London Southern Belle

the post that will never do that beautiful moment justice

Four days prior to my booked c-section date, handsome man ‘o mine and I excitedly attended our pre-operation consultation with the anaesthetist and midwife. I had been strangely calm leading up to this point and it wasn’t until the anaesthetist was discussing complications of the procedure and then quick glance over to my husband who had tears welling in eyes  that the calmness quickly  dissipated.  He was terrified for my sake and the realisation that I was to have a major operation to bring our twins into this world became a reality.  

The weekend following was one of constant reassurance that all would be fine even though within my being I was trembling. I did not sleep a wink the night before I was to go into hospital. I must have checked the hospital bags several times and clock watched three times as much. Our car journey to hospital that morning was a quiet one. Nervousness drowned out the radio sounds but there were times when tinges of excitement showed through faint smiles.

 

As we made our way to level 7, which in recent days has become a second home to us due to the many hospital visits for monitoring, I had forgotten how heavy my tummy felt carrying two babies and was already missing the roundness of it.  We were ushered into a side room where I changed into a hospital gown and a midwife struggled to pull up circulation tights onto my very swollen legs and feet. By this time I was holding back nervous tears but still managed to joke about how I cannot wait to have ankles once again.

The walk down the corridors to the operating theatre never seemed so short. There were literally a dozen bodies all with a particular job. I remember the soothing music I had brought in playing gently in the background. It gave me warm thoughts of my high school friend and college roommate Addie, who had mailed it along with several thoughtful baby items months prior. 

The next hour was a blur of lots of fears and an abundance of tears as the team could not administer the epidural into the correct place. With each failed attempt another local anaesthetic was given putting me into a panic with each prick. At one point I heard threats of putting me completely under for the delivery. I cried at the thought of not being awake for the birth of our children and with the gas and air mask gently pressed to my face I kept telling handsome man ‘o mine, ‘I have to make this work. I have to be awake for this.’

The anaesthetist walked around the operating table and made eye contact with me.  I remember seeing her gloves covered in blood from the anaesthetic attempts.

‘Lean forward and arch your back like a Halloween cat,’ she calmly demanded.                     

With a belly carrying what felt like large twins, I could not manage to lean forward nor could I arch my back. I tried and it wasn’t working well enough. I felt desperate.

Handsome man ‘o mine clenched my hands, his eyes pierced into mine. I could tell he desperately wanted the fear and pain I was feeling to disappear. He looked as desperate as I felt.

An hour later,  a second anaesthetist was called in. This time he was my angel. Within 10 minutes I was completely numb from the breasts down and the delivery of our babies would begin. I immediately felt at peace.

The room was buzzing with bodies as I focused on handsome man ‘o mine’s face. The moment was arriving. The moment I had waited for so long to experience. I immediately began to weep.

Twin one entered our world and man ‘o mine gleefully announced the arrival of an 8 lb gorgeous baby girl. She was raised high above the sheet for our eyes to see. Never in my life had I seen such a beautiful sight. Immediately, I loved her. She was whisked away to the opposite side of the room and looked over. All was well.

With flailing arms and legs, twin two arrived into our world as a more petite 6 lb 4 oz baby boy. His hands tiny, his voice loud. ‘It’s a boy,’ handsome man ‘o mine whispered. Our family, complete.  I did not know the extent of such love until that very moment. I could not wait to hold our babies.

The first time Evelyn was plopped on my bare skin my lips immediately touched her sweet head. I was instantly in love. I glanced over to handsome man ‘o mine who was cradling Addison for the first time and I could feel the tears making yet another appearance. I never thought I would see the day and knew I would fall in love with my husband all over again, seeing him as a father. The day that I and the man I love most actually did it – we were parents to two gorgeous children and they were all ours.

Soon after, I was wheeled into recovery; a small side room where I was monitored by our favourite midwife (who ironically shared our last name) while we basked in baby bliss. I was completely unaware of my pain or the fact that I had a catheter inserted and periodically was having my incision dressing changed by a complete stranger. I was incredibly content with a baby nestled on my left and again on my right. How blessed where we to have not one child, but two. That was the main thought running through my head.

We made phone calls to announce the news to grandparents,  sent texts to close friends and just enjoyed being a family of four for a couple of hours before being transferred to the maternity ward.  

I have always felt life is full of surprises, blessing and triumphs. And, while I know just in the short four weeks I have known Addison & Evelyn, mothering them has been my biggest challenge. A challenge I will forever try and perfect and ensure I am the best mother I can be.

Love has reached a brand new height in our lives and despite the large mountain we climbed – finally, we are at the top and it feels magnificent.

Baby Addie and Baby Evie - We love you more than words could ever express. We cannot wait to show you the world and our abundance of love. You bless us.

from the mouths of men...

 
A conversation via text between handsome man 'o mine and his best friend today:

Handsome man: We have our first antenaval class tonight.

Friend:  During the class keep sticking your hand up and ask when you`ll be taught how to sink a class 22 destroyer!!

Of course, handsome man 'o mine had not realised he typed in 'naval' instead of 'natal.' Ahhh, the future father of my twin children. Tell me, should I worry?

 Mind you, these days I feel like a sunken battleship!

It feels very real now

Introducing our twin boys at 20 weeks. It is hard to believe that I am a few days shy of my 21st week. Finally, I am able to enjoy being pregnant. The worry of miscarrying after my IVF treament is gradually subsiding. The baby gifts my dear friend Amy and my mother have mailed have finally made their way out of the boxes and I excitedly thumb through the items. This is really happening!! Yipppeeee!

On yesterday, handsome man o' mine assembled the twin's crib (or 'cot' as they are called in England). For so many years I have longed for that single moment.

'Our first cot, sweetheart!' handsome man o' mine said proudly.

I immediately burst into tears of joy. It was incredibly overwhelming. I have spent many moments today just sitting in the twin's room - basking in happiness.

On another note, many of you have emailed asking if we are registered for baby items. While baby showers are not very common in England - a terrific friend from work and my sweet mother are holding one in my honor next month while my mom is visiting. Thus, prompting me to create wishlist for baby items. If you kindly asked for this, you may find links to wishlists at amazon and mothercare in the right-hand sidebar of my blog. I am very touched by your generousity. (ps. remember to update our mailing address as we recently moved house! however, I believe our address is automatically saved through both registry sites.)

We return to the hospital on Wednesday for a follow-up scan of the twins. They were not very cooperative last scan (that lasted 1 hr 15 minutes might I add!) and their little hearts and faces need a good looking over. It will be wonderful to see them both once again!

I think we need a bigger cake

Handsome man o' mine a la' new floppy Hugh Grant hairstyle (which is totally growing on me) turned thirty-seven today. Happy Birthday my sweet, perfect (pretty darned close!) husband.

Here's to that wish coming true, sweetheart.

I.love.you.

It suits me

This September will mark my fourth year living in charming England. My experiences have been beyond any expectation I have ever had. When I first met handsome man ‘o mine in 1996, I was completely taken by his demeanour. He was chivelress and any friend that has met him will confirm he continues to live up to that description – without fail. That meeting changed me. It is the reasons why I lead the life I currently lead. My braveness, I owe partly to the man I fell in love with over ten years ago – through letters written by hand and then that special meeting in person.

As a teenager, I would dream how my life might be if I could ever muster the courage and take the plunge. A plunge into the unknown world of living amongst British life of red letter boxes, dainty tea cups and weekend trips to villages so very quaint and picturesque. Dreaming about such excited me yet I often had questions of, ‘Why on earth would a girl uproot herself from America’s southland of cotton fields and stately homes when she did not even have the slightest clue as to what a creamed tea consisted of?”

I had a family tree rooted in the southern states of America and my childhood family vacations were planned around whether or not we could drive there by car. I had not stepped foot onto an airplane, fingered foreign money or even own a passport. Yet, long before I met handsome man ‘o mine, I knew my life would consist of more than what Mississippi had to offer. I fell in love with the idea of immersing myself in a culture that was not my own. Perhaps this dream was a wanted escape.

I remember family trips in my parent’s Jeep Cherokee tearing along the highways, my legs wedged behind my father’s seat, feeling the very bounds of my belly hurling forward amongst the bends in the roads, images playing vividly on the back of my eyelids. I imagined running, leaping over the cracks in the highway, feeling the burning sensation of the hot pavement through my glittery jelly shoes. I scampered through corn fields, darting through back yards of green bladed turf. It was as if I longed to go somewhere but at the time I wasn’t sure where or even when.

It was four years later, that I met Russell. A friend from my church youth group so fascinated with the Beatles, he insisted I love them equally. Listening to ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ amongst stacks of CD and magazine articles, I found an instant infatuation with the accents of the British. This obsession eventually cultivated to that of an anglophile.

It wasn’t until the winter of 1998 that I boarded a plane to London. One year after my first embrace with handsome man ‘o mine. That single trip planted a seed - a seed that later after years of nurturing grew uncontrollably like ivy to a stone wall. Tears flowed, curving my face and plummeting to my lap as I waved goodbye to the city and travelled back to Mississippi. I felt that leaving London was like leaving home. I had found a new place to hang my hat. Eventually, not even the fear of the unknown could stop me from beginning a new life in a new and different country five years later after marrying my first love.

I am still amazed I am here and each day is faced with a brave heart and a new outlook on life. I no longer fear life. I simply live it well and am happy that my life now suits me just fine. I owe it all to a few love letters - that handsome man 'o mine keeps safely in a decoupage box - and two hearts with one hope.

Paris in my heart

Handsome man 'o mine and I met in 1996. I was only a teenager and completely in love with him despite the seven year gap between us in age. I grew up in Mississippi, USA where I spent most days perched on a wooden church bench minding my P's and Q's, responding with politness of, 'Yes Ma'am' and 'No thank you Ma'am'.  It was small town living for me and so much of the world, I wanted to see for myself.

Handsome man 'o mine was amazing and even though we lived in seperate countries he continued to make me feel special and deeply loved. I had never travelled abroad and had dreams of seeing the Eiffel Tower in Paris. The closest I ever came to that dream at the time were old photos my grandmother had taken on her journey there years before hand. I would gaze at her photos of delightful french-ness, my eyes glazing over in a dreamy coma. Handsome man 'o mine once made the promise,

'Someday, I will give you Paris.'

I found that sentence spoken so very romantic and for years would cling on to the hope and promise he made. Years passed and handsome man 'o mine and I eventually took a break after trying a distant relationship for three years. I never forgot about yearning to see Paris. Nor, did he.

In 2003, we found each other again. Missing our relationship and more determined to make it work, I packed everything I owned into two suitcases and made the plunge to live in England with him. In 2003, we married and all was perfection. Our first wedding anniversary, I was presented with a shimmering envelope, with an uncertain thickness about it. Opening it with great anticipation, I wondered what he would surprise me with. Falling to my lap, were two flights to Paris. I could feel the tears building in my eyes.

I shall never forget seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time. This small southern belle from Mississippi was on top of the world. He gave me Paris.

Never will I forget. It isn't just a memory in my mind. The moment still belongs in my heart.

Embracing my inner Martha

Eventful weekend. I am learning to sew. No, even better - I am teaching myself to sew. As I am swiftly approaching my 29th birthday and realizing I have yet to even warm up the sewing machine I bought with last year's birthday vouchers from John Lewis, I had an epiphany - Being able to sew on a button is just not that impressive. So, I embraced a trip to a local craft shop full of fabrics and eager crafters and took the plunge. I bought fabric. It was exhilarating.

Thanks to the [ever so talented so much better than Martha softie doll creator extraordinaire] Hillary Lang of Wee Wonderfuls, I was able to create my first softie - a bunny. The pattern booklet arrived in the mail last week and the glossy pages of creations-to-be excited me to no end. The clincher? I had no idea where to even begin.

Firstly, hats off to handsome man 'o mine. He taught me to use my new sewing machine. Did I mention the man cooks, cleans, makes my lunch daily and irons my work clothes? Yes, every single day. And, no you may not rent him and no he is definitely not gay. He is something closely resembling perfection and I am completely smitten as a kitten. I can say that he grew up with a grandmother that  knitted his action men sweaters and she definitely had sewing machines in use throughout his childhood. It was his mum that taught me last Christmas to knit. I reminded him how fortunate he is to have had this teaching despite being more interested in football and making hot air balloons out of trash bags and small explosives. My own mother was more interested in bowling and playing bunko. I cannot say I blame her and my father for leaving us with babysitters - we were an unruly pair growing up. Starving for attention more than anything.

Mechanics aside, I managed to trace over my newly expiring bunny pattern and cut out the patterns. By this time, pink softness and tiny fleece shoes were taking shape and I could barely contain myself.
My project ended with many hiccups but I consider it a trial run. And for a first creation ever, even as a profectionist, I am pleased. By easter, I hope to have perfected a little bunny that my niece may call her own - it will fit perfectly with a set of my favorite series of children's books called Lettuce the Rabbit by Mandy Stanley.

I may just have embraced my inner Martha Stewart. 

because actions speak louder than words

[to think what he would be like with a baby]

Starlight, star bright!

Our weekend was fun. Handsome man o' mine celebrated his 36th (shhh) birthday with a chocolate cake, sparkling candles, presents galore and a midnight picnic. That's right, a picnic at midnight. Pictured above is a few of us gazing to the dark heavens [freezing]. This photo was taken right when I realized J had stepped in doggy poo and trampled it onto my blanket. Hence me covering my face with my cashmere pashmina to mask the stench.

Sunday evening, we [along with a few friends] packed our posh picnic basket with wine, mini cucumber sandwiches, strawberries and more wine and copped a squat near a tiny local river [I use the term 'river' loosely here. It is more of a stream] and despite the light pollution of London, we spotted breathtaking shooting stars. A great end to a birthday bash.

Our second Adoption Course has been postponed [due to lack of couples to take the course. grrr] to November which means two more months of waiting time before our baby to be joins our lives. I'm totally ignoring all of this 'patience is a vitue' palava.

Quackity Quack! Don't talk back!

Last night handsome man o' mine and I went for a leisurely walk into the town high street. Our high street is lined with quaint shops. Quaintness that can never go unrecognized. Exposed beams, wayward and leaning foundations, sturdy wooden doors with iron door knockers tempting enough to lift and find out who is resting in their own quaintness. The pubs and coffee shops are spilling with those enjoying the freshness of the air in between neighboring smokes.

"Let's go and have a drink," my husband states as we gaze at the newborn ducks.  There was one baby who could not seem to get up the stream with his mother and the other ducklings. It chirped loudly, listening for his mother's reassurance that she and the others had not left it behind. Darren knew we were not leaving this tiny pond until I knew for sure this frantic duckling made it safely to its family.

"I have on sneakers." I gasped. "And, jeans."

He gave me the glance. The same one I get when he has arrived home from work early and I am on my hands and knees obsessive compulsively scrubbing the toilet in the bathroom. Perspiration soaking my clothing, hair tied back with vintage material and thoughts of, "darn it,  he can't know I sweat....  fart.... or snot..." And, soon to follow I get the glance from him that reminds me he loves me exactly the way I come - not always polished.

"Perfect. I'll order you a glass of champagne," he says with a smile as he grabs my hand.

And so, there we sit outside a french inspired cafe sipping champagne in my old running shoes.... It was the perfect unpolished hour.