It’s time to go home. Sitting on the edge of your hospital bed you cling steadfastly to the bedside table as two nurses prise your fingers free.
Offering words of encouragement, they try to gently ease you back into the real world.
Not the world where you packed up and headed away for the weekend on a whim or ate restaurant meals three nights a week. But a new world where you feed, burp and change two small howling bundles in a sleep deprived haze.
DH (Dear Husband) wheels in the new double stroller after circling the block six times looking for a park close enough the hospital doors.
In desperation he settles on a loading zone….well, he IS loading…an oversized wife (when did they say this swelling would disappear?) and two new undersized babies.
Not a good enough excuse for a parking inspector though, DH makes a contribution to the local council’s annual Christmas bash in the form of a $150 fine and you have a wonderful, but expensive parking space.
CHALLENGE 1: Cursing the stroller and the fact that you didn’t practise how to use this new contraption, you finally work out how to recline the seats.
Now you just have to work out how to strap a harness on babies wrapped securely in bunny rugs. You wonder if maybe you should have picked a nice cushy pram over your practical stroller, even though it weighed an extra 10 kilos.
Lifting a pram in and out of the car boot could save you hundreds of dollars in gym fees in the long run.
CHALLENGE 2: You silently wish you could have borrowed a small baby to try out the new car seats (surely you can hire one from somewhere), as you discover the difficulties of adjusting the straps with your tiny newborns already in place. And which way are their heads meant to go again?
DH ditches his usual Grand Prix approach to driving, opting for a pace akin to your average funeral procession.
As you drive the familiar route home you are stunned at the realisation that everything about your life is suddenly different. You were two, and now you are four.
CHALLENGE 3: You walk inside and place the babies side by side in the cot. Staring down at them, panic sets in. What do you do next? There’s no nurse to help. How will I breastfeed?
What if DH isn’t there and they both cry at once? Can I really do this? Is there any way out? Damn….I don’t have a breastpump.
Seeing the hysteria in your eyes, DH takes it in his stride as you write him a shopping list…hand-operated breast pump, breast shields, nipple cream. He doesn’t even flinch. Caught in the headlights he just nods and heads for the car.
The countdown begins….five days until the cavalry arrives. Your mum and dad come to visit and move in for the next six weeks…an oasis of sanity in an overwhelming downward spiral.
DH goes back to work after a week, but there are still three sets of hands to manage two little babies.
Working in shifts around the clock, you bless the day your mum arrived as she cooks three meals a day and walks colicky babies for hours on end.
Your dad still refuses to change nappies, but he willingly feeds, cuddles and entertains. Sigh…this is almost do-able.
If it weren’t for those stitches in your nether-regions and the fact that the swelling in your legs, hands and feet still hasn’t disappeared, you could almost cope with the endless round of nappy changes, breastfeeding, bottle supplements and pumping.
And then the bomb hits. Six weeks later you watch with tears welling in your eyes as mum and dad park their suitcases by the door and await their taxi to the airport.
As you wave goodbye you watch the babies in the port-a-cot and wonder what to do next.
You burst into a flood of tears and sit on the floor sobbing right along with them. DH comes home from work at 5pm to find you still weeping piteously into your lap and the bin overflowing with soggy Kleenex. The scenario repeats itself every day for the next three weeks.
Babies move in… Mr Whiskers moves out. Remember that champagne tabby you once had. Yep….well appalled at his treatment post-babies he packs his suitcase and heads for the hills…or at least the neighbours. Disgusted that his feeds no longer arrive like clockwork and his cat naps are disturbed by the constant wailing, he takes his frayed nerves and moves in next door.
Despite several attempts to return him, he wins the hearts of the neighbours who finally give in and ask if you want to hand over his bed and bowls.
Feeling melancholy that after eight years he can just get up and leave, you wonder what sort of mother you’re really going to make.
Maybe the babies will do the same. As soon as their dinner doesn’t hit the table at 6pm, they’ll pack their school bags and find a neighbour to love.
In a Saturday afternoon haze you lie on the bed beside DH with the babies finally dozing on your chest. Next thing…THUD…bleary-eyed you look at each other and wonder what the noise was. Realisation dawns on you both at once as a wail goes up.
One baby is missing. DH scrambles to the edge of the bed and looks down, where he sees one poor little mite lying on the floor draped over a size 12 shoe.
You resolve not to nap with the babies on your chests any more. What the heck, you’d almost completely given up on sleep anyway.
You and DH are now so tired that he catches naps at red lights on the way to work and you can find yourself dozing on your feet half way through the washing up.
You’ve quit the breast-feeding and are ready to wind down the pumping. You tried, but it was all too much. Bottles it is.
You develop a complex pattern for bottle feeding both babies at once involving a pram, a three-seater lounge, two bottles, two babies and two dummies.
Then one day it happens. You weren’t ready for it. It came out of the blue. It was clearly not wind. It was a smile.
Okay, these kids are keepers. You can bring in the For Sale sign and let the white slave traders and gypsies know they’re officially off the market.
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