15. Love and the Lexicon of Little People

Magpie calls Big Daddy 'Andu,' possibly because I'm such a nag it's the most easily imitable word she knows.  (Ok, I might be giving his Christian name away).  The Tank calls me 'Ma!!!' and the punctuation I have just used is entirely appropriate.  If she gets a toy stuck, drops some food while strapped in her buggy or is being annoyed by her sister, I am supposed to be there within milliseconds, sorting out the problem.

Rearing children can be tiring, it can be hard, but it can also be intoxicating.  I learnt this on two occasions, all in one week. 

First, witnessing the Tank's face crumpling when Big Daddy tickled me.  Tickling reduces me to a squirming victim, and on seeing her 'Ma' as a helpless girl must have ellicted filial devotion.  The Tank wanted - or so her expression said -  to defend me from my 'aggressor.'  Klefti, our dear departed Greek dog (for those who have been following my blog for a while), would have done the same.  Children and dogs are very loyal creatures.

The second occasion of parental intoxication was when the Tank said 'Mummy' for the first time.  Not 'Ma!' her appellation since the end of August, but Mummy.  The proper word.  The word that one day may be preceded by 'I love you,' Mummy.  It hit me right in the gut.  Yes, I am a Mummy.  The Tank's Mummy.  It is only when one's children confirm the fact, I realise, that it feels really, truly real.  Of course I am also Magpie's Mummy, but she is yet to say it and thus confirm this fact in all its metaphysical glory.

On the birth of my girls, when a childless friend asked me over dinner with slight disdain 'so have you fallen in love, then?'  I answered the question with awkward dismay.  'No, it's love, but it's a different love.  It's not being 'in' love. 

Everyone hears the myth that this is what happens as soon as you give birth but of course it's not comparable.  It's a huge, irrepressible love that makes you want to be a knight in shining armour for your children, always there to save and protect them.   For many, myself included, it gives your life meaning you never thought possible. 

However:

I didn't get butterflies and lose my appetite (quite the reverse)

I didn't suddenly feel horny all the time  (quite the reverse)

I didn't dash out to buy underwear and take a fresh interest in my appearance (quite the reverse)

The same childless friend who asked me about being 'in' love also asked me if I pined for my babies whenever I left the house, and was it all I could think about.  No, no, no, I didn't and it wasn't!  I wanted to think and talk grown-up stuff with grown-ups.  Playdates with 'mummy friends' are for talking breast v bottle and swaddling v sleeping bags, not evenings out with old schoolfriends, for God's sake.

I love the hell out of my children, but I also love, nay, relish a bit of grown-up time now and then.  I'm sure there must be some poetry out there that encapsulates the true sentiment of parental love, but it isn't like a spell that is cast on you and that lifts you onto a magic carpet.  Yes, of course there is magic involved in watching your babies turn into toddlers, toddlers into children and children....into....teenagers (ok scrap the last bit).  But ultimately it's an often tough, occasionally exasperating but mostly rewarding reality. 

5. Twins and the Art of being an Older Mum

I regularly take the girls to a playgroup in a church hall run by the South West London Twin Club.

It's tremendous fun with the mothers I know well, but tedious with newcomers who are either shy, reticent or plain stand-offish. Of course, the fact that I go into conversation like a dog at a butcher's shop doesn't help. Teachers at school told me to 'think before I speak' but will I ever learn?  Let me give you an example.

I might ask a new attendee if she has help with her little duo, and when she slaps me down with yes, three nannies, two chefs, a housekeeper, a gardener and a full-time masseuse now **** off I really should do just that. 

Just sharing the unique challenge and joy of being a twin mum isn’t enough for a life-long friendship if your economic position isn’t in some way comparable. Sad, but true. Of course this is very different if you meet on a desert island with other fish to fry (literally). But not in the smart suburbs of South West London where I grew up and where it definitely doesn’t sound cool to live in a two-bed basement flat with one man, two babies and three dogs (ok and a big garden).  But still, it sounds like penury. Or madness. Or both.

At a recent gathering I (nearly) embarrassed myself beyond redemption. I ambled over to Play Mat Corner where a New Mum was sitting with her prostrate baby boy/girl twins. Next to her was an older woman whom I presumed was her mother.

This is how it went:

ME: Hi, congratulations! I haven’t seen you here before.

NEW MUM: No, (smiling warmly), we haven’t made it here until now.

ME: (Like an old pro) Oh, it does get so much easier, blah, blah, blah.

NEW MUM: We also have a 22 month year old at home.

ME: (Feeling rather less of a pro). Wow! You got back in the saddle quickly!

Now I look more closely at the rather lined, late forty or fiftysomething American sitting next to her.

ME: And you must be...the Mum (of the New Mum).

AMERICAN: Yes, I’m the Mum.

ME: (To myself) She's the Mum!!!  Oh God oh God oh God, thank God.  The waspish woman I just mistook for Grandma is, I realise with the intelligence of an amoeba, the Real Mum. 

I glance over at the young woman who is obviously the nanny.  She is about 25 and needs IVF like George Clooney needs to pay for sex.

The Real Mum must have been rather streamlined with her IVF treatment.  Even my simple brain can work out that she has produced three or more viable embryos, had one implanted the first time (the 22 month year old), and two the second time (ergo this pair of twins).

Could I be more of an idiot? No.

Not knowing when to back off,  I ask the Real Mum if she had a maternity nurse and yes she did, for four months (that works out at about £16k) and has a second nanny who is with the toddler at home.  The tone of her voice suggests that talking to me is...not very interesting.

This woman is the pro.  She has the cool calm of an alpha mum (barrister? trader? biochemist?) who may not control the lines on her face, but she stage manages everything else to perfection, with her surplus frozen embryos, a house full of staff and three children under the age of two.   Good work, woman.

Many twin mums seem to be wealthier than the average London mums.  This is my theory:

Women undergo IVF and often have two embryos implanted – two for the price of one, and all that (a modern consumer obsession). But if you don’t fit the criteria for your healthcare trust, and get lucky courtesy of the NHS (as I did) you may pay for two, three or four rounds of fertility treatment. And if you spend £20k or so, the chances are you can afford to.

Also, chances are that you may be an older mum, for one of three reasons.

1. As so often expressed by the level-headed Daily Mail, you are a Career Woman who, tut-tut, put Work before Love.

2. You didn’t find The One before you were 35 (or, more commonly, The One that Will Do).

3. Childlessness may have plagued you due to the lack of hospitality offered by your womb. An embryo needs a hospitable environment in which to grow.  It does not mean that champagne and strawberries, as provided in a posh tent at Wimbledon, will help (although the fizz may put you in the mood for a shag, which may get you pregnant).  What it does mean is that holistic treatments such as accupuncture and reflexology could help your womb become more receptive to sperm arriving and pitching its manly tent.

In case you were wondering, my problem was a bit of no.2: Big Daddy was fine with the commitment of dog ownership, but less sure about child creation (until his sperm was tested and it came top in class), and a bit of no.3:  have endometriosis which blocks up one’s fallopian tubes, thereby messing up the Sperm Delivery System).

Whatever the reason for a woman seeking medical help, parts of South West London appear to have as many twin buggies as million pound houses. And it’s no coincidence.