Octopussy….

I first noticed something was different when I dragged my sorry arse out of bed at 3am to feed Baby 3. It was dark. It was cold. It was 3am I tell you. I was on autopilot. I don’t even think I’d fully opened my eyes. The baby was cradled under my arm while she fed, with my other hand I gently stroked the side of her face. And with my other hand I grabbed a piece of chocolate and ate it. Wait up, rewind. My other hand? Shit, shit, shit I have three arms.

“This can’t be happening,” I said to the baby (not that she understood a word of what I was saying and, to be honest, she was busy). “I have three arms, three fucking arms.”

I made a decision then to ignore the extra limb, it was 3am. So, I burped the baby, wrapped her snuggly and popped her back in her cot (which I must say was a lot easier with three arms). And then went back to bed. Everything will be ok in the morning, I told myself.

What felt like minutes later I awoke to the grating sound of Baby 3 crying. Baby 2 was pulling up my eyelids and Baby 1 was peering into my face.

“Wake up Mum, it’s breakfast time so get out of bed,” she graciously informed me. My husband was snoring, oblivious to the morning ambush.

“Ok, Ok,” I mumbled, slowly climbing out of bed. I stretched; one arm, two arms, three arms, four arms. What the fuck is happening to me.

No time to worry about it, it was morning and hungry kids wait for no-one. Suppose I should just go with it. It was actually the best breakfast in ages. I breastfed Baby 3, poured Weet-Bix for Baby 2, picked the sultanas out of Baby 1’s cereal and made a coffee for me. All at the same time. This four arm business wasn’t too bad after all. In fact, it was quite handy.

By mid-morning I’d cleaned, dressed the kids, done the washing and made a cake (well, Betty Crocker made a cake, even with four arms I’m still a shit cook). The only issue I was having was that two of my four arms were cold. Surprisingly, I don’t own a four-armed jumper. So, eventually I was forced to improvise and had placed my arms strategically into a pair of jeggings (leggings which are styled to look like tight denim jeans). Finally, I’d found a use for them.

But as soon as I’d gotten used to my two additional arms, I’d sprouted two more. Six arms. I am now officially a spider! Oh no wait, they have eight legs don’t they (can you believe I had to Google that?)?

There were some obvious advantages to having six arms. With two laptops and two iPhones I went crazy. I blogged, Facebooked, tweeted and internet shopped (ok, so I made up a few words and no, when I refer to ‘Facebooked’ it’s not the Urban Dictionary definition of: The act of meeting up with another person for the sole purpose of having them sit on your face). I was a modern day computer geek – with six arms.

I was also officially a sex goddess! And I could read a book and drink gin at the same. If I smoked I could’ve even done that.

My day was getting better by the second. It’s amazing what you can get done with six, no seven, no wait…. eight arms. Ok, now I’m some sort of spider or octopus. I’m an octopussy. This is now officially bullshit and weird, but it’ll make a great story to tell the grandkids one day.

At my busiest moment I’d wished for extra arms. Now I had them. It had been great, but by night I was pretty over them. It was damn uncomfortable. And my husband, well, it’s pretty clear what he wanted all of the time. It seemed that the more arms I had, the more everyone wanted from me. I grabbed myself eight glasses of wine and pondered my dilemma. On the one hand it was way easier with eight arms, on the other seven hands it was a bit of drag. Two hands would suffice.

Perhaps I’d sleep on it (them) and then everything will be clearer in the morning. So, I did. Sleep, that is. I told my husband I had a headache! Even with eight arms, enough is enough.

I awoke with a start, the baby was hungry, again. It was 3am. It was dark. It was cold. It was 3am I tell you. I was on autopilot. I don’t even think I’d fully opened my eyes. The baby was cradled under my arm while she fed, with my other hand I gently stroked the side of her face. And with my other hand, oh… no other hands. Yay! Two arms again. Excellent, now I’ll swap sides for the baby to feed on my other… two boobs! Wait a minute, three boobs. This can not be happening…