Our lovely wee chaps are 7 weeks old now. Archie is now so big he’s already secured himself a place at Eton and will undoubtedly be one of those clever but weird socially inept genius kids that go up to Oxbridge at 12. Flo eats the same volume of milk as Archie but remains resolutely tiny, yet brilliantly perky like a little meerkat. We go to a baby massage class this week and Archie is the teacher’s ‘dolly’. He sleeps, wriggles, gazes around with gorgeous eyes and generally looks adorable. I am immensely proud and almost certainly quite smug as both babies adopt zen-like silence as the rest of the class descends into crying. Because I’m quite shallow, the part I like most about the massage class is the vocal admiration of the mainly first-time mums at my coping with newborn twins and a 4 year old. I’ll be going to the massage class again but will wear more make-up, better clothes and possibly carry a briefcase next time just to show them what I can really do.
My post natal wardrobe continues to vex me. Nothing fits properly so I surrender a little too willingly to the comfort of leisurewear, much to my chagrin. While I revel in the soft baggy sagginess of my sweatpants and Uggs, my vow never to wear them outside the house has been well and truly broken and they become my daily uniform. Special occasions call for an upgrade so out come leggings or jeggings – the equivalent of my ‘best dress’. On a supermarket run, I catch my reflection in the door and realize that the tragic figure looking back at me is in fact not straight off the ‘true life tragedy’ pages of Bella magazine – no, it’s me. Urgent action is required but options are frustratingly limited: any new outfit must accommodate my still-very-much-present twin tum and frequently-in-use E-cup boobs, plus I can’t do any proper exercise yet in case my mystery stomach pain (which thank the lord is abating) returns. I know a major shopping expedition is required but I just can’t face the demoralising squeezing of my post babies body into unsuitable outfits in overlit changing rooms manned by skinny teenagers. Accepting my post babies shape is a challenge too far at the moment and knocks my self-esteem when I’m having a tough day. I try to reassure myself with the thought that all my friends with older twins look to be in great shape so perhaps I’m expecting too much too soon.
Once I’m pain-free at last, I shall dust off my trainers, lose a stone and a half, and purchase a stylish and flattering new wardrobe. Until then, I shall wear my diamond earrings, liberally apply Chanel No. 5, snuggle into my sweats and avoid mirrors.