Mum wax

You can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.  And you can't have twins without stretching a little epidermis.  Stretch marks.  Oh dear.  They have not yet graced my tummy but in all reality,can I get away without them?  Unscathed, so to speak?

There is evidently little that can be done to prevent them.  If you get bigger faster than your skin can stretch, the under layers will tear, leaving red marks.  Yuk.  If you are an optimistic kind of person you might find it comforting to know that they will eventually fade to white or silvery coloured reminders.  

Despite it all being down to nature and body shape and luck, I am willing to put my faith in what amounts to effectively magic.  The rational me readily agrees that this is just one of those things.  Neither science nor medicine nor cosmetic giants can save you from it.  But the little voice inside, the one that gets drawn in by the hype on the Home Shopping Network, says: What if?  And, I gather from the gigantic range of highly priced products claiming to help prevent those little tears that I am not the only one off with the fairies. 

I am putting my faith in few, hopefully 'miracle' products.  It is more like voodoo than logic based on anything remotely medical.  Just before bed and just after the morning shower I religously rub in a vitamin E oil.  Then a nice layer of something that comes in a big, medical looking white tub.   It claims to save mums-to-be from the evils of stretch marks with an interesting balance of scientific-sounding compounds and magical stuff from nature.  Bound to be something in there that works, right?

Thom watches as he settles into bed with the wisdom not to say too much, except, 'Mum wax time?'  Yes, darling, it's mum wax time.  With a little prayer the mum wax gets dutifully rubbed into the bump each morning and night.  It's something of a ritual, with its own kind of holy water to ward off the effects of the growing baby-bulk.  But it remains to be seen if my faith has any foundation.  When the world is an uncertain place, blind faith offers some solace.  So for now, I'll be greasing myself up with a lot of hope and a teeny-tiny prayer.

'Glamour Bump': the adventures of a lumbering slutty hippo

There is no slowing the growth of the bump.  Most recent scan on Friday again showed the two little guys, this time more crammed in than ever.  The snuggly chaps are making their presence known with kicks and punches on a regular and daily basis as the battle between by abdominal wall and their increasing size continues.

As the bump challenges my wardrobe, I try to remember that clothes are what humans do when we can't go naked.  But I am approaching the point where clothes are what I do when the spandex allows.  I wore a dress other day that boss remarked was looking more like a shirt.  I find the process of getting dressed a pretty comical experience.  Thank goodness (and modesty-sake) for my mother, who has kindly sent some maternity trousers and other bits over the Atlantic.  With them and digging to the far back reaches of my wardrobe, I might just make it the 9 months without having to resort to going to Tesco in my bathrobe.

The other day, hubbie and I were planning to head to town to do some weekend errands and was stood in a towel in front of the closet wondering what I could cram into.  In the back, the way back, was a pink stretchy dress. I wore it once, years ago, on a night out.  Back then, it's shocking pink colour paired with a just-above the knee hemline made it sexy but not too slutty.  I also had some glorious pink heels that rounded it off nicely that night. I wondered how far the lycra would be prepared to go as I pulled it on.  The bump forced the hemline a little higher than before and I was unsure of the colour with my belly.

Noting my curled up lip, Thom asked what the problem was.  The bright pink, which first drew me in, now seemed reminiscent of Miss Piggy.  I said the first words that came to mind.  'I look like a slutty hippo.'
He giggled and told me to get my shoes on so we could get going.  I opted for Uggs rather than the glorious heels, of course.  So off we went.  Time to let go of vanity, I thought.

We made our way around town, picking up little things we needed, including a much larger clothes horse in anticipation of much greater amounts of laundry to come.  At the checkout, the girl at the till exclaimed, 'You look so glamorous! Glamorous but with a bump!'  I was stunned but she was full of compliments as she scanned away, asking questions about how far along I was and all things pregnancy related.

As we left, I grabbed a sneaking glance of myself in the shop windows.  Admittedly, I still saw slutty hippo.  The extra girth seems so foreign to me.  But one amazing thing I'm learning is that beauty is far more inclusive than we can ever imagine.  Life lesson in there somewhere.

Battle against the inner supermom

I usually bake on the weekends.  I usually bake for Thom.   I guess it all started off as something to treat him with but he seemed so overjoyed with it that it became a weekly habit.   So maybe I usually bake for me.  

I bake cheese and onion pasties, oatmeal raisin chocolate chip cookies and sometimes a batch of cupcakes.  He works his way through them as part of his lunches at work.  Goodness knows the man needs the calories.  To help with his guns, of course, he would tell you.

I am returning home on the train this Wednesday evening willing myself to compete the baking I never finished this past weekend.  There is pastry chilling in the fridge and butter softening outside of it.  I admit it.  I got tired.  

Oh, the guilt!  Completely self imposed, as he seems to trundle on through the week without a winge.  I guess I got a bit addicted to feeling like the superwife.  I can be a professional, knock out a decent couple dozen cookies and look good doing it.   It felt important to me, knowing that man cannot stay attracted to appearance alone.  I had something else to get him salivating with each batch of weekend baking. 

So what now, I ask myself, not certain that I can be asked to get it going in the kitchen when I get in about 15 minutes from now.  The twins are not even here yet, I'm getting huge (Thom commented that his arms would no longer wrap all the way around last night) and on top of all that, superwife is fading away with the krypontite that is motherhood.

Thankfully I came across an article in the Evening Standard on the way home.  Good news! The mom that can do it all is a myth! (check out the article for yourself here.)  Tips are to delegate, accept flaws and limitations and laugh when you can.  Can I start tonight, by leaving the pastry another day?  I feel a twang of anxiety and a little flurry of 'what if's.  Things to overcome, I suppose, on my mama-tastic way to being normal mom, instead of the mythical supermom.

The Lord taketh away. And sometimes he giveth a little back.

Yesterday I had an hour between clients and went hunting on Oxford Street for bump-friendly clothes.  There are not many places you can stroll into and browse great range of maternity wear. Thankfully, autumn is just beyond the horizon and the shops are full of big knitwear. 

I went to a favourite shop of mine and found a chunky cream coloured long jumper.  I picked up a 'large' imaginining that the size would see me through.  It was soft and I was honestly pleased with my find.

I browsed further, looking for something to spice it up. A scarf. A necklace. When I laid my eyes on a display table that seemed down-lit from heaven.  On it, a cobalt blue pencil skirt paired with simple fine knit tops and a choice of killer heels.  My hand started for it, as if of its own will or propelled by a divine force, when I realised that this season, I could not pull it off.  I looked down at the cream jumper in my hands.  Suddenly it seemed achingly dull.

I did what anyone one would do.  I reached for my phone to email a friend to have a little 'poor me' moan.  He emailed back: 'Don't start regretting your children before they arrive!'  He's right, I thought, distraught that I was already a crappy, selfish parent.

That evening, I returned home, shopping bag with the dull, but soft, jumper in hand.  Inside, other than a happy Thom, there was a package to greet me.  The maternary trousers I ordered over the weekend.  Black, skinny trousers for which I decided to splash out full price rather than troll about for second hand.

Once I tried them on I knew I'd made the right choice.  They fit brilliantly, showing some still skinny legs, and looked amazing with a number of tops I already had.  They fit comfortable over the bump and looked just great paired with fitted, bump-show-off tops.  I was happy with my new look and satisfied to go with it, abandoning the blue pencil skirt with a smile.  At least for this year.

How stretchy can a tummy be?

I was able to have a little lie-in today.  An extra half hour because I was going to meet my obstretic consultant for the first time.  I enjoyed raisin bran while watching Muary Povich dish out paternity test results on morning TV, and after a shower had my second breakfast while choosing an outfit that I could still squeeze into.  I dragged an old dress from the 90's time capsule in the back of my closet.  It wasn't my first choice but I hoped that a man of medicine wouldn't worry too much about my lack of fashion sense.

Turned out I needn't have worried.  The waiting room of the ante natal clinic is a cure for all wardrobe worries.  The ladies waiting with me were made up of the most unbelievable shapes and sizes.  None of us looked particularly comfortable.  The chairs in the waiting room of the ante natal clinic are more padded and slightly bigger for our comfort.  But I imagined from the looks of us, that we were all slightly out of our comfort zone being dressed in whatever fit us that day, instead of what we really would like.  Not a high heel in sight. 

A young woman called in ahead of me was dressed in an odd combination of a summertime maxi dress and a huge chunky grey cardigan.  The look on her face was pure agony and she tried to make her way to the consulting room at a decent pace.  As she stood I clocked the size of her belly.  It stood at an almost gravity defying angle.  Straight out, leading the way and throwing her off balance.

As I scanned the room I noticed a beautiful blonde whose proportions grew from the chest down to an amazing girth at the waist that easily took up two chairs.  Across from her a woman dressed in what looked like her husband's XXL t-shirt whose giant round belly seemed to be making her breathing near enough impossible. 

My time with the consultant was fine. Nothing to worry about and he seemed to be a lovely man.  We chatted a little about when I might think about starting materntity leave.   I was keen to stay at work as long as possible.

'Well,' he said, 'in as little as10 weeks you are going to be as big as most women when they are full term. Something to think about.'

As big as some of those ladies of waiting room?  Something to think about, indeed.

Elastic-tastic

I put on my jeans today and thought, 'In another week, I won't be able to squeeze myself into these!'.  I enjoyed a week at work, wearing trousers and dresses that were feeling just a little too tight.  A lovely light beige fitted shift dress has been hung up in the back of the closet after I strained its stitches with my emerging bump.  I said goodbye to it until next year.

I sit now in leggings and a slouchy top.  This is my evening uniform and I fear that elasticated waistbands are about to become my new best friend.  Thom and I made our way into town the other day and picked up some simple but stretchy-fabric dresses so I won't need to face the world naked as the weeks progress.  My mother is also sending some clothes, wisely in a size or two larger than I'd be ready to choose for myself.

Feels strange living in a body that is slightly different than my own.  The sensations of it within my clothes or washing in the shower feel odd.  It's changing quicker than my mind can adjust.  Yes, the stomach is bigger.  But that creates more issues than simple waistband selection.  I realised that its protruding was limiting how much I can see and the interior of my belly button may have been a little neglected.  It took some yogi-like bending to see if I had cleaned it well enough today in the shower.  Doesn't feel like me and it hasn't felt very attractive.

From the front, most people can't tell.  It still looks like I have a waist, but when I turn to the side - BOOM-  a round bump.  The belly protrusion is the obvious issue, but I must also share that two other things are getting in the way.  Boobs - almost the bigger issue right now (excuse the pun).  Squeezing into bras is a literally a pain.

Thom is not complaining, nor is he particularly sympathetic on this issue.  Some men on the streets of London seem to share his view.  They don't seem to notice the sticky-out belly as I approach towards them on the pavement and today one called me 'sexy' as I passed.  Me?  The one waddling towards the tube, inelegantly shoving a nectarine into her mouth not caring that the juice is dripping all over my hands, down my top and my face?  Ok, I'll take that.  Hey, everyone, evidently pregnant is sexy.

My active and strange pregnancy dream world

It's a time of change, hormones, worry and excitement, so I shouldn't be surprised by the current wild offerings of my subconscious.  All the same they do have me curious.  Any and all interpretations welcome.

Dream 1:
Thom and I are shopping for something, possibly a house.  It's a large warehouse we are browsing in, filled with natural light streaming in from the floor to ceiling windows of the warehouse.  We browse slowly, but I feel that we won't find what we need, or possibly what we can afford, here.  We leave into the morning air and look out into the desert the stretches out before us.  Thom points to mountains far off in the distance, saying simply, 'Mountains'.  I turn and look to huge mountain directly behind us.  The warehouse seems to be built into the side of it.  The mountain is craggy and snow covers the upper most peaks.  As we stand gazing at it, I spot a penguin on one of the craggy outcroppings.  Thom and I begin up a hill towards the mountain and notice many  other penguins playing in the snow.  Thom tries to approach them as I struggle to capture them on camera.

Dream 2:
I go into labour and give birth.  Its all hazy and I can't recall if the babies were boys or girls.  I can't recall if I had pain relief.  I can't recall how I get home, but suddenly find myself in the twins bedroom, alone with them, seeing them for the first time.  I change the diaper of one.  She's a girl and is placid and calm.  I reach for the other one.  He's a boy.  He's larger and more cranky.  My brother somehow arrives and we have an argument.  I try to hit him with a bathmat, but end up hitting the twins instead.

Dream 3:
I am preparing the room before the twins arrive.  I decide to put a boa constrictor in a cage in one the corners.  I also leave a rattlesnake loose in the room to protect the boa and keep it in the cage.  I'm showing my mother around when we realise that the boa is gone and only the rattlesnake is left.  We run out of the room, dodging the angry snake as we go.

Well, any thoughts?

The father-to-be

It can’t be easy to live with me right now.  I have easily spent the last few weeks caught up in my own little world of worries, tiredness and a squiffy feeling that’s not quite nausea.  It’s already a different world from our evenings before the pregnancy.  We would spend the summer evenings outside, me with a glass of Chardonnay and he with a cigarette, deconstructing our days and gazing at the songbirds in the sky or into each others’ eyes. 

I have thought recently what a lonely time it must be for him.  I have all my body changes and pregnancy-tracking iPhone apps to keep me busy between frequent naps.  My schedule is generally to wake early, feeling great.  Slowly descend into a tired funk throughout the day and end up nodding off on the sofa immediately after eating dinner.  He is left watching the DVD we picked out together as I snore blissfully.  I’m there but he is essentially alone as I sail through the evenings like a pregnant zombie.  He wakes me, with great difficulty at about 10pm so I can brush my teeth and head to bed for more sleep.

I also have the goods, so to speak.  I mean, the little tyke is with me.  I get the 9 months of him/her all to myself.  I get to, for lack of a more imaginative word, bond.  The two of us, without him.  The poor man is practically a sperm donor when I think of how much fun this must all be for him.  In the animal kingdom, all the seemingly strange practices animals have adopted in reproduction suddenly seem inspired.  After all, if I could have mated with him and then ate him, I wouldn’t be staring down his forlorn looking face each evening when I am roused from my first slumber on the sofa to cart myself off to bed for round two.  Or if he was the male lion of the pride, there would be others to keep him busy and happy.

But then I would be missing out on something fabulous.  Something beyond the logic of evolution and survival of the fittest.  That man has a nonsensical and unreasonable love, both for me and the unnamed embryo that is simply amazing.  We have had matching anxiety dreams, each of being on an island with each other and tolerating the other wanting to do something that feels uncomfortable.  But in our dreams we each go along with it, despite our better judgement, because it’s what the other wants. 

As I prop my eye lids open to write, he cooks a chilli packed full of vegetables for me, and also for baby so-and-so’s growing little body.  There is no reason why he should want to, except love.  

I'm pregnant. Now what?

I get out of the shower and take a peek at the stick sitting near the toilet.   Pregnancy test reads positive.  My husband is still in bed and the house is silent.   In the stillness I apply post-shower body lotion, adding a little extra to my tummy as an afterthought. 

In my memory of that morning, I recall vividly the silence as I made my way upstairs to wake Thom with the news.  Life seemed surreal and suddenly so fresh as if I was walking up the stairs for the first time.

Thom is happy.  He wipes the sleep from his eyes and bounces out of bed.  I feel like I'm watching it all unfold as an observer. Despite our plans and protection-free sex, I struggle to define how I feel. 

On the way to work I stare out the window like a zombie.  I feel like crying at times for joy, and other times for sheer amazement that being pregnant is even possible. Other times still, for fear.  Can I do it? Can I be a mother? Unforunatley only time can tell me.  Either way its happening.  After I took the test, I sometimes wanted to rush the 9 months along, wishing them away before they even begun.  At other times, I'm paralysed in terror.

For the rest of this week I have been seeing people in a different way.  Every person crammed around me on the tube, each sweaty suit-clad man plowing down the pavement to work, every old woman struggling to cross the road - all of them have been a baby.  All of them started off like this. Small, indetectible even, inside the body of someone like me.  It's a staggering thought.

On my commute in, the train stops.  It's 8am and all the commuters peel away from newspapers or open one weary eye to look around disapprovingly at no-one in particular.  After a few minutes, the conductor announces that we are stuck in delays because of a fatality on the track.  Groans and moans all around as people drag out mobile phones to explain their lateness.  I well up with tears at the thought.  Is it the hormones?  Is it the thought of a tiny life growing inside?  Either way, I am different.  A man across the carriage looks at me strangely as a snivvel into my sleeve.  Although I don't care about him, what will I tell others?  How will I explain any differences they see?  How soon to tell?

And so begins the many millions of questions I am to answer....