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.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:44 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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