Find me in dreamland: Baby baking hibernation begins

There is very little to report on the mamatastic front this week.  I've accomplished some various bits of pre-baby organisation, baked a few tasty tid-bits for Thom and added to the stockpile of nappies and baby things in the spare room.

But other than that I have been in slow motion.  Since the panic packing of the hospital bag, it's like someone planted pregnant-lady kryptonite somewhere in the house.  My little hoard of baby books and magazines inform me that tiredness is expected to return in the third trimester.  Different things are to blame than in the first three months when my body was busy sustaining the two little fellas while knitting a placenta.  The final three months see a return of tiredness because of my ever increasing size.

I suppose I have always been a good sleeper.  Give me a blanket and some place comfy and I am off to dreamland.  But this tiredness is more insistent and difficult to ignore.  Yesterday, I fell asleep sitting straight up on the sofa, waking about 2 hours after I sat down with the intention of just a little rest.  Everyday this week I've found myself waking up with a little sleep drool down my cheek, wondering where the time has gone and feeling a like a lazy hippo-person.

Guilt is what I feel, even though rationally I know it's not fair to beat myself up.  I am big and tired.  But I imagined myself as a whirlwind of productivity while off work.  Writing and organising and exercising.  Cooking a freezer-full of nutritious meals to keep us going when life gets very busy very soon.  Instead I find myself napping.  More accurately, constantly napping to the point where I'm tempted to label it hibernation.  Tonight I'm staring down a to-do list next to the computer that has remained untouched since Monday.  I'd like to rely on the comforting thought that 'there's always tomorrow', but with 37 weeks considered full term for twins, tomorrow's schedule might be fully booked.

On the other hand, my near-hibernation might be allowing this body to contain its cargo for while longer.  Good news for growing fat little newborns, but bad news for the to-do list.

New trimester, new record highs

My iPhone app bleeps happily at me as I ride the train into work.  'You are entering your third trimester'.  Already?  No wonder I'm snoring harmoniously for my fellow travellers and waking up just before my stop only to walk straight past work to the little M&S for a record-breaking 3rd breakfast of the morning. 

The little wrigglers kick up a storm against my ribs as I choose a tub of pineapple pieces.  I stroll longingly past the cheese, pondering what it might look like if I just munch away on a big chunk of it at my desk while I check my emails.  I settle on the share-size pack of flapjacks.  The admin staff will appreciate my leftovers and the bite sized bits will do me well as I can feel so full so fast but for such a short period of time.

Breakfast time was one of the first big differences I saw in myself when I discovered I was pregnant.  Breakfast suddenly became less of a meal and more of an all-consuming desire.  I'd lust after raisin bran.  But one breakfast never felt enough.  I'd follow that up with fruit and yogurt.  Thom now regularly brings in berries on a Saturday morning for the fruit breakfast.  So much so that we thought we ought to name one child Raspberry and maybe the other one Strawberry.

Now the main breakfast and the fruit breakfast don't seem enough.  Third trimester calls for three breakfasts.  I'm keen on the wrigglers packing on some lovely baby fat and, hell, I still fit into the skinny maternity trousers, so why not?  Upstairs is a different story.  

Third trimester has meant a third incease in bra size.  Gave up last weekend and went searching for something less squeezey and pinchy.  The previous ones, which once seemed so huge now felt like torture.  Now the ones that fit me are located in the way, way back of the lingerie section.  Past the lacy, pretty, cool ones into the deep, dark recesses of the department.  Less lovely lighting as there is no need to get a better look at the mono-toned architecture back there.  I choose the next size up and it looks like... well, cue Thom, the only fan of the curse of pregnancy boobs.

'At least afterwards we could use the cups as a tent,' Thom chimes in.  Yes, they look like tents.  But there is no sense arguing against the discomfort any more.  Me and my tent-sized bra are going to forget it and have some nice cheese for third breakfast.