"I want you to gain a lot of weight"

Yes, finally, someone has said to me the words I've been yearning to hear since I was fourteen years old. Today, at my first pre-natal appointment, my OB told me he wanted me to gain a good 40 pounds over the course of this pregnancy to ensure nice, healthy, roly poly twins. "You get a free pass when the nurses weigh you."

Hell, even my high school social worker, when I was 100 pounds and eating a bread and mustard sandwich and half an apple for lunch, wouldn't tell me that I could stand to pack on a few. (Not that I would have -- and end my love affair with my ribs and pelvic bones? Heavens, no!) Obviously, this is quite a different situation. I am by no means underweight anymore, nor am I nearly as fucked up on the food and body image front as I was at 17. And, well, I'm pregnant with twins so -- uh, yeah. Gaining weight would be a good thing.

Still, how nice it is to be given permission -- nay, ordered by your doctor -- to do so. He's even having me meet with a nutritionist to make sure I get on track. Given that I've already gained 4 or 5 pounds and it hasn't even been 10 weeks, I'm not terribly worried. And no, I'm not using this pregnancy as an excuse to eat volumes of crap. I really am trying to eat well. OK, maybe I'm a teensy bit less likely to refuse dessert. And when I'm starving and all I want is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, by God, I'll have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Or more likely two. (And anyway, think of all the calories I'm saving by not drinking wine!!)

But enough about that. Today's appointment was very, very good. I really like my doc. He's youngish, he's got twins himself, and he seems able to strike the right combination of being friendly and pleasant and kind without it coming across as rehearsed and fake and condescening, like my reproductive endocrinologist -- a smug geek who clearly took some kind of seminar ("2 days 2 a Better Bedside Manner!") and would say things like "Let's watch and learn together," as he began an ultrasound and "You're a delight" as he said good bye. Ptooey.

There was no ultrasound today, which was a little disappointing. When you go through fertility treatments you get spoiled. I got to see the embryos (now fetuses, or "sea monkeys" as I fondly call them) at six and seven weeks, and even see their little hearts beating. Today, I got nothing -- too early even for a doppler to listen to the heartbeats. So, I have to just take it on faith that they're both still in there and thriving. Crazy! How do women who get pregnant the normal way manage to go so long without any empirical evidence that there are actually little beings developing inside of them? We're just supposed to assume everything is going according to plan? And in the years before ultrasounds -- hell, you could be carrying a two-headed piglet and you wouldn't know it until D-day.

The amazing, miraculous, unbelievable thing is that most of the time, the little buggers just keep on growing, in all the right ways. Faces, limbs, organs. And they're almost never two-headed piglets.

As for me, I'm exhausted, I'm bloated, my boobs are the approximate density of uranium, and if I don't eat just about every 2 hours, I start to feel sick. By the end of the day my pants feel tight and I look like I've eaten a toaster oven. At around 8:30 pm, I become incoherent with fatigue. And then there's the peeing. My God, the peeing. I don't understand how it is anatomically possible that I can empty my bladder completely and then five minutes later have to pee again. And not just a little obsessive-compulsive symbolic pee, but the real thing. This, I'm sure, will only get worse.

Well, speaking of fatigue, I only got 6 hours of sleep last night (culprit: Chicago O'Hare airport) so it's naptime for this preggo lady. Hasta la proxima, my nonexistent readers.