"It was horrible," I gasp, huddled under a blanket. Angus is rubbing my back, a tumbler of whiskey in my shaking hands. Mascara has run down my face in rivulets.

"It's ok now, you're ok now," he soothes.

"I couldn't face it. It was so awful, I couldn't believe it. I thought I would be stronger!" I wail. "I thought I was made of stiffer stuff!"

"You couldn't have known, there were no indications," he says, smoothing circles on my upper shoulders.

I tip the whiskey to my lips and then rub my forehead with a sob. "I'm just so glad it's over," I whisper. "I'm so, so glad."

"Me too, babe. Me too," he says, holding his forehead to mine. "Try to push it out of your mind, the whole horrible experience. Try to focus on the good - it was hell, it was worse than you could have imagined, but at least it's over."

"Yes," I agree, sitting up and feeling a shudder go down my spine. "It's done. And both babies got slots in the swim class."

****************************

OK, so it wasn't as bad as all that, but it was indeed one hundred times worse than I had imagined.

Saturday morning Angus, Melissa and Jeff headed off at a ridiculous hour for Heathrow (little did we know that the flight would be delayed over 12 hours, and all the fuck-ups involved in Heathrow opening a new terminal meant that Melissa and Jeff are actually still here, and going home tonight), and so the twins and I headed to register for swim class.

We left the house at 5:45.

In the morning.

On a Saturday.

All for a goddamn swim class.

I strapped the babies (both, luckily, feeling quite happy) into their car seats and then head to the car. I realized I was left with the crappy red car, the car we hate, the car we took to France and we were so tired that we didn't completely unload it, so I would be driving a car full of babies and 100 bottles of wine to the gym. Only of course, when I got into the car it wouldn't start.

I tried again.

No go.

I started shouting, and just like that scene where Clark W. Griswald makes the Christmas lights shine just by screaming and willing it to be (or so he thinks), I managed to get the car to turn over and run just because if it didn't, my mood would've been shagged for years to come. We were then on our way, bottles clinking merrily in the back.

Pulling into the parking lot, the babies in brilliant moods in their car seats, cooing and babbling at their toys, the car, who the hell knows what, I was shocked to see that the parking lot was heaving. I sigh. A number of frazzled-looking women in mid-sized sedans are pouring into the car park. I race and open Nick's door.

And 3 bottles of wine go clinking along the road, having been relieved of their place on the floorboard and willingly taking the path of least resistance. Luckily they didn't break. But they did make a hell of a noise, causing the other moms to look at me funnily as I unstrapped my tiny infant son from the backseat. I wanted to be a cow and shout "What? Everyone's gotta' have a little breakfast! Most important meal of the day!" but felt that burning bridges before I swam under them was a bad idea.

Unstrapped, Nick and Nora and I head inside.

And join the queue.

Which has easily 40 people already in the queue.

What I didn't know is that every swim class was up for enrollment that morning, so it was from 6 months old to 5 years old. Loads of half-asleep moms and dads sat there on the seats lined up for the queue with a bleary, "I'm not awake" air. We all had bed hair.

And I was the only one there with kids because other more responsible parents let their kids sleep in at home with the other parent. My co-parent was actually at that moment battling with check-in staff. We all do what we can, eh?

I slide into a seat and start feeding Nick. The woman next to me looks over. "My spouse had to take someone to the airport," I say weakly. She smiles and nods and then smiles at Nora, who flirts outrageously in return.

And so it starts. We fill out paperwork and wait. I feed Nora. Nick starts shouting. I bounce Nick. Nora starts her new game of talking at the top of her voice. I think it's cute but I can see that other moms and dads aren't finding the vocal antics of my kid very entertaining at all, especially at 6:30 in the morning. I figured: at least she wasn't screaming, we can take the babbling.

They make us shift up on seats every so often, which is highly convenient if you have a diaper bag, two babies, and two car seats. The woman next to me on my left helps me move the babies, and we get to talking.

"I can't believe how early in the morning it is," she says wearily. We'll call her Left. That seems nice and noncommittal.

"The things we do," I agree. Like I'd know what things we'd do for our kids, I've only been doing this gig for 6 months. "Is it always like this, the signing up for swim lessons?"

"Oh yes," Left says. "But at least once you're in the system it's ok."

"In the system?" I ask.

The woman on my right side leans in and joins the conversation. "You are in the system, right? We're in the system, are you in the system?" Right asks the Left.

"Definitely, we're in the system," Left replies to Right. Left looks at me. "You're not in the system?"

What fucking system are they talking about? The NHS system? The council system? The solar system? "Um....no?" I say hesitantly. God what have I done. I'm the worst mother ever. The list could be the list for the end of the world, it may be raining fire and St. Peter comes along. "Helen? Helen?" he says, checking the list. "Nope, you're not on here. Man, you are so screwed!" he crows, moving on to the next name.

"You're not in the system?" Right asks with horror. "The system here is what enables you to re-enroll smoothly! You have to be in the system to get priority!"

"No but I will do! I'll even double-book in the system, I'll take remedial classes even!" What did they need? Blood? A vow of chastity? Connections to the DAR? None of which I could provide, but still - it would be nice to know what I was up against here.

"You'll have to hope you can get a place," Left says, shaking her head sadly. "Even if the class you want is booked, you need to book something. You have to get in the system, even if you can't attend the class."

"How much is booking something?" I ask.

"£70," Right replies.

70 pounds! 70! Per child! I'm not paying £140 just to have my name on a list. Let's be reasonable, people. I love my kids, but paying £140 just to have my name on a computer screen isn't attractive.

The queue keeps moving. We get closer. Parents are leaving, angry, unable to get their kids into some classes. I'm in deep shit here - not only do I need two spots, but we can only do Friday swim classes because strangely enough work isn't that keen on us bunking off every Tuesday afternoon. Funny that. We're getting closer and closer to the front of the line. Nick's fast asleep. Nora is talking for England. I worry the mob will come for us.

Finally, it's us up for consideration. I find my knees are knocking. I can't believe it - I'm nervous. I'm nervous over a swim class.

I've lost my mind.

"Right then, so which class did you want?" she asks.

"Friday at 9am, the aquababies class," I say, chewing on my thumbnail.

She checks the list. She smells like chlorine. She smiles at Nora, who naturally smiles back. "Hmmm...ok...ah....yes! Yes we have a place! Shall I put your name down?" she asks brightly.

"Yes but I need two places," I reply.

She looks at me.

I point to the twins.

She looks back at me. "I only have one place."

So...what? This is the aqua version of Sophie's Choice? She wants me to pick my favorite kid or something, let the other kid fear water for the rest of their life? "I need two places."

"I don't have two places for the 9 am class," she says sadly. I deflate. And then she follows up with: "But I do have two places for the 10 am aquababies class."

HALLELUJAH!

I am beside myself.

We sign up.

I pay an extortionate sum of money, which I tell myself is for the best even though the babies hate water and react to it much like the Wicked Witch of the West did, and then we go home.

Swim class starts the 25th of April.

-H.

PS - Happy birthday, Mitzi!

PPS - Many thanks to Vicki for four fantastic books she sent me. Vicki is a fellow twin-mom and is riding the roller coaster of high blood pressure and UTIs. She's on bed rest and is so close to reaching term in her pregnancy, and I know exactly how she feels, so hang in there, Vicki!

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