The Twin and I had been friends for nearly 20 years before we slept together for first time. We met at primary school. I was in the year above and took it upon myself to be his protector. He was a small kid, what can I say? To this day there are still marks on the playground wall where I used to measure him after the holidays to see how much he’d grown. His mum and my mum became great friends. She moved to Brighton , and few years later so did we. I remember being pleased that I had at least one friend in my new city
other forever. And then one day, out of nowhere, he kissed me and everything changed. We spent the next few years shagging like bunnies. We never considered having a relationship as ours was perfect as it was. Two people who had been
friends forever having lots and lots of really good secret sex. We were insatiable. We met during lunch breaks at work. I’d go via his house when on the way to the supermarket for a quickie. He’d be late meeting the boys for a pint, blaming it on
his car needing servicing when he was actually servicing me. We had relationships with other people during that time, and we were never unfaithful, but as soon as we were both single we’d be at again. The Twin eventually moved back to London
I didn’t have to tell him why I was calling. He guessed. He didn’t ask me what I was going to do. He knew. I didn’t even have to tell him that there was a question over the paternity as he knew all about my illicit affair with The Canadian as I had told him the night we went out, not that it stopped him from ending up in my bed. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. I knew. He threw himself into the possibility of fatherhood with abandon. He started to save up what little money he had for the baby. Checked that I was eating properly (I wasn’t), moved back to East Sussex, he even sent his mum to come with me to my first scan, as my Mum was out of the country. In short, he manned up and dealt with the situation as best he could.
The Canadian was a different story. I didn’t hear from him directly for a
couple of months, just the odd message through The Chef. When we finally did
speak, it was awkward, to say the least. We didn’t know each other well
enough to know the other’s headspace. He was still smitten with The Blonde
he had met the day after (possibly) conceiving (possibly) our child. Even worse, he
had failed to tell her that another Non Blonde was expecting said child. His
family still had no idea. He had basically buried his head in the oil rig on
which he worked, hoping it would all go away. Not that I blamed him. I was
doing the same thing except my head was buried in the rocks on Brighton
beach whilst my bump got bigger by the day.
The rest of me however wasn’t. I had turned into the amazing shrinking
woman. As my bump got bigger, the rest of me got smaller. It was amazing.
I went from being a size 18 pre pregnancy, to a size 12 at 7 months
Gestation. I looked INCREDIBLE. My midwife put this phenomenon down to
stress. I put it down to luck. Everyone else put it down to the fact that I was
not eating.
I have always been a slightly larger girl. I LOVE my food. I get
seriously pissed off if I miss a meal. I get nasty if I eat a meal without
enjoying it. I feel cheated and then I have to eat something else that I will
enjoy. Food is my friend. I have never understood eating disorders. Why
deprive yourself of yummy treats? What is the point of eating an amazing
meal, If all you are going to do is chuck it up again? To me, that is just
pointless. And a waste of good food. So imagine the surprise of my nearest
and dearest, when I start to not want to eat. It very quickly turned into a
habit. The less I ate, the less I wanted to eat. It was so easy. Shame it’s not
so easy now, I am nearly back at my pre pregnancy size, damn it. My
nearest and dearest tried everything to tempt me. They took me to my
favourite restaurants, hosted elaborate dinner parties, they even tried
bribery. Nothing worked. I was not interested. My bump was growing, my ass
was shrinking.
It had become a running joke that I was not myself. The hormones had turned me into a snappy opinionated miserable cow. My nearest and dearest had come up with a rota system, they took it in turns to see me, making sure that none of them had to endure more that 5 consecutive days and that a rest period of at least a week was included. I was totally immersed in self pity. It transpires that they had no idea how ill I had become. I snapped and griped to hide the fact that I felt like I was dying inside. I felt like I was totally removed from myself. I had decided to keep my baby because I wanted it. I desperately wanted it, but I hated being pregnant. There was nothing redeeming about the experience. My body felt totally alien to me. I would spend hours in tears, with no idea why I was crying. Every time I looked at my bump my heart sank. It was like there was an inner argument taking place, part of me desperately wanting to keep my baby safe and well, counting the seconds until I met it- the other part not able to look at my pregnant self in the mirror as the feelings of shame and self loathing consumed me. Who gets pregnant
by one of two men? What kind of disgusting person am I? How the hell am I going to cope with a baby if I can’t even take care of myself? What man is going to want me now that I have a kid? I’m going to be single for the rest of my life because I couldn’t be bothered to use a condom. Is it really worth it? These thoughts raged through my mind and I was powerless to stop them. It was like a vicious circle. The
more I worried, the more depressed I became, the more I alienated my loved ones, the more they backed away, the more alone I felt, the more I worried, and so it went on.
The thing was, the less I ate, the more I wanted my baby. I knew deep down
that I could jeoarpordise its health by not eating properly, and I
desperately wanted it to be healthy. The obvious answer was to eat. Yet
hard as I tried, I couldn’t do it. The Twin got increasingly worried, bringing
me locally sourced organic foods, full of folic acid and essential fatty acids,
watching me force it down with a keen eye, safe in the knowledge that once
it was in, we were golden, as he knows and agrees with my opinion on the
wastage of good food.
Nothing worked, nor was it going to. I had control over something again and I wasn’t giving it up. I had no control over the outcome of my pregnancy. That was taken away from me when I decided to have under protected sex with two men in the same week. I was petrified of the impending paternity tests. The chances of The Canadian being the father was far higher than The Twin, I was 75% sure
that my child to be was half Canadian. This knowledge caused the
problem. It would have been far cleaner if The Twin was the dad. For
starters we lived in the same continent. Secondly, we had known each other
forever, our parents were friends, our siblings were friends, His parents
were excited about the possibility of becoming Grandparents. They had not
judged me. He was involving himself as much as he could, and as much as I
would allow in the pregnancy. It was just easier.
Yet I couldn’t honestly say that that was the outcome I was hoping for. God
knows why. For all the reasons why it was easier for my child to be The Twin’s it
was impossible for it to be the Canadian’s. He barely called. He had flown
over from Canada
family, or The Blonde, for that matter, even though conception took place before she existed in his world. What was the point in telling, when the baby may not
be his? Why loose the love of his life for no good reason? I argued that if she truly
was the love of his life, and, more importantly, a woman of any merit, she would
appreciate his being honest with her, and offer to support him during this clearly
stressful time. If the baby turned out to be his, he would have to tell her, and she
would dump him. Not because he was a dad, but because he hadn’t told her. He
totally disagreed. It was silly to upset people for no good reason, and that, was the end of that. I was his shameful little secret. Not the best feeling in the world, I can tell you. So I controlled what I ate. Obsessively. And the more concerned my nearest and dearest got, the more I controlled what I ate. The attention I craved
from The Canadian was being supplied by everyone else worrying about me.
Job done.
As a result of my ever increasing bump verses my ever decreasing ass, my
obstetrician insisted I have regular scans to check that my baby was
developing properly. At my 12 week scan I was told, quite sternly, that scans were purely for medical reasons, to check baby’s development and screen
for possible defects. Pre natal scans were NOT designed for parents to have a little
peek at their offspring. I nodded in agreement, “Of course Mr Sonographer,
I totally understand, silly parents thinking it is all about them. I would still
like a picture though, if it’s not too much trouble…” I ended up going for
scans every few weeks from 20 – 39 weeks. It was incredible. My baby had grown so
much since I had last seen it. It looked like a person, a
living breathing person. I started to look forward to my bi weekly scans as it
gave me a chance to have a little peek at my offspring. I found myself trying
to decipher features to see which man the baby looked like most, any clue
would do. Needless to say it didn’t work. But what it did do was give my
tiny ass the massive kick that it needed. She (I was still guessing she was a
she) was a real baby than needed real food in order to survive. I made it my
mission to eat as much and as regularly as I could. I went from eating Nicole
Ritchie sized portions once a day to eating Victoria Beckham sized portions
twice a day. Progress was made. Now all I had to worry about was what I was actually allowed to eat.
You see, I’m a medium rare, fois grois, Salmon sashimi, Stinking Bishop, Oyster eating kind of girl. In short, my favourite foods are all the things I am supposed to avoid whilst preggers. So you can imagine my dismay once I finally regained a semblance of my former appetite, that the things I crave are totally off limits. It’s bad enough that I’m denied my glass of wine after work, and the lack of my bedtime Scotch was driving me to distraction, and don’t even get me started on the fags I had given up cold turkey. No, this defiantly would not do. I reasoned that I had been eating these things for decades and I had never been sick, what possible reason was there to stop now? “Harmful bacteria”, was the very stern answer from my midwife. “Undercooked meat, Unpasturised cheese, cured meats and raw fish
are a definite no no. You don’t want to put your baby at risk do you?”. “Of course not, but millions of French women have been eating rare meats forever, Japanese women have been having healthy babies since time began and I’m sure that Italian
women continue to eat Parma Harm and their babies are just fine.” I countered. She scowled at me. I refused to back down. She threatened to get the Obstertrician, I told her to bring it on! I argued my case to him. He listened, smiled
and asked if I was prepared to make a deal. I told him I was willing to listen to his terms. Pate, oysters and unpasturised cheese were out. Parma
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