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.