You start the day with a plate full of chopped and seeded watermelon, brought to you on a breakfast tray by a kind DH who is now running very late for work.
You remind him that the only thing you can drink is fizzy apple juice so he’d better stop at the corner store and pick up another six bottles.
Lying in bed you clock watch until the midday movie begins when you’ll lose a blissful two hours engrossed in a B-Grade stinker which usually requires a box of Kleenex. Of course these days even a Huggies ad reduces you to a blubbery mess.
You spend the afternoon in bed, clock watching for the six o’clock news when you hope to hear the garage door open and the hum of an engine as DH returns from work.
You ask about his day and lose a half hour in the intricacies of office politics before dialing for dinner. DH asks about your day. “The same,” you say. “Sleep, cross-stitch and eight trips to the bathroom.”
Off for another ultrasound.
These are definite highlights. Mario and Guiseppe are now so big they can only get small body parts onto the screen at any one time.
The results are good except there’s news that Twin 2 is significantly smaller. The doctor explains TTTS (Twin to Twin Transfusion Syndrome), but after examining the cords decides the flow of nutrients to both babies is sufficient.
If the gap becomes much larger however, consideration will have to be given to whether the babies should arrive early or not.
DD and you take a bet on when the babies will be born. Eventually you are proven right…down to the very day. Every time you look back on this you hear the X-Files theme music in your head.
It’s time to decide on names. You’ve batted a few names back and forth while watching television credits, but there’s really been no consensus.
Mario and Guiseppe are great names, but would probably be considered an odd choice by their Scottish grandfather.
You finally come to a tentative decision only to discover once they’re born that you’ve chosen names from the long-running soapie Bold and the Beautiful.
Nobody believes your protestations that it wasn’t the deliberate result of watching too many day time soaps. Hey, it could have been worse. At least you talked DH out of choosing names from Star Wars.
You start thinking about the labour and wondering how you will cope.
You decided very early on that you are a wimp and want whatever pain relief is on offer. You still wonder if this will be enough.
The control freak in you wants to know…will it be a natural birth, will I have a caesarean, will they induce me, will it happen unexpectedly in the middle of the night.
If someone could just hand me the script I’d know how this was going to end. Of course if there was a script your doctor would be George Clooney and your husband Rob Lowe.
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