has remained untouched since Monday.  I'd like to rely on the comforting thought that 'there's always tomorrow', but with 37 weeks considered full term for twins, tomorrow's schedule might be fully booked.

On the other hand, my near-hibernation might be allowing this body to contain its cargo for while longer.  Good news for growing fat little newborns, but bad news for the to-do list.

Keep calm and carry on? Or panic and freak out?

Yesterday I left a slick, shiny gym in London with a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction.  I felt calm walking slowly from the gym through the tall glass buildings.  The wind whipped around me, traffic and people rushing past in the half light of the dusk.  Surrounded by bustling people, it somehow felt like my own special moment.

Yesterday I finished the final component of a personal trainer diploma.   When I began the course, I managed the first week before finding out that I was pregnant.  Whether I would be able to finish before my body gave out on me was questionable, especially after we discovered I was harbouring twins in my swiftly disappearing six-pack.  The last module just happened to be 'Adapting Exercise for Ante- and Post-Natal Clients', something I wanted to specialise in as a personal trainer.  I was the only pregnant student there and provided a useful example to the others in the gym demonstrations.

me sporting my six-pack

The man sitting next to me was a father of twins, now one-year-old.  He provided a happy and optimistic account, saying how they were fun and happy to give mum time to do other things while they played together.  But then we got onto birth experiences.

'They were delivered at 30 weeks,' he told me.

30 weeks!?  But I am at 32 weeks and no where near ready to be carted off to the hospital!  I knew this was common with twins, but blissfully ignoring the fact that I was at that point where these things happen.  I resolved to pack a hospital bag this week and finally write that birth plan.

So yesterday wasn't all self-satisfied smugness.  And it even got a little worse.  Thom and I were invited to a twin-specific ante-natal class that evening at the hospital.  My warm glow after leaving the gym was wearing thin by the time we left the house and the comfy sofa into the cold, dark night to get there for 7pm.  It was completely wiped out by the antiseptic smell wafting over us as we passed through the automatic sliding doors.

Yuk, hospitals, I thought, the idea of my fellow student's wife giving birth at 30 weeks fresh in my mind and the enforced hospital stay that early arrival would necessitate.  Just to tip me over into total panic stations, the class included a video of parents of twins talking about birth experiences, including the weeks into pregnancy they were at delivery.  32 weeks.  36 weeks.  My heart pounded as I counted the where we would be by then.

Our class continued with a trip to the Special Care Baby Unit, a little ward with friendly nurses and little tiny babies in clear plastic boxes.  Not the warm cuddly image I had in mind for my own.  The nurse pointed through the glass at a tired looking woman smiling into one of plastic boxes.

'Here is one of our ladies who gave birth today!'  Turns out she was meant to be on the twins ante-natal class with us that evening, but her babies had other plans.  And so there she was, like a walking wake-up call, that this is possibly happening very soon.

I woke this morning full of resolve.  Pulling a handy list off the internet of what should be in a hospital bag, I strode into town with a purpose, armed with my debit card and a healthy dose of anxiety.  Probably not a bad thing for me because now I can sit here and write to you with the calm knowledge that a suitcase now stands packed and ready should the little wrigglers make a surprise appearance.    


      

Maternity leave: time to baby-bake

I'm sitting on the sofa eating crisps and dip, as smells of the curry Thom is cooking up are wafting from the kitchen and straight into my brain.  It's making my stomach rumble and I've had to pull away from the crisps briefly, for my own good.

Yesterday was my last day at work before maternity leave.  It was strange feeling leaving the front doors of the hospital where I work, my bag containing the last of my personal stuff from the office, clutching a big bouquet of flowers from my co-workers.  I made my way home in a kind of haze, finding it hard to believe that this would  be the last time doing this in a while.  Even more surreal, was the knowledge that the next time I commuted to work, my life would be very, very different.

Today, unusually for us, we slept late into the morning before sluggishly rolling ourselves into the day with some strong coffees.  Thom's, a big mug.  Mine, a mini-dose.  We had the whole day with no commitments and beautiful autumn weather.  We eventually strolled up into town to meet with our friend, Bianca and do a little browsing of the shops.

Without work waiting for me on the other end of the weekend, I noticed an urge to get lots of things sorted.  Things that I'd been telling myself, 'Once I'm on maternity leave, I will....'  I made a start on stockpiling toiletries, in anticipation of future months when I would not be so mobile or so blessed with the freedom of spare time.  We got home and I continued organising and getting ready.  But as the sun started to dip below the horizon, and my feet were speaking to me with curse words, I realised that this was silly.

I want to get ready, but this time is also for resting.  Thom refers to it as my 'baby baking time', and in truth that is the real job at hand.  So I changed into my slippers, left the pile of baby clothes in the spare room and parked on the sofa.  Thom got to cooking, as he has faithfully done throughout the 7 months so far, allowing me to just baby-bake.  With this luxury of time and curry on it's way, I'm one lucky baby-baker.

Thom's dinners: yummy and heartfelt

Winge and thankfulness: taking stock of what I got

One more week of work and I will be on maternity leave.   In some ways it has all gone so fast and then at other times I feel like I've been pregnant forever.  This might be because I got off pretty lightly with the majority of unpleasant pregnancy symptoms.  No sickness.  No vomiting.  Tiredness but I like to nap anyway. 

Now that I am stretching my physical limits, I'm noticing some unpleasant things.  Swollen feet have arrived.  At the end of the day, when I remove my socks, my fat little ankles look like sausage links from where the socks cut in.  I even bought a larger pair of shoes, which feel big at the beginning of the day and rather snug by the end.

And I have dizzy spells.  At the last scan, after laying on my back for 15 minutes, I was going pale and woozy.  The weight of the babies presses on the Vena Cava, a major vein of the body, cutting off the blood supply as it tries to return to the heart from the body.  My blood supply was being cut off by the very weight of my own body.  Amazing.  They turned me on my side and waited for the colour to return to my face.

Fat feet.  Fainting feeling.  Ever bigger belly.  And the continuing fear of the stretch mark fairy payign me visit.  I am literally counting the hours until Friday at 5pm.  

But I had a kind of a gift arrive through email that is helping me to feel thankful and made me take a fresh look at my so-called tribulations.  A brave woman named, Heather, emailed as we both have blogs about our travels through motherhood.  Mine, a sometimes rambling winge.  Her's, a harrowing story of life and death, confronting cancer in the midst of bringing a new life into the world.  Click here to read Heather's blog

Heather's blog tells the story of her fight with mesothelioma, an aggressive cancer that attacks the lungs.  At a time when she should have been bonding with her baby and getting used to being a mother, she was forced into a battle for her life.  6 years later, and she is still here, a testament to the amazing resiliency people can find where they least expect it.

My sausage feet, frankly, pale in comparison to the things Heather went through.  I imagine I will still winge now and again.  Even now, I have come in from work and dived straight under a blanket on the sofa.  I'm hoping Thom will make dinner appear at when he gets in, as my rumbling tummy says the twins are hungry, but I am too tired and feeling too sorry for myself to move.  But despite my slug-like qualities, I am thankful, and Heather has reminded me of how much there is be happy about.  I hope you'll have a look at her story and it enriches your outlook, too.

Bake-tastic: time to get cookin'

Sunday. Wakey, wakey. It's time to get baking.  And not just in the kitchen, either.    Time to get cookin' on baby preparations.

I was given a stack of pregnancy and motherhood magazines a few weeks ago by my sister in law.  Mothers-to-be everywhere need information, comfort, entertaining.  Plus I plonk 'em in the bathroom so Thom can learn all about birth, labour and everything mama-tactic while he 'sits on his throne' in the morning.

What can you find in almost any womens' magazine?  Quizzes.  How are you measuring up compared to other women, is the general question.  Is rating ourselves like this really a nice way to spend our free time?  In any case, they are a little irresistible and I took one on 'what kind of pregnant woman are you?'. Turns out I am too laid back.  Uh-oh.  I was pretty pleased at managing my anxieties and not turning a baby into a substitute for my own identity and self esteem.  But have a gone too far in the direction of the slacker?

So I got crackin'.  I organised the house, streamlining and creating storage space.  I baked, baked and baked some more.  It made me feel all motherly and stuff, with the double benefit of keeping Thom happy in the midst of my whirlwind of organising.  He even took some bits up to the loft at my request. 

And I engaged in the primary activity of mothers in western society: shopping.  Got down to finally committing to a few baby essentials.  Although I have not yet kitted out the nursery, I had not been a total loser.  I've shopped around, picking out the bits I wanted and sifting wisely through the massive gravitational pull of marketing directed at mothers to figure out what we would actually need.  So my first mama-shop was really a simple case of clicking a couple bits preselected on the Internet.

How do I feel?  Truthfully, a bit more sorted and more relaxed for it.  The bits I've ordered are on their way and the soon-to-be nursery is slowly developing a wall insulated by bales of diapers.  Not sure I completely share the magazine's perspective of the ideal mother, but this feels good enough.  Plus, best of all, with freshly knitted hats from the mother-in-law here and ready to go, how could I feel uptight?  I feel like I can relax, but I'll make sure not to relax too much.

As if there were any doubt, it is confirmed: real women have twins

Okay, so now I'm gonna sing my own praises a little bit.  Hell, I am about to embark on a double tap of diaper duties for the next few years, so indulge me. 

I was more than pleased to read an article today in the evening standard on the commute home:  women who have twins are stronger and live longer. click here to read the article  Not only are us twin-mums stronger but they have other superpowers such as greater reproductive life-spans and they take less time to recover between pregnancies.  Hopefully they have an extra set of arms or selective deafness, too, although these valuable traits were not discussed in the article.  

Not only great news, but something I've been telling myself, possibly in blind hope, for a while.  Terrifying as the prospect of two babies was at that first scan, it seems do-able.  Shortly after the first scan I spoke to a friend and co-worker who was just about to return to us from her maternity leave.  Her words stayed with me: Life only gives you what you can handle. 

At first I focused on the superficial truth of what she said.  Physically, I was ready.  Toned, aerobically trained and mentally prepped for endurance.  In the best shape of my life, to be honest.  I told myself, if anyone can do this, you can. 

But undoubtedly twins pose more than simply physical challenges to their mothers.  And despite my cockiness here, I am susceptible to my moments of freaking out, just like anybody else.   After reading the article and enjoying a little moment of smugness, I wondered if women who have twins are superhuman or if they become superhuman through the challenge of having twins.  After all, physical limits of the human body are regularly tested and exceeded according to the demands of the environment.  Aside from the physical, mentally and emotionally, we are possibly even more resilient and adaptable.

 The words of my friend hold a truth not because I am physically stronger or more resilient than others.  What makes them true is that everyone is made to adjust to even the greatest of life's curve-balls.  We even become better for it.  You can't make a diamond without a lot of pressure. 

Either way, something tells me it's definatly going to be al right.  This article helps to remind me to appreciate my strength and maybe even look out for my hidden superpowers.  But even better, it reminds me that life's greatest challenges are what make us. 

New trimester, new record highs

My iPhone app bleeps happily at me as I ride the train into work.  'You are entering your third trimester'.  Already?  No wonder I'm snoring harmoniously for my fellow travellers and waking up just before my stop only to walk straight past work to the little M&S for a record-breaking 3rd breakfast of the morning. 

The little wrigglers kick up a storm against my ribs as I choose a tub of pineapple pieces.  I stroll longingly past the cheese, pondering what it might look like if I just munch away on a big chunk of it at my desk while I check my emails.  I settle on the share-size pack of flapjacks.  The admin staff will appreciate my leftovers and the bite sized bits will do me well as I can feel so full so fast but for such a short period of time.

Breakfast time was one of the first big differences I saw in myself when I discovered I was pregnant.  Breakfast suddenly became less of a meal and more of an all-consuming desire.  I'd lust after raisin bran.  But one breakfast never felt enough.  I'd follow that up with fruit and yogurt.  Thom now regularly brings in berries on a Saturday morning for the fruit breakfast.  So much so that we thought we ought to name one child Raspberry and maybe the other one Strawberry.

Now the main breakfast and the fruit breakfast don't seem enough.  Third trimester calls for three breakfasts.  I'm keen on the wrigglers packing on some lovely baby fat and, hell, I still fit into the skinny maternity trousers, so why not?  Upstairs is a different story.  

Third trimester has meant a third incease in bra size.  Gave up last weekend and went searching for something less squeezey and pinchy.  The previous ones, which once seemed so huge now felt like torture.  Now the ones that fit me are located in the way, way back of the lingerie section.  Past the lacy, pretty, cool ones into the deep, dark recesses of the department.  Less lovely lighting as there is no need to get a better look at the mono-toned architecture back there.  I choose the next size up and it looks like... well, cue Thom, the only fan of the curse of pregnancy boobs.

'At least afterwards we could use the cups as a tent,' Thom chimes in.  Yes, they look like tents.  But there is no sense arguing against the discomfort any more.  Me and my tent-sized bra are going to forget it and have some nice cheese for third breakfast. 

Mum wax

You can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.  And you can't have twins without stretching a little epidermis.  Stretch marks.  Oh dear.  They have not yet graced my tummy but in all reality,can I get away without them?  Unscathed, so to speak?

There is evidently little that can be done to prevent them.  If you get bigger faster than your skin can stretch, the under layers will tear, leaving red marks.  Yuk.  If you are an optimistic kind of person you might find it comforting to know that they will eventually fade to white or silvery coloured reminders.  

Despite it all being down to nature and body shape and luck, I am willing to put my faith in what amounts to effectively magic.  The rational me readily agrees that this is just one of those things.  Neither science nor medicine nor cosmetic giants can save you from it.  But the little voice inside, the one that gets drawn in by the hype on the Home Shopping Network, says: What if?  And, I gather from the gigantic range of highly priced products claiming to help prevent those little tears that I am not the only one off with the fairies. 

I am putting my faith in few, hopefully 'miracle' products.  It is more like voodoo than logic based on anything remotely medical.  Just before bed and just after the morning shower I religously rub in a vitamin E oil.  Then a nice layer of something that comes in a big, medical looking white tub.   It claims to save mums-to-be from the evils of stretch marks with an interesting balance of scientific-sounding compounds and magical stuff from nature.  Bound to be something in there that works, right?

Thom watches as he settles into bed with the wisdom not to say too much, except, 'Mum wax time?'  Yes, darling, it's mum wax time.  With a little prayer the mum wax gets dutifully rubbed into the bump each morning and night.  It's something of a ritual, with its own kind of holy water to ward off the effects of the growing baby-bulk.  But it remains to be seen if my faith has any foundation.  When the world is an uncertain place, blind faith offers some solace.  So for now, I'll be greasing myself up with a lot of hope and a teeny-tiny prayer.

Train travels: Lessons in etiquette and assertiveness

I never thought I'd get to the point where my own feet felt as though they might give out on me.  Despite all the books, advice from other moms/mums and pregnancy Google searches I've done over the last few months, I always thought, 'Not me'.

I write to you now from a very over crowded Monday morning train.  Problems over the weekend mean that trains are delayed or cancelled and about 3 trains worth of people are crammed onto the one I am on now.  I debated to myself whether to try to catch this one, but as it approached I could see a few available seats.  You have to have a dose of optimism to be a commuter, and I thought I'd take a chance.  

When the train stopped with the door directly in front of me, I thought I had made a pretty good choice.  One of those precious few seats was surely all mine.  But a short balding man pushed me out of the way and grabbed the nearest seat as the others further up carriage were snapped up by other weary commuters.  I found a place to lean (against the back of a man who grunted his disapproval and the shoulder of another sat down next to me who shot me an angry glare) and tried to settle in for the journey.  

I've stood many times on the commute to London, just not so much in the last 6 months when I have always tried to catch the less busy trains, even at the expense of being late to work.  I summoned up my resolve and decided that my feet would survive.  15 min down the tracks and I'm sore, shifting from one foot to the other.  I look around at the sea of people, heads down, buried into newspapers or eye closed with iPods.  My stare is met with an occasional glance and I wonder what to do.  

Do I wait patiently for the good graces or shame of someone to take over and offer me a seat? Or do I act assertively, and ask for one if I need it? After all, they may not have noticed.  I spend some time arguing with myself about how much I'm showing in the black dress I have on and teeter between feeling cross at all the selfish people and understanding at the Monday morning head-fog.  I'm also frustrated at myself.  Why can't I just ask for what I need?  It is what I have worked through with many a client, rationalising the fears and anxieties that follow.  What if they think I'm rude?  What if they get angry?  All the 'what if's' got in the way. Between them and my frustration at fellow passengers I was feeling pretty unsettled.

My rising tide of frustration was interrupted by a man at a window seat who had been listening to his iPod.  He motioned for me to sit down and I waddle through the barricade of suits, thanking this man for his kindness all the way.  I admit I was feeling ill.  My feet were swollen from standing.  I perhaps should have asked.  I'm afraid of all these suited strangers thinking I'm weak but I notice that I also don't want to admit a weakness.  Not a good combination.  In any case, eventually I'm sat warm and snuggled next to a fat man.  He's huffing and puffing as my size takes up more than the trim, kind man who gave me this seat.  Well, fat guy, it's a tough old world here in the train and now that I've admitted I need this seat, I'm not budging up for you.

'Glamour Bump': the adventures of a lumbering slutty hippo

There is no slowing the growth of the bump.  Most recent scan on Friday again showed the two little guys, this time more crammed in than ever.  The snuggly chaps are making their presence known with kicks and punches on a regular and daily basis as the battle between by abdominal wall and their increasing size continues.

As the bump challenges my wardrobe, I try to remember that clothes are what humans do when we can't go naked.  But I am approaching the point where clothes are what I do when the spandex allows.  I wore a dress other day that boss remarked was looking more like a shirt.  I find the process of getting dressed a pretty comical experience.  Thank goodness (and modesty-sake) for my mother, who has kindly sent some maternity trousers and other bits over the Atlantic.  With them and digging to the far back reaches of my wardrobe, I might just make it the 9 months without having to resort to going to Tesco in my bathrobe.

The other day, hubbie and I were planning to head to town to do some weekend errands and was stood in a towel in front of the closet wondering what I could cram into.  In the back, the way back, was a pink stretchy dress. I wore it once, years ago, on a night out.  Back then, it's shocking pink colour paired with a just-above the knee hemline made it sexy but not too slutty.  I also had some glorious pink heels that rounded it off nicely that night. I wondered how far the lycra would be prepared to go as I pulled it on.  The bump forced the hemline a little higher than before and I was unsure of the colour with my belly.

Noting my curled up lip, Thom asked what the problem was.  The bright pink, which first drew me in, now seemed reminiscent of Miss Piggy.  I said the first words that came to mind.  'I look like a slutty hippo.'
He giggled and told me to get my shoes on so we could get going.  I opted for Uggs rather than the glorious heels, of course.  So off we went.  Time to let go of vanity, I thought.

We made our way around town, picking up little things we needed, including a much larger clothes horse in anticipation of much greater amounts of laundry to come.  At the checkout, the girl at the till exclaimed, 'You look so glamorous! Glamorous but with a bump!'  I was stunned but she was full of compliments as she scanned away, asking questions about how far along I was and all things pregnancy related.

As we left, I grabbed a sneaking glance of myself in the shop windows.  Admittedly, I still saw slutty hippo.  The extra girth seems so foreign to me.  But one amazing thing I'm learning is that beauty is far more inclusive than we can ever imagine.  Life lesson in there somewhere.

Pregnancy dreams - part 4

As before, I don't feel it's fair to leave you all in my unconscious without a line back to reality. So for all of you - and especially for my own mother who will be worried that I am losing my mind - here's why my most recent pregnancy dream is so cool. 

The theme of 4 and the symbol of the house

Jung writes about things that come in 4's in dreams.  His case studies discuss people, corners, objects that appear in 4's.  He wrote about a dreamer who had a dream of four people that I found most helpful. In the dream, the dreamer had 2 other people he felt comfortable with and the fourth, a woman who was more unsettling.  Jung wrote that the woman represented the 'anima' - an archetypal representation of the primal part of ourselves. Often denied, repressed, dismissed, sublimated.     

My dream house has been a recurring symbol and I have been trying to find my place among the four floors.  In this dream I finally get a glimpse into the fourth level and all it's frightening terror.  This seems like the realm of the unknown, the things I have put away for my own safety and sanity - my anima.  It only wants my attention, but I flee, all the way past the comfortable level down to a dark basement.  Here the scene is too childlike to feel at home and I land back in an adult role, albeit an uncomfortable one. 

Being pregnant and staring down the prospect of parenthood is certainly a time that is liable to bring up the deepest fears.  And within that are parts of me that were unexplored, like the rooms of the upper floors.  There are also parts of me that are childlike that no longer suit my life. They offer solace from the terror of confronting my new role and myself head-on but I can no longer play by the rules of being a child.

The frightening woman and the old woman

The frightening woman of the 4th floor embodies the qualities of an anima archetype, like those Jung wrote about.   But what about the old woman following me, pinning me in to a place where I meet the frightening woman?  

There is an unavoidable intersection between the life I knew and the unstoppable mysterious yet natural thing happening to me.  Being pregnant is unknown territory for me, yet my body knows what to do.  I feel like an instinctual being of nature, that is as long as I can set aside the modern comforts of the information age.  Google is not a pregnant lady's friend, it is the breeding ground of my anxiety.  

The old lady following me feels very different from the anima woman of the 4th floor, yet something I desire to avoid all the same.  She is following behind me, hemming me in like the demands of the world and society that don't allow me to be totally the anima woman and all her wild, untamable nature.  I will after all have to be responsible. Find a way to raise these two while keeping a hold on the rest of my life, my friends, my career, my husband.  And somehow struggle with being an acceptable mother to myself and others.  It isn't all just being part of nature and able to create a life that will make me a mother.

The family where I don't belong

All this confronting and escaping my emerging new role is necessary.  I come from a family but it will no longer be one where I completely belong.  I will carve out my own way and take responsibility for my own family.  It will mean seeing myself in a different way.  No kidding, but I have considered this when looking at my own belly button in the shower.  I was once that little person connected to another through and umbilical cord.  The scar of it remains.  And now I am the one with a little person (or persons) attached to me.  I am used to the role of 'daughter' and as terrifying as it is to take on a new role, the old one won't work and won't be satisfying either.  For all the fear and uncertainty ahead, it is preferable to remaining where I no longer belong. 

Just some of my thoughts.  If you still think I'm going mad, that is also a distinct possibility.  Blame the hormones and give me the grace to see if I snap out of it before calling in the straight jackets, please.

Pregnancy dreams: part 3

Update on my active dream world.  If you dare take a peek into my unconscious, feel free.  Again, any interpretations welcome.

I have a recurring dream theme.  It's a house with 4 stories.  It is old.  In the dreams, I live in the house but I reside mainly on the lower floors.  In the previous dreams, this was because these were the only floors I owned,  or in other dreams because the other areas of the house were being used for something else.

In the latest house dream, I am aware that there is something on the fourth floor that I don't want to see.  Something terrifying.  I am somehow aware that the fourth floor is small and contains only a small bed and a window.

In this house dream, I am on the ground floor and there is an old woman pottering around.  I want to avoid her and begin to climb the stairs.  I intend to hide in the toilet of the second floor, but she is quicker on my heels than I expect and opt instead to try to out-rush her to toilets that are on the 3rd floor.  I rush into a antiquated bathroom, decorated with frilly pink and lock myself in a cubicle.  It's a large cubicle with a toilet but also antique wall lighting, a chair, pink carpet, a basin and generally a lot of room.  The old woman is just behind me, but I manage to evade her.

I try to turn on the wall lights, but they don't work.  I suddenly become aware that the ceiling of the third floor is not complete and opens to the fourth floor.  I look above me and see a terrifying looking woman glaring back at me.  She descends into the cubicle with me.  I threaten her to stay away,  but she threatens me right back and shows a small blade.  She doesn't attack me but demands that I listen.

All at once, I am flying down the stairs, using the hand rails to slide and jumping from floor to floor.  I find myself in a basement that I didn't know what there.  There is a little girl and then it seems that I am the little girl.  She is playing with a doll's house and there is a man there with her.  He seems like a father or uncle.  The basement is dimly lit.  He states that she normally plays with the doll's house in a certain way, but she turns to him and says that she will do it differently now.

Suddenly I am in a lounge on the ground floor.  A man who is my husband (but does not look like Thom) is reading to our child on the sofa.  I am standing, looking at a stained glass window that contains the images of the people of the house, depicted against red glass.  The face of the man and the child are there but the face of the woman is not me.  It is someone who was in my place before.  I stamp my feet to demand that she leave the house.

And then I wake up.

Sympathy for the fat man

I am ever amazed at the proportions I am developing.  Not having a round belly feels like another lifetime and I can't imagine that there will be a time when it goes.  This week's big news is the big belly.  The little fellas must be having a growth spurt.

Monday, I was feeling tight.  The commute played havoc on my back and I think I felt the beginnings of lordosis - a curve of the lower spine common in people with belly weight, such a preggos like me and beer-bellied men.  I came home and treated myself to a little yoga, a routine I used regularly before pregnancy and with only minor adjustments since.  But on Monday evening, my belly wouldn't fit into certain positions, even though it was only a few days previously that I last managed the poses with ease.

It is obvious to all that I am indeed a pregnant lady.  The people I know who had yet to mention my expanding waistline have started to suddenly declare that they can see I am pregnant.  This week I found myself standing on the Underground, which I didn't mind much on that day.  I had my trainers on and my handbag was light having been recently purged of all redundant lip glosses and bits of rubbish.  A fat man looked at me from his seated position near my belly.  He could tell and I could tell he could tell.

While the Underground etiquette is to offer your seat to the elderly, injured or pregnant, we commuters know this happens irregularly.  There was a debate in the letters section of the Metro a few years ago following a letter from a woman disgusted that no one offered a seat despite her big, pregnant appearance.  The debate took two distinct sides - those who agreed that we should all be more compassionate to those less able to stand and those who saw pregnancy as a woman's choice and no reason for the rest of the world to give a monkey's, let alone a seat.

I looked at the fat man's belly and wondered if he felt like me.  Crammed into my undies, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot when stood for a length of time, breathless at the sight of stairs and salivating at the smell of the patisserie.  Probably.  I realised that I never before had sympathy for fat men.  I knew the pain of the aching lordosis he must have.  As we sized up each other's bellies, him firmly planted in his seat, we might have been thinking the same thing:  that the discomfort was ultimately the consequence of the other's choice. My choice was not to have a big belly, but to have a child.  His choice was probably not to have a big belly either, but a chocolate éclair.  In any case, I stood until a much trimmer man offered me his seat, something that will never happen for my poor fat comrade.  I sat, fat and happily, across from him for a few stops looking pretty damn smug.  

Pregnancy hair

Advice in the first 12 weeks from websites, magazines and books all encourage pregnant women to look forward to the second trimester.  A supposedly magical time when the fatigue fades, you grow but glow and you develop that lovely pregnancy head of hair.  Pantene has nothing on it.  Hormones mean that it is thicker, glossier and just better. 

I got that.  It is thicker and it would probably be shiny if I could be bothered to wash it more often.  But I can't as truthfully I am far less happy about it than the literature claims I should be.  I have stopped dying it, after deciding that it was best not to take chances, especially with something so vain and periphery to my ultimate happiness.  At least that was the noble, just-found-out-I'm-pregnant-me.  Before the reality of 5 inches of roots, in a colour I assume is my natural shade.  I can't recall, as the last time I saw it I must have been 10 years old.  Being an all-or-nothing sort, I've been letting my undyed locks go almost all-natural.  No straightening.  The natural waves sometimes being a friend and sometimes being a cantankerous distant cousin of dreadlocks.

This past Saturday, me and my nature-mama hair rolled our of bed and threw on a bathrobe.  A lazy morning ahead of me, I didn't pay a thought to the tangled afro on my head.  Thom and I pottered about on the decking in the morning sunlight, he sipping coffee while I inspected the plants.  I pulled out some offensive bind weed and returned inside to the sofa, content that I had been an instustrious little morning person.  

Half way through the morning talk shows, I started paying attention to the tangles, half-mindedly easing them apart with my fingers.  As a worked through the mess, eyes glazed and fixed on the television, I was startled to find something hard and cold among the knotted tresses.  It even felt a little wet.  My fingers brushed past it at first and I struggled to back track and locate it again.   

Was it a pebble? A bit of last nights dinner?  Some strange skin problem?  I was more horrified than all of that to pull it out and see it was a tiny baby snail shell.  Disgusted, I let it fall from my fingers to the bathrobe.  Thom thought it was cute.  After landing, I was even more shocked to see a tiny baby snail timidly raise it's antennae out of the shell and start to explore my lap.  Thom quickly saved me, or perhaps saved himself from my protests of 'Eww!' and 'Gross!'.  He released the little guy outside. 

So, pregnancy hair.  One of the highlights of this experience and also a handy net for catching garden pests.  

Men and boys

Something strange happens to men when Thom tells them he is having twins.  Something even stranger happens when he tells them it's twin boys.  It seems that in the male version of the story of life, bi, manly men make boys. And therefore the manly-est must make twin boys.

I sit back and shake my head at the masculine logic, in all its base and Neanderthal-like glory.  Thom revels in it, and I guess he deserves it.  The poor guy copes with his pregnant wife like a real trooper.  It is generally all about me and my cargo (spent 3 hours on the sofa today, snoozing and watching Spartacus while he cooked curry form scratch), so it's ok that he's been able to puff his chest out a bit over this.  Even though I think his all-male cheering squad are mistaken.

Like a lot of things, this might all start with the story of Adam and the Garden of Eden.  The fellas seem hung up on the idea that being male is the stronger and preferred form of humanity.  Backed up by the Bible which tells us that God made Adam and only knocked together Eve as an afterthought, at Adam's winge that he was a bit lonely.   Excuse the heresy as I put my rough ideas together, but what if men didn't come first?  None of us were there.  History is always written by the victors, and men, having more physical strength in a dangerous world ruled through brute force.  Perhaps it is their interpretation of creation we now have.  So how can we be sure?  Maybe men and women arrived in the garden at once, or even, what if woman came first!

If woman did come first, the story makes just as much sense.  It might have been more likely for a woman to ask for a companion to share the Garden of Eden with, and someone not as good looking as her, as well.  Someone to talk to.  What disappointment when the companion happily sat in silence and loathed to be asked what he was thinking.  Especially if he when did answer, it turned out he wasn't thinking about her!  Oh well, either way, we come in two types and its debatable if one is stronger or preferred. 

To counter the male banter, sex is determined from fertilisation.  Pure chance.  There are sperm that make females and sperm that make males.  Although the male sperm swims faster, the female sperm is reputed to be stronger and longer-living.  So much for the big and tough argument.  Click here for handy answers from the web on how sex is determined

I will now have to reign myself in and resist all this man-woman power struggle stuff.  Maybe I'm feeling just a little worried about how to cope with being completely out-numbered when the twins arrive.  Is it wrong to hope for at least one mummy's boy?  I think I will be able to be reasonable now that I've off-loaded my thoughts on all of you.  After all, Thom and I are hardly ascribing to the traditional gender roles in our household.  I have just ploughed my way through a huge plate of curry; yet another meal cooked by the man of the house.  And now I am sat nursing by huge belly and letting out some very unfeminine burbs as they arise.  From the sounds of this, I should hope for the twins to be just like their dad.  

Science vs Folklore: Stealing the fun

Up until the last few weeks, my local hospital had a policy not to tell the sex of babies to anyone.  Not some kind of politically correct plan to save babies from parents who might favour boys.  No, that might be acceptable.  It was actually a reaction to be sued years ago when a family kitted out their nursery at great expense for a little girl before getting a little boy.  Ooops.  But not really a reason for a lawsuit.

In any case, the hospital decided to cover its butt more in future.  Thom and I got used to the idea and even looked forward to the uncertainty and surprise that awaited us on the big day.  Besides, there were all the old wives tales about how to predict the sex to keep us interested and entertained.  I found a list of them complied on The Baby Centre and I ticked most all the boxes for boys.  People at work, mostly the women who have children of their own, told me they thought I was going to have boys.  They couldn't lay their fingers on why, exactly.

My mother-in-law said she also thought I was the type to have boys.  My brother-in-law, whose daughter just turned 1 years old this month, was told that he was the type to have girls.  I puzzle over how a person can look 'the type' to have girls or boys, but in his case it proved correct.

We have all come to rely on medical science so much.  Pokes and prods and biopsies offer up irrefutable answers.  And irrefutable answers are the most desirable kind of answers to us uncertainty-hating humans.  But all this folklore has come from somewhere.  Wise old women, traditionally the ones people had to rely on for midwifery and birth, must have taken note through the centuries of differences between boy-pregnancies and girl-pregnancies.  Their knowledge, not seen as scientific in today's world, must have been based on correlations and large numbers of test cases.

For me the folklore as been proved correct again.  Since the hospital's policy change, we found out for certain that we are having boys.  Despite the excitement of looking forward to finding out when they arrived, we were also sucked in by the promised calm of medical, scientific certainty.  The ultrasound operator asked if we wanted to know.  I looked at Thom, his eyes lit up and nodding away like an idiot.  It was all the permission I needed and we said 'yes, tell us'.

I feel a mixture of satisfaction and regret.  Satisfaction that I know what's coming.  Regret that I've traded some of impending excitement for a rock solid certainty.  Science gave me an answer, but kinda stole the fun.  I'd bet the women across the centuries would have done the same, given the choice.  It was just that those who would have wanted to know were left to the best they could rely on - the observations of the wise old women - which, as it turns out, were pretty damn good.

Take my advice....

I have made it past 20 weeks.  The halfway point in a pregnancy.  I still wake up some days and forget what’s happening.  There is a hazy dawn moment when it’s just me and Thom.  Then I realize in a few months these two will be here with us and I may not even remember what those hazy mornings ever felt like. 

Along with being past 20 weeks obviously goes the inevitable growing girth.  As I get ever bigger, and the world can see what's happening to me, baby advice is practically sprouting from ground I walk on.  Everyone has a supposedly good idea or an essential tidbit for me or the babies.  

Listen to gospel music, babies love it.

Don't dress them the same, it will screw them up.

Buy a dog, it’s good for kids.

Beware of teenagers, they are always terrible.  With two, you’ll struggle.

Don't buy a dog, get one from a rescue home.  It’s the only way.

Don't exercise. You could risk your babies.

Don't take the stairs.  It’s not safe.

You shouldn't be wearing those heels. 

Goodness knows how people come to these tips.  However, they hatch their ideas, I’m certain it’s not just for me, as the mother-to-be books have dedicated sections on dealing with the advice onslaught endured by pregnant women.  To be fair, it comes in all forms and although can be bizarre and annoying, it is not always so.  There is plenty of advice that is offered like a gift, from a desire to help, to be involved, to save someone from potential suffering or give happiness. 

I’ve noticed more and more how much the world takes pregnant me on as if I belong to them.  Not just people that are parents themselves, but a great range of people seem to take the project of parenthood as a something that concerns us all.  It makes me think of the phrase, ‘it takes a village to raise a child’, coined by Hilary Clinton in recent history, but credited to an African proverb traditionally.  While it remains true also that many others couldn't give a damn about pregnancy, or even have a palpable distaste for it.  This attitude is clear on London public transport, where I am greeted with looks of suspicion and annoyance, most likely for having the gall to bring another body into the already crowded Underground.  

But when it comes to the advice-givers, there are times when my bump certainly does feel like public property.  It’s open for comment, analysis and the occasional feel.  Even patients at the hospital have dared put feel up my bump.  My lifestyle and choices are open for scrutiny by more than just my consultant and midwife.  I begin to wonder if I look like a crack addict or someone who might unwittingly trade her child for an iPod.     

Even if the advice I'm getting is correct, which is plainly debatable, it is bizarre that everyone has something to contribute.  But when people do give advice, deluded or not, it seems to come from the knowledge that it is huge task to raise a child, and a responsibility that cannot be fulfilled by one person alone.  So while it can feel controlling, it is maybe a very human reaction to the enormity of parenthood.