Two more weeks have passed with effortless speed since my last instalment. During that time we have witnessed two~ thankfully very successful~ scans where the babies appear to be growing at break neck speed and looking fine. We discovered to our sizeable joy that all anomalies seemed to have been ruled out, the bairns are more than happy to play up to the cameras and above all, they have most evidently recognisable genitalia. During both private and NHS scans it appeared that our little chaps were more than happy to show us the full evidence of their gender and obliged readily for the sonographers each time. Boys again…two of them…Oh how we laughed…!
Satisfied that thus far, we have a lot to be grateful for with two apparently healthy babies developing, his loveliness and myself have kept ourselves busy planning for our ever expanding football team of a family; I did suggest that perhaps in the region of 2025 somewhere we should appeal to David Beckham to reconsider his retirement in favour of training our boys alone.
Yet time marches on relentlessly, and now I am poised in plump splendour at 22 weeks. Everywhere I’ve gone this week, the vast expanse has attracted attention and opinion. Depending on who is perusing thoughtfully at any given time I either “look small and neat for someone carrying twins at this stage”, look as though I “surely can’t have long to go now” (yeh, think again lady!!), “look very well on it all” or am looking “ really awful this week;” I surely “must be tired”. As amusing as it is to hear these enormously conflicting reports, I am grateful that these people are at least speaking their minds so I have a chance to agree or otherwise stagger in over- theatrical horror at their opinion.
Contrary to this, I have also experienced a more subtle but strangely more discerning approach in the shape of apparently single middle aged men I’ve encountered whilst negotiating the supermarket aisles. Only this morning it happened once more; as I waddled alongside the coffee and tea row with bump and cankles proudly expanding in the early summer heat, I encountered a beardy fellow who looked completely panic stricken. Staring awkwardly at this vision in front of him all he could manage momentarily was to crumble facially as he didn’t know what to do with the lack of space or the possibilities which may assault him any minute. It’s as if his whole expression was screaming “No! please don’t go into labour now and ask me to help you deliver any live creature in the middle of Sainsburys..! This is my worst nightmare! All I wanted was a decaff Earl Grey and now look at the trouble I’m in!!”. Other beauties of sociological interpretation include looking at the face, then the bump, then swerving in an elaborate ‘Dancing On Ice’ chasse to be extra polite; the under-the –eyelids “I haven’t seen this” shuffle and my particular favourite, the “oh my God, I’m running before she claims it’s mine” sprint for the exit upon first sighting. These little spectacles of middle aged ignorance are a breed all of their own and only seem to appear when one is pregnant… the rest of the time I’m sure they’re sitting in their spare room painting Warhammer figures and dreaming up shirt designs for female members of the North Korean army.
Maybe I should invent a pregnancy –friendly sandwich board which not only states “ Now hear this! All male species are completely safe from all pregnant women and there is no hazard” but also doubles up as a nifty little cover for the bump in the first place~ thus keeping this particular contingent of society happy and free from greying hairs on their morning shop!
© Tess Egerton 2013