You feel what you think is the first movement. It could be wind, but quite frankly you’d prefer to imagine the more romantic option.
Like butterflies, the fluttering is amazing and you can’t wait for DH to be able to feel it from the outside.
The first time he feels some movement against his hand, he spends the rest of the day with his cheek pressed up against your tummy. This is despite your protests that it’s very difficult for you to drive like that.
The flutters have turned to goal-winning kicks and for the past few days you’ve been feeling like a football.
It’s no real consolation that you realise there are four arms and four legs inside your rapidly growing tummy.
Most of the kicks have been located on one side of your abdomen. You worry that this means there could be a problem with one of the babies.
Paranoia kicks in and DH finally convinces you to contact the doctor. The doctor assures you that it may simply mean that the second baby is positioned further back in the pelvis or behind the first.
He promises that soon you’ll feel enough kicking from both babies to last a life time.
Quiet baby number two wakes you in the middle of the night with a flurry of kicks on the other side of your tummy for the first time.
You wake DH at 2am so that he can feel it. He smiles, pats your hair and then rolls over telling you he needs to go back to sleep if he’s going to get up at 5am to get to the markets in case that elusive winter watermelon should appear.
Your next ultrasound is due. You’ve decided to find out the sex of the babies. You cross your fingers for girls, but have this nagging feeling they will discover the babies have dangly bits.
Boys…you don’t know anything about raising boys. No brothers, no male cousins. Knuckles white as you grip the side of the bed, the technician starts the examination.
After asking him for the babies’ sex you look feverishly for any signs yourself.
Trying not to look too desperate you wait until the very end to ask again. And of course, it’s just as you’d guessed. Boys. Two boys.
The future flashes before you eyes. A lifetime of open toilet seats, windy cricket matches and smelly bedrooms.
You try not to dwell on the lost ballet classes, shopping trips, prom dresses and mother-of-the-bride outfits.
On the way home in the car DH rings both grandparents and sings Rolf Harris’s “Two Little Boys” into their answering machines.
You smile and decide it may not be so bad after all.
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