Is time flying or standing still?
I can’t decide. Some days I’m horrified that I’m thirty-three weeks along already, that I’m gestating babies who look like babies, who are starting to get fat, that in a mere few weeks they’ll be term and we can welcome them properly into our lives. Other days, it feels as though I’ve been pregnant FOREVER, almost but not quite ready to pop FOREVER, and that I’m going to be hauling myself into work and enduring sympathetic glances FOREVER. I think it probably depends on how much sleep I’ve managed to get the day before.
The other day, I was thinking to myself about my current insomnia situation and I caught myself thinking that I could hardly wait for the twins to be born so that I could sleep again. And then I realised what I was thinking and laughed a hollow laugh to myself.
I will sleep again eventually, right?
But overall, one can’t complain. I’m still feeling reasonably well. The little ones appear to have dropped a bit and I’m definitely feeling more menstrual-like cramping than previously, but it’s nothing too uncomfortable. It’s mostly when I walk my mile-long walk to the train station in the mornings, and I can still plod through it. By the time that I depart from the train thirty minutes later, it’s usually gone.
We had a bit of a scare last week when one of the babies (‘Good Twin’) had only grown three ounces between his fortnightly scans and his umbilical PI had dropped from above to below average, but we saw a consultant and she wasn’t worried. Apparently he’s just a hobbit like me. ‘Naughty Twin’ is still positively enormous and has a full head of hair! Apparently I came out of the hospital with a bow in my hair, so he is perhaps taking after me in that respect.
So, ticking along. My mother swears that I’m going to go into labour at any minute but to be honest I’m not feeling it, and given how many horrifying birth stories I’ve read this week about 33-week-gestation preemies, I am exceedingly glad for it. I’d much rather keep the little sods inside for another three weeks or so to give their little lungs a chance to develop, even if I do need to pee every thirty minutes and keep waking up in the night in order to eat additional meals.
Mostly, I’m just so happy. This has been my year. And for the next few weeks, I’m going to slow down and remember this, treasure every moment and commit it to memory so that when I’m old and my granddaughter tells me that she’s expecting, I can tell her all about what it was like when I was carrying her father. I’ll tell her about the IVF and how it was nowhere near as awful as I had anticipated, how stunned I was when it worked, the way that my jaw dropped when there were two tiny microhumans on the ultrasound. What it was like to hear the heartbeats of people smaller than my finger. The first time that they kicked. Listening to Kirsty read them stories. The birth, I suppose.
If my biggest complaint is that I’m bored of waiting for my gorgeous, perfect twins to be born, then I’m a fortunate woman. And so thankful for this glorious, marvellous year.
Even when I can’t sleep.