spanking new floors

I think it's safe for everyone to come out now.

I don't hate everyone anymore. Just a few choice creatures who warrant my wrath.

That's one thing you can rely on hormones for: their inconsistency. You won't feel like the arss-end of a donkey for days and days; they'll just pick and choose a day to make you the world's biggest bitch and then leave again.

Anyway,  the end point is a-coming. In just over a week I leave work. And just on time too. The commute is fast becoming the bane of my existence, and is certainly the worst part of my day.
Walking any sort of distance is starting to become a task of marathonic proportions.

But there is light at the end of the tunnel. The of next week should see the final curtain of the house renovations, with the finale being our kitchen. Which evidently, I'm told, will be "practically slotted into place."

So, all building and dust should come to its final resting place at the apex of when I finish work and start maternity leave.

Our floors have been beautifully sanded and glazed. Where before they had been stained quite dark, and years of wear and tear meant they'd been chipped and scuffed - we finally came home after two days of sanding and dust to this:

 Our lounge. Almost ready to actually live in!

 Varnish still drying, but this is our little passageway.

Everything just looks lighter and restored.

The problem is, because we've moved so much stuff around the house, from one room to the next, and  everything is bundled in a big ball of dust - I can't seem to find my maternity records or passport.


Oh well.

go away

Having a really hormonal day.

No but no but, no a really really hormonal day. Humanity, for what it's worth, can fuck off.

Everything, everyone, every little situation, how people talk, how people accentuate their words, what people do, the nerve of society when it comes to certain things, in-laws, acquiantances, work, husband, friends - just everyone and everything, leave me alone.

Give me a wide, wide berth.

Make like my hips, keep your stupid birthing advice to yourself (can everyone just shut up? You tell me to do things "my way" in one breath, and then in another you insist that I "MUST have a natural birth." Are you even LISTENING to yourself?)

My hopsital, my obstetrician, health services in general, British society, people who bump my bump on the tube and don't even realise it, people who see me standing there and don't offer their seats, all this information coming in and coming out, the fucking builders and sanders, I am at my WITS END.

I don't think I've ever felt so grumpy, irritable and generally annoyed at so many things and people, in my life ever.

NO ONE UNDERSTANDS. NO ONE GETS IT.

I am 13 going on 33, pregnant and pissed off.

plastic babies and boobs

I did not enjoy that.

We were sat in a circle, all clutching a doll and a knitted, stuffed breast (not sure who is responsible for knitting the fake breasts, but jolly well done), and I have never felt bigger or lonely as I did then.

All the other ladies were neat, petite little things. They were also on their last week of pregnancy, most about to pop at their 40 weeks, some even overdue. And were still considerably smaller-looking than me. Some looked like they were wearing normal clothes - as in non-maternity jeans. While mine are splitting at the seams.

"Hi I'm Sarah, and I'm expecting a little girl in, well, she was due yesterday - I am almost 41 weeks!"

"I'm Ingaborg, and I am 39 weeks, just one week to go until I get to give birth in the new birthing pool here. Sooo exciting!"

"Hi, I'm Peas, I'm 29 weeks" [cue gasps]..........."and I am expecting twins sometime...in the next ..I dunno...7 weeks...I think."

Admittedly, I felt smug that I was carrying two babies for about 5 seconds.
Yes people. All THIS and a bag of chips.
Then everything suddenly took an abrupt downhill turn.

While everyone else got one doll and a fairly straightforward lesson of how they should latch their suckling child onto their boob, I was sat there with my two dolls, holding them like rugby balls under my arms and wondering how the fuck I'm feasibly going to breastfeed two squirming babies.

I started to panic inside. Everyone looked so maternal and as though they were actually bonding with the plastic doll, while I held my two feeling completely overwhelmed. I felt like everyone was staring at me, and I didn't have any idea what I was meant to be doing.

My brain has also decided to officially shut off yesterday too. I think I may have an idea of what it might be like to get Alzheimer's now. No really.

I left my suitcase at the hospital, couldn't follow basic directions to the ward, forgot to call about three people yesterday, generally my head is in a new kind of haze and I am finding it very frustrating.
If I don't write every single thing down, or actively have a reminder set somewhere, I will forget.

Somehow I am managing to function at work still, but that's only because I live and die by my calendar and notebook.

Then to top it off, the tube strike meant having to take three buses to get home, in the pouring rain and wind, so by the time I got home, I was a mess.

Back was killing me, my tummy is itching all times of day now as it stretches beyond all aesthetic capacity, and my brain is behaving like a somnambulistic retard.

It was a bad day.

Today will be better. It's the weekend.

sleepover

The Brit gets back from Amsterdam tonight. He's been there for 3 days for work, of which I took the opportunity to pack a suitcase and head, running, to my French friend, Mademoiselle, for two nights.

Mademoiselle is an interiors genius, and besides being a wonderful friend who has offered me her spare room while the builders extricate our windows and floors, her home is a sanctuary of calm and beautifulness in an otherwise chaotic London.

Mademoiselle has helped inspire my new decor choices and shares my intense fondness for garlic. Given there is a tube strike out there causing riots, stampedes and bad bad behaviour, we have been working from holed up in her lovely home together the last two days.

I have been a bit sick, battling with acid reflux and nausea and henceforth guzzling on Gaviscon like it's nobody's business - mmm. Chalky - and she's been looking after me, by feeding me ridiculously healthy things like kale and grilled salmon.

All in the serene, gorgeous surroundings of her lounge:

And drinking gallons of mint tea.

The Brit gets home tonight, and he promises that we might even be able to move back into our bedroom tomorrow night (if the carpet is laid.) This is, literally, the best news ever.

It means we might actually be released from The Pit. And we can sleep in an actual bed again.

But for this afternoon, I need to leave the clutches of Mademoiselle and head to the hospital to learn how to breastfeed.

Yes, there are classes for what is meant to be the most natural, instinctive thing on Earth.
"These classes will teach you how to get them to latch on. There's a latching angle involved."

Wow. And so the intense foray into motherhood deepens.

kylie minogue

I met Kylie today.

(Of the Minogues.)

The hoops I had to jump through, I tell you what.  Me the whale next to the world's smallest pop star (her head is smaller than my stomach).

But either way, isn't that a leetle bit noice?

Twins, take note. You were there. I know by the time you're old enough you'll probably view Kylie like how I view Barry Manilow, but you need to know that this was A. Big. Deal.

one born every minute

Had my first [proper] apocalyptic house renovation meltdown on Friday.

I opened the door to what looked like the aftermath of the Gulf War. And as I squeezed past a pile of lathing tools, I thought. "You know what? Bugger this. Bugger all this dust and shit and half finished cupboards and basement malarky. Bugger it to the fiery depths of hell."

So I lay on our mattress in the room we now affectionately call The Pit, which is ironically to be the children's nursery once this is over, and cried my eyes out for an hour.

 The Brit came home and dragged me out of the pit, propped up my cushions and allowed me to convince him to watch One Born Every Minute.

While eating ice cream directly from the tub.

It's a reality series that documents women giving birth in a maternity ward. You don't see that much blood and the nether regions are always blurred, but it did start me off on a fresh wave of tears.

Peas: Maybe it's a good idea to watch one, you know, get into the vibe. It'll help me prepare for what's ahead.

Brit: Yeah...OK.

[pause]

Brit: You sure you won't get freaked out though?

Peas: I'm sure I'll be fine.

[20 minutes later]

Peas: GAHHHHHH! [Sobbing and hyperventilating] I'm so fucking scared right now! How the hell am I going to do this in real life? GAAAAAAAAHHHH!

We watched an episode on twins being born naturally and twins being born via c-section.
Both made me sob incontrollably.

It looked painful and horrendous, and when that part was over, it was too emotional not to cry: when the women are handed their babies, and they meet for the first time, well that just kick started a whole new wave of tears.

What made it worse was the fact that many of these women on the show were ill-shaven Earth Mothers who kept on insiting that they wanted "as little medical intervention as possible," and then when it came to the labour pains it looked as though they were dying.

One was huffing and puffing, taking swigs of gas (how does AIR help, please? What's the point?), and then later on begging for an epidural, by which point it was too late. They then had to deliver her twins without pain relief.

Another was really upset because she couldn't give birth in the birthing pool. Also sucking on a gas pipe and wincing that this was the worse and most arduous pain she'd ever experienced in her life.

So. After I wiped away the tears, The Brit said "...well I don't blame you. For wanting all the drugs in the world."

Well. I might even ask for two epidurals now.

The time is getting closer, and it's a surreal thought that they might be here in anything from the next three to nine weeks. That's quite a window period right there, but they could emerge anytime between then.
Three to nine weeks.

One final note, hilariously:

My twins will be British before I am.
I can apply for Britizenship next year as my fifth year living here; and they'll pop out as English as a Cath Kidston tea caddy.
While they'll have the accent and upbringing of all things British, (We'll be called "Mummay" and "Dadday"...!), I'm going to dedicate a post at some stage to the South African traditions I plan to make regular in our house as they grow older so that they can understand where "Mummay" comes from.

Given they'll be half Saffa, it's only right they learn about the things that half make them who they are.

but i don't have three arms

The course we went to last night was very similar to one we've been to before, but there were a few things we took away that we hadn't considered as almost-parents-to-be to twins.

We didn't leave with a sense of dread or overwhelming thoughts - I think most of the reality has sunk in and we are as mentally prepared as we possibly can be I suppose.

But there are some things I actually hadn't thought about. Take this enlightening bit of news:

Lady: "Welcome everyone! I have twins and I wrote a book about it. 
Now, one thing you might not have considered is the fact that you cannot carry two babies outside."

[Pause]

(At this moment, I am thinking, "Of course I can go outside carrying two babies. One in each arm, obviously. Where's the problem?")

Lady: "What singleton parents take for granted is the fact that they can leave the house without a buggy/pram."

[pause]

Lady: ..."You cannot close a door when you're holding two babies, people."

(Oh fuck. This is true.)

Lady..." You can't pick them both up, open the front door and put them in the car, because you can't open the car door when you're holding two babies either."

(She's right, I definitely did not think about this.)

Lady: "So. When I say you're going to be using your pram or baby seats for even the shortest of distances - from your front door to your parked car, I really mean it. It's because you don't have three arms."

It is because I don't have three arms.

Lady:...."So get a pram that fits through the front door. Even if it's side-by-side, make sure if it does anything, it fits through your door."

Tick. After days, weeks, months of research, The Brit and I found a side-by-side buggy that fits through our door. That was our number one priority. It's a bulky, heavy old thing, but at least I can get it in and out of the house without having to dismantle it each time. Thank fuck for that.

Other things that we learnt were:
1) One twin dad said he prefers to come home to play with and see his twins than go out on the lash with his mates. He said that was the most surprising aspect of parenthood for him. That he didn't miss his old life at all.

We really needed to hear that.

2) Bathing twins is going to be one tricky situational exercise.

3) There's a good chance that one of my twins will spend time in neonatal ICU or special care after birth. I always thought it would naturally be both of them, mucking about in there together, and they'd at least be side by side in the scary bleeping incubator machine.

But apparently not. It's likely that one comes home with us and the other stays in the hospital. If this happens, it's going to be extremely hard. One there and one with me? One doing OK and bonding with me, while the other is in special care at the hospital?
Just something I may need to prepare for.

4) That said, one thing I've learnt thus far is that every single twin experience is different. And there is no single way to go about this. If I find a routine that works for me, great, if I don't have the right equipment or stuff I can make a plan, if one baby likes sleep and the other doesn't, well, I'll figure it out.

Let's do this thing.

PS: I still well up sometimes when I think about the adventure ahead, out of excitement and out of being terrified of the unknown, but I am more ready than I have been for a while.

PPS: Mum has booked her ticket over. One thing that I am so thankful for - I could  platz -  is that my mum is coming to stay with us for two months. She arrives end of March, and with any luck the babies will stay in utero until then.

Having her here, even as moral support or helping with small thing like making us a meal or taking the babies for a walk or even just helping me figure out why they are crying - will be an absolute godsend.