Well, this is it. In nine days’ time I am going to be introducing two (TWO!) baby girls to the world via the medium of my front bottom.
I am now convinced that there will actually be four, two of which will have been hiding in all the countless scans. As it is, Twin B (as she will forever be known) has been slightly overshadowed by her limelight-claiming Alpha sister, who has always been in front, gurning for the camera and performing alarming tricks like yanking on her umbilical cord (I hope this is not a sign of future kamikaze tendencies). So the scan pictures we have of Twin B are all slightly blurry. It will be amusing if, when she pops out, she actually is out of focus.
I’m almost 37 weeks now. Term for twins (at least at Kings, our local hospital) is 38 weeks, so set because a) of the danger of placental failure and b) frankly, there is just NO MORE SPACE. As it is, Twin B has her head right up in my ribs and diaphragm and therefore my ability to do frivolous things like, well, breathe, is somewhat hampered.
So, if they haven’t arrived spontaneously (and Lord we are doing EVERYTHING to make that happen as I really don’t fancy a crochet hook up me bits – including a Mother’s Day curry, allegedly) then Monday 19th is Induction Day.
The hospital bags are packed, albeit I had to unpack one and disinfect it after Fred the Cat staged a dirty protest at the intrusion (he has been displaying WEIRD powers of Knowing Something Is Up). As punishment we have erected a machine which puffs cat repellent at him every time he approaches the nursery. I keep forgetting it’s there and am therefore yelping repeatedly when I go and check the nursery for the tenth time each day.
I am rapidly ticking off things I must get done before the 19th, which seem largely to revolve round Joe: hair cut, summer holidays sorted, driving lessons booked, frantic instruction in how to cook himself fishfinger butties given I will be holed up in a milk-scented cave and maybe, just maybe, he might finally learn the miraculous method by which clothes make their way from his floor to his cupboard (I am secretly looking forward to two clean, tidy, swotty girls and if that’s sexist, well, pooh to you).
The MASSIVE relief is that Jon is going to be able to come home for paternity leave on the 15th. He’s been working up near Durham during the week and the concern has always been that Joe and I would have to make our own way to the hospital, that he would miss the birth…so I have become very adept at keeping my legs crossed. So now he will have 4 days to read all the ‘Gosh I’m going to be a Dad’ books which he claims to have but I know otherwise. And to swot up on his birth partner role which largely involves fanning me, not making inane comments, not touching me, and bringing me CHEESE post partum.
Ah, cheese. My favourite quote? Ben in Treasure Island:
“Many’s the long night I’ve dreamt of cheese. Toasted, mostly.”
O! Runny, stinky, scoopable-with-a-spoon cheese, how I have missed your oozy embrace. Welsh Rarebit. Onion soup as a vehicle to be able to load croutons with cheese and watch it bubble and brown under the grill. Fish soup where there is so much cheese the bread gives up the ghost and sinks to the bottom to create a pungent gloop. Fondue. Pizza. Gosh, even a slice of the plastic stuff on a burger.
It has been practically the hardest thing to bear during this pregnancy. You are not allowed to have cheese made from unpasteurised milk (tell that to our French cousins, honestly, I could rant for Britain about silly pregnancy rules, and probably will anon). But capricious Nature has decided I cannot stomach pasteurised either and I have developed a temporary allergy. I sunk to the infantile depths of Cheesy Strings, so desperate was I for that lactic hit, but it still made me go all red and hot and blotchy.
The upshot is I have therefore told everyone sod the grapes in hospital, I want entire PLATTERS of fromage. And I ain’t paying a supplement.
Apparently you’re meant to do blogs in ADD-pandering chunks, so this is already far too long. Now, let’s see if my hormone-addled brain can master actually posting it…laters.