Our new life begins

It is now over a week since the memorial service for Noah.  My mother stayed with us for a month, arriving shortly before Noah’s death.  The ceremony and her departure seem like markers on the road that leads us away from the hospital, the trauma and the death, into a new phase of life. Days are unpredictable and I find myself surprised by the emotions that greet me hour-to-hour. 

As Ethan grows and changes, we find new things to marvel at and be happy about.  Already, his little character shines through – a tough little man who knows what he wants and is willing to fight to get it, if needed.  He tussles with us while we interrupt his feeds to burp him, swinging his arms and arguing in his little baby language about the pause in his meal.  

make with the bottle or the finger is mine!

Ethan and Thom are quite pair of men.  When we can’t resist Ethan’s cries, Thom takes him into bed, allowing him to sleep curled up on his chest.  They both snore away and resist any attempt from me to wake them up, even for feeds.  They happily snuggle and pass gas in their sleep, farting in harmony.  They are really only separated by the amount of costume changes, as Thom won’t change unless absolutely needed while Ethan’s day typically has more costume changes than a Madonna concert.  However, he has little choice over these, being enforced by me after some kind of baby mess, puke or pee.

Then times strike when I am consumed by sadness.  Longing for Noah.  To know where he is and to somehow be with him.  I cry in the shower nearly every day.  It is a rare time alone, where memories find me.  Certain sights and sensations stick in my brain, like the feeling of Noah’s hand on that final night.  I have dreams that he is still alive and is returned to us, but we are unprepared and have to make do in odd ways, like carrying him around in a shopping bag as the buggy doesn’t have space.  I try to keep the realizations about life and love that he gave me in mind, but the often daily struggles sabotage me.  People tell us we are coping well, but we have no idea what that means.

I know that everything will change.  I don’t know how I will feel next month, next year, but that somehow I will deal with that, too.  I’m figuring out that the human heart can harbor two opposite feelings at once.  Both the sadness and the joy pull at me to give into them completely, but I can hold them both.  Letting go of the sadness seems a disservice to Noah, while the joy is owed to Ethan and all the little ways he encourages me and makes life new.  For now, I think I need both feelings, despite the conflict. 

As I write, Thom cooks.  Ethan snoozes after a mini-baby massage from me.  Flowers from Noah’s memorial fragrance the air.  Strange and sad and wonderful all at once.  

Pain and Joy: The bittersweet story of Noah and Ethan so far

I've lost track of days and suddenly realise that it is a month since I gave birth to my baby boys.  It has been a horrible haze of hospitals from which we are just now starting to face what will be our new life as a family.  Here's the story so far.

I woke the morning of the 30th of December at 3 am with crampy pains in belly.   My ceasaeran was booked for later that day.  Even though I wanted to sleep, I decided to get up.  I was excited.  I was also being kicked in the bladder and could use a trip to the loo.  When I returned to bed, I tossed and turned until 6am when Thom and I got up and made our way to the hospital to be booked in.

waiting, waiting, waiting

We were excited.  Not long now, we told each other.  We were fitted with hospital gowns.  Thom even got some orange Crocs to wear.  Me and bump were checked over.  A scan showed the two little guys ready to come out.  We couldn't wait to meet them.  Anxious hours of clock-watching, waiting for my turn, were made worse when I was put back a couple hours in favour of an emergency c-section.  My pains were getting more powerful and regular, and we took it as a sign that today was certainly the day this was meant to happen.

Finally I was brought in, arrnaged on the table and suitably numbed from the ribs down.  As the midwives laid me in position I heard a splash.  The three midwives exchanged worried looks.

'What was that?' asked one in a tone that set my heart racing with panic.
'I'm not entirely sure,' replied another, who called for the doctor and suddenly the room was filled with people, all speaking in a serious medical language possibly intended to keep me guessing.

Thom was brought in and his face was pale.  I was calmed by having him near.  He later told me that the sight that greeted him was a floor covered in blood.  The gush was my waters breaking but they were tainted with blood, shifting the routine ceaseran into a sudden emergency proceedure.

Minutes seemed like hours as I waited to hear a baby's cry.  I could hear the doctors working on them, but the babies were silent.  The doctors with me tried to assure me that many babies don't cry immediatly, but Thom's face showed fear.  He was watching our sons being recussiated.  Finally I heard the doctors give a cheer and a baby cry.  One little man was passed to Thom, looking shocked, but only for a brief moment before the doctors whisked him away to stabalise him.  The other was wheeled out by a group of smiling doctors, giving me thumbs-up and reassurance that he was breathing.

Noah just after birth

Ethan just after birth

I was stunned, drugged and shocked.  I was wheeled to a recovery room while Thom went to see the babies.  I first started to realise how serious things had been when doctors, midwives and anesthatists filtered in over the next few hours to hold my hand tell me how happy they were that the me and boys were ok.  Still, it didn't totally sink in and I imagined that in a few days we would all be home and happy.

Thom brought photos of the boys to me and we named them.  Ethan, because it means strong, and Noah, because it means comfort.  He sat near my bed while I came around, being visited reguarly by midwives checking on my blood pressure and giving pain medication.  I don't know how long we were there before a doctor arrived with news of Noah.  He was having great difficulty maintinaing his blood pressure and would have to be transferred to a hospital that could offer more intensive support.  A neo-natal intensive care unit in Norwich was ready to accept him and transport would be arriving to collect him shortly.

I had not yet even touched him, held him.  I was desperate to get out of the bed and see him.  My heart broke and tears were unstoppable as I watched the clock, counting the minutes before the nurses and doctors gave me the 'ok' to shift into a wheelchair and be taken to Noah.  After what seemed like hours, I was taken to him and Ethan in the Special Care Baby Unit.

Little bodies, naked except for diapers, wires and intravenous tubes, lying inside incubators.  The room was noisy with the beeps of the various machines they were attached to.  Doctors and nurses scurried around Noah, stabilising him and readying him for the journey.  I was allowed to reach in and touch his leg as IVs and nasal canulars were adjusted.  He calmed when I touched him.  I saw his eyes and heard his cry.  I did not know then that it would be the first and last time.

I didn't think I would survive watching him as he was taken away.  I don't know how loud I cried.  Confined to my wheelchair, I buried my face into Thom's stomach and sobbed.  The image of him leaving is burned in my mind.

The next morning, Thom drove to Norwich to see him.  I waited in Colchester, spending time in a wheelchair at the side Ethan's incubator.  The relief was amazing when Thom phoned to say that he saw Noah and things looked good.  He was breathing on his own and the photos Thom sent showed a relatively tube- and IV-free baby.

But our relief was short lived.  The next morning brought news of seizures in the night.  Noah had to be sedated to control the fits.  Despite my delicate post-surgery state, nurses and doctors agreed that Thom and I should get to Norwich as soon as possible.  I was discharged quickly after a dose of morphine and sent on my way with a pharmacy bag full of pain relief.  I hobbled out and into the car for the hour and a half drive to Norwich.

I was physically shaking with fear as we walked the long, dim hallways to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit in the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital. The unit itself was bright with sunlight through large windows.  The airy room had both the feel of calm and urgency.  The nurses spoke in peaceful tones as they went about their work in unhurried fashion, but their calm was in contrast to the beeping machines tracking the breaths and heartbeats of the six or seven tiny babies in the room.  Each beeping protest signalled a potentially life-threatening crisis to which the nurses responded with all softly-spoken and slow-but-steady action.

Noah was in a bed nearest the window.  Silent.  Still.  A machine to assist with breathing and canulars in every foot and hand.  His brain being monitored through sticky pads attached under a little knitted hat.  The nurses and doctors, again with the all-enduring calm, explained Noah's status and invited us to stay in a room on the ward.

So we continued for almost two weeks.  Sleeping in Norwich on the ward near Noah.  Spending the morning with him before driving to Colchester to see Ethan for a few hours before heading back to Noah's bedside.  Days drifted into each other.  I would wake in the night with the sound of the beeping machines in my ears.  I would rush down the hall to see if he was still there.  The nurses would offer me an update, a tissue to dry my teary eyes and a chair to sit with him.  Hours could pass with me sat next his incubator.  I talked to him, told him stories, mediated, prayed.

The four of us together

He was expected to wake from the sedating drugs but days passed with no reaction, no movements. In the space between waking and dreaming, I thought saw his eyes opening.  Reality and my wishes were blending into one and I would have to retrace my memory.  Was he awake?  Thom and I kept hopeful between our tears.    We were told that no one could be certain what he would be like when he woke.  Brain damage was possible from the oxygen deprivation at birth and the seizures later.  We didn't care.  Whatever he was, he was mine and I wanted him.  The love I felt was strong enough.

In the hours sitting with him, waiting for a flickering eye or a twitching toe, Noah taught me something about love.  Love was something I could give him, something I could feel for him.   But love, no matter how strong, did not make him mine.  It couldn't secure any outcome simply through strength of the feeling.  Noah had been gifted his own life, his own path and journey.  No matter how connected to me, he was not mine.  I always knew that one day both the boys would have to go their own way.  I wasn't ready for it to happen now, but Noah's life was his and no matter how much I wanted him, he wasn't mine to have.  Surprisingly, as I separated my love for him from the desire to make the life for him that I wanted allowed me to love more completely and freely.  And the more this happened the more I could just be there for him.

After a week of no movement and an MRI revealing severe brain injury, doctors discussed their theories with us.  Noah was suspected to have suffered worse than Ethan from a placental abrubtion, when the placenta begins to separate from the uterus wall before the baby is born.  This deprives the baby of oxygen as well as all other things the placenta provides and most frequently results in death of the baby.  Sometimes of the mother, also.  Noah looked remarkable well shortly after being transferred to Norwich, but the initial brain injury is often not evident until 2 or 3 days later.  Noah was in a coma and he was not expected to wake.  He had several other organs that failed, presumably in an effort to preserve the brain.  While Ethan also had similar hardships, his kindeys and metabolic processes recovered where Noah's did not.

Noah was taken off his ventilator on 10 January.  It was uncertain how long he could breathe on his own.  Hours.  Days.  Years.  No one could say.  He was brought to our room and left with us, free from tubes and beeps for the first time.  I bathed him and applied oil warmed between my palms to his dry hands and feet.  We dressed him in clothes we picked for him and laid him between us on the bed.  Through the night we watched him breathe.  I memorised his face and held his hands.  He stayed on through the night.  I held him at times. His breathing slowed and he started to feel cold to my touch.  I thanked him for coming to me.  I told him I loved him and told him about the lesson he taught me about love.  As we neared morning, I promised to take care of his brother the best I could.  At 8.15 am his slow breathing stopped.  I watched for another breath, but he was still.  After 12 days of life, Noah left, quietly as the sun rose after a dark night.

I still find it hard to believe he is gone.  It's easy to think that he is still at the hospital.  Laying still and silent in his bed.

As much as I wanted to leave the hospital after that morning, I also struggled to leave the place where Noah died.  I ran my hands over the spot on the bed where he laid with us, wishing to soak in some part of him to keep with me always.

The doctors arranged for Ethan to be transferred to Norwich when it became clear that Noah might not recover to save us driving between them each day.  Although he also had a trauma at the birth, it was not as severe as Noah and his needs were not great enough to warrant a transfer to the more intensive care unit at Norwich.  But the kindness of the staff in Norwich meant that we could spend more time with the babies.   It was invaluable to have Ethan and Noah in the same place near the end.

Yet, even when we were readying to leave Norwich, Ethan still needed treatment.  As he was preparing for transfer back to Colchester, we were asked to review his discharge summary.  We read in shock and awe, saying to each other that surely this report was about Noah.  It hit me how much in the focus on Noah, Ethan's lesser crisis had taken a back seat.  The horror of it all hit me like a brick.  We were all lucky to be alive.  Ethan had lived up to his name as a strong little person.

While we left the hospital in Norwich, Ethan would have to spend another week in hospital at Colchester.  Family tried their best to mediate our pain of returning home by removing all things twin related.  The double buggy, one of the two moses baskets put out of sight.  Although sleeping in our own bed felt like heaven, we were aching to get Ethan home and try to piece together some kind of new life together.

Ethan had to prove that he could eat without the help of a feeding tube and recover from an infection left from a form of IV called a long line which fed nutrients directly to his heart.  Ethan made quick work of the feeding tube issue by repeatedly pulling it out until the nurses gave up and decided to see if he could maintain his weight through bottle feeding.  I had been trying to express breastmilk throughout the whole ordeal.  Now that Ethan's release depended on eating, Thom and I went to hospital for as many feeding times as we could to try and get breastfeeding going.  During the long drives between hospitals when Ethan and Noah were in different places, I used a portable electric pump to express in the car between Colchester and Norwich.  It was a frustrating and often fruitless endeavour, many times yielding only a drop or two of milk.  I was too stressed.  Crying, full of caffeine to keep me going and very little desire to eat.

Somehow, Thom and I kept each other going.  Trudging to the hospital at 4 hour intervals for feeding times.  Trying to breastfeed.  Topping it up with a bottle.  Changing nappies and settling him before trying to get home to rest for a brief while before the next round.  After 5 days of antibiotics, Ethan's infection had cleared.  The doctors did their rounds and looked him over.  They expressed concerns over his weight and whether he could maintain it, but I begged, promising that feeding him on demand would surely be better than the artificial arrangement at hospital.  The doctors looked thoughtfully at the notes and again at Ethan, keeping me on edge, before agreeing to let him home with us that day.  I cried.

Ethan showing off his bottle-eating skills

It felt like we were finally going to be able to start our life again, resurrecting what remained after the heartbreak Noah's death left for us.  But before we took Ethan home, we had an appointment to keep.  We were expected at the funeral director that day.

A day of extremes.  Of sadness and joy.  Taking Ethan home was magical.  Making arrangements for Noah's funeral was terrible.  The day felt bizarre between the highs and lows.  Neither felt exactly real.

Now Ethan has been home for almost 2 weeks.  Having him right there with us is wonderful.  For the first time we could hold him when we wanted.  But these last two weeks have also been strange.  As Ethan grows and changes with each day, I think of Noah and how life would be with him here.  I miss him.  I remember the feeling of his kicks inside me and wish that I could rewind everything to have him here again. Days march on, ever further from the last time I held him, from the day he died.  I don't want to forget him and everything I learned with him.  But the land of the living seems to naturally spiral away from the realm of the dead.  I've stayed indoors, watching endless hours of mindless TV in a bid to press the pause button and somehow stay closer to him.  When I have gone out, seen friends, it feels like he's slipping away.  No one asks about him, and its as if only we remember.  My body remembers and each step back into normal life feels wrong without him.

Family nap time

As much as it is still beyond my imagination to lose Noah, here we sit, this evening, Thom, Ethan and I.  Looking like a little family.  And between my tears, I smile.

Nearly there!

My body feels to be officially at capacity.  My lucky trip through pregnancy has been a relatively trouble free adventure and only now is this vessel starting to give way.  Sleep is becoming more difficult as once comfortable positions are now a strain.  My hands and feet are swelling and I have to leave my wedding ring in the jewellery box.

I have been to the hospital every week for months now and at the visit last week, it was decided that due to the position of the babies, their sharing a placenta and my ability to contain them for such a length of time thus far, that a caesarean would be scheduled for 5 January.  Frightening.  Exciting.  Happy.  Nervous.  It is an odd experience to know the day that I would stop being a pregnant lady and start being a mother.

So over the next week the house became evermore ready.  I had a pedicure courtesy of a friend's gift from my lovely baby shower.  And I baked, baked, baked.  Partly for the freezer and the weeks to come, and partly for Christmas.

Christmas was a subdued affair for Thom and I.  My body is just not up for much and after some time with family, we retreated to the sofa where I have taken to spending much of the evening propping up my enormous girth with a scaffolding of pillows at various angles.

Today, back to the hospital.  Being off work for a while longer, Thom tagged along.  We waited for ages, something to which I have become accustomed.  I read the ancient magazines and said hello to the midwives I knew as they bustled past with notes and urine samples.  Thom fidgeted and cringed at the static-plagued radio tunes that tortured his ears.

But finally we were called.  Some chit-chat followed by a thorough feel-up of the bump and a scan to reveal that the little guys had shifted to an awkward position: face-to-face in the middle with their bodies curling around.  One up and over, one down and under.  'Hmm, that's unusual,' the sonographer remarked.  They want to kiss, I said.  They want to scheme, Thom said.

Then the bombshell.  The consultant reviewed the notes and giggled at the way the funny wriggly men like to be face-to-face.  She  explained that waiting until 5 January seemed too long and as certain risks increase past 38 weeks, the c-section would be moved forward to Friday.

Ok, Friday, I said.  Wait, what day is today?  Wednesday!

So once again, Thom and I left the hospital stunned.  In awe that in two days we would be holding our little guys.  So what to do with our last two days?   Tomorrow I plan to clean the bathroom and change the sheets and give Thom a last minute mohawk trim.  But tonight, I'm making extra bread to pack away in the freezer.   And I have submitted myself to be a human mould.  Thom laid out plastic sheets and draped my bump in plaster to immemorialise my shape for the times to come when this stage seems a far away memory.

I must warn you, he said with a sly smile as he smoothed the mess around me, you may find this quite erotic.  Erotic? Maybe.  But it was certainly profound to look down at this massive bump that would very soon be part of the past, and two baby boys becoming part of our life and our future.

Attack of the birth nazis

Having a baby is difficult for lots of reasons.  Time, energy, relationship changes, surrendering your body to forces beyond your control, watching it morph into not much more than a blobby baby capsule.  Not to mention the next phase of your life approaching - being a parent.

If God was a woman, she would have helped us out a little with a lot of these things.  But she might also gifted us with temporary deafness while pregnant.  It would certainly solve the bothersome issue of highly opinionated people that see a bump as justification to indoctrinate you.  I'm not referring to the general advice and strange suggestions that find their way to you from all corners of the planet.  Oh no, this deafness would be intended to help protect us from the apostles of the perfect child birth.  The ones who believe in one way, one correct form of birth, outside of which you and your offspring are doomed to an unnatural life.  A life cursed with poor health, depression, screwed up kids, a lack of hormone-induced motherly love and, most of all, the lifelong guilt of knowing that you chose this all by yourself.

I'm referring to the birth guilt squad, which broadly come in two polarised types - the medical ones and the natural ones.  If you are pregnant or have been pregnant, you may have had the misfortune of having your head bashed in by them.  They normally start with something quite disarming, like, 'It's an individual choice, but....' lulling you into thinking that you will be allowed respect for your individual choice.  But in their soft tones, it slowly dawns on you that they are trying to convert you.

Those of the medical squad would have you believe that home birth will result in certain death, of either your or baby.  And that only a dangerous fool would shun the white lab coats, scrubs and antiseptic hallways of hospital.  Reading between the lines, they sound a bit like: 'Only a real child-hater could take their life into their own hands by turning down the miracle of modern medicine'.

Those of the natural persuasion aim to convert you to the idea that hospitals are bad for you, bad for baby.  That medical interventions are meant to harm you and if you take advantage of them it means you don't trust your body.  You will have sinned against nature and the wonderful gift of childbirth nature has given you.  Consequently, you will suffer, your baby will suffer.  You can sniff these types out once you have the experience.  Just follow the stench of smugness.  

Birth is certainly a magical thing.  Our bodies are designed to do this amazing thing, equipped with all the mechanics and instincts to bring brand-new people into the world.  Doubtless, we as a species would have died out long ago if we were not capable of giving birth with nothing more than cold compress and the encouragement of a wise old woman or a grunting caveman husband.  It is a frightening and painful experience, but one that we can trust our bodies to handle.  These are the arguments of the natural-birth squad, and I must say that I agree that all this is true.

It gets twisted and nauseating when the implication becomes that those who choose some kind of medical intervention are somehow giving up faith in their bodies and abilities.  Backed  up with suspect statistics about going to hospital resulting in a higher rate of 'unnecessary' medical care, along with the assumption that modern medical procedures interrupt natural hormonal responses that encourage bonding between baby and mother, the guilt gets slapped on thick and fast.  Somehow I doubt that our ancestors enjoyed idyllic births, un-tainted by the scourge of modern medicine. 

What is the reality?  According to the World Health Organisation, the reality is that 1500 women die everyday from childbirth or childbirth related complications, almost all preventable.  Things like pre-eclampsia, heamorraging or obstructed labour.  And even when the mother survives, the babies themselves can fare much worse. Click here to check out what the WHO says about maternal mortality  The truth is that most women the world over have no choice but natural childbirth.  And while modern medicine may cast a cynical eye on the natural abilities of a woman's body and steel will, unfortunately natural childbirth isn't the blissful, magical rite of being a woman that the natural-birth squad would have us believe.  The reality is that until modern times, pregnancy and childbirth were dangerous times for women and infants alike.

It is a fact that people who go to hospital for birth end up with more medical interventions than those who give birth at home, but that statistic is not proof that the interventions were unnecessary.  Even in the developed world, some statistics indicate that home birth, while carrying a decreased risk of intervention, do carry a significantly higher rate of neonatal mortality; about twice as high as hospital births.  Additionally, around 40% of home births end up being transferred to hospital because of complications. Click to view article on Science-Based Medicine.

As for myself, prior to 12 weeks, I was prepared to give birth in my front room with nothing more than a stick of incense and some hypno-birthing mind tricks.  Then we learned that we had stumbled upon  the two-for-one special.  Twins: a whole new ball game.  The risks of death or injury in birth of twins is four times greater than a singleton pregnancy.  I guess my response, my guilt, comes from wishing for a different birth.  I want to keep things as natural as I can.  But the goal is not to prove that I am a woman or that I trust my body.  Right now, the goal is for all three of us to emerge from the experience alive.  When I have said this to various birth nazis that have crossed my path, it has been taken as proof of my fear.  Fear of the pain, of birth or of my own abilities.  One such encounter saw me up against a fellow pregnant woman explaining to me that risks of twin birth were fictitious, hospital was bad but 'If hospital is your safe place, then you should go there'.  As if being in your 'safe place' will prevent the multitude of risks that are common in birthing identical twins.

What I honestly feel is that it isn't that important where or how I give birth.  This middle-ground attitude doesn't save me and I still fall foul of birth nazis on both sides.   Not having a strong opinion on this highly contentious issue seems almost as bad as actively choosing to harm my unborn.

For me, the issue is not how or where a woman gives birth, but that she have every opportunity to go through this natural process with the greatest likelihood that both she and her baby survive.  The medical proponents and the natural birth squad each have their emotionally laden arguments.  But for the individual pregnant woman, this is a choice devoid of moral issues.

Until we evolve pregnancy-related deafness, the birth nazis will plague us, I suppose.  I wish I had known about them sooner so I could develop a stock response, like an equally patronising pat on the head and a 'there-there, calm down, dear'.  Ah well, as it is I must stick to my own mind, stay flexible and remember that no particular birth makes you a better person, parent or mother.  

Looking back: love, fate and magic

Recently, our PC had some problems.  Thankfully it was under warranty and fixing it was a simple case of sending it off by courier.  A week later it arrived back like new.  Like new in every sense, including all out our stuff wiped and completely gone.  We were smart and backed up all our data before sending it off, so no big loss.  Just a few hours of my time devoted to putting it all back on.

It started off feeling like an annoying task, but I found myself caught up in nostalgia as I re-loaded the photos.  Photos of Thom and I before we were dating.  Before were married.  Before we were expecting.  Before we knew we were expecting two!  Blame it on the hormones if you will, but it made me well up a bit.

It is amazing and humbling thinking about the twists and turns that life takes.  It doesn't seem like years ago that I was working behind a bar, trying to earn a little bit while going to graduate school.  Thom came in for a beer, stinking like an old onion and dressed in high-vis straight from work.  I imagine he would have choked on his beer if someone would have told us our future then.  And I would have probably called the police to help eject the deranged wierdo from the pub.

How things have changed!  We became friends at first, and later dated.  We had tons of fun.  I loved the way we could make a fun night out of nothing.  Or the way we would dance like idiots.  Or even the way we would both want to slope off from the crowds at the same time.  He became my man, best friend and partner.  But even then I could not have predicted that I would be sitting here now, having just seen our twins at a scan today.  Him in the kitchen fixing the taps and me tapping away about our journey through parenthood on the compter.  Even when we started dating, this senario would have seemed strange and domestic.  But here we are.

I'll let you in on a secret:  Earlier in my life, I never wanted children.  I was always told by others, mostly older women, that one day my biological clock would kick in and I would change.  I did change, but not because of some hormonal ticking time bomb.  I had always been very clear on my reasons for not wanting to join the ranks of the pro-creators.  From a young age, I did too much thinking for my own sanity.  That and some unfortunate experiences made the world seemed a cruel place.  People treated each other badly and there seemed no limit to the imaginative ways human beings could find to hurt others.  It didn't seem like the place to bring innocent children into.

Now, it sounds like a bit of screwed up logic.  Things shifted for me.  Not suddenly, but slowly.  It's hard to outline here exactly how the transformation happened.  Little things, I suppose.  Stopping to appreciate life and what a gift it really is.  Love helps, of course.  I remember one evening, stewing about not doing well enough in some area of my life and sharing my angst with Thom.  I couldn't sleep and in the darkness my worries poured out like flood waters.  I remember the shadowy outline of his face in the night.  He waited until I was done exhausting every paranoid corner of my little worry prison and then in a calm, low tone explained his perspective.  How every person is a miracle, not when they do things, but just the fact that they are alive is amazing.  For that reason, everyone is valuable and worthy of love.

In the face of such logic, but also love, my worries dried up and I lay there in the darkness, stunned that I had never before realised this most basic truth.  I had been moving towards a more accepting view of myself and others, but that moment cemented something.

So my eventual choice to have children was not motivated out of some primal, hormonal urge.  I think it was more beautiful than that.  My choice was a sign of the greater shifts in my life towards being more compassionate, more open and more able to love and be loved.

I often think about the twists and turns of fate, the miracle of nature that we are having not just a baby, but twins.  In my quiet moments, I think about the lessons life has taught me and the gifts it's laid in my path along the way.  I'm thankful for learning about love.  I'm thankful for that stinky man who stumbled into my pub.  And in my most goofy, gooey moments, I think about that love like a little bit of magic that couldn't help but make not just one, but two amazing little people.

Nest, nest, nest....now rest

I am listening to my eclectic Christmas music collection, enjoying a warm cup of tea and the inviting glow of candles and Christmas lights.  Pizza dough is churrning away in the breadmaker, its noisy kneading cycle reminding me of the tasty dinner soon to come.  Soon I'll fry up some peppers and sausages to top the pizza and the house will smell mouth-watering.

The house feels like a cave of tranquillity.  I've been nesting but now I think I need to stop and appreciate the nest.  It started out as a kind of panic nesting.  Following my last blog, with the warnings of just how early twins can arrive haunting me, I kicked into geare.  The hospital bag was packed and baby stuff was piling  up in the second bedroom.  Since then, the reality of it hit a but harder yet.

After the last scan, a week and a half ago, I was sent directly to the clinic.  I watched the sonographer and a midwife scurry from room to room with my growth charts as I began to get more and more unsettled in my seat in the busy waiting area.

Trying to breathe and keep calm is more difficult with my now limited lung capacity.  After an uneasy wait, a busy midwife called me in and talked me through concerns while preparing a massive dose of steroids she was about to stab me with.  I needed to return to the hospital again at 10pm for a second dose.  It was meant to prepare the babies lungs in the event that they came early.  The growth of one of the little guys had dropped off and it would be decided if any action should be taken when I saw the consultant myself the next week, she explained.

I surrendered a bit of fleshy butt cheek and agreed to be back that night for more.  I drove home on autopilot, got in the house and suddenly felt very lost and frightened.  What now? What would I do if they arrived by next week?  The thought of the plastic baby boxes in the special care unit gave me a chill and I wanted to cry.  But first, mamma-bear instinct kicked in.  Doing something felt better than doing nothing and I had a huge urge to make my cave totally prepared.

I decided that I could start by contacting my sister in law, Amy, to ask about borrowing her bottle steriliser.  She was enjoying a day with my mother in law, Sally.  I wasn't making much sense by text so I phoned.  in an instant, my she-bear persona gave way to whimpering, frightened baby-bear.  I found myself flooded with tears almost as soon as I opened my mouth.  Sally and Amy realised before I did that it wasn't really a steriliser I needed.  It was some kind words, encouragement and reminding that nothing is written in stone just yet.  That and a cuddle from Thom as well as ice cream after the 10pm injection helped.

Never the less, nesting kicked in full time since then.  I write that as if it is some force that took me over rather than my own behaviour.  Strangely, that's what it feels like.  So much so, that I was annoyed by interruptions to my nesting this weekend.  Thom told me we were to stop by my friend Bianca's house to check out water damage.  I was not happy.  There was Ikea furniture to assemble, cupboards to rearrange to ensure room for baby bottles, sleep suits to launder and cookies to bake and freeze.  I wanted to stay in but he wouldn't let me, reminding me that he endured Ikea getting storage and organising bits, so the least I could do is accompany him to check out mould patterns in Bianca's ceiling.  I begrudingly got dressed and dragged my feet all the way.

When we arrived, my smacked-bottom face was greeted by a group of smiling friends and a load of presents.  Surprise baby shower!  It took me a little while to figure out what was going on, I imagine partly because I've been in such solitary hibernating, nesting mode for so long.  I almost felt like I forgot how to converse with friends.  It was for my own good that nesting was set aside for a bit and that I was forcibly made to stop and enjoy this time of my life.  I may have come in with a bad attitude but left with a smile and warmed heart from all my lovely friends.  As well as a ton of presents for both me and the wrigglers.  Things to tuck away in my newly organised comfort cave.

Am I ready?   Well, now more than ever.  Best of all, I can take a moment to enjoy it, too.

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.