October 31, 2007

For My Love...

On this day, on Halloween, on the day our children were due and the day I fell out of the sky and into love with you all those years ago on a hot Bangkok street, I just want to say I love you.

I'm not good at crafts, I can't make you a perfect card or a spice rack or a nice hanging wreath, but I can try to tell you how much everything in my life means to me...and you, my boy, you are the biggest part of my life and the glue that holds me together much of the time. I know I've already had one photo montage once this month, but I just felt Regina Spektor put it better than I could.

You are my heart.



-H.

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October 30, 2007

A Very Merry Un-Birthday

Tomorrow is Halloween.

Halloween, the 31st of October, the day that the babies were due.

Halloween has always been my favorite of the holidays, the usher of the great joy that is the Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Year's home run. I have decorated the house in Halloween style, and am on my fourth Jack-o-lantern since October began. Glowing ghosts hang in the living room window, lit-up pumpkins adorn the front of the house, and spookily-lit spiders hang in the kitchen.

But inside, I'm not sure I feel very much like Halloween.

I find it hard to talk. I can't explain it, but I'm all wrapped up in my head and can't make it all out. I find the idea of talking physically exhausting, so while I want to talk to people, including Statia (who I've only been able to talk to once since the babies arrived, and even that got cut short when the babies started screaming - sorry, babe - don't be angry!) and my family, I find it hard to do so, it's like I can't make sense of anything. I just keep moving - there is a lot to do, and with Melissa and Jeff here, there's little PC time or quiet time available until next week when Jeff heads home and Melissa starts work-study.

I'm finding great joy though in little moments, in small steps, and in quiet pauses. Not only in the incredible way Jeff is responding to his new brother and sister, but in things I never knew could hold me.

Very late last night was such an event.

Angus had taken Nora up to to bed. Jeff was snoozing away in the study. It was Nick and I and the dark house, and I switched on the TV to help keep me awake while we worked on him finishing his bottle. BBC's Electric Proms came on, and Sigur Ros' song Staralfur came on. I sat there, rocking Nick and soothing him, and I cried like a baby before hugging him close to me and told him how much I love him, and how much I always will.

Something tells me that tomorrow is going to be an emotional day for me.

I'm going to try to greet it with open arms and inhale the scent of it and remember it, because Swiss cheese memories can't take it away.


Celebrating their would-be birthday in true style

-H.

PS- fabulous hats courtesy of two lovely aunties.

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October 29, 2007

Asked and Answered

This morning, completely exhausted after a short night of sleep and more in need of coffee than any human being ever, I head downstairs.

I am met on the stairs by Jeff, with sleep-tousled hair and sandman in his eyes.

"Can I go say good morning to the babies?" he asks. "I'll be quiet."

"Of course you can," I reply.

I go downstairs and Angus and I log in to our IP camera in their room, and we see and hear the babies' big brother adjust the stuffed animals he excitedly brought them last night. Then he leans in to their cot, talks sweetly to them both and rubs their backs before he tiptoes out of their room and shuts the door.

I think it's going to be ok.

-H.

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October 27, 2007

When the Fog Has Finally Lifted

Some mornings I walk Gorby in the local woods. He loves it there, and he deserves it. A number of people (including Cheryl, Kenju, and CTG) have asked how he's doing with the babies, and the truth is, he's very insecure. He sits by them when they're downstairs, he follows them when we carry them, but he needs an awful lot of attention. We try to give it to him but it's not always easy when you have two infants to deal with. Maggie, on the other hand, is the true loser in this scenario. She hates the babies as much as she hates all other people, and she spends most of her time outside, inconsolably angry and unwilling to sit on my lap. I am not forgiven for bringing them into the house, no matter how much I try to make peace with her.

I will keep trying.

That's what I do.

These walks we take in the morning are something I have started looking forward to. Sometimes I take a Lemonhead along with me in a sling and the three of us walk through the woods, quiet in our activities. Sometimes I take Gorby alone.

We walk until I get tired and light-headed, then we go back.

Autumn has hit the woods hard and on any given morning you can stand beneath a tree and let the shower of falling leaves hit your head and shoulders. I wear gloves and a scarf because the nip in the air takes me by surprise. Gorby runs on the path, his breath sometimes visible in the early morning air.

I take these moments of peace as they come, not because of the hecticness that comes with babies because, believe it or not, I love every goddamn minute of it. I love the baths and the feedings and the diapers and the burpings. The babies are even sleeping through the night most nights, it's not as though I'm as endlessly tired as I was. I take the moments of peace because I need them and cling desperately to them.

The health visitor came and went, and I didn't mention the darkness that sometimes creeps up on me.

I think I need to, because it's getting harder and harder.

I will keep trying.

It's what I do.

The truth is I swing up and down, often wildly. I can go from depression so dark I just want to go to bed and not come back out again. I can get tired just thinking about even showering, it's as though the effort of getting wet will sap me of whatever spare thoughts I have left. Then I rebound and go nearly manic, cleaning and feeding and baking (baking, I can't believe I've been baking) and doing things. I can't sit still. I can't think straight. I don't suffer from manic depression but borderline personality disorder, which I do have, has many of the same symptoms.

I have been taking the herbal tranquilizers.

Most of the time, they work.

I don't think it's postpartum depression.

I think it's just regular, good old-fashioned depression.

I'm not a danger to myself or to the babies or, in fact, to anyone around me. But I am pulling back inside my head. Angus is struggling even more than I am, he swings from enjoying the babies immensely and laughing with them to feeling trapped and though his life is over. I love him madly. I worry - is his life over? Is mine? Are we trapped, or are we really more free than ever? Will I fuck up these babies' lives and ruin them, like I was ruined?

I wish we could help each other, but we just don't seem to be able to-working things out is one of our strengths, I don't want to lose it.

I will keep trying.

It's what I do.

And I will take walks and I will love my life and I will talk to the Health Visitor next week when she comes because I owe it to everyone in my life to do so.

-H.

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October 26, 2007

The Step-parent Commandments

A great deal of my life is spent thinking about the stepkids. If you're a stepmom - and not one of the evil variety, of course - then this is the way of things. Your world has a whole lotta' step in it.

I'm lucky enough to have three women that I correspond with who are stepmoms - Sophie, Lisa and Beach Girl. These women are a rock that I turn to when the stepping gets rough. These women, and my own stepmother (who is increasinly an important part of my and the babies' lives and someone whose kindness constantly amazes me), are women that I admire, respect, and empathize with. Prior to having my babies I wondered if being a stepmother was harder than being a mom to biological children. It's true that my babies are little lumps who have yet to figure out how to talk back to me, but I think I was right - being a stepparent is harder than if you have pushed them out of you (or, as in my case, had a nice doctor and a really hot anesthesiologist pull them out of you).

Melissa and Jeff arrive on Sunday for a very long stay. Jeff will be with us for 9 days and Melissa will be here for 3 weeks. Melissa has to do work study for school, and they assign them two weeks to do this off of school. She's chosen to come to England for her work study and she'll spend the time at our local vet's office.

I am fairly worried about this visit, actually. This will be the first time Jeff's met the babies and he is the last family member to do so, which has pissed him off. The truth is it was his choice. When they were born Angus called Jeff asked him if he wanted to come out to meet them. Jeff said no. Then he hung up on Angus.

So Melissa came on her own.

Angus bought two presents which he wrapped up and signed from Nick and Nora, and Melissa took them back with her. Angus and Jeff have spoken many times since the babies were born and sometimes the conversation goes well, sometimes not so well. There are huge sensitivities there and Angus said he'll try to focus his attentions on Jeff this next visit. Jeff will be feeling sensitive anyway - his room is now home to two small babies. He is no doubt worried about the amount of love there is to go around, when what we want to tell him is we love him just as much as we ever have.

And this time I'm coming forward and prepared to be a little sterner than I have been.

Melissa and Jeff are brilliant, I really love them, but like any teen and pre-teen they aren't very tidy and can be prone to laziness (weren't we all as teens?). Melissa's breakfast dishes tend to linger in the living room (where breakfast is eaten in front of MTV) until they either walk themselves into the kitchen or until I take them away. Both kids leave their dirty clothes where they take them off. When they start projects, they walk away and leave the detritus behind.

But that has to change. Previously I didn't mind tidying up. Now we have to run a tighter ship. In this house things now get done as soon as humanly possible, otherwise we will drown in housework. When the dishwasher is done it gets emptied. Laundry is done with clockwork regularity. If you start a project you clean up afterwards, otherwise we're going to be in the weeds. The kids will need to clean up after themselves.

I've been thinking for a long time about what it is that a stepmother needs to be in order to make it work. Stepmothers have always had the bad rap - fairy tales paint them as the evil torturer, Hollywood portrays them as hopeless homewreckers with zero child-rearing skills. Truthfully, a step-parent has to walk the finest tightrope, they have to have loyalty to their partner while protecting the feelings of the children, always. There can be great animosity between the ex and the step-parent, but we have to keep it under wraps. We have to be a member of the family and a person on the sidelines, often at the same time.

So I have come up with a version of what I think of are the Stepmother Commandments. If you're a step-parent (or even if you're not), let me know what you think.

1) Thou shalt suck it up when thou dost feel insecure.

When you first meet the stepkids, they'll be feeling insecure. So will you. Try not to show it. And if (like me) you didn't have kids when you meet the stepkids and you feel very lost, bewildered, and confused by the bond that seems to occur between your beloved and their children, suck it up even more. It'll be extreme suck it up-age, a whole new Olympic sport. It needs to be about them, even if you don't know where you fit into the whole dynamic of the family. It's sometimes hard when they talk about things they did before you came along, especially if the memory is something hugely wonderful and valuable - you feel like you can't top that, you can't add anything more to their lives. Angus has been converting many of his old VHS home videos to DVD, and I know Melissa and Jeff will want to watch them. I will make myself scarce, I fully support them laughing and remembering their past, but I don't really need to see footage of happy family holidays they had (although I have seen glimpses of the tapes and I'm not too immature to say the following - I lost the baby weight faster than his ex did. Ha.)

2) Thou shalt get thee a silver tongue guard.

Because you're going to be biting it an awful lot.

Chances are you missed the many years of growing that a family had together. Almost certainly, there's something about the kids' behavior that you won't like. You may think "If these were my kids I would...." more than once a day. But that's just it - they're not your kids. And the parents of the kids may be blind to some things that drive you mad. If you find yourself at the very end of your tether (and I once reached mine with Jeff, who chewed with his mouth open and smacked his lips very, very loudly) then find a delicate way of addressing it. I'm happy to say Jeff rarely smacks his lips now, and it seems like a petty thing but sometimes, you need to start small.

3) Thou shalt pick thy battles.

Sometimes extended family gets confused about stepkids, too. My father and stepmom have worked hard to try to involve Melissa and Jeff on a grandparent basis, and sometimes I feel like I force the kids on them, but only because Melissa and Jeff do view my family as their grandparents, and I want only to encourage this relationship. And sometimes people surprise you - I was talking to my dad about his ample amount of grandchildren now - my sister has a child and (fucking irresponsibly I think) she's now expecting twins, and I have twins. I was laughing and told Dad that I bet he didn't think he'd have 5 grandkids within a year. He smiled back. "What do you mean 5 grandkids?" he asked. "I have 7 amazing grandkids." He included Melissa and Jeff in his grandkid count, and he warmed my heart immeasurably.

4) Thou shalt curb thine resentment, if thou dost hath resentment.

There are senstivities everywhere. One thing I battle a bit is the fact that Angus has nicknames for his kids. Currently, Nick has a nickname, Melissa has a nickname, and Jeff has a nickname...but Nora doesn't. She did have a nickname - one I really, really loved - and then Melissa rubbished it. Now Angus doesn't have a nickname for Nora and it's driving me mental. Seems such a stupid thing, but his other three kids have nicknames, Nora deserves one, too. I could have throttled Melissa for making fun of Nora's nickname. She's bad enough about the pet names - after throwing a strop over a few of Nora's clothes with the words "Princess" on them, we had to give them away. They were gifts from family, lovely ones at that, and I have to be honest - I kinda' resented having to give them away. I understand that "Princess" is Melissa's nickname, but the clothes were gifts, and it's not like I'm trying to usurp her title. Besides, if a King and Queen have two daughters, aren't they both princesses? What, is one a princess and the other one camel offal? I'm not saying Nora should be called "Princess", not at all, but I feel resentful about the imbalance of her being nicknameless. This, I should just get over I think.

5) Thou shalt cry buckets, and thou shalt know the pain of thy partner.

My stepmother often feels very torn up about discord between my father and his family. I can relate-when Angus and Jeff have run-ins, I feel terrible for him. I hurt more than I hurt for anything. If we have a period where Jeff refuses to speak to his father, I can feel Angus crumble a little more inside each day. The fact that his ex poisons his kids really wrecks him, and each time it happens I want to wrap him in a bubble and protect him.

6) Thou shalt walk the line between friend and parent.

Sometimes you have to be a friend - the kids will resent you coming and potentially assuming the role of the parent, usurping their mom or dad so to speak. And sometimes being a friend is too lenient or light, or it makes the kids feel like you don't care, even when you do care, more than anything. Every situation requires analysis. Get it wrong, and people get hurt.

7) Even though I don't like to end on a 7, I can't currently think of anymore but this one - thou shalt love and laugh with thine stepkids, for they can bring you great joy and light.

Because they can. They will. Give them a chance.

And let's hope this weekend brings good things.

-H.

PS-if I've forgotten any commandments, let me know.

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October 24, 2007

Three Weeks

Three weeks ago today Nick and Nora were born.

15:54 and 15:56.

Three weeks ago, which makes the babies not only 3 weeks old, but also 39 weeks old. Once I hit Halloween and their official due date, maybe I'll be able to stop thinking of them as preemies. They are very small, both of them, but Nick particularly is tiny. We call him our little prawn, and although Nora is able to fit some newborn clothes now (always with the sleeves rolled back), they still dwarf little Nick. Nick, however, fully fits early baby clothes now, a move which both makes me proud and enormously sad.

I look back on the past three weeks and wonder if it's all been a dream. It all feels unreal, like it both happened and didn't happen, couldn't possibly have. I wish I could go back in time three weeks and take more photos, take more video, imprint it all in my head more. It's all still so precious and unbelievable, it's still something I want to protect with a viciousness that stuns me. If I forget it, it'll be like erasing a part of me that was born the day they were, and it's a part of me that I feel wholly and completely comfortable with. It's all so valuable - the first sound of one of the babies, the feel of Angus' hand on my head, the warm solid feel of the babies tucked under each of my arms, the text messages from Angus later that night that were more emotional than anything I'd ever had from him before.

And now the house is quiet. Two babies are passed out upstairs, dreaming of whatever it is that little infants dream of. Angus is off to London and for the first time since hospital days it will be just me and the babies. I'm not nervous. It'll be busy, but I still savor being with them. I hope I always do.

I look back on the entire year and it doesn't seem real. Did the sole two surviving embryos from cycle number 5 really take? Did they really work? Was I really pregnant for most of this year (that screaming toilet razor blade pain seems real enough though)? Could it have been possible? These two babies - how can it be that they are mine? Did I honestly have them? Did I really have a C-section three weeks ago? Are they really upstairs, those warm cuddly milk-soggy forms? Do I really get to keep them forever and ever? It doesn't seem real. It doesn't seem possible. This can't have happened. This, this is a dream.

Parts of this motherhood thing, they're really easy. Waking at 4 am to feed babies and not getting angry about it? Easy. Getting hosed down by a little rascal while changing their diaper and laughing about it? Easy. Cuddling them and sniffing their heads and feeling their warm breath on my collarbone? So easy it's as though it was something I've been doing forever and ever.

And parts are hard. Really hard. Harder than I had ever once anticipated. Not just the blues and the depression and the issues we have in finding our way as a family and as partners and as parents, but in other ways.

The single hardest part for me is the fact that I love them so much. That sounds ridiculous and completely contradictory and like one of those bullshit sappy statements you read on the backs of bodice ripping novels, but it's true. Falling in love shouldn't be this easy and fast, even falling for Angus took a few more minutes than this did. The babies are my vulnerability, they are my Achilles' Heel. I have never been so exposed as I am right now. I love Angus with all of my heart and soul, and he is a grown-up and can look after himself if I can't be there to keep him safe. The little ones, though, are life dependant. They look up at you with eyes that beat back the loneliness into a distant echo.

It's so hard and so easy and I had no idea.

This post is a bit disjointed, but so much of what I think and feel lately seems to start and stop in small torrents.

Every night when I tuck them in I kiss their foreheads and rub their still bare skulls.

"I love you right up to the moon and back," I whisper to each of them.

And I mean it.

-H.

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October 23, 2007

Reaching Out Across the Universe

Just a quick one from me as the babies have been a bit fractious the past day -

First off, I'm not big on the drama mongering for other people or anything, but there are two people out there who, I think, could use some support and love.

That Girl, who stops by often here, has been caring for her son with HLHS. Her lovely son - just 2 years old - lost the battle with HLHS this weekend and he died in her arms. If you have a moment, your condolences may help her know that she is not alone.

If you've been reading my site a long time then you'll know Jim. Jim, who stopped blogging when his work got very hectic, is a great man and someone with one of the biggest hearts in the world. I got an email from Diamond Dave (also a chap with a big heart) - Jim's great love, his wife Jessie, was killed by a drunk driver this weekend.

I can't imagine how either of them are feeling, my heart hurts for them both. I know that a comment or an email doesn't make it all better, it doesn't make it all go away, and I wish like hell it could. I just hope maybe support will give some comfort, no matter how small. If you can, a word of kindness won't go amiss.

And in our house we have a visit from the health visitor on Friday. I'm glad we do. I think we need to talk to her. It seems the magic might indeed be draining away. We are - both of us - sliding towards a deep depression, in ourselves and with each other, and no amount of talking seems to stop it even though we both want to find our way back up and out again.

-H.

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October 22, 2007

Maybe This Week Will Be More Restful...

So the weekend's over. And in general, weekends are relaxing, easy times. Weekends, on a scale from 1-10 with 10 being the highest, should be about an 8 in terms of chill factor.

So why was my weekend a minus 6?

It started off innocuously enough. On Saturday, Angus' father and stepmother were coming for lunch. Now, I really like his dad and stepmom but they're a lot of work. They're rather formal, she's very high-strung, and Angus (and his brothers) are not comfortable around their father, he's not a huge figure in their lives and hasn't been since he ran off with Angus' now-stepmother. We see his father about twice a year, usually at their palatial home north of London (where they have, and I am not joking, a viscount as their next door neighbor). They are very formal at their home and there are ways you go about doing things, proper ways that are observed and followed. I am always very self-conscious around them, although they do like me and always seem pleased to see us.

Cue Saturday morning.

And we are racing around in a virtual cleaning frenzy. Angus' other brother and his wife, when he last hosted their dad and stepmom, both took a day off work to clean the house in preparation. It's not like all of us are slovenly pigs or anything, it's just that much pressure to have things right. We had to remove all signs of baby (with the exception of the babies) in the lounge, which really pissed me off - we just had twins. Having a couple of spare diapers in the lounge in case of an emergency shouldn't be a big deal. And I knew it would result in depression from Angus, as we had to stock everything into the study and shut the door. I was right - he started in on how we have too many baby things, there isn't enough space. He's right of course, we don't have enough space, but we will do once the extension's done. He apologized for being baby-negative shortly after.

But then in typical Helen and Angus fashion, we get into a huge argument just before they arrive.

You know. Because more pressure is what's needed in that situation.

We almost always get into a massive blow-out before guests come, because Angus gets stressed about the food and the presentation of the food and I get the brunt of it (we always hurt the ones we love, right?). We stress about different things in life and having things look just right for dinner guests is one of his stresses. Christmas Eve last year I faced an evening of sarcastic comments about how I'd ruined Christmas, all because I didn't slice the potatoes thin enough. I was a wreck and felt low the rest of the holiday. On Saturday I'd apparently not learned my lesson from last Christmas as I didn't slice the cucumbers for the fattoush thin enough, resulting in more sarcastic comments from him. The irony is, I really can cook and I really do cook and I really like to cook, but when we have people over I usually somehow get relegated to just making the dessert, and whenever I do try to make things I am constantly under the microscope. It's important to him that things look right and I try so hard, but I just don't seem to get it right according to what he wants . Angus is nice to me afterwards, when he calms down. But then he does honestly seem to like me when people are around.

We need to figure out some way of channeling our stress over dinner guests better, otherwise this coming Thanksgiving is going to kill us.

Anyway, we put on our happy faces when his parents arrive, and our moods improve as the day went on. We serve them lunch, which they like, and I notice that his stepmother has 4 helpings on my fattoush, which makes me feel vindicated. They talk to us, they offer to help tidy up the house (which we'd just done, so I felt like we either hadn't done a good enough job or else they were doing that good thing of offering to help a new family out, not sure which.) My stepmother, I felt, was really struggling with the babies. She had told me on one of our previous visits to their house that she and Angus' dad had tried to have more, that they both wanted more children, but due to PCOS and endometriosis, it just never worked out. She says her one regret in life was not having children. She talked to me about it more on Saturday, and I both know and don't know how she's feeling.

Then the babies wake up. Angus' stepmother wants to feed Nora, so we let her. And it's quickly revealed how little she knows about babies.

She puts the bottle in Nora's mouth, lets her have a swallow, then removes it. "I think I'll let her rest between sips," she says to me.

God.

"It's actually better if you just let her keep drinking," I reply, while maneuvering Nick's bottle into place. Nora's face is puckered with outrage at having lost the milk of the gods. I can see she's not going to tolerate this "resting between sips" shtick.

"Are you sure?" Angus' stepmother replies.

Nora's turning red. T minus 5 to screaming.

"I'm sure. Just keep feeding her," I reply.

Angus' stepmother puts the bottle in Nora's angry mouth. She feeds her for a bit, then removes the bottle and cuddles her.

"Everything ok?" I ask.

"Oh fine. I just felt she might be getting tired and is done with the milk," she replies.

"Yes, I understand, but the babies need to drink as much as possible. They're still undersize. Keep feeding her." I reply. I want to take my baby and feed her myself. Nora is generally a good, calm baby, but you don't fuck around with her feeding time, or that kid will come after you.

Angus' stepmother keeps feeding her. She does polish off the bottle and then promptly starts to fall asleep. Angus' stepmother attempts to burp her and watches Nora nod off.

Now the babies, they're not awake very much. Still preemies, still too small, they spend the vast majority of their time asleep. You'll get a little life out of them in the evening but otherwise their activities, until they grow some, are limited to sleeping, eating, and more sleeping. There's some pooping and some looking around with big blue eyes in there, too, but in general they don't move too fast. The key is once they start to sleep, you let them. If you don't you have to survive until their next feeding with the pleasant background of screaming, because if you miss the sleep window they are inconsolable until they next eat.

Angus' stepmother is persuaded to put Nora down to sleep.

Nora gets the hiccups in her sleep. Stepmother is convinced Nora is in pain due to stepmother's inadequate feeding. I explain that Nora had hiccups in utero, that they happen and that Nora is fine, that she is not in pain. Stepmother continues to fret over the baby. Despite being advised not to, she goes and picks Nora up several times.

And that was all Nora could stand, she can't stand no more.

Nora then spends the next 4 hours in outraged screaming.

Feeding time rolls round again. Nora is once again fed by Angus' stepmother. She declares delightedly to me that Nora is trying to crawl. Developmentally, Nora is 38 weeks old, technically she shouldn't even be born yet. I politely explain to the stepmother that Nora is actually trying to get under her sweater to the milk bar. We feed the babies then put them upstairs to bed where an exhausted Nora passes clean out.

Angus' stepmother keeps adjusting Nick in the crib. Nick is many things, one of them is not tolerant of being moved around. Mess with him too much and you'll reach inconsolable stage. Angus' stepmother moves Nick one time too many. We hit inconsolable.

Nick spends the next 4 hours screaming.

I go to make coffee and the lid of the freshly boiled kettle comes off, burning the fuck out of all of the fingers on my left hand.

I run cold water on my hand, but the blisters are already forming.

Our neighbors let off fireworks.

Gorby goes nuts barking and tearing around the garden.

My hand is throbbing in bright red agony.

Gorby comes back inside the house and promptly throws up vast quantities all over the carpet.

Nick screams.

I open the medicine cabinet and wonder why we don't have more tranquilizers for me to sample.

Angus' dad and stepmother leave sometime around 9 pm. I honestly enjoyed having them, they are very kind. I just wish the day had gone smoother. Angus' parents seem madly in love with the babies (they have that quality about them) but I think we all could have done without a day of screaming.

Nick and Nora fuss the entire night, just in time for Sunday, when more guests arrive - Angus' brother Adam (the judgmental one) and his family, including his nightmare 5 year-old daughter, the one who does our fucking head in, the one that likes to smack Gorby when he walks past. I was dreading their visit, mostly because I couldn't face an afternoon of the 5 year-old, of judgey comments from Adam, and worst of all, advice on child-rearing from Terry, Adam's wife, the one who is currently in university taking child development classes. I personally find it hard to take advice from people whose children act like they were raised by wolves. I do genuinely like the parents, and even like their older daughter now that she's outgrown being so difficult, I just find the youngest one really exhausting to be around.

My blistered burned hand is now cracked and peeling open along the tops of the fingers. I lose some pretty hefty blood clots in the toilet in the morning from my still uncomfortable insides. My breasts continue to leak, and I am still strapped into sports bras. I feel really hot and desirable.

Naturally, Angus and I get in an argument before they arrive.

Once here though, the kids behave much better than usual. They insist on holding the babies, which although I'd said I didn't want the 5 year-old holding the babies because I wasn't comfortable with it, I get overruled (I didn't let Angus' other 5 year-old niece, the sweet and quiet one, hold them either. I just wasn't comfortable with it, and I accept maybe I'm being over-protective.) I was a little annoyed that they bring the 5 year-old over with not only a cold, but also with a rash on her inner arm, but there's not much I can do about it and I am once again perhaps being over-protective. The visit wasn't bad at all, and I escape without a single judgemental comment.

Once they leave, Angus and I are drained.

We've agreed maybe no more visitors for a while, although Melissa and Jeff arrive on Sunday, this time for a long stay (and there is definitely stress involved with the coming visit).

And somehow, Angus and I are both mellow, exhausted, and unhappy. He's unmotivated with work and, I fear, at home. I feel very low and I wonder if the magic of the babies' arrival is going now, and I wonder what I can do to stop the drain from occurring.

-H.

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October 19, 2007

Let's Tidy Up the Nursery

The babies, as you know, came 4 weeks early. They also came on the heels after a Melissa and Jeff visit, so we weren't exactly ready with the nursery as we had to preserve Jeff's room as long as possible due to the stream of sensitivities we deal with on a daily basis (said sensitivities - spread across all spectrums and members of family - are beginning to really wear me out, but that's another story).

We'd at least erected one of the cribs and moved in a few things when the sunroof was opened. Angus had started painting the nursery, and we had the clothes at least assembled in three main locations. But it was far from finished.

Two plus weeks after their birth, it's still far from finished, but then when you have infant twins, you kinda' have to prioritize. They have a place to sleep? Check. Place to get changed? Check. Pictures on the wall? Nope - but they don't need those to survive, either, so moving on now.

We chose colors for the nursery from our one tried and true interior decorating bible - the Dulux site. Dulux painted our home for us. Angus and I are hopeless with color, we take our cue from Dulux. Dulux, whose paint guides are my salvation and my light.

Dulux...my true love.

Dulux...the one who recommended the nursery color scheme as a combo that babies can see and enjoy from an early age, as newborns can't see much.

Dulux...who failed to mention that the color scheme they suggested would actually look like an acid trip when assembled on a wall.

Angus' brother, upon seeing the colors, remarked with a smile "So you're going for instantaneous psychological damage, as opposed to letting it take time over the years."

The colors, they are bright.

Now, we love the colors seperately. Put them together and they are a wee bit...much. In sunlight they look pretty good even. But we admit they're not colors that should be used together in day to day life. Or clothing. These colors should probably be limited to this one nursery attempt and the shell casings for antibiotics, anything else would just be too blinding.

We'd probably re-paint the room if we could be bothered, but a few things get in the way of that:

1) The room is getting hit hard by the extension work in several months' time anyway.

2) Not like the babies can complain, and they will see the colors soon which I like.

3) We have twins. Twins. This means painting a wall or two gets low priority on the totem pole of life.

So this morning with the twins tucked into our bed (it gets maximum sunlight in the mornings, and we still are pursuing phototherapy for their jaundice)


Babies in the sun


I set about hanging the rest of the stuff up this morning.

This is Angus, starting to get the room ready a month ago.


Angus begins the nursery


Then he painted the window frame and skirting boards.


Blue baby blue


Then the closet doors were addressed outside.


Pink baby pink


This is what the nursery looks like now. It's bright. I'm just warning you. Avert your eyes if bright colors send you into seizures.


Nursery from the door


The beanbag we use for middle of the night feedings instead of a rocking chair. It's perfect. The Rainforest Bouncer, from Auntie Margi, is what we use to content the babies when we're in the room with them, under the wall mobile from Auntie Sophie. And the "Happy Halloween" banner is from Grandma, since the babies were due on Halloween and that lovely holiday is coming.


Nursery cot view


This is the crib they share (we have another crib, but they take comfort from being together now, so we won't use it until they're too big to share a crib.) The mobile I bought from E-niko. The picture to the side of the crib was drawn for the babies by Melissa. The babies sleep swaddled in either the swaddles I bought, or one of the ones courtesy of Auntie Donna and Cousin Bridget.

The shelves used to hold binders, and now hold soft toys (including the one from Auntie Angela), extra diapers/formula, and books courtesy of people who love them (Hi, Lisa!).


Nursery door view


The pictures above the cupboard I've had for many years, hoping to hang them in a nursery. The frog light was mine, and the long ribbon of birds is something Angus and I bought in Egypt years ago. The Brighton cupboard (an antique of ours that Angus restored) holds their clothes, many of which come from Auntie Donna and Auntie Statia, and various other lovely things-their monitor from Auntie Sue, wrist rattles from Auntie Becks, muslins from Auntie April, creams and Q-tips from Auntie Amanda and Auntie Rachel, Auntie Amy's lovely silver rattles, and more.

The babies have a lot of Aunties.

I sure love that.


Cupboard


And above their closets hang a picture I bought for them in Key West earlier this year. It's a message I hope they take with them forever.


Baby picture


Like I said, the room is bright.

Hopefully, they won't mind.

-H.

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October 17, 2007

Cross Talk

Nick and Nora's existence has long been a contentious subject. The day we found out that we were going to have twins is not a day that I look back on with happiness and light about. I know most women post airy-fairy lovey-dovey posts about how great life is, how amazing twins are, and how their husbands cried at the sight of the ultrasound, but we are not among those couples. Angus is an older father, and one who wasn't so keen on having more kids anyway. He agreed to try for my sake, and the fact that his one issue was that he didn't wants twins and we wound up having twins is something that I continue to be mindful about. He was always clear that he thought twins would cause us to bust up. We struggled. We were up and down - both of us.

He didn't want twins.

And neither did I.

The twins are never, ever going to know about their roller coaster beginning. As far as their world will be, they will be told they were wanted and cherished from the moment we found out about them. The doctor told us that both of our embryos were average, and my history of IVF was not so good, and the doctor was sure we wouldn't conceive twins, that actually we'd be lucky if one embryo took. They will never know we proceeded on that basis.

What they will also never know about is that the day we found out there were two, I made a phone call.

In IF-land you see it often - women put back a whole bunch of embryos saying if more than one or two takes that they will "just reduce". Well, there's no "just" about reduction. I looked into it. We thought about it. We were going to investigate reducing to one baby. The irony doesn't escape me - we finally conceived, on our fifth round of IVF, and there I am wondering what to do about it.

I'll be honest-the idea of it now crushes me into little tiny pieces. Now that they're both here I'm in bits about the idea that one of them wouldn't have made it - would I have been Nora-less, without her cooing and perfect right-cheek dimple? Would I have lost my little Nick, with his eyes wide open and his sleeping against my chest? Can I ever hug them enough to make up for the fact that we considered not having them both, even for just that one moment? It makes me want to scream and wail, knowing that one of them might not have been. Angus feels the same way - he said he can't contemplate not having one of them with us now. I look at them, two weeks old today, and I want to hold them to me for as long as I can, and ask forgiveness.

I feel so ashamed I ever even made an inquiring phone call about it, even if we only debated it for a few minutes.

Luckily, we rejected the idea almost simultaneously with me making that call, and we never looked back.

The past two weeks have been a blur for me, a blur of delight and security. I have spent my time exhausted, sleep-deprived, and in a state of hormonal turbulence. I have also never been happier. Physically I've suffered from over-doing it since surgery, but my UTI and kidney infections are gone. My restless leg syndrome is gone. I can sleep, I can breathe, I can eat, I have no heartburn and no burning urine, and I can get through the night without peeing 12 times an hour. My only issues are the healing C-section, some migraines, and the fact that I can't seem to switch off the milk tap at the milk bar.

I worry that the sleeplessness and the furstrated Nick feedings are taking a toll on Angus. His son is unhappy with the babies and goes up and down. Angus worries about our financial future, as the nursery costs hit next year. He's frustrated that he and I and the four kids can't even fit into the cars we have, as it turns out we can't get the dimensions of everything right. He grieves the fact that he and I used to just head off on long exotic weekends, and now we will be more restricted. I mourn for those, too, but I do think with some careful advance planning they can still occur. My dad says these worries are good, that if Angus didn't have them then it would seem irresponsible. I agree, they are good. And I agree, I am glad I have a man responsible enough to be concerned about the family's wellbeing. It's not like I have my head in the sand, though, because I don't. Angus and I just approach issues differently.

While my parents were here they offered us a date night - they would babysit and we could go out to dinner. We took them up on it, only I felt some reluctance on Angus' part. I felt he wasn't so interested in going, but I encouraged him and we went.

I tried to make myself look nice. I wore pre-pregnancy pants (the top button done up with string, but the sweater hid that). I wore makeup for the first time in ages. I made an effort after the sloth of pregnancy and birth.

At dinner we talked.

And somewhere, in a place where I still can't figure out, it headed south.

He asked me how I've been feeling, and I tried to squirm it all out. It felt like pulling out my soul and setting it on the table, I've been kept inside of myself, holding my memories of the week the babies were born and came home wrapped inside of a bubble in myself, protecting it, hoarding it. I haven't been so talkative because there's simply too much to try to talk out. I'm awash with emotions and hormones and I can't figure out where they all go. He said we were sitting at the table like a couple who've been together for 30 years and have nothing to say. The truth is, I have loads to say, I just can't figure out how to get it all out.

I tell him I'm struggling a bit. That I am so wildly in love with the babies and with him that I'm not even feeling the stench of the exhaustion I should be feeling. That 4 am feedings don't make me angry, that expanding energy on the babies seems to come from a bottomless pit. That I could give a flying fuck about my job, that I have never been so happy.

I tell him I know he's not attracted to me right now, because no one could possibly be attracted to me. I have an Ethopian pot belly that is plain as day. I wear sports bras stuffed with cabbage and I wear maxi pads in the biggest and thickest sizes I can find to try to deal with the neverending blood loss. I can't even have sex for weeks still, and he's undoubtedly stuck with the image of my twin-pregnant stomach in his mind. But I want to be attractive to him again. He says he still finds me attractive, and it's not like I think he's lying, I just don't see how he could possibly find anything beautiful in me right now. I want to be attractive to myself again, actually, but I look at the lines of my shoulders and arms in photos and feel like I can do it, I can get there. I can try to be something I am not ashamed of.

I start to cry all over the remains of my Coquille St. Jacques because I am pathetic like that.

I tell him that I am blisteringly in love with him. That I have never, ever seen a father as wonderful as him. That I could never do this without him. That if he asked me to, I would go to the fucking Basingstoke registry office tomorrow and marry him, that I didn't care where we went just as long as we were together.

And then I shut up.

And he talks.

And it's clear we've got different things on our minds just now.

He tells me of how worried he is about things. He worries about money. We're not poor, but £1400 a month in childcare starting next March will be a change and a big one at that (and although I've been saving money, the nursery we wanted is full up, which means we have to take the more expensive one, which is not something I'm happy about). He worries about Melissa and Jeff. He's struggling with the severe lack of sleep, he hasn't had the pregnancy sleepless training that I have. He despairs that there's not enough space in the cars, and is depressed over the lack of space in the house (building work on the extension to commence in the new year).

He also says he still worries that having two children at once will bust us up.

This one, I admit, catches me by surprise.

It's not like I dismiss his worries because I never do that. I take them on board. I try to ensure they don't come true. But I had felt so incredibly solid with him that it felt, to me, like the residuals of how I felt could hold together through anything. How can there be an element of insecurity when I've never felt so secure in my entire life, ever? I've never felt so close to anyone before, how could it even be possible that was still a concern? I am imbued with the deepest, most unwavering faith that it will be ok, in the end, that I can't even see the end, that it's not even something tangible. How can I show him what I see, so that he knows how clear I feel?

I feel so stupid for telling him about being blisteringly in love and Basingstoke registry offices. We're uneven now. I hate being uneven. Despite what I write on my blog, I hold my cards close to my chest in real life. My insides come out only for Angus and my couch man, in reality I don't reveal much.

My mouth is suddenly too thick. My remaining baby bump protrudes too far. Back home are two little sources of light that are threatened with suddenly burning less bright. I've been caught out, I wasn't prepared, the depth that I love should be illegal it's so deep. I'd moved on to Hollywood levels of feelings and he was in reality, fearing for our future, where I have been and should be and am, only I have had a healthy dose of faith to keep me going. In one fell swoop, my Cloud 9 lowers itself and my memories of the time since the babies' birth become even further sealed into a bubble that I will carry deep in my heart and never let go of. We've spent the last 14 days growing together in ways I could never have anticipated. I can't let that go.

We resolve a lot of it, and the truth is we simply approach things differently. He's mad about the babies, and I know he is. He's mad about me, and I know he's that, too. But when he anticipates problems he prepares for the worst, as that way he's sure he's got the resources to try to handle it. I understand this. This is how I work too, actually. This is how I deal with everything in my life...except for Angus and the babies. And with them, weirdly, I just believe that we can do it together. But Angus, as the man of the house (and I don't mean that in an anti-feminist kind of way), needs to handle his concerns his way. I respect and admire that. I respect that, but I still need him more than I can say. I am happy he takes his responsibilities seriously - it is the hallmark of a man. Still...I'm scared.

In typical man-woman fashion, we completely misunderstood each other. We're actually on the same page we just hold the books differently. It was our first disagreement in many months, and when I reach a toe out, I find the magic of the past two weeks is still there, untarnished, still shining. This is good. I'm not ready for the magic to fade yet.

On the ride home in the dark, he reaches out and takes my hand.

"I don't want to lose you, ever," he says. "That would be the absolute worst case scenario."

Sometimes I am sure that I am not good at anything.

Nothing at all.

I am not good at anything except for giving my love to the one person that I have unwavering faith that it belongs to, and although I should be ashamed that I am not more than the sum of those pieces, I am not. It is enough.

My hands cup his hand and my fingers cling to his thumb as though it could save me.

"So don't go anywhere," I reply back softly.

And we are mostly silent the rest of the ride home, but it is a comforting silence.


-H.


This post was hard to write - I'm both embarrassed and proud. I've closed comments.

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October 16, 2007

Update to the Slides

Quick one - we updated the slideshow of the babies with a few pics from the hospital and a few since we've been home, in case you wanted to view it. It's
now complete (and the song doesn't cut out now, either.)

It still makes me cry (although currently many things make me cry, including but not limited to cheese, Pat Benetar, and tiny onesies/Babygros).

And I still play that song for them and I don't mind how cheesy that is.

I'm a sap.

Sorry. As you were.



-H.

PS-Just wondering-had anyone heard this song before? Anyone felt inclined to get hold of it since?

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October 15, 2007

Dreaming

Twin 1 was the healthiest baby. No worry about Down's Syndrome so no need for a CVS, large-sized, robust. Placenta placed perfectly, positioned perfectly, Twin 1 had everything going.

Until Twin 1 moved into my pelvis and Twin 2 decided to squish the crap out of him.

The 4 weeks before I delivered, Twin 2 started catching up with Twin 1, then surpassed him. At birth, Twin 1 was noticeably smaller, coming in at 2540g (5 pounds 8 oz). Twin 1's apgar scores were higher, but the baby struggled.

Enter time in special care.

Now Twin 1 - lovingly known in blogland as Nick - is still working on it.

Nora is a dream baby. Nora is the kind of baby that if you have as your first child, you would be certain to have more. Easy-going, sweet, calm, she only cries when hungry. She downs the whole bottle, sleeps like the dead, and loves the bath once she's finally in it (that whole naked between outside tub and inside tub is not so popular). She has full cheeks that people can't resist kissing, and everyone talks about how beautiful she is. So it's not just me, she's really a lovely, lovely baby.

Nick is more fractious. As a jaundiced baby and a baby born with a poor sucking reflex, he's a hell of a lot of work to feed. It's been a battle to get minimums down him since he arrived-although he starts feeds off enthusiastically, he struggles. We have resorted to tricks (some of them recommended by midwives) to get him to finish feeds. They include actions like stripping him to his skivvies while drinking, tickling his feet, and moving him around during feeds-sometimes he's reclined, sometimes he sits up, sometimes we're standing. I also have a killer Gloria Gaynor "I Will Survive" song and dance routine which thoroughly pisses him off. Pissing him off is great-it builds up his energy and he then takes down a bottle. Sometimes we let him cry for a while before feeding him, all because it then means that he will definitely eat.

Nora has a thin crown of dark brown hair. Her eyes are a bottomless blue, and when I look at baby pictures of me as a child, she is my spitting image. Nick, on the other hand, who although has the exact same deep blue eyes (which I know will change color, as will Nora's) has a shock of blond hair. His head is very funny shaped from being squished against my pelvis for so long - based on his position, which didn't change much, he's got the spitting image of a Klingon skull. His jaw on the right side is pushed in a bit. He looks not unlike an alien, albeit a cute alien. He is a cute baby, actually, he really is. His skull will sort itself out and the jaundice will pass.

And indeed on Saturday the midwife came round and discharged both the babies from regular care. They are both still jaundiced, but their weights are up. They're drinking more formula (even if it's a song and dance routine to get his feedinds down him).

This morning I was crawling around the bathroom floor in crampy agony, and Angus helped get me upstairs. I struggled to the toilet and lost a mass of watery blood (sorry about the gore factor there), which a call to the midwives proved to be normal - I'm losing the last of the fluids my uterus had carrying the babies around. It hurts like hell, but I'm on medication, and it's normal and natural. I probably overdid it yesterday with a 5 mile walk with the family, but my body, too, is finally recovering (although I definitely need to take it easier. Even I admit that.)

Twelve days after giving birth to Nick and Nora I am back to pre-pregnancy weight. Even better than that, yesterday I wore my pre-pregnancy jeans and was able to button them all the way up as opposed to the tried and true maternity trick of using a rubber band to hold the top buttons closed (that was needed last week). I'm glad to start getting my body back, while weirdly at the same time I'm mourning the disconnect to some extent. Both babies have lost their cords (no I did not keep them). And now I'm losing the last of my uterine contents. Time is passing so fast.

We're all recovering. They're almost 38 weeks and still in preemie baby clothes, but they're recovering.

And daily I spend time marvelling at them.

Even my little boy, my Twin number 1, the one with the funny shaped head.

I think he's perfect.


When you dream, what do you dream about?


-H.

Updated-Yup, yet another mommy blogger post. Honestly though I don't have much else on my mind these days. I'd understand if you click off in exasperation, I really would.

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October 12, 2007

Light at the End of the Tunnel

The midwife came by yesterday and took stock of the situation.

I'm pleased to say that she took in Angus and I and the two little moppets and said that we were, without question, the calmest new baby family she had ever seen. She said that more often than not she comes into a house with a new baby - usually just a singleton - and it's chaos, with tears, disorganization, and frustration. But she thought Angus and I and the babies seem to be thoroughly well-adjusted, low-key, and happy. I told her that there have been tears (and oh, there have been), but that basically we were pretty calm and the babies are pretty calm. There's no point getting stressed up, we tend to take most of this in stride so far.

The babies are still jaundiced, both of them. He's in worse shape than she is but they both aren't completely well. They've lost weight since birth, which is normal, but it's our mission to get them up to birth weight by Day 10, which is tomorrow.

He lost his umbilicus this morning.

My little guy is growing up and moving on.

They're both eating very well, up 30 mls of formula every 3 hours to 90 mls every 4 hours (Jesus, if that doesn't bore you then nothing will. I'm down to discussing minutiae about baby bottles, what the hell happened here?). This means that hopefully we're turning some kind of corner. I really hope so. I hate living under this spectre of fear of special care with my babes.

As far as me, I'm now only 2 pounds off my pre-pregnancy weight, although I am sporting what Statia very efficiently noted is an Ethiopian pot belly. The midwife was impressed. What she was not impressed with was my C-section scar and healing. I have a mass under my scar on the right hand side. Or I did have that yesterday, but as of this morning I have a mass under my scar on my left hand side, too.

I've overdone it, and burst one of my stitched abdominal muscles.

I'm to take it easy, otherwise it's back to hospital for me, and the only thing I am to do is lift a baby now and then. So those who recommended I take it easy...um...you were right. Mea culpa. Also? Ouch.

So luckily for Angus and I, the cavalry arrived yesterday for a short stay.


Dad Kim and Babies


My father seems to have fallen completely and utterly in love with both of them, as he has fallen for all his grandchildren, be they here, in the States, or in Sweden. He's yet to change a diaper but he feeds them with every 4 hour feed, and he dotes on them. It's pretty special to watch, actually. He's admitted that he's changed, too, and wants to be there for his grandkids in ways he wasn't around the first time around for his kids.

We're big on second chances in this house.

Seems we're all turning corners.


Dad and Babies


But then it's pretty easy to do, and even the toughest fall prey to the babies' charms.


Angus and the Babies


-H.

PS-Steff, thank you so much. Two books arrived today (we have a postal strike going on over here). I love them and remember them from my early days. I love them-thank you!

PPS-Sorry for the brevity of the post - family here and I'm not so comfortable just now from the stomach muscle issue. I miss the blogging, and once we get through the tunnel I hope to be a bit better.

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October 10, 2007

Midwife Mussolini

There are many, many things I'm learning about myself since last week. If you thought this site was intorspective before, then welcome to emotional spelunking. It's all a new can of worms, babe.

The first night that Nick returned to Nora and I on the delivery ward, we had our first doozy.

Nora and I had adapted a routine - she and I got on like a house on fire, and we generally knew how to interact with each other. Nick - a tiny, sickly, struggling little thing, was new to our routine. With Nora came gassy smiles and the ability to take down a bottle in the blink of an eye, followed by happy sighs and passing out either on my chest or in the bassinette. With Nick came fights to get him to drink his 30 mls every 3 hours. Fail that, and it's back to the care ward.

Nick's first night with us was also on the dreaded Day 3, which is the day that the hormones hit hard and the tears flow. Angus had been with us as long as he could, but when visiting hours were over he had to leave. He fed Nick while I fed Nora, kissed me, and then left. It was just me and two teeny babies left.

Nick was very fussy, which I found strange - before he left Nora and I he was such a calm baby, eyes wide open, taking things in. He wouldn't settle. I tried talking to him, holding him, not talking to him, but nothing worked. I found that his tears made my breasts leak, which surprised me, and I spent the evening stuffing my bra with paper towels to staunch the flow.

The midwife shift changed while I was trying to settle him.

And in came the woman I came to call Midwife Mussolini.

While Nick was fussing, she came in to take my vitals. Distracted by Nick, I didn't answer her questions fast enough and earned myself a one way ticket to her Exasperation List. She went out to get my medications, and just then all hell broke loose. Nick turned purple and went rigid. I freaked out. Vomit exploded from his nose and mouth and he howled, apoplectic with rage.

Midwife Mussolini was annoyed with me. "He's got wind, can't you tell?"

My poor boy was exploding like the Exorcist Baby. "No! His father fed him and said he winded him! I thought he was ok!"

Midwife Mussolini sighed with irritation. "The midwives station will look after him tonight. We don't help every mother, but obviously you don't know what you're doing. We'll take him tonight."

And this is where Helen's Big New Trait came in. I felt my ribcage expand like a balloon, my indignation was so intense I could have breathed right through a Nora on my lungs. I was willing to take Midwife Mussolini down, and do it hard. This fucking bitch would take care of my child when hell froze over, but not before then.

"No," I replied. Tears flowed from my eyes, as I struggled to calm Nick down.

"Would you please just change him then?" she snapped.

"I'm working on it!" I shouted. "First, I'd like to calm him down a bit."

"You have to feed him every 3 hours. No exceptions. We will come in and wake you to check to make sure you are doing this," the mini dictator said. "If you don't, we will take care of him for you."

"Don't bother. I got this," I said angrily. I was sobbing at this point, both with guilt at poor Nick's vomiting and anger with both Midwife Mussolini and myself. I was coming undone, while at the same time finding something in me to fight back with.

I am many things.

One of them is stubborn.

The other one - a new one - is protective.

Oh, I'll protect others. I would go to the ends of the earth for Melissa and Jeff. I would walk through fire for Angus. But I realized that for my babies, I wouldn't just walk through fire to save them, I would throw people on the fire to aid our escape. Supermodels and their silicone would make the place smell like new car, people would tell me I was a bad person, but there is nothing I wouldn't do to protect my babies, even against something as innocuous as spending the night at the midwives' station just because Midwife Mussolini said so.

That night I got up every 2 hours and 45 minutes to feed my boy and girl. Nick, being extra collicky, would then get burped for half an hour. I would not make the same mistake. That woman - who felt the need to belittle me and threaten to take my kid away - would not win. I could take care of them both.

A little while later, still feeling gutted that my little boy had been through what he had, the door opened. A cheerful face stuck its head through. "Need some formula for the night, love?" asked a raspy voice.

I nodded. "Yes please. And the preemie nipples, if you don't mind."

The face smiled and disappeared. A few minutes later it reappeared, attached to a body with more tattooes than I had ever seen in one place before. The woman was in her mid-40's, cheerful, with a tooth missing in the front. She looked like she could - and would - kick some ass every Friday down at the pub if need be.

She set the bottles down. "Are you ok, dear?" she asked. She stopped to coo over Nick and Nora.

I felt weary. I was covered with baby sick, dried milk, blood, and gore. "I didn't wind my baby enough and he got sick. I feel terrible. And worse, a midwife thinks I'm an idiot and can't take care of my baby."

She smiled kindly. "Babies are so different, one from the other. I have 6 kids and I still got lots of things wrong. Babies love and forgive you, and they show you how they like things. Don't blame yourself. Having a baby is hard work, you know." She smiled, and vanished, but not before I took comfort from her.

At the 4:00 feeding I heard footsteps approach my door. I looked up. I heard Midwife Mussolini.

"I haven't heard a peep from her, I'm sure she's not been feeding them - " Midwife Mussolini said, breaking off when she opened the door and saw me, with Nick cuddled in my arms, as we worked to get 30 mls down his throat. Midwife Mussolini walked in and stopped talking, shocked I was up and feeding my baby.

And there, behind her with an enormous smile, was India.

"India!" I excalimed, nearly in tears with relief and joy.

Her face lit up as she hugged me and then went for the babies. She lavished huge praise on them, her face lit up. Midwife Mussolini made a sour face, disappointed she hadn't caught me slacking on the job, and left. India told me she'd been away and just come to work that night, that she always checked the board for my name as she wanted so much to see my babies, she said. She sat down next to me and talked to me for a while, reassuring me, relaxing me. She told me that I could do this, that I would do this, and that, as she's approaching 60, she wouldn't be around to help Nora deliver her baby, she would still always remember me, remember my babies, and remember the letter I wrote.

When she left I slept like a baby next to my two babies. I reached in and pulled out the stubborn and found that even when I make mistakes, you can't take how I feel about my babies away from me. I guess that's something new about me.

I kinda' like it.

And this site might be hit and miss for updates, and the new posts may come at unusual times (it's all baby sleeping dependant, as you can imagine). My daily blogging routine is by the wayside until Nick's got the all clear from the doctor.

-H.

PS - to L in HK (wanted to protect your anonymity!) - our favorite Parcel Post deliveryman dropped off this yesterday. Thank you so much - it will keep the babies safe on those days when I need to have a quiet moment for 5 minutes. Plus, the Parcel Post man got to poke his head in and see the babies, which made my day. Thank you, L - I really appreciate our lovely play den.

PPS - As you may know, I had another blog going on the side for a while now. I created it to talk about my IVF treatments, to get away from both my family and from people who wanted to tell me to "just adopt". I've closed the site now and will only be updating this site, but I don't mind if anyone wants to read about it (you know. If you want to. No obligation here.) You can read about some of the IVF treatment cycles I've been through - including the one that conceived Nick and Nora - here, where I blogged under a different name. I will ask, if you don't mind, that if you follow the links of some of the commenters that you treat them with love and kindness. IVF is a hard, hard process, and even though these women are warriors and goddesses, they still need all the support and grace they can get.

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October 09, 2007

Infant Azure

I always remember the film "Look Who's Talking", not just because it was a film packed full of Scientologists, but because there's a scene in the beginning where Kirstie Alley is reading a baby book that tells her that most women get the baby blues. She frowns, cocks one of those freaky eyebrows of hers, and says "Well that's not going to happen to me."

Cue the next scene, where she's in shedloads of tears and wailing that her baby must have some weird baby disease.

80% of women get the cutely named "baby blues" (only a guy could have coined that term, and likely the one who created "on the rag" and the lament "are you on your period?") on day 3 after birth.

I swore to not be in that percentage.

Who on earth was I fucking kidding?

Day 3 I was in the hospital, and it was shedloads of tears. I wasn't doing the "my babies are messed up, what's wrong with them?" bit, but I cried at the drop of a hat. I really went to town when I went toe to toe with a midwife I think of as Midwife Mussolini. More on that shortly.

I'm still really, really emotional. I'm a bit sleep-deprived it's true - since Nick and Nora were preemies, and since Nick continues to battle jaundice and we have to fight to feed him, as he's still not gotten that sucking reflex down yet, we have the world's strictest schedule. The babies must be fed every 3 hours, without fail, as otherwise Nick's energy levels start to drop. If they drop, he stops eating. If he stops eating, his jaundice gets worse. If that happens, we go back to special care. The midwives are coming to our home almost daily in order to check on him, and we chuck him in the sunlight whenever we have any to help him, but as it's a cold rainy October day there's not much of that going around.

So we're a bit tired.

I continue to be over-the-moon elated about the babies, however, and I actually look forward to getting up in the morning.

But - and there's always a but, isn't there? - I am really swinging wild on the hormones. Those films you see of new moms with crying jags and illogical behavior? Yup. Those are real.

The first thing I've noticed is I'm wildly close to Angus, and not in that "I can't live....if living is without you" kind of way. I just can't stop shooting moons and hearts and flowers at him from every pore on my face, which at some point should slow down. Until then, though, I have some kind of hero worship going on. He, in turn, is very sweet and loving, although the sleep deprivation is hitting him harder than it does me. He maybe needed those few heavily-pregnant training months that I had to get to the level of tolerance I have.

The second thing I've noticed is the babies can do no wrong. They can cry, they can poop, they can nail me with urine (both of them have done this, in fact. Good aim, those little ones.), they can not sleep, it really doesn't matter. I'm still madly in love with them. It doesn't excuse a 2 hour crying jag at 3 am, but I don't get angry with them.

Angus' brother Sam, his wife Jane, and their 5 year-old Jilly and 9 month old Jake came by on Sunday. Melissa was here as well (she loves the babies, although it's not without sensitivies) and the house was going to be full. When they showed up on the doorstep, I opened the door. I saw a smiling Jane carrying a happy Jake.

And I nearly slammed the door on them, hung garlic and crucifixes, and sold my soul to Satan.

I took one look at their 9 month old and fell apart.

He was enormous. Simply huge. Huge chunky legs, huge chunky smile, drool trail a mile long thanks to teething. It was like carrying a little person. My mind went numb at the sight of him. He's 9 months, still a baby really, but he is honestly a big baby (he wears size 12-18 months in clothes, and some of those are tight). I wanted to grab Nick and Nora and give them some kind of Peter Pan medication.

My babies won't be getting to look like that! my mind screamed. He's not normal! It's not right! My babies need to stay babies forever!

And I felt like such a bitch - Jake is a happy, charming lovely boy. I have always adored him. It's true he had a massive growth spurt in the past two months, but I couldn't comprehend that my two milky-smelling bundles would grow into that size. It doesn't seem right. My babies will stop being babies at some point, and that wounds me more than anything my own psyche could have concocted for me.

They stayed a long time, and I reached a point where I wanted everyone to go home. Everyone. Even Melissa. Melissa had been a great help, too, only having a wobble when she saw I was about to put Nora into a onesie emblazened with the word "Princess." Angus' nickname for Melissa has always been Princess. It still is.

"You have to get rid of that," she said, pouting angrily. "I'm Princess. No one is Princess but me."

I look at the onesie. It's actually one someone gave us. "It was a gift, Melissa. There is only one Princess to your Dad, I promise." She wouldn't budge though, and Princess has been relegated to use when she's not here. Besides that one event, she was good and even wanted to feed and help around the house, which I appreciated. But by Sunday evening, I wanted her to go, too. I was rapidly falling apart. I hurt all over, I wanted to stop time and keep my babies as babies, and I wanted everyone to go home and make the house quiet. "Go home and take your freakishly large child with you!" I wanted to scream. I was feeling like such a whore for even thinking that, but there you have it. I was mental.

I am such a bitch. He's a lovely boy, completely normal. I'm just used to being around premature infants that swim in newborn clothes, I have no ability to understand what size kids should be. I should be stoned by angry hordes.

I talked to Angus about my complete asshole attitude last night, about how I felt Jake was too big and how our babies needed to stay babies. I burst into tears at the telling of it, too, a complete puddly mess over my Thai yellow curry. I couldn't explain that right now, what I'm feeling is that everything is lovely (ok, I could do with more sleep. Also, the blood flow from my uterus could subside and it'd be nice if I didn't have so much cabbage in my bra I could offer up a bucket of slaw on the side, but in general everything is lovely.) If I could stop time I would, and just have the babies as warm little bundles that like to sleep on my chest.

"Ah yes," Angus nods. "That's a woman thing. I think all women go through that feeling. But the truth is, they get cuter. They get more amazing. When you can make them smile, for instance. Or the first time they tell you they love you. It just gets better."

I'll take his word for it, but for now I'm a disaster. My dad and stepmom called last night and were headed our way for a week, but I fell apart again. I started crying to Angus, for reasons I can't understand, that by the time they went home Angus' paternity leave was over, and I just want a few days of just him and I and the babies before the whole world has to go back to normal. Melissa just left. My family was arriving. He goes back to work next week then both Melissa and Jeff arrive (and Jesus that will be fraught) - him for one week, her for three. We won't be alone again for ages, and what happens if our babies have turned into 9 month old Incredible Hulk look alikes by then? Huh? Those days are gone. I was sure if I had a few days alone, the babies would stay babies for just that long.

It was more tears.

I am completely mental.

My very lovely family agreed to shorten their trip. I was relieved. I worried Freakish Baby Syndrome was going to get in through the doors before Angus went back to work, but a few days of just him and I reassured me. Then my dad called this morning - they lost a passport. They can't come. Cue huge floods of tears, massive guilt, worries I'd jinxed the whole thing with my damn hormones, and in general I feel all trembly.

I've survived pretty much everything you can throw at me in my life, and all it takes to undo me are two infants.

I'm so happy. Disturbingly easy to make cry, but happy.

And this site may be a wee bit baby-oriented for a short while. Not because I'm looking to devote my life to documenting every single moment of their lives, but because it's only been 6 days since the world went upside down, and in those days I think I've gone through enough hormones to make an entire Amazonian tribe menstruate simultaneously.

-H.

PS-as for guessing the babies' birthdate and details, the winner was Laura in Little Rock, Arkansas. She guessed October 3 at 2:00 pm. Nick and Nora were born at 15:54 and 15:56, which makes Laura's guess very, very good.

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October 06, 2007

The Beginning of It All

Outside of our front door of our home is an old light, which has a glowing lightbulb inside of a glass-walled holder. I look at it at night and think it glows, as the light seems to be suspended by nothing. For 5 days now, I've had a glow inside of me just like our front door. You probably can't see it. Nobody needs to, I just know it's there.

My last antenatal visit on Tuesday didn't exactly go as planned. After getting scanned by a technician who was clearly more interested in scanning my intestines than actually scanning the babies (as judged by the ferocity with which she kept pushing down. The babies hated her. I hated her, too.), I headed in to meet the consultant.

I had prepared myself for "You need 2 more weeks at least".

I was not prepared for "You need to deliver, and soon."

They let me go home to pick up a few things, then I was admitted on the antenatal ward. Random thoughts kept occurring to me: Where did I put those baby blankets? What clothes should I take? Maybe we should have lasagna for dinner. I wonder if the babies are coming.

I was admitted to the pinnacle of luxury in these hospitals-a private room with its own shower and toilet-and I settled in. I gave a blood sample. They took my blood pressure, which was reaching new highs on an hourly basis. I was just walking Angus to the door at the end of visiting hours when the midwife stopped us, and asked him to come back to the room-my blood results were in. I was finally pre-eclamptic. My kidney function showed the worst levels the midwife had ever seen, basically my kidneys had packed up and gone to the bar and was going to leave my body to the rest of it. The liver, fortunately, was holding the fort. But I was not healthy, not at all.

That night they finally gave me a sleeping tablet after I re-enacted a scene from a junkie film in front of the midwives station. I didn't care that I was practically begging for narcotics-I hadn't slept for days and I knew that no sleep would be coming. I was right about that-my little breakdown scene happened at 2 am, and they drugged me and gave me 5 hours of peace.

The next morning Angus turned up very early. We waited. We wondered. When I finally blew a 170/115 on the blood pressure monitor, it was action time.

On Wednesday, the 3rd of October at 1500, I was walked across the corridor to the operating theatres (that's what they're called here-in our hospital it looked like one massive warehouse with side operating rooms all full of equipment, it was very surreal), where a massive team stood by waiting to take care of me and the twins. The babies' song was in my head the entire time on a loop, a reminder, a prayer.

Angus was put into scrubs and strange gardening clogs, as though the type of work he was headed for was agricultural instead of emotional. I was put into the glamorous hospital gowns and settled into surgical stockings. The operating theatre was absolutely enormous. I was wheeled into a pre-room for my epidural, which went without a hitch even though both Angus and I were terrified. I had asked the anesthesiologist beforehand if he'd had a boozy lunch. Luckily, he laughed.

And then it was time.

The theatre was very bright and white. I was strapped to a table and can only tell you the basics-Angus says there were many people in the room, as delivering premature twins is a risky thing. There were apparently rows of surgical kit ready to go. A whiteboard identified each member of the team and what each person should do. Two teams stood by ready to take our babies. Three doctors were going to work on me, and the very nice anesthesiologist stood by my side the entire time (what's up with anesthesiologists always being marathon racers? I'm just saying.)

They asked if we wouldn't mind if they put on some music. Angus and I, both scared out of our minds, said no we didn't mind. They asked what we'd like to listen to.

Without missing a beat, we both responded, "Whale song."

The staff looked queasy.

We laughed and told them we were kidding.

The staff laughed hesitantly and said they did have a whale song CD, if that's what we really wanted.

We told them under no circumstances would our babies be born to Moby Dick, so please choose whatever you'd like.

Relieved, the staff did. And due to that, our babies were born at 15:54 (Nick) and 15:56 (Nora) to Sheryl Crow's "All I Wanna Do is Have Some Fun", and if that's not irony then I don't know what is.

I don't remember a whole lot. I remember being completely numb from the breasts down, but feeling tremendous pulling sensations, like someone was reaching in to take my heart out. In some ways, that's exactly what they did. We laughed and joked and the anesthesiologist tried to keep us light and upbeat, and without warning we heard a whimper. Then silence. Then a cry. Then more cries. And Angus - who had spent the time "north of the curtain", as per both of our wishes, was called over to assist in cleaning and documenting our son and daughter, and the tears fell silently down the sides of my eyes and into my hair as I listened to the sounds of our children. Angus came over with them swaddled in white towels, vernix shiny on their heads and both expressions on their faces one of wrinkly raisin horror. Angus' face was amazing-he was lit up like Christmas and his grin split his face.

I don't remember a lot else after that - it should have been all exciting and charged up, but I lost a great deal of blood (2.5 times what you should lose in a C-section), and that combined with a general lack of sleep, my adrenaline coming down, and my blood pressure zooming back to earth meant I crashed hard. I was asleep and unable to stay awake, so I have to say-I slept through recovery and some of the early moments of the babies. I look back at some of the video Angus took of me meeting the babies, of me being wheeled into recovery with a baby tucked under each arm and a dopey smile on my face, and I remember none of it.

It hasn't been easy. I had a reaction to the anesthetic and so spent my time itching furiously until they gave me medication to stop it. My blood pressure is still slightly high for me, but basically nearly back to normal. My stomach is shrinking as my uterus does. I've had a headache for days. But as I'd had a C-section, twins, and pre-eclampsia I got a lot of help in the hospital, so the first night the midwives came in and fed her and Nick, but halfway through the night Nick's stats were getting worse, so a pediatrician shook me awake to tell me that Nick wouldn't be coming back to the ward.

The C-section was hard but necessary, although both the traumatic nature of Nick's birth combined with his sister sitting on him and his premature status meant that he earned himself a ticket to special care baby unit (like the NICU here). His sister Nora, weighing 6 ounces more than he, is healthy and happy, but the first night Nick proved he couldn't feed and couldn't suck properly, and that combined with the fact that his body looks Starvation Chic (baby fat appears in the last few weeks of gestation, which both babies missed) means he couldn't control his body temp and blood sugars. He was fitted with a feeding tube, and on Thursday they wheeled me in to see him.

I was really weak and useless, unable to pick him up. He lay there, draped with blankets and on heating cushions, surrounded by babies in stages I remembered-29 weeks. 32 weeks. 30 weeks. I couldn't stay awake while being with him, which made me feel horrible, and halfway through my visit blood started pouring out of me, past the catheter and onto the sterile floor, which made me feel even worse. They rushed me back to ward, where I stayed bed-bound. I missed the presence of Nick, so calm, so assuring.

Nora and I spent the first real night alone. I insisted on feeding her myself and I'd haul myself up to her level when it was time. Nora is a soft, quiet, gentle baby. She is disconcerting to me because I see myself in her face, in the shape of her cheeks. She loves nothing more than to be fed and to have a cuddle with her face wrapped in the soft of your neck. She is a loving lump, and I in turn absolutely adore her. She rarely fusses and almost never cries, but as a function of being a preemie she is extraordinarily sensitive to touch - the fat stores infants develop in the latter weeks not only plump and warm, but they also protect the nerve endings. Right now many of Nora's nerves end too close to the skin, so when you touch her it has to be firm and sure and with pressure, as incidental stroking is currently too much for her to bear, it's too sensitive for her, it's too intense.

I know how that feels.

Nick had a feeding tube for days, up until the point he'd decided he'd had enough of the feeding tube, at which point he removed his entire feeding tube himself and thus got to join Nora and I on the ward. His determination to remove his feeding tube amused and exasperated us, and both Angus and I see ourselves in his defiance. Nick is tiny. He opens his eyes a lot more than Nora does and takes in the world a lot, even though he can't see much at all. He too is sensitive to touch, and he makes the most ridiculous faces. He's a very colicky baby but he loves to be stuck to your skin, holding on, taking it all in. I can't explain it, but I love him differently than I love Nora, just as much but differently, and I love them both with such an intensity that it frightens and humbles me.

It's true what they say. I thought it was rubbish, I thought it was old-wives tales. But it's not. You fall in love with your child, and it happens without you even noticing.

My pregnancy was the worst experience of my life. Arguments, worry, bleeding, fear, hospital stays, needles, blood pressure, kidneys, bladder, more bleeding, breathing, emergency C-sections, the sight of my boy in special care...it was a living hell. And if I only ever got one moment with these two babies in return for 36 weeks of hell, then it would still be worth every single second. The babies have become something that both Angus and I can't wait to be around, can't wait to interact with. We both light up at the sight of them. We have both fallen in love, and in return, something between us seems to be even brighter than it had been before. I thought I loved him as much as I could possibly love another person before they were born. I was wrong. I'm even more in love with him now, too.

We're hoping to come home from the hospital soon. I look back on the day that they were born and want to hold it tight inside of me, so that time, bad future arguments and sensitivities, and fragile memories don't rob me of it. I want to selfishly guard it all inside of me so that not a drop of it ever goes away. I think the memory of it all makes me glow, and I wonder if anyone can see that glow. If I had to re-live one day over and over again, it would be that day, just because I've never felt that complete before in my life. I want time to stop, to hold still, to linger, to let me hold tight to something that I never thought could be mine. The entire day was one of love, between the babies and I, between Angus and the babies, and even more so between Angus and I. He came through for me and for us in absolutely every way imaginable and it makes my heart hurt just thinking about it.

Everything I have ever wanted, ever, came true at 15:54 and 15:56 on October the third. I have the truest, greatest love of my life and two amazing babies, all until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard.


my lovely family


UPDATED - we busted out at 2100 hours tonight.

My family is home.


my lovelies

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October 03, 2007

The Lemonheads

Nick and Nora were born via emergency C-section today. Everyone is fine, if a little tired.


View this montage created at One True Media
The Story of the Lemonheads

-H.

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October 02, 2007

Hormones and Hollywood

For the locals not watching Brothers and Sisters on E4, you may want to skip this post.

I've had a rough 24 hours over here-the third trimester symptoms continue. The contractions are strong and I bought a blood pressure monitor yesterday which is showing the highest numbers so far. I spend time hanging face down over a beanbag, as it's the only way to draw a complete breath. I'm not hungry anymore but get myself to eat a bowl of yogurt or a decent lunch in a way of staving off any problems. The lack of sleep is making me crazy and distorting my emotions. I slept from 3 am to 6 am last night, and the reflection in the mirror is of someone I don't recognize anymore, not in face, not in body, not in the eyes. My doctor's appointment is in 3 hours, and I was gearing myself up to beg for help, only I find there's nothing to gear up. I'm ready to beg.

I'm finishing out the end of Season 1 of Brothers and Sisters here. Last night in the wee small hours of the morning I started an episode called Favorite Son. If you haven't been following the show and want to, or else are living locally and watching it on Channel 4, look away now as there are a few spoilers I'll be getting into.

I've complained bitterly about the show before - I love it, I really do, but the inaccuracies of an ultrasound scene in the show was too much for me once. This episode was rather the same - the episode before it had Julia, a woman pregnant with fraternal boy/girl IUI twins went into labor. She apparently had two contractions, her water broke, she started to push and suddenly her twins were immediately born in the kitchen, with aid from her military medic brother-in-law. You know. As you do.

This prompted outrage from me. From my courtside couch throne I shouted and ranted at the TV, things along the lines of "That would never happen on a first pregnancy! The doctors tell me it will take hours and hours!", accompanied with "There would be more panic at 29 weeks! I remember 29 weeks! I remember those statistics!" and "That lucky fucking bitch!"

I got pregnant at nearly the same time as a number of other IVF twin blogger moms. All but one of them have now given birth. I check on them with care and happiness, I really do, but if I'm honest I also look on them with envy. All of the "when you meet them, it will be great"s and the "it's so worth it"s and the "your babies will change your life in the most extraordinary way"s are there, they're real, they're visible to these women who took shots the same days I did, who cried as many tears as I have, who had as many hopes as I do.

In Favorite Son, at 29 weeks they somehow made it to the hospital, where Julia's babies lingered in NICU. They tell her one fragile twin must donate a kidney to the other failing twin. More shouting ensues at the TV - it's too Hollywood, I can't see that event happening in the industrial magnolia painted hallways of my hospital. Things like that don't happen! I am outraged. This is ridiculous. It doesn't work like this. It doesn't happen like this.

And the parents decide not to risk their daughter for the life of their son.

And their son, he dies.

They named him William, which was a name on our list, too.

And I go from outraged screaming fanatic to complete crying soggy mess in the space of 5 minutes.

I know it's hormones and Hollywood, those two dreadful combinations. I know it's TV. I know it's a storyline designed to make me cry, and it does. I also know I'm a very easy target - I give money monthly to the RSPCA, the WSPA and Dog's Trust, because all you have to do is show me a picture of a chained dancing bear or a dog beaten within an inch of its life and I'm a fucking disaster area of tears and outrage and Gorby never knows what hits him as when I see one of those commercials I am promptly on the floor with him, hugging him and promising him that "Mama will never, ever let anyone hurt you again!" His general reaction is something along the lines of "Got any puppy treats, Mama? And maybe you shouldn't be watching any more daytime TV."

But the entire pregnancy has had some kind of echo like this - I once watched a documentary on twins and when the mother found her twins were, actually, dead inside of her at 20 weeks I cried and worried until I passed 20 weeks myself then somehow it was ok, I wouldn't be like her, my twins lived past 20 weeks. When another mother lost her twins to food poisoning from undercooked steak, I shuddered in relief. I don't eat meat. That wouldn't happen to the Lemonheads.

I think pregnant women mark the days by superstition. Get past this point, get beyond that timeline. But when you get past one there's another waiting for you to clear. And now that I'm so close, there is only the hallmark of birth to jump over, and I am so incredibly uncomfortable all I can think about is the extraction of my two little occupants. It doesn't occur to me that something bad might happen, because I simply have blind faith (for once! It's amazing! It's like a drug!) that nothing bad will happen.

But when I'm reminded that there are still boogeymen in the dark corners I stop feeling so miserable and try to hold on to this moment. I cried like a baby as the twin son died on TV, while inside my own son kicked me hard, his way of saying "Got any cranberry juice, Mommy? And maybe you shouldn't be watching any more daytime TV."

I pet my stomach and apologize for being so angry. I promise him that if they'll just come out, I'll look out for them and take care of them. I'm an emotional disaster area right now and the exhaustion is making it worse.

Forgive me - I'm currently a train wreck.

Doctor's appointment in three hours.

Until then, I'll just read my book. Books are good.

-H.

PS - The webpage remains open for guessing the possible birthdates and sizes.

PPS- J in CA (I don't want to detail any more, in case you want to remain anonymous!) - a delivery man literally just dropped off the travel cot from our Wishlist. Thank you very, very much. The Lemonheads need one as we'll be visiting grandparents and need to take a bed with us to ensure their routine stays on course. I'm very grateful!

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October 01, 2007

Opinionated Cow (Now Updated!)

Going into this pregnancy, I can tell you there were a lot of pre-conceived notions that I had about being knocked up. Most of them have been blown out of the water completely, but the truth is I think I had to experience pregnancy before actually knowing what the hell this whole "carrying a baby" was all about. I confess that in time-honored tradition, I didn't really understand what the hell some of my pregnant friends were on about when they were pregnant, at least not until I got here myself. So a few things that I put my hand up and admit to having been wholly unsympathetic about (thus, I was wrong and apologize profusely):

1) That whole playing music for the baby thing. I always thought it was weird that moms had headphones around their stomach to rock baby's house. I can't explain why I wanted to try it one day, but I did, and I was surprised - babies really do react to music. Some songs seem to calm them, it's like they pause to cock their head to listen. Some songs seem to piss them off, if the battering is any indication. But it's not weird so much as they're your little captive science experiment.

2) Other moms used to talk about how much their ribs hurt. I used to think: "Ribs? Don't you know that babies are in the uterus? And the uterus is down low?" Because the uterus is down lowÂ…when you're not pregnant. Get pregnant and the uterus is like the Hindenburg, expanding and taking over you body until you can accessorize it with a nice cashmere scarf and some dangly earrings. Babies get all up in your ribcage, too, making your pregnancy pass by while giving you the grace to sound like a bulldog when you breathe.

3) Wiping becomes something that you thank Christ you were so active in yoga about. You have to go a bit tantric just to get the cleaning done. It's humiliating, but then there's little about pregnancy that reinforces your dignity.

4) Your clothes will start to gap when you get to that You're Really Pregnant stage. Maternity clothes do the job for a long time, up until the last few weeks. Get to the last few weeks and suddenly your clothes leave you hanging. If you want to truly cover up, as Angus' Mum is keen that I do and constantly reminds me that only the slappers in society go around baring their pregnant stomach (good thing I didnÂ’t wear my "Bun in the oven" bikini to the family BBQ last weekend then) then you're looking at a Muumuu. Or maybe a pup tent. Either one will comfortably cover your stomach in the end.

5) By the time you get to the last part of the pregnancy, you have no sense of humor. Everything hurts, pregnancy sucks, and if you're one of those people that felt 100% perfect throughout the entire pregnancy and loved every moment of it and felt one with nature and your baby and you didn't have baby in your ribcage or breathe like a bulldog or totter above the toilet or not find any clothes to fit or suffer the inability to sleep well and have bluebirds making you tea and Bambi dusting your furniture with his fluffy tail, then fuck you. I mean that in the nicest way.

Of course, there are more things to deal with if you're having twins. If you're packing multiples, I offer you the following things to know:

1) If you want to know what it's like to have two babies inside of you, kicking, then do the following - take two Tickle-Me-Elmos. Open them up and fill them with rocks. Sew them shut. Turn on that switch which makes them laugh and vibrate and stick them inside of you, one on top of your bladder and one on top of your diaphragm. That's what it feels like. Oh and make sure you set the timer so that it laughs and vibrates between the hours of 1 - 5 am. It can laugh and vibrate at other times of day, too, but definitely in the middle of the night.

2) I know that in the States mothers of twins get that "Are they natural or not?" question. I have yet to get that one, mostly because fertility treatment over here is restrictive, so that if you're under 40 you can only put 2 embryos back (I support this for the record). In the States I've read accounts of women who can put back many embryos, but since fertility treatment is maybe not so well-known here (even though 1 in 10 women here in the UK will pursue a course of treatment), I have yet to be asked if they're natural or not. I'm prepared with an answer though: "No, they're made with Barbie parts. I had a Frankenstein moment. That's pronounced 'Frohnk-en-shteeen'." I was also prepared to answer that "Did you fall pregnant through fertility treatment?" question. My response: "Do you have kids? What position did you get pregnant in? Oh, what was that? None of my business, you say? DO TELL."

3) If one more person tells me that once the twins arrive I'll never sleep again I will stab them to death with an ironing board (it will take a lot of effort, but it'll be worth it.) I just had night #4 of very little sleep (I'm talking on average max 3 hours of sleep a night and I'm not exaggerating. So in 96 hours I've had about 12 hours of sleep.) I'm falling apart here and have already burst into tears twice today (and I've only been awake for 5 hours as of writing this). I have never, ever felt so shit before in my life. When they arrive at least I will be able to sleep, the option will be there even if the logistics are not. Right now it's no sleep. At all. I am teetering on coming undone. So don't tell me that I'll never sleep again. I'm not sleeping now and it's not making me a happy bunny at all.

4) "Better you than me!" is what a few people have said about the twins. I couldn't agree more.

5) "Do twins run in your family?" Why? Does this mean if they do you'll go down to the bookies and make some bets? Does this have fucking anything to do with anything? If I come from a long line of twins will that mean the BBC should do a documentary about me and my crazy genetic make-up? Do you think we all automatically buy two of everything as a knee jerk reaction upon seeing two lines on a pregnancy test? I just met you, what is it to you if twins do run in the family? Do I get a cookie? A puppy? A balloon in the shape of my large intestine? Skin cancer runs in my family, shall we talk about that?

6) "You're going to have to buy two of everything!". No we won't. We'll just buy one of everything and choose our favorite child. Or else we'll make them compete for the resources, it'll be like Baby Gladiator in our house. We're an exercise in Darwinism, where only the strongest survive. The weakest go without the Rainforest Bouncy Chair and make do with the Aquarium swing.

It's October 1. When the first infection showed up in July, I wanted to get to 32 weeks. Then I wanted 34 weeks. Although the 36 weeks mark is on Wednesday, my personal goal became trying to make it to October. Now it's officially October. So babies? Come out come out wherever you are. I'm ready. My body's been more than ready. Tomorrow we go to beg and plead with the doctor to set an induction date.

I'd like to have a pool to see when people think the babies will be born, but I have no idea how to administrate it. So lemme' know what date you're betting on, and the winners will be lauded on my blog with great thanks and fanfare.

-H.


PS- Many thanks to the extraordinary photographer Marie, who sent us a very helpful DVD in our constant quest to make sure that the babies sleep through the night as soon as possible. Thanks, Marie, I'm very grateful and I'll let you know if it helps (am sure it will!)

PPS-I also received this great Lamaze toy which we're planning on having inside our twin stroller - but there was no name attached to the gift! If you want to remain anonymous, I completely respect that, but if you want to email me I'd love to thank you for our new toy!

UPDATE - Melanie pointed me to a baby birthday web site, which hosts guessing pools. So I set up a webpage for the Lemonheads - you can click on the tabs for Baby A and Baby B and make your guess for each baby there - you don't have to register or anything, you can just place a guess. Thanks Melanie!

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