V.B.PURCELL

Part One

Part Two

09.05.08
The final countdown.

Pregnancy is a good excuse for memory loss. I say this so I don’t have to feel guilty about forgetting to do the simplest things such as taking the washing off the line or out of the machine and hanging it up. The other day, I was so distracted with belly movements and lazing on the couch to catch up on sleep (since the boys had woken me up at 2:00 am and kept me awake), I had forgotten an anti-natal appointment that day, which is so unlike me.

In the last few days, metaphorically speaking, I’ve been dropping the ball and letting it bounce for a while before picking it up. Although people say it’s okay to cut back on duties and rest as much as you can, one can’t help but feel a tad guilty. I mean, I’m not working and bringing in an income any more so the budget is quite strict and, on top of feeling like the biggest bludger on the planet, I have to some times rely on others to pick up my slack. Again, I’ve been told not to feel guilty to ask for help. It’s not guilt which makes me reluctant to ask but the consequences. I don’t have much of a support group. Those I can ask, it’s not as simple to ask them to help without giving some long winded explanation. People claim they are willing to give a hand but I still see that sigh and a tiny thought ticking in the back of their brain which says, “you chose to be pregnant at the end of the day”. One person even asked me what contraception I was using and said I could sue the company because I fell pregnant. I shook my head, not believing what I was hearing and dismissing it as one of those thoughtless comments.

On the flip side, it doesn’t stop others from expecting me to help them baby sit their kids while they work because I don’t. I still have to mind one girl on top of my daughter after school and include her for dinners because her parents work. The worse thing is – they don’t pay towards the costs of feeding their child despite having asked for a very low contribution. I guess I shouldn’t expect much from two career driven people who bring in triple the salary than my husband does.

Aside from having to deal with other people, the pregnancy itself is a pain. I’m at the stage where I’m itching to break the waters myself just to get the free loaders out of my stomach. I want my body back. I look like Boony with his bloated gut and if I start growing a moustache, I’m going to scream. It’s not just the way I looks which is giving me the shits, the little buggers don’t stop moving the whole day like they’re boogging on down to some Kylie Minogue disco hit. One of them, I swear, is practising his cartwheels and seeing how much space he really does have to play with. The other finds it sport to fist his brothers face and fiddle about his stomach. How do I know this? Not only am I feeling it, I saw it on ultrasound today like a freaky reality TV show.

“Is he punching the other kids face?” I had asked the Radiologist. She chuckled and said it was natural for twins to play with each other in the womb at this stage of pregnancy. Play? I take a hard look at the scan. By the way Twin-B’s fisted hands were flailing it looked as if he was remodelling. Maybe he’ll grow up to be plastic surgeon once out of the womb or (God forgive) instigate the next chainsaw massacre. If that’s the case, I better be nice to these buggers so they don’t grow up feral rats.

Anyway back to the present… the boys are about twenty centimetres now with healthy heartbeats, solid limbs and functioning organs. It was reassuring to see both of them practising their breathing and vocal gymnastics. A good sign of healthy growing babies the Radiologist claims. I suppose I should feel comforted by this news if it wasn’t for the Braxton Hicks contractions they constantly put me through; talk about cramping my style.

Other than feeling like a cranky, good for nothing, blowfish, I’m progressing alright. After all, I could be in such a state that I’m sentenced to bed rest for the rest of the trimester. Now that would be hell.