“Emotional rollercoaster” is such a crap phrase, isn’t it? But it does kind of sum up what you go through during pregnancy.
Flying off the handle at your husband one minute, crying at Strictly the next, then being overwhelmed with happiness the next. I blame the hormones personally. And the fact you can’t drink alcohol to keep you sane.
One minute you’re excited about the impending arrival(s), the next you’re worrying about giving birth, breastfeeding and how to get your figure back.
Apart from the fact I wasn’t excited about having twins, the birth was just something I had to get on with, breastfeeding would either happen or not, and my new diet of McDonald’s fries/cake/chocolate/biscuits meant my figure was so far gone (even if I was eating for three), that the chances of finding it again were getting slimmer by the day. Pun intended.
Turns out there’s a lot to worry about when you’re pregnant with twins. None of this being blase like first time round. How they’ll make their entrance into the world was actually the least of my concerns, albeit it was the one everyone asked me about.
More important than getting them out, was keeping them in. At least long enough for them to be developed enough to survive, be healthy and not have any of the problems associated with prematurity.
Our ‘twin’ hospital consultant did his very best to frighten the life out of me with scary facts at our first appointment. His reputation came before him, and I’d heard how blunt he was from friends who had been patients and others who knew him professionally. Even his diagrams scared me.
Although I knew nothing about twins, I did know they often came early. What I didn’t know is just how early some arrive, and how terribly poorly they can be. The consultant rammed home the frightening stats on prematurity, how if there were no beds in our local NICU I could be giving birth the other side of the country and how one baby had just died the previous week after being born too early. It was shocking and sobering, and even if I had been excited about the prospect of twins, I wasn’t anymore, I was terrified. Cue that ‘emotional rollercoaster’ thing again.
My aim, he suggested, was to keep them in until 36 weeks, then they ‘should’ be fine. Like I had any control over it. Then I would be induced or booked in for a section at 37 weeks, depending on their positions. But the best bit of his spiel was telling me he ‘highly recommended’ an epidural for the birth. Drugs? Not being able to feel a thing? Well who was I to go against the professionals’ recommendations. It was apparently in case the second baby got into trouble once the first one was out, and the consultant “had to put a hand up there and grab whatever limb we can find to pull them out. You don’t want to feel that”. Nicely put, eh? No, I certainly didn’t fancy feeling that. And yes, I definitely would like an epidural, thank you very much.
Seems my body was more than happy to keep the twins in to 36 weeks, so my worries were thankfully for nothing. The four-weekly scans showed they were already ‘above average’ weights and somersaulting all over the place – Twin One (named solely because he was closest to the ‘exit’) was dubbed the troublemaker early on for back flipping on a regular basis keeping us guessing about possible birth plans. I use the word ‘plan’ very loosely. Head down, get pushing. Feet down, they were coming out through the ‘sunroof’, as twin consultant-man not so originally put it.
The 20 week scan was soon here and the decision whether to find out the sexes was an easy one. If it had just been one baby in there, we didn’t want to know. But the prospect of twins was already way too much to mentally process. Finding out I was going to spend the next 10-15 years on the side of a football pitch with three boys was going to take a bit of getting used to, and plenty of wine. Apart from I was pregnant, and couldn’t f***ing drink.
As long as they’re healthy, it doesn’t matter right? Er, wrong! I wanted at least one, if not both, of them to be a girl. Remember the 2.4 children plan? Well OBVIOUSLY that plan featured the ‘best of both worlds’ boy followed by a girl. I was halfway to achieving that. It was bad enough having twins, surely I’d get a break and have a girl to make up for it?
Wrong again! I don’t know why I was even surprised when the scan showed two willies, clear as day. Of course it was going to be two boys. Just to top it off!
Three boys. Three BOYS.
I am TOTALLY OUTNUMBERED. The next 15 years are going to be dominated by talk of farts, poo, willies, cars, diggers, and shouting out ‘TRACTOR’ on every car journey. Although I’m kind of hoping they may have outgrown the tractor and digger stage by the age of 15 – not so optimistic the willy-obsession will be over by then though? It’s going to be all dinosaurs, muddy puddles, football (maybe rugby with a bit of luck?), broken bones and trips to A&E. I wanted ballet lessons, princesses, pigtails and an abundance of pink stuff.
Before there is huffing and puffing into your smartphones about my gender stereotypes, of course I know I’m being ridiculously over the top. It’s called sarcasm. I KNOW girls play football, and boys do ballet. (Still winding you up?) Everyone loves a muddy puddle, and let’s face it, what’s not to love about a Disney princess? But remember I am five months pregnant, an emotional, hormonal wreck, crying at everything, and still reeling from the whole twins thing. Just let me have five minutes to lament the girliness I’ll never have. Plus isn’t it a well-known fact you shouldn’t argue with a pregnant woman?
There. Lamenting done. I think I was pretty much over it within a day. Okay, maybe two.
Three boys? Yay! Hurrah! Couldn’t be happier! Ahem.
People tell me boys are much easier than girls and they’ll always love their mum. I think what they actually mean is that boys are just a little bit simple and they were just trying to make me feel better, but I appreciated the sentiment all the same.
Bring on the dinosaurs and willy-obsessions. Times three!!