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.