Don't Rain on my Parade!

I have been shocked and surprised by the comments people (many of them close friends and family) since I found out I was having twins, early in Tri1. One of my close friends said to me in the same conversation I told her the news "oh but yes there's that vanishing twin syndrome isn't there?" I of course knew that and had just been filled with dread and doubt at the hospital so just did not need to hear it from anyone else.

Then from early on I was told I was at risk of losing Twin2 and a friend said to me, trying to comfort me, a mental health worker "well I guess humans just aren't designed to have twins." I was also told by several people to "focus on the strong one." I restrained myself... but really you would never say that to someone with two children if one was ill so why is it OK to say it in utero. From the moment I laid eyes on them my heart and focus has been entirely fixed on willing that both will be born in good health. I don't have the option of picking and choosing which one I care about most.

I also have lots of people who love to tell me (often in the same conversation that I am announcing they are twins) that I must never dress them the same (actually I might do sometimes, I will teach them how to celebrate their unique sameness as much as their difference), that they must be in different classes at school (because of course there is lots of evidence that unecessarily separating them from their most natural support system is beneficial - NOT), that they are likely to have underdeveloped speech (this last one is a misnomer and the only reason why twins are more likely to have slower speech development is because they are at higher risk of preemie birth and the developmental milestones preemie babies should be but often aren't measured from their gestational due date rather than DOB).

I also get lots of people who ask if I used IVF. I didn't, but really, is my fertility any of your business?!

People are strange. I think in pregnancy social boundaries shift in a peculiar way anyway - so like suddenly it's OK to make comments about your weight or your skin. With twins then that shift seems to occur ten fold.

I feel utterly blessed to be having two babies so please stop pissing on my fireworks.

The Itch

Saturday April 9th

Ok so I am feeling beyond patient with my sobriety. I think if I actually had two babies to run after, squawking and demanding my attention it wouldn't be so bad. Instead I have had a lazy quiet weekend which would have usually resulted in me and your Dad finding ourselves in a patch of sun where the drinks were flowing. My Facebook page is filled with multiple status updates about afternoons in beer gardens, back yard BBQs, beach bars all fuelled by my favourite dancing juice.

Perhaps worse than that I generally have an itch about where I am and what I am doing. It's not the time really for a a big wake up and shake up call and yet I know when I have this kind of an itch it doesn't usually settle until I resettle. I love this city and yet my heart is craving for a different life style, somewhere by the sea, somewhere where the sun isn't a novelty, somewhere where balmy days in April don't make headline news.

This dissatisfaction is all a good distraction from the real concern of the week and that is the impending OSCAR test this coming Tuesday. I am dreading it. I am dreading the day, from the procedure down to those last moments where I am sitting waiting on the results. I so desperately want my babies to be OK.

Bellini Babies

Thursday April 7th

Hooray, we reached the 13 week mark and the fruit chart on the internet says you are both the size of peaches now. Mmmm Bellinis. Funnily enough it's not the cocktails and the wine that I so coveted that I miss most. I have this odd craving that comes and goes for a really malty, hopsy ale. I don't drink ale usually and yet glugging a tumbler full really appeals. Not that I am drinking at all.

I don't have anything against women who do drink in very moderate amounts during pregnancy it just wasn't for me. Mainly because I have never been a particularly moderate drinker. I have never been the kind of person who would sedately enjoy half a glass of wine with dinner. More like half a bottle or more. I have always enjoyed getting well a bit tiddly and so have taken an all or nothing approach to drinking most of my adult life. I can quite happily go without it but if I drink I like, well to drink. Hence my abstaining totally.

Maternity Clothes

Sunday April 3rd

This is about the third time I have gone shopping for maternity clothes. Each time I have returned home empty handed and feeling ever so slightly grouchy. My bugbear with maternity ranges is that a) most shops don't have them, they may in their catalogues or websites but rarely in store and b) where they do they are so dowdy I would really, well rather not. So like I say I haven't, until now, relented.

The problem is I am fast running out of things to wear. I went through my clothes rack the other day taking out and folding up and packing away clothes that won't be of any use for another year. I still only have a pot belly sized bump, like you might have after over indulging at Christmas. But there's been a general thickening round the waist band and round my boobs which means that most of my clothes now make me look like a freshly stuffed home made sausage.

After huffing and puffing at pairs of jeans with thick elasticated waist bands I compromise and buy two dresses a size larger than I normally would, with adequate space for the bump for I hope at least another month or two.

I finish off the expedition with a hot choc with cream and chocolate flakes, just to help the bump on it's way.

The Twin Specialist

Friday 25th March

Your Dad's in Berlin so it's my first trip to the hospital by myself to see the twin specialist. I find my way through a rabbit warren of corridors to the Fetal Meds Unit. I felt fine until now, sitting here waiting with women with partners or their Mums all around me.

Eventually I am called through by a suave middle aged man in scrubs, my consultant. He skims through the history of the last few weeks before asking me to climb onto his bed without (hoorah) having to take my trousers off. He splurges the gooey jelly stuff all over my belly and prods me. He moves quickly through the examination checking off bits of you babies to the nurse like a dentist checks off teeth to a dental nurse. "A leg, another leg, two legs, a hand, two hands". He's moving so fast I see only fleeting glimpses of you from different angles.

There's a big plasma screen up on the wall so I lay back and watch these flicking images of you both. Both of you have flipped over, both facing upwards now. You, my little shy bean are not so shy any more, wiggling and jiggling about and your arm is going up and down to your face like you are toning up your drinking arm. I want to take the prod thing off him and just spend some moments looking at you.

You, my little Laurel are still causing some concern at a good 20% smaller than your sibling. He starts by saying that siblings can be different sizes and that this could just be a difference. He tells me I need to hold onto that information the most. Next he tells me that it is possible for eggs to be released and fertilised up to a week apart. This contradicts the consultant on Tuesday but he assures me he knows what he is talking about. Finally, and I know he is just about to start with the information I want to hear least but will most likely hold most he tells me the difference could be down to a congenital abnormality.

The next visit will be for OSCAR testing, (one stop clinical assessment of risk) which is a thorough test for downs syndrome, which will include looking at the nuchal fold. He starts talking to me about my options from there on in if the risk is high. I hold myself together and thank him for his time.

I sit in the waiting room and feel strangely sad and guilty for wanting so much for you not be high risk, for wanting you to be normal. I work in the field of disability and spend so much time reassuring parents that their child is just different, just as valuable. And yet here I am wishing with all my might for you to be normal.

First Baby Pictures

Tuesday 22nd March

I turn up at the EPC and the waiting room is empty. Two nurses sit around gossiping barely and dunking biscuits in their tea.

A brisk middle aged consultant calls me in to the room and I slip onto the bed. Despite drinking twice the recommended amount of water my bladder appears empty and so we resort to the vaginal scan. Just minutes in and she happily announces both are in there wiggling about. Your Dad has tears in his eyes. She turns the screen towards me and one at a time she shows me you both. Both of you are wiggling and both your hearts are beating proudly.

She tells me the idea that you could have been conceived at different times isn't possible but that it may just be that you are structurally different. "Like Laurel and Hardy" she says. One of you is showing up at 10 weeks and 5 days and the other at 9 weeks and 2 days. That seems pretty consistent growth to me.

She starts going into all the "ifs" and "buts" and talks about chromosomal abnormalities being like having an incomplete encyclopaedia. I have tuned out.

I leave light as a feather clinging on to my first baby pictures of you and you are most definitely both shaped like babies now with heads and little feet and hands. Happy in my heart.

The Spirit of Spring

Sunday 20th March

Spring has most definitely sprung. The sky is blue today and the air clear and warm and full of the smell of new life. The cherry trees are filling with their delicate temporal blossom. People are uncurling from their long hibernation.

And my body seems to be in keeping with the spirit of spring. Of course I knew I was but now I really feel like I am. I mean, my waist has been thickening for some time and my boobs have been, well blooming but now they have entered this new stage of sensitivity and I look like I have had enhancement surgery. Most significantly though I have this bump and it's like suddenly, before I am ready to tell, my body is announcing to the world that I am pregnant! All of a sudden I look like a pregnant lady and it's like a full on outward realisation that I am pregnant.

This must be a good thing though right? In my heart there's a glimmering beam of hope for both of you. Your Dad's eyes fill with pride and adoration at my changing shape.

The Third Scan

Monday 14th March

I can barely say my name to the receptionist at the Early Pregnancy Clinic before I crumple in tears. She steers me into a private waiting room. Nurses pop in and out asking me questions and then the Sonographer whisks me off into the now familiar room. I slide onto the pillow. I am shaking with fear which is making it hard for her to secure images.

After a few moments the Sonographer reassures me she can see two heart beats. She turns the screen to me Showman Bean you are bouncing and leaping off the sac wall, your little arms waving in the air. You look like a little child in a swimming pool. Then she moves the image over to Shy Bean, your heart is beating but you are so still, your sac looks kind of shabby in comparison.

Back in the private waiting room the nurse comes in to speak to me. They have taken my file "upstairs". Upstairs is this place I keep hearing about, it's a place where answers come from, you can earn your own place upstairs only by proving sufficiently complex. The consultant has said, the nurse tells me, that he is surprised you Shy Bean have survived this long, judging on the last scan he hadn't expected you to still be here. This is new information to be me and it's hard to hear retrospective bad news. They gave me all sorts of reassuring explanations last time, maybe you were conceived at different times, maybe it's a funny angle. Last time it was all very normal.

Now the nurse is in front of me saying she hasn't seen this before. It's the growth that concerns them and the shabby sac. They aren't talking about these explanations you are just a worry to them. I don't understand though. At the last scan you were 6 and a 1/2 weeks while your Showman sibling was 7 weeks. This time you are 8 1/2 while your Showman sibling is 9. Surely that consistent growth rate is a good thing.

She's reluctant to reassure me and I feel like she is trying to tell me something through anecdotal riddles. I leave knowing I should be happy you are both still alive but full of fear about whether you will survive. Your Dad has interpreted it all more positively. He is full of hope and certainty that you will be fine. I cling on to his hope like a barnacle to a rock face in a storm.

More Bleeding

Saturday 12th March

I wake on the futon after a delicious sleep. I rub my tummy to say good morning to you. I text your Dad from us to tell him we are missing him. It's been three days since we saw him now. My little nieces are up and smiling. After the eldest is whisked off for her swimming training I slip into the bathroom to get ready.

I sit on the loo and feel something coming out. I wipe and there is a creamy red fluid all over the tissue. I look into the toilet bowl and watch as this same fluid drips out of me. My head swims with confusion and panic. I phone your Dad and sob down the phone to him.

I creep out into the hallway and ask to speak to my sister in law. She has tears in her eyes and knows my pain having suffered a miscarriage herself in her first pregnancy. We drive across London to Chelsea and West Minster hospital. A man is writhing with agony in the waiting room but is being forced to wait his turn.

Eventually they take me through and I have to change into an undignified open backed gown. They take bloods, test urine and then leave me waiting. Finally the Gynie doctor comes, except I can barely believe he is a doctor, he looks about the same age as my nephew. He examines me internally and tells me my womb isn't opening. He says he can't rule out miscarriage but that since the neck of the womb is closed it hasn't already started. I plead for a scan which would conclusively tell me one way or another if you are both still alive. The Sonographer doesn't work weekends and so I have to go to my home hospital on Monday. The doctor tells me to pack heavy absorbency pads for my journey back. In case. It's brutally pragmatic. I hear the doctors in the corridor panicking about lack of bed space and they are ordered to clear people out where possible.

I'm back outside again and in the car driving home trying to change the subject.

Monday seems like light years away.

My heart is telling me things I don't want to hear. Your Dad tells me if I believe you are OK then you will be. I feel like I am failing you by failing to believe that. My heart is whispering my fears.

I make my way home and curl up in bed and catch up on Eastenders.

Sunday 13th March

In the morning I wake and initially I feel fine, well rested, even hopeful. But within moments of moving around a cramping pain starts and on the loo I see spots of blood on the tissue. There's a dull ache in my lower back. I search around the internet as if I may by chance come across my answer.

Then I search for where you are at in your development if you are still there, holding on, 9 weeks now. You have moved from embryo to foetus your joints are in place and your little fingers can open and curl. I lose myself in the thought of your tiny perfect fingers opening and closing.

I don't want to lose you, either of you. It feels like there's a knife in my heart.

London Town

Friday 11th March

It's Friday and I haul myself out of bed, I shudder as every movement I make sends ripples of nausea resonating through me. Your Dad is on the home run of a 48 hours shift and I call to bemoan my morning sickness glory, as though it's a badge of honour. He sternly tells me to get back to bed. But I've a meeting in London with senior managers. It's one of those meetings you just can't cancel. Every day at work counts at the moment in terms of making sure I keep my job within the steady stream of redundancies flowing through my organisation.

I crawl into a taxi and onto the train. Once in London the hustle and bustle is overwhelming. A repugnant mix of rich spicey smells, cigarette smoke and traffic fumes waft around me. The dank morning breath of a man sitting next to me on the tube makes me gag. I make it through my meeting and then make my way south of the city to see my brother and his family. My nieces make me smile, full of sweetness and energy. We watch my niece in her annual review performing a rendition of hairspray, she busts out her single line like a pro.

Back at theirs we watch news of the Tsunami, a conservative estimate says over a thousand people have died. The news is crammed with images of the devastation. Whole houses are swept away like pooh sticks in a stream.

Sleep overcomes me and my sister in law makes up a bed for me just in time for me to slip into a deep sleep.

Placated and Sedated

Thursday 10th March

It's coming to the end of the financial year and so I am busy beyond belief. As always the busier I am the more curve balls I seem to be sent making what is already a challenging schedule into an unachievable and unmanageable one. It's like playing whack'a'mole. Usually this sends me into a spin. But of late I have been strangely placated in such scenarios. It's as if I can see the stress I ought to be feeling but it can't quite reach me. It stops a foot or so short of me. Like there's a force field around me stopping anything much more than mild irritation from reaching me.

I feel like I have taken several strong sedatives pretty much a hundred percent of the time. My mind, which usually races at speed doesn't manage much more than a slovenly stroll. And where I would normally rely on caffeine to medicate me out of such a state it would seem I am pretty much fixed here for the time being. There's nothing I can do to fight it. Even if there was I have no fight in me to fight it with.

Nausea

Thursday 3rd March

Nausea has begun to creep in, especially after I have eaten. It's not overwhelming but it is unpleasant. It's like travel sickness not an urge to vomit more of an undercurrent feeling. In the beginning I was thinking very logically about what you needed and nourishing you with nutrition rather than considering what I wanted. What I wanted seemed like a fickle aside to what you needed. As the sickness has been sneaking in those best choices have been harder to make. My thoughts wander towards things I would never normally eat like thick sliced white bread and spotted dick and custard - who even eats spotted dick anymore? So far I have managed to resist the urge and have tried to satisfy my unfamiliar sweet tooth with Pink Lady apples and other sweet fruit. But it's getting harder.

I know in moderation these things would probably be perfectly fine but moderation is not my middle name. Far from it. And I am worried about opening those barn gates and the horse bolting.

This stems most greatly from the anxiety about the weight gain that has already begun. The internet tells me this is normal and weight gain in the first trimester is one of the signs of twin pregnancy. I know it is a necessary part of pregnancy and to an even greater extent with a twin pregnancy. 35-45 pounds they say is normal as opposed to the more manageable average of 22-28 in a singleton pregnancy.

I don't want to sound shallow but it frightens me, not just from a vain view point but also from a physical and practical view point. How can I possibly carry that extra weight?

Undercover Mother

Wednesday 2nd March

It's strange, having a secret. I am not very good with secrets. Good or bad I have to engage in a constant battle of will to keep them inside.

I have told a few, my closest friends and family, those who I would need by my side if the worst happened, these people know about you. Then when I found out there were two of you I felt more cautious letting even those people know. Only some of those close friends and family know there are two of you but for most I have kept you a secret.

My deepest fear is that if I lost one of you that people who knew would look at the one who remained as though there was always something missing, never complete. I fear that most because I fear that of myself. My greatest fear is losing one of you, not both of you. I fear watching you grow knowing that your brother or sister is missing. I know it sounds ridiculous and maybe it is because losing one of you is the most real risk I am facing. Maybe the other, losing both of you, feels more distant and difficult to imagine because it is so much less likely.

These thoughts slip into my consciousness and I try my best to deflect them back into my subconsciousness.

Hold on the Wine

Saturday 26th February

It's Saturday night and Merry has invited us for a dinner party round at hers. My first non-drinking-when-I-would-normally-be-drinking social. I try and get out of this one like I have the others over the past few weeks but your Dad is adamant.

I mull over different outfits in the mirror but my expanding waist line and blooming bosoms have already negated most of my usual going out clothes. I huff and puff that it's not normal to be showing so soon and am not convinced my new tubby tummy is all baby as I can definitely pinch an inch and more. I have been eating for the most part an incredibly healthy diet primarily consisting of low fat protein like cottage cheese, whole grain carbs, lots and lots of veg and a moderate amount of fruit. As well I have been going to the gym four or five times a week so it feels unfair to be looking portly rather than pregnant. Eventually I flop onto the bed. Your Dad points out that there are two of you and with it double the hormones and that the usual rules of a singleton pregnancy don't apply.

It's a new experience for me going to dinner and not slugging back two glasses of wine before the entrées have even arrived. Thankfully I have picked a moderate drinking bunch to try this experiment out. It surprises me but I immediately feel at ease and comfortable with the situation. I expect to feel inhibited especially as the other loosen up as their conversation is well lubricated by generously flowing red wine. But I am not and I find myself chattering and laughing as much as any of them. It's a lovely evening and I feel closer than ever to your Dad and, dare I say it, quite grown up and civilised.

On the way home your Dad is gushing with how lovely it was to see me flowing in dinner party conversation without the assistance of alcohol. Up until this moment I have firmly believed alcohol was the lynch pin of my social life. It is surprising and even alarming given how much I have clung to it over the years to be discovering that perhaps it is nothing more than a placebo.

The First Mountain

Thursday 24th February

We turn up at the hospital bang on 9 and there's already a queue. I assume I am in for another long wait but have barely got my bum on my seat before she calls me through, by my married name which still sounds novel and new. I slip onto the pillow and she inserts the probe into me. I have told your Dad to squeeze my hand as soon as he sees you to let me know you are both still there. He squeezes, lightly, twice but his eyes don't move from the screen so I assume he has forgotten the deal. He must feel my eyes fixed on his face as he eventually turns and gently nods. A relief sweeps through me knowing you are both still there but then the next question swipes the relief aside replacing it with yet more worry. "Can you see the hearts beat?" The Sonographer is younger than last week and is easily flustered by my rapid questioning. She's found one heart beat... my own heart beat races... "And the other?" She warns me that one of them is easier to make out but that this is ordinary with twins.

Eventually she turns the screen towards me "the first is very definitely showing off" she says and points towards you the wiggling showman bean on the screen and brushes her finger over the winking pulse of your heart. "The second," she says as she twists the probe in me "is a bit more shy." The shy bean isn't wiggling so much and is tucked quietly into a corner. I wonder if you are resting or at an angle but your heart is beating just like your showman sibling. She says she's never seen twins so early on and for a moment her eyes well up and she looks flushed with emotion.

Then the Sonographer points towards the thick membrane between the pair of you and says she would hedge her bets that you weren't identical. This is a good thing she tells me as it means there is a lower risk associated with fraternal twins. Your Dad laments the lost photo opportunities. She has some concern about the possible discrepancy between your sizings and I am told I will have to come back in another 3 weeks. She is cautious of promising me to much and I find the absence of definite reassurance disconcerting. I wish for a few moments of quiet just to watch you but the procedure is swift and clinical and she moves the image swiftly onto my Ovaries focusing on the black mark on my right ovary, which is where she tells me the egg was released from.

I have to see the Consultant before I leave and she seems more confident in imparting the information that I want to hear. There seem to be a few reassuring explanations for the size difference. Firstly that you, Shy Bean are at a different angle to you Showman Bean, making it difficult to measure. Secondly that it can be normal for there to be a difference in your growth rates. Or thirdly, she tells me that you were possibly not conceived on the same day because of how long both the egg and the sperm can survive in the womb, there can be up to a week difference. Importantly you are viable and she says the signs are looking good. Aside from that I am not taking much else in. It's like a gelatinous wave of information has enveloped me.

I don't care whether you are identical or not, I don't care if you are boys, or girls, or one of each. All I want is for you to be well. I know that the wait until the next scan will seem endless and that most probably the worry will build. But for today, my babies, we have climbed the first mountain and I want to rest and enjoy the view. Your hearts are both beating and that means life.

A Waiting Game

Wednesday 23rd February

Less than 24 hours now till I see you and I hope with all my might to see you both hanging in there and see your little poppy seed hearts beating regularly. Your Dad hopes you will be rhythmically in sync, a sign, he says, that you may follow in his musical footsteps. I have been consumed by thoughts of you all day. Everything else seems insignificant. I have tired the internet of information now. This is a waiting game.

Funny Twin Things

Tuesday 22nd February

One of my closest friends is an identical twin. It must be getting on for two years ago after the birth of her son. We were having a drink and she stopped and turned and just looked at me all of a sudden. "You're going to have twins," she exclaimed, "I just felt it."

Then there's my niece. I got married last year. The tin chapel I was wanting my ceremony at wasn't registered for marriages so we married on the Wednesday at my parish church in a small ceremony with close family and friends. On the Saturday we had a second wedding ceremony with all my family and friends. My niece was sitting next to me over Christmas just gone and she turned and looked at me and said "Are you going to have two babies because you had two weddings."

Then of course there was the "knowing" before we knew, like I have already said. Not because of anything other than a feeling. I had googled it and several sites said it was normal to think you were having twins, which made me kind of rationalise it. But it wasn't just me that thought so, it was your Dad as well. He had even written "I want twins" in the Valentines card before he had found out.

Sometimes I want everything to be clear, solid, to grasp it and see it. Yet the essence of living, that which allows us to dream and hope and believe is beyond reason and logic. There is something inexplicably beautiful and mysteriously magical happening inside of me and I need to remember that. I don't need all the answers. The most beautiful things in life are born from mystery.

The Worried Well

Monday 21st February

Your Dad is back from Berlin after a successful week making music. Your Dad is the most stunning singer. He sings you the most beautiful songs. You can't hear yet because your ears are just tiny sealed indents still but when your ears finally open you will. He will sing you the most beautiful lullabies.

After a blissfully relaxed snuggly Sunday Monday has loomed in like a dark cloud raining it's usual gloomy emails. I am so over the recession already. It feels like I spend most of my working hours dealing with the aftermath of unthoughtful ideas that have been implemented by the ConDem Government. Things feel less stressful at work since you have arrived. The winds of worry go round me and over me but they don't whistle through me any more.

That's not to say I don't worry. Today's worry is, well, that I don't have a worry. To be more clear I am fretting about the fact that I am feeling so good. I feel more energetic and healthier than I have done in a long time and I float around in a warm glow of soothing tranquillity. "Lucky you!" might be your response if you are amidst the throes of morning sickness. "I wish!" you might cry if you are beyond exhaustion. "I'd ring your neck if I set eyes on you" you might scream if your emotions keep plummeting you to hell and back. But, see, these symptoms you have, they are good signs, they are signs that your hormone level is sufficient and that your baby is thriving. This is why I am worried I feel so well.

Vanishing Twin Syndrome

Saturday 19th February

I climb out of the bath and sit on the loo. More spotting. Your sister is here with her friend, lively electric about her night out. I creep back to the bedroom.

I am reading about vanishing twin syndrome on the internet again. Apparently 1 in 5 twin pregnancies which are detected very early on result in VTS. I don't even want to say those words. They make me feel sick to the pit of my stomach.

The internet offers trite and meaningless advice. One website advises that "it's best not to get too excited" about the idea of a twin pregnancy if you find out about it in the first few weeks. I think about how easily those words flowed from the fingers of that writer. One of my friends pointed out the same in a very matter of fact way. Sure, because my emotions are programmed to just take on board that wonderful reality and weave it through the hard-wired attachment.

My sister tells me that they use scans to help form attachments between Mothers who abuse alcohol and drugs as they are proven to fuse a bond and responsibility. At least it's normal to feel attached.

Please hold on

Friday 18th February

I've been free of the cramping for several days now. This feels like a relief and combined with last night's Yoga class has sent me off into a blissful calm place where the usual work worries can't reach. I am driving to work with Merry and we are putting the world to rights as usual when I get a gentle shooting pain through my tummy. This doesn't phase me, it's familiar and you've already proved you can survive worse.

Later I go to the toilet and when I wipe I see fresh pink blood on the tissue, it's a light pink tingeing a mucousy discharge. Your Dad said to be prepared for more spotting when he left. Although I thought I was I am not. I walk back through to my office and crumple. Merry pushes the door closed and tries her sweet best to soothe me. My heart is awash with sadness.

All along I have known just how fragile you are, I have read about the risks, I have told myself of the reality and yet I have also detached myself from it. I know I could lose both of you and I know I have an even higher risk of losing one of you. Yet you are within my soul already. From the moment I saw you in those delicate stages of new life my heart swelled as you swam in. It will be an empty cavity without you. I don't want to let you go. Either of you.

I speak to your Dad and he tries to reassure me but I hear the sadness in his voice too. I know Berlin probably feels like a world away from us right now.

I take myself home, I want to write to you and ask you not to leave. Standing on the crowded train I feel removed from this normal every day commute. I haven't felt such a quiet sadness like this before.

Home now I climb into my pyjamas and curl up in bed. I try and interpret the cramps but it's like trying to listen to a language I have no grounding in. In my head I pick for things that I shouldn't have done, the wine in the very earliest of days, the way I have insisted on going to the gym more than I have done in months, or maybe it was deeper, maybe it was because I kept thinking about you having some sort of abnormality and me worrying I would want you less. I grasp at reasons.

I have nothing to do but wait. Next Thursday's scan seems like an eon away.

Twilight Hours

Wednesday 16th February

I wake today at 3am. Your Dad is in Berlin and I am alone. It's still dark but the morning birds are singing to the glow of the sodium street lamps. Their sleep patterns as disturbed as mine. I stumble through to the bathroom to pee. My bladder seems to have lost all ability to contain more than a few teaspoons of liquid.

As I make my way back towards the bedroom I sense a strange smell. My first thought is the fairy lights but the lounge smells clear. I step into the dark kitchen where the smell is more intense. I peer round the corner. One of the hobs on the old electric cooker is smouldering deep orange. Sparks have begun to crackle and spit. The electric kettle that I boiled the water with for last nights broccoli is precariously placed just inches away on the neighbouring hob, not far from combusting it's so hot.

I thank the lord and yourselves for my impatient bladder and my new super-human sense of smell. I don't sleep a wink for the rest of the night, revisiting thoughts of what might have happened if you hadn't woken me.

Poppy Seed Heart

Thursday 17th February

I find myself on the internet again, I wish I could filter out all the grim news because so much inspires and delights me. You're both coming up to 6 weeks now and you have hearts the size of Poppy Seeds that beat on their own. I am praying that you are both hanging in there. It feels like heaven having you inside.

The internet

Wednesday 16th February

I watch a clip of a Mum giving birth to twins on the internet, except I find it hard to think about the brutality of a C-section as "giving-birth," it's more like the twins are removed from her body. The woman is separated from any action by a three foot or so curtain. She looks like a head in a box. I try and imagine myself in her position, just able to hear, but not see or even feel her babies entering the world. The baby's are whipped out of her and taken to two bays, sometime later, I am sure it felt like an eternity for her, they are waved in front of her face. I sob, your Dad thinks I am crying with happiness, till he realises it is something quite different. Maybe I need to come to terms with the fact that all births are pretty brutal.

Next I google "twin baby bumps" this sets the fear deep within and my body pumps me with adrenaline. I touch my stomach uncertain about how the skin can stretch so far. Before and after photos escalate the problem, one woman's stomach looks like a deflated human belly balloon that has been hacked with a clever. My body is overdosing me on adrenaline now.

I phone my sister in a panic. My sister, let's call her Alisia, tells me that internet stories are either unrealistically positive or negative because people don't have an interest in the middle ground.

I am imposing an internet ban on googling for self-diagnosis.

Muddled Mind

Tuesday 15th February

My mind twirls and somersaults like a kite in a blustering spring wind. The idea of those special moments, days, weeks, months and years getting to know you has suddenly split into two. These moments had already been written like an inner film reel, they were settled and sound images that I have known and secretly cherished for so long. Now suddenly each moment is divided, with an additional mirror like image of what it had been with not one now but two of you in each moment.

Valentines Day

Monday 14th February

I wake up before the alarm, this is not usual you must know but to be honest not much feels usual right now. My head has settled into a pragmatic place as I bathe and get myself ready for the hospital.Or maybe not maybe this wash of calm is something more like foolish hope. For some reason I feel like everything is going to be OK. I can feel you still there, inside of me, holding on.

There must be thirty or so Mother's in the waiting room of the early pregnancy clinic, from all walks of life. Most of the women with partners aside them, others looking alone. One girl, of maybe 16 or so looks so frightened, I expect her Mum to turn up or her boyfriend but no one comes. She sits peeling the cuffs of her jumper over her hands. I want to reach out to her. It doesn't seem the right place to be on your own. I count my blessings I have your Dad here, he's come into his own this past week, protective of me and you like I have never known. Ever so often a tear roles silently down a cheek but there's an air of gracious composure and dignity.

The initial appointment is brief but the nurse is warm and reassuring and funny. I have noticed women in "women's" wards tend to come in two distinct variety's. I am glad to avoid the other variety, coldly pragmatic with the insensitivity of a drunk wasp and the bedside manner of a roll mop herring.  She tells me the spotting and the persistent cramping is very usual. Then we are sent off again to kill some time out in the brilliant bright sunshine. There are wisps of snow white cloud in the otherwise clear blue sky. Then there's that smell and energy of spring. It doesn't seem like a day for losing you.

We arrive back and I am keen to get things over with now. The waiting has gone on for long enough now. The girl opposite me is eating crisps and I feel repulsed at the smell, a strong synthetic beef smell. Worse than that is the sound of her eating them. She is trying to be discreet but there's something about polite eating that makes it louder more noticeable, each bite elongated. Like having a slow leg wax.

Finally we go in for the scan. I slip my lower things off and climb onto the bed. The Sonographer places a paper towel over my legs to keep me discreet which I am grateful for. I hate internals at the best of times. In fact the week before I knew you were coming I had been prescribed Diazepan just to get through a routine smear. For some reason all my fear and repulsion has faded away, so desperate am I to know you are safe, to see your life beginning. She inserts not much more than the tip end of the long probe and I try and breathe through the gnawing pain and focus on thoughts of you.  Her face looks gravely serious as she twists and turns the instrument inside me searching in different directions. The screen faces away from me. Your Dad peers at it but I can't even look at him now for fear of seeing a look of disappointment or concern. Neither are giving anything away. My thoughts race in twisting tornadoes, perhaps I have lost you, perhaps you have never been there, then my thoughts jumped to cancer, perhaps I was riddled, and my baron womb would be removed, and I'd never know that feeling of having you inside.

Then she turns the screen towards me and I see you, I see both of you.

Sunday Morning

Sunday 13th February

Then this morning when I am sitting on the toilet, my bowels more shy than stubborn I see the spots of blood in my pants. It isn't much but suddenly you ever being there is like a momentary dream. I feel a grief like pulse coarsing through me. Your Dad rushes through and kneels before me. He presses his head against mine. I can't hear what he is saying but I look into his eyes stinging red and glazing with a film of tears.

The First Week

Saturday 12th February

The next day passes in a strange haze, an opiating like combination of exhilarating excitement and dazed confusion. I stay home for fear of someone interpreting the truth about your existence from the occasional dropping of my draw and widening of my eyes as realisation intermittently settled in. I can almost hear the collision of my old life and this new life before me. 


I have been having wakes during the night for a couple of weeks now. Jumping from deep sleep to wired and wakefulness in just seconds. I had thought it might have been the coffee, I love my coffee, not just a moderate morning espresso more like a day long intravenous drip. Then there is this pain that continues to pester. I am almost scared to go to the toilet in case I lose you, in case you slip out of me. It's like a period pain, not worse than that, not agonising but unsettling, a reminder not to take you for granted, a reminder that there are no guarantees you are here to stay. You are still fragile, still so new to the game of life. 

Then gradually as the week has gone on I have started to embrace you like a warm ray of sunshine. Your Dad and I spend Saturday by the sea. First down onto the pebble beach, watching the kids throwing stones. A young lad scampers up the cliff edge like a mountain goat. I watch with a mixture of horror and admiration, hoping maybe you will be brave like that. We walk, you, your Dad and I, along the Coastal Path where the poets Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Alfred Lord Tennyson used to walk. I feel it appropriate to take you here where people so distinguished once walked as if I might imbue you with some magic. It is a fresh but bright and clear day and you can see out across the still waters of the Severn Estuary. We stop for pictures in a small look out tower. The sun so low in the sky it's turned the sea into a blanket of gold. We finish in a busy little teahouse where I sip on a cup of fresh peppermint tea. Tea, and even more so peppermint tea you see is quite an unusual drink for me, usually preferring a large glass of something dry and white. I don't mind the sacrifice, not for you.

The Discovery

Monday 7th February

I've already done two tests both of which came back negative. Yet there is this niggling feeling. My boobs feel like nuclear submarines like they might be preparing for battle with the heaviest period of all time. I say to my husband before leaving for work, quite adamantly, "I'll either get my period today or I'm pregnant." By the end of the day I feel strange and swollen and bloated with the most intense water retention like I have gone three rounds with the salt mill. One of my colleagues, let's call her Merry, drives me back south of the city through the bumper to bumper traffic, billboard babies peer at me with knowing eyes.

Merry drops me off at Asda, she is off to meet a client and is apologetic she can't take me all the way home.  My mind is spinning, maybe with excitement, maybe trepidation. Once inside the bright strip lit store I march up to the chemist counter and pick up the test and hand it discreetly over the counter. The woman behind the counter starts waving it around like she is rehearsing waving her flag at the royal wedding, back and forth, back and forth. I peer around for any familiar faces, just discreetly, as discreetly as you can with cheeks the hue of Dorothy's ruby red slippers. Everyone seems familiar, everyone looks like someone I know. I can almost hear the whisper hissing round the office the next day and catching the sneaky knowing smiles over the photocopier. After she has finally put it in the paper bag I pull it out of her hand, not forgetting the receipt, images of being pulled over by a security guard flash before me.

I scurry through the aisles towards the toilets, my worn down heels slipping on the polished floor. First I try the disabled toilet, thinking this will give me more space and privacy. I tug at the door but a little gnome like, heavily bearded man peers round the corner, his eyes like black opals, he gently grunts and pulls the door back to. I head towards the ladies and into the electric blue lighting. I take the cubicle on the end and hang up my bag. I tear into the packaging like a child into their presents on Christmas morning. I pee on the end of the stick. I place the stick on the toilet role holder, wipe my hands, and force myself to stare at the wall. I count the seconds and then minutes in my head.

When it's time I look, I peer down. And that is when I know you are on your way. You have marked the stick with a thick blue cross to let me know.

I walk back out into the bustle of the supermarket rush hour. I feel a dazed giddy sensation, maybe like I've been hit by a stun gun. My heart thumps as if it's trying to leap up out of the chest cavity. I try to call your Dad, dodging in and out of the busy shoppers. I know he is in but he doesn't answer. I keep trying incessantly. He is asleep on the sofa, I'd bet your life on it. You see you'll get to know that about him, it's his favourite place to sleep. It's no comment on our relationship which is more than healthy. It's just something about the sound of the TV that lulls him into the deepest of sleeps. He eventually wakes and answers his voice growly and blunt, you'll get to know that too in time, to avoid him when he has just woken up. He doesn't mean it. I want to tell him, to holler the news down the phone. I am shit at keeping secrets, especially good ones. I ask him to meet me so we can do our shopping and when he eventually turns up looking all dishevelled and sleepy I give him a big hug and that's where I tell him, somewhere between the toys and the half price cushions left over from the January sale.

I spend the night researching what I can and can't do. I thought I pretty much had this sussed but the list seems endless and the more "research" I do on the internet the more I completely freak myself out. It seems like pretty much anything that I might garner enjoyment from is ruled out. My Olympian strength comfort blankets are swiped from before me; wine my first vice, coffee my second, blue cheese my third, hot baths my fourth. I fret and fear for what risks I have already exposed to you, all that wine, even the odd cigarette. I should have been better prepared. I feel like I ought to know better. I am sorry, it has been a hard month with work and all and if I am honest I wasn't expecting you so soon.