So. I had to buy myself a ...[gasp] one piece.
Now one pieces are all the rage, except most have holes evocatively cut into the cloth and plunging necklines.
I've bought one with special panels and shit, in the hope it holds me altogether.
It's stupid really. All the other people I'm currently swimming with couldn't care less about the state of my stomach. They're babies. And mothers. Also with childbearing hips and stretched tummies.
Anyway, the lessons are pretty sweet. We all float around in an indoor heated pool with our babies, encouraging them to kick and love water.
I had a bad experience with water when I was a kid; my swimming teacher pushed my head under and held it there when I was about 6. I'll never forget it. I was the last in the group to put my head under (Always been a bit scared of water. Terrified, in fact), so she thought shoving my head into the depths of the pool would fix that.
How 80s is that?
I got a stamp on my hand saying "I went under water today!" I found the whole experience horrific.
I want Sebastian to have positive water experiences, at least as much as I can help him, and this little course teaches them to put their heads under and enjoy it.
Or so the lady says. "Don't worry. I've been doing this for 16 years and we haven't lost one yet."
So we submerge them, by using voice recognition. First by splashing their face after saying "Sebastian, Ready? OK" and he takes a gulp. Then gradually they go under. More and more. Their epiglottis closes over apparently, when they're babies. So they naturally don't allow water down any of their pipes, per se.
He seems to love it. And I do too.
I am feeling somewhat flat at the moment though. I have a very low tolerance for other people's bullshit. Have you ever noticed that bullshit en masse comes in waves? You'll find most people around you - family members, friends, acquaintances, whoever - behave and be normal together.
Then simultaneously they all go through a fervent and epic bout of being a dick. All at once.
The father won't talk sense again. The mother refuses to listen. The spouse neglects you. There are more chavs behaving like fools in the street than per usual. A Jehovah's Witness rings your doorbell. (Happened last week) The neighbour is hoovering at fucking midnight. One of the twins mums from the twins group you used to belong to has befriended you on Facebook and you should've declined, (and she should've had the sensitivity not to ask), but out of curiosity and sadness you accepted even though it means you now see her twins in your newsfeed and it's a constant reminder of what you don't have. And her twins are the same age as my twins/Sebastian would be, almost to the day.
How some people are fairweather friends - around when they need you or need something, then disappear once they find someone or something else.
In a fit of rage, you wonder whether you can disappear into the night, with a suitcase under one arm and your child under the other and go to live in a little hut on top of a snowy mountain peak in the middle of Washington State (Twin Peak country. Yes. A thousand yesses), where no one can find or disturb you. Save for a delivery man who can bring you a gourmet cheeseburger once a month. Until you're fixed, and then you can rejoin society again.
Started out this post all sweetly didn't I? Explaining how lovely it is to swim with my baby boy. Only to end it with a rant.
I think it's time to face facts. This time 6 months ago, I was lying in hospital with a heart monitor wrapped around my belly hoping to God Sebastian would remain stable in the days following Molly's death. I was waiting for the day I would be induced to have my twins. I can't believe he is almost 6 months old (or 5 months corrected, as they say in prem circles. Urrgh.) It's a big milestone. It's the milestones that hurt.
I can't help but wonder what she would look like now. And how they'd be playing with each other.
Maybe it's also the wintry air.
* Actually, I haven't read British Vogue. For a fuck long time.