Jane's Calamity

Baby Squared

2007-06-08T16:35:00.000-04:00

Hi everybody -- I'm no longer blogging here at Jane's Calamity. Please visit my snazzy new blog, Baby Squared over at Babble.com.

Babble, for those of you not familiar with it, is a very cool parenting site -- more honest, irreverent, and fun than a lot of the other ones out there. One thing I really like is in their "health and development" section, they show you a range of opinions on child/baby care advice from different sources so you can (gasp!) decide for yourself what's best for you and your baby. I'm also a (guilty) fan of their celebrity baby blog (babies of celebrities, that is). There's a lively message board community, too.

Those of you who've been reading here at Jane's Calamity awhile may find me plagiarizing myself a little bit while I get ramped up. Don't snitch. ;-)

Hope to see you there!

Selling out

2007-05-31T09:39:00.000-04:00

Hi readers --

It's hard to believe that it was less than a year ago that I started this blog; it's become such an important way for me feel less alone in this whole parenting adventure. I've loved having a place to vent and brag and babble, I've loved reading your comments and advice and I've loved just knowing you're out there, reading.

Gosh, this is sounding an awful lot like a good bye, isn't it? In a way, it is; Starting in a few days, I won't be blogging here at Jane's Calamity anymore. Babble.com, a new online magazine/community from the folks at Nerve.com, aimed at urban / Gen-X parents, has invited me to come blog for them. I'm way too big a nerd for how hip the site is, but hopefully nobody will catch on.

I'm very excited, but at the same time it makes me a little sad to take Jane's Calamity (it will be called something else...) pro. I've liked hanging out on this little, hidden corner of the Web with all of you. The idea of so many more people (in theory) reading my stuff is a bit intimidating. But my hope is that the tone and content of it won't change too much. It will still be tales of Clio and Elsa, musings on parenthood, the occasional rant, and way too much information about my boobs. I'll be posting more frequently -- about 3 times a week -- and posting more pictures and videos, too.

I'm not sure exactly when the new blog will be up -- probably within the next few days. I'll post a specific URL when I have one.

Anyway, if you've enjoyed reading Jane's Calamity, I truly hope you'll come on over to Babble.com and continue to read and comment on the new blog. It would mean the world to me.

Thank you!!

Lots o love,
Jane

Milestones

2007-05-29T09:00:00.000-04:00

One of the most fascinating things about having fraternal twins is watching them develop at different rates and reach milestones in different orders. At first, it was a little disconcerting, and we couldn't help comparing/worrying -- you may recall, Elsa smiled at 7 weeks, while Clio was still barely making eye contact.

But Clio started cooing and gurgling well before Elsa. It's only in the last couple of weeks that Elsa has really "found her voice." And she uses it constantly. The other day when I tried to put them both down for a nap, Elsa just lay there squeaking and squealing and ga-ga-ing with glee. A very sleepy Clio turned her head and gave me a look like "will you get her out of here, please?"

Elsa is also the rolling over champ. This is posing something of a problem with sleeping at night, because she can sometimes manage to roll over onto her stomach while swaddled, and then gets stuck and can't roll back. (Yes, we're still swaddling, but are hoping to try to wean them off it in the next month or so.)

The girl is also just itching to crawl. Yesterday the three of us were hanging in the backyard on a blanket, and Elsa actually managed to shimmy forward about a foot or so, GI Joe style, on her stomach. She's totally got the leg movement down, but not the upper body strength to use her arms to help pull her forward. It seems to be quite frustrating to her -- she was whining and whimpering the whole time. I tried to "rescue" her by turning her onto her back, but she just rolled back over and started shimmying again. So, I started humming the theme from "Rocky" and let her go at it.

Clio, meanwhile, was content to lie in my lap and look up at me and gurgle and babble. Perhaps she was trying to explain why, at this juncture, rolling over and crawling do not interest her, and that this does not necessarily mean that she is a serial killer.

In other milestone news, both girls are now just big enough to use the ExerSaucer (an awesome shower gift from the Mama de Marlie), bringing the brightly colored plastic to grown-up furniture ratio in our living/dining room up to approximately 1:1.

Elsa, being a little bit taller and stronger, is more mobile in the thing -- she can actually turn herself around in the seat and bat at some of the toys. Clio sort of just sits there and smiles bemusedly at the stuff. For both, though, it seems to be a welcome change of venue.

Oh yes, and for those of you who've lost count, as of yesterday, the girls are 5 months old. Practically adolescent! I expect them to ask for cell phones any day now.

Two things, in order of importance

2007-05-24T09:21:00.000-04:00

--Clio's HSP appears to be back again; her left leg was spotted with purple this morning. As before, she has no other symptoms, and seems as maniacally cheerful as ever. Now that we know what it is, I'm not as worried, but it does concern me a little that it recurred. Waiting to hear back from the doctor's office on when they can see her.

--What compels people to put those decals of a mean-looking cartoon boy (sometimes Calvin, sometimes not) peeing on the back of their SUVs (and it's always an SUV. Or pickup)? What does it mean? Who manufactures these things?

Newborns Suck.

2007-05-21T09:50:00.001-04:00

I'd like to dedicate this post to my friend the Motel Manager, who is in the thick of newborndom right now. In fact, I'd like to dedicate it to all new mothers, current and future, to applaud them for their perserverance, and to reassure them that it gets so. much. better.

Last night, after I fed Clio, I had her on my lap and was bouncing her while singing some kind of ridiculous, rhythmic song that went more or less like this: "Dickadicka doo doo dickadicka dee, dicka dicka dah dooka dooka doo," and the child laughed. She laughed!! It was the greatest thing ever. Because, as we all know, humor is the finest and truest and most universal means of human connection there is (aside from sex). And, because baby laughter is the cutest, twangiest most joyful little sound there is.

Newborns do not laugh. Nor do they smile or look you in the eye or nuzzle their head into your shoulder when you carry them. All they do is lie there and sleep -- except when you want them to -- or cry and scream, usually without any apparent reason. They poop and pee when you try to change their diapers. They puke all over the place. They're wrinkly and scrawny and floppy and most of all, they're boring. B-o-r-i-n-g.

I seriously suspect the sincerity of people who say they're "madly in love" with their newborns. What's to love? I mean, except in an abstract, theoretical, primal sort of way? Every day I love my daughters more and more intensely, and I can tell you, it bears almost no resemblance to the dutiful, biological sort of love I felt for them in the first weeks. Hence the fact that I can now write a post entitled "newborns suck." (I almost called it "newborns are assholes," but thought that might be going too far.)

I also must admit that I don't understand this spending hours every day "just staring at them," thing people with new babies are always talking about. We did not do that. Sure, we did some gawking here and there. Newborns, in spite of their suckiness, do make some awful cute faces, especially when they sleep. But generally, I just didn't feel the desire to sit and fixate on my babies. And maybe right there is the reason: babies, plural. Maybe when you've got just one baby, it seems more singular and amazing and miraculous. When you've got two, you realize -- hey, I could theoretically pop out any number of these puppies, and they'd all be fabulous and they'd all be ours, but I'm so g.d. tired right now that I think instead of looking back and forth at them like some kind of deranged ping pong spectator, I'm going to put them down in their bouncy seats and take myself a little nap. Wake me up when they're five months old and every time they smile at me, I feel like I'm the luckiest g.d. person in the world.

Newborns. Bah humbug.

The divine Miss Elsa

2007-05-11T16:23:00.000-04:00

Reading over my last posts, it seems that Clio has been getting a lot more ink (pixels?) than Elsa. So, today, I'd like to dedicate an entire post to Elsa, in honor of her latest phenomenal accomplishment: rolling over.

This morning I had her lying on her back on the faux sheepskin rug on the nursery floor and ran downstairs to get her Zantac. When I came back up, she was off the sheepskin on the nursery rug, on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, looking a little confused, but mostly quite happy. I praised her profusely and then turned her over, hoping for a repeat performance, but she was content just to lie there and gaze into my eyes while grinning and gurgling. How could I complain?

It's not surprising that Elsa reached this milestone first; she's been working on the rolling over thing quite hard for the past week or so, and has come close a couple of times. She's also become a champ at the Crib 360. Doing some kind of crazy breakdance-like move where she kicks up her feet and inchworms on her back, she manages to turn herself entirely around in her crib while still swaddled. Or, sometimes she'll free her feet and we'll find her lying with her legs through the crib slats. This doesn't present any danger that I can think of but it's nevertheless a little bit disturbing. Don't you think?

Oh yes, and she also seems to be at the start of a meaningful relationship with her feet. She's just getting to know them for now: curious stares, tentative reaches. But any day now, those little dawgs are totally going to be in her mouth.

Try, please, not to fall off the edges of your seats.

And now I really get it.

2007-05-08T09:26:00.000-04:00

I know that I’ve been falling in love with my little girls. But damn. You just don’t realize how far you’ve fallen until the possibility of loss hits you in a palpable way.

We spent the weekend up at my parents’ house in Maine. On Saturday afternoon, when I picked Clio up after a nap to change her, I noticed a strange rash on her legs and feet: lots of little purple flecks that appeared to be broken blood vessels. She didn’t have a fever, and hadn’t been acting sick – in fact, she’d been a great mood all day, all smiles and squawking (her preferred form of conversations has changed quite suddenly from coos and gurgles to raptor-like shrieks) so I wasn’t particularly worried, but I called the pediatrician’s office, just to be safe. The girls had their 4-month visit scheduled for Monday anyway, so I expected the on-call doctor to say don’t worry; we’ll take a look at it when she comes in. But she didn’t. She said that though it’s usually accompanied by fever, broken blood vessels can be a sign of a serious bacterial infection. We should take her to the emergency room.

A. and my father and his sister, also visiting, stayed behind with Elsa, while my mother and I headed to the nearest hospital, twenty minutes away in Brunswick. She drove, and I sat in the back with Clio. Even though she had no fever, no signs of infection, no signs of anything except the strange rash on her legs, I couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to see her. What if she started burning up with fever? What if she stopped breathing? I was reminded of that harrowing memory described by the main character in Russell Banks’ The Sweet Hereafter: his baby girl has been bitten by baby black widow spiders, and he has to drive her to the hospital, 40 miles away, trying to keep her calm so the poison won’t spread while at the same time preparing to jam a pen-knife into her windpipe in an attempt to save her if she stops breathing.

Not that this situation was anywhere near as dire. But Clio never seemed so dear or so innocent as she did during that ride. She just smiled at me. Looked out the window at the farmland and pine trees. Sucked on her hand. So beautiful and so alive. I was acutely aware of how fragile she was – how fragile we all are, how barely here. And I was utterly aware of how shattered I would be if I lost her. Shattered in a completely different, completely more primal way than I would be over someone who wasn’t my child. Shattered as in irreparably broken.

I was pretty calm throughout this whole episode. I cope fairly well in stressful situations – a quality which, I’ve often speculated, would probably make me a good paramedic or ER doc. (Next lifetime). But my mind did run to worst case scenarios a few times before I wrested it back to the present moment: septic shock. Leukemia. Lymphoma. Rare diseases and disorders named after the people who discovered them. (Why would anyone want a disease named after them?) While we waited in the lobby to be called in, I found myself thinking about bargains I would make, things I would give up, in order for Clio to be OK. Basically, I concluded, I’d give up anything.

There are funny things to write about in connection with this whole ordeal, too: how Clio pooped four times within the space of two hours while we were at the hospital, grunting and turning red like an old man. How she quacked – yes, quacked – in response to my mother making quacking sounds when she gave her her stuffed duck pacifier. The face she made when the rectal thermometer was introduced. Her earnest attempts to roll over on the exam table while the PA was trying to look at her rash.

And then there was the usual ER fun: Clio’s name misspelled on her bracelet after I spelled it out for the receptionist upwards of three times. Nurses saying they’d “be right back” and disappearing for forty-five minutes. The Vietnam vet across the hall with the triage nurse, brought in by the police, insisting between incoherent, manic ranting that he was “just confused.” (But don’t get him started about the government! Why did they ask him if he knew who the president was? Did they want to know who the vice president was? How about secretary of state? Why did they ask him about the president if they didn’t want to know about the secretary of state?)

We were there for nearly four hours in all. Clio was heroically brave while three vials of blood were drawn from her arm. And by “brave” I mean she screamed bloody murder, but recovered fairly quickly and fell asleep in my arms. They collected some urine from her using a neat little bag inside her diaper (no catheter, thank god; this bag just stuck to her labia with adhesive and caught whatever came out), and took a stool sample (easily done since, as previously mentioned, she was pooping up a storm).

While we waited for the results, Clio and my mother napped. I drank decaf coffee and read The New Yorker. At a little after 8:00, the PA came to give us the results: everything was blessedly normal, except for a slightly high lymphocyte count, which apparently suggests that she might have been getting over a virus. This fit in logically with the diagnosis of her rash: Henoch-Schonlein Pupura. It’s a form of vasculitis that occurs when the immune system reacts weirdly to a virus, bacteria, medication or chemical. According to one source, it happens most commonly in the spring, often in response to an upper respiratory or throat virus. I was down with a sore throat a couple of weeks ago, so maybe that’s what triggered it. Most importantly, it’s nothing serious. It’s not indicative of any larger problem or condition, and the potential complications (inflammation of blood vessels in the kidneys or intestines) are very rare. Hallelujah, amen.

At the girls' 4-month checkup yesterday, the pediatrician gave Clio a once-over, and everything seems fine. In fact, both girls are growing like weeds. Lengthwise, anyway; both are around the 25th percentile for weight (Clio is 11.5 lbs, Elsa is 12.5) but they’re in the 75th and 90th percentiles, respectively, for length! My long, tall baby dolls. How I love ‘em.

It was almost exactly a year ago that I found out I was pregnant. May 9th, I think, was the first positive HPT. After a frustrating year and a half of negative pregnancy tests, it felt completely surreal, abstract, impossible. And now, a year later, these babies – these two little people – are becoming so real to me, and so important, it’s frightening.

Elsa my heart, Clio my soul

2007-04-30T15:45:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I love these babies so damned much I just don't know what to do. It's amazing just how much...I don't know...personness a chubby, toothless little being can exude.

When Elsa smiles it is with unabashedly innocent amazement and delight. Sometimes she'll smile or squeal out of nowhere, with no one even looking at her. Who knows what she's thinking about or reacting to? You get the feeling she's simply thrilled to be alive.

This weekend, when we were down visiting A's parents, we think she laughed for the first time, sort of. One of their dogs snatched her pacifier, and as we all laughed about it, she let out a screech that sounded an awful lot like laughter. Squawky, dolphin-like baby laughter.

But when she cries--God, how distraught she sounds! And how deeply hurt and upset she looks, her face puckered up, her eyes squeezed to slits, streaming tears. As if her little heart has been shattered; the universe has betrayed her. All I want to do is hold her close and reassure her and make everything all right, forever and ever; to shield her from the cruelty of the world -- which is impossible of course. She'll soon experience meanness and violence and thoughtlessness and heartbreak, and I dread having to see her hurt.

If Elsa's outlook on the world is amazement, then Clio's is (most of the time) amusement. Life is a hoot, a game, a joke she's in on. You get the sense that maybe she's done this whole life thing a few times before. She's an old soul, and she knows the score. Not that this makes it any less funny when mom and dad make goofy faces at her -- though sometimes we think she's not so much smiling at the faces we make as the fact that we're making them. She humors us.

And she's got things to say, Miss Clio -- ever true to her namesake, the muse the Greeks called the Proclaimer. Lately she's been talking an awful lot (as captured on film here), cooing and gurgling with great focus and serious intent. I'll sit her on my lap and look down at her and we'll have whole conversations together, consisting entirely of the sounds "goooo" and "llllluuuuhhh" and "eeeoooo." She seems to think she's speaking English. We humor her.

But oy -- that girl can go from smiles and coos and sweetness to an all-out screaming fit (and back again) in a matter of seconds. She arches her back and goes stiff as a board and yells and yells and yells. Sometimes the culprit seems to be gas. Sometimes boredom, hunger, fatigue. But sometimes she just seems to be mad for the sake of being mad -- or for reasons we can't possibly understand -- and no amount of bouncing or singing or rocking or feeding will help. She's just being Clio, all piss and vinegar. It's infuriating and exhausting and I love her for it. She's so punk rock.

It's still hard, this whole baby deal. They still rarely sleep more than 4-5 hours at a stretch, and they still cry and kvetch and fuss plenty. But it really is getting to be more and more fun. They've started to feel like our children.

The F-word

2007-04-25T07:24:00.000-04:00

I don't know when I turned into a breastfeeding militant. When I was pregnant, and people asked if I planned to breastfeed, I generally said "I'm going to try," and said that with twins, it's often necessary to supplement with formula. I had no problem with this notion.

But now that I've managed to feed these girls exclusively on mama's milk for four months, the idea of introducing formula - even just once a day, which is all we're going to do for now -- feels akin to putting Coca Cola in their bottles. The overacheiver in me (who is a large one) bristles at the thought that I can't keep on doing this impressive thing I've been doing. I love that I've been able to only give them breastmilk. I have been a human cow, a font of nutrition, a burbling, overflowing spring of lifeblood -- in short, a goddess. Yes, that's right; I am a fucking goddess.

Elsa, however, is a piglet. And Clio is fast becoming one, too. This presents a problem. They are now regularly drinking 5 or 6 oz. of breastmilk when we bottle feed them. They're no longer satisfied with 4 oz., which is what I pump, per breast, during an average pumping session. And lately I seem to be pumping less than that more often. It's a simple matter of mathematics: I can't keep up.

There are ways to increase milk supply -- herbs and relaxation techniques and voodoo and prescription drugs. Some people recommend looking at pictures of the babies while pumping (which I've tried) or smelling a piece of clothing they've slept in (which I haven't). But in the end, there's just no getting around the fact that a rushed pump while sequestered in a shower room in the middle of a busy, sometimes stressful workday is just not going to yield the same amount of milk that a nice, relaxed nursing session at home on the couch will.

And so, last night while I pumped, A. gave the babies the first formula they've had since the hospital, when we had to give them the stuff to get their weights up. Formula, for those of you not familiar with it, is nasty stuff. It's brownish and rank-smelling, and results in chunky spit-up and ugly brown poop. It's overpriced as hell because the formula companies spend millions of dollars each year trying to convince people that it's just as good as breastmilk.

On the other hand, it digests more slowly than breast milk. Which means small tummies stay full longer. Last night, Elsa slept from 11:30 to 5:30 without so much as a peep. That's six hours, folks. SIX HOURS. Clio, meanwhile, did an admirable four and a half. (And I'd already gone to bed an hour before her last feeding) In other words, thanks in part to that nasty-ass formula, last night I got the most consecutive sleep I've had in four months.

Still, I'd keep them 100% on breastmilk if I could. What can I say; my ancestors were Calvinists and Lutherans. We suffer for the sake of righteousness. We suffer!!

Formula. Good grief.

Just say no

2007-04-19T08:52:00.000-04:00

OK, I need a little cheerleading and morale support here. As some of you know, I work 25 hours a week at an ad agency. I also take on occasional freelance projects with other clients -- something which, last year, added a significant chunk of change to our household income. It's enjoyable and profitable work, but time-consuming. Every hour I spend on it is an hour I'm not spending on finishing my novel. And the thing is, I'm excited about my novel. I think it has a fair chance of getting published. I want to work on it, and I want it to be good. With two babies in the mix, finding that time is harder than ever.

So, I've decided to stop taking on freelance projects until I finish my book. In fact, I just said no to an offer for a project that I normally would have taken, and let the client know that I'm going to take a break from freelancing for awhile. It was a little scary.

The money is certainly a large part of the reason I've done these projects. But the main reason is a sort of pessimistic pragmatism. Realistically, the chances that I could actually ever make a living (or even part of one) at fiction writing are next to none. So, it has seemed practical to continue to augment my copywriting career, make new contacts, etc.

But by doing this, I've realized, I'm holding myself back from really throwing myself fully into the novel, both practically and psychologically speaking. I'm hedging my bets. Protecting myself. Assuming the worst.

If I'm completely honest with myself, I have to admit that these projects are also a way to procrastinate. Doing them is a lot easier than working on the novel. And because they pay well, they're easy to justify. I can't work on my book, I tell myself; I have to do this "real" work first. But I'm never going to write the book I want -- at least not anytime soon -- if I don't start treating it as "real" work. Especially now that I've got a whole other "real" job in raising two children.

We can get by without the extra money, at least for now. I just have to hold onto the foolish hope that the sacrifice will pay off in the long run -- if not in monetary terms, then at least in terms of my being able to say, without feeling like a total phony, "I am a writer."

Hallelujah, the strike is o'er, and other news.

2007-04-17T08:58:00.000-04:00

Clio's feeding shennaningans seem to be over, for the most part. Though she still frequently cries when I first try to nurse her, I can now get her to calm down and eat eventually. Often, this requires the old pacifier switcheroo -- I let her suck on the pacifier, then, once she's calm, take it out of her mouth and slide her swiftly onto the boob before she can tell the difference. It usually works. She also does well with a side-lying nursing position, wherein I lounge like a golden retriever and she does her thing.

While I'm on the topic of breasts (which is common these days) I must ask: at what point will mine not be so huge? I thought that once your body adjusts to your milk production needs, your hooters go back down to a more normal size. Maybe this doesn't apply when you're breastfeeding twins. I've still got total porn-star tits. Not that this is entirely a bad thing. But it has meant that while I can now fit into my old jeans and pants, almost none of my sweaters or tops fit anymore; they're either too tight around the bust, or too short, or both. Or, they simply reveal cleavage. And as a lifelong B-cupper, I'm just not used to having cleavage. I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a conference room door at work the other day, and I looked like freakin' Erin Brokovich.

The upside of all this is that it's an excuse to go shopping. I spent a couple of hours at the mall last week on the way home from work, scouring the sale racks, and came away with a couple of good finds. I also splurged on a very cute jacket from...I can't believe this..Benetton. (My faithful readers will remember that I am still traumatized over not having been allowed to get a green and white Benetton rugby shirt in 6th grade like all the cool girls.) Anyway, here's hoping it will still fit fabulously a year from now when I'm no longer breastfeeding and my boobs have shrunk to mere shadows of their former, pre-pregnancy selves, which I hear is common. Bummer.

Elsewhere in the self-improvement category, a couple of weeks ago I got my hair highlighted for the first time in my life. My stylist was, naturally, aghast to hear that at my age (33 as of last week) I'd never had my hair professionally colored. Guess I'm just generally a low-maintenance gal. But I will admit that there's something about becoming a mother that has made me want to put more effort into looking good. Maybe it's all those episodes of "What Not To Wear" that I've been watching while my ass is parked on the couch nursing two babies, witnessing the horror of mom jeans, sweatshirts, and white sneakers.

What else? Last week, for a pair of brunches (one Passover, one Easter) we put the babies in dresses for the first time in their wee lives. They looked awfully cute, though Elsa definitely pulls off the girly thing better than Clio. It's fun now that they fit into some larger clothes to dress them in actual outfits instead of just sleepers all the time. A. still isn't entirely on board with me on this; he doesn't see the point, and would rather just keep them in sleepers, for easier diaper access. But cuteness, I tell him. Cuteness is the point!

Before I go, one last, more somber note: what the FUCK is wrong with our country that any head-case can get a semi-automatic 9mm handgun? Why is ANYONE, for that matter, allowed to get a semi-automatic 9mm handgun? Yesterday as I listened to the news about the shootings in Virginia, all I could do was look at my daughters' beautiful, innocent faces and think: my god, each one of those victims is some mother's baby.

Strike Two

2007-04-07T16:51:00.000-04:00

Clio is at it again. We all seem to be thrush free -- they did their two weeks of treatment, I did mine, everyone's happy. But now, with the exception of sleepy middle-of-the-night feedings, Clio refuses to nurse. All I have to do is try to get her into position and pull out the ole boob, and she starts screaming. She wants that bottle something awful. It's stressful and frustrating and infuriating, to say the least. We don't see anything to suggest that she's teething or has an ear infection or is congested or any of the other things that frequently make babies go on nursing strikes. The trush, as mentioned, seems to be cleared up. (If it was ever there in the first place).

The most reasonable explanation seems to be that it has to do with my going back to work -- especially since this just started a few days ago. Apparently changes in routine can throw a baby off nursing temporarily, and obviously she's getting used to having more bottles.

So, I'm trying very hard to get her to nurse. Twice today, I've gotten her to relent eventually after 20-30 minutes of bouncing (I sit on a big fitness ball and bounce with her in my arms) and singing every freaking pop song, show tune, lullaby, aria, and classical piece I know--I hummed "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik" in its entirety--until she basically wears herself out crying and is so hungry (I guess...) that she has no choice but to nurse. I also tried giving her expressed milk from a cup, which a la leche league person suggested. This pissed her off, which is, in part, the point. Given the choice between the cup and the boob, with the bottle option taken off the table, they'll give in and go for the boob.

I hate to feel like I'm in a battle of wills with my 14-week old daughter. I'm trying very hard to keep the mindset of "Oh you poor sweet thing, how confusing and frustrating this must be for you" instead of "oh you little shit, how confusing and frustrating this is for ME," but it's not easy. I just hope that this isn't going to be a weekly occurrence; I spend Thursday through Sunday retraining her to nurse, and then come Monday she hits the bottle again and we're back at square one. Baby AA anyone?

All this would, of course, be much easier to manage if there wasn't another baby in the picture who also needs feeding, holding, changing, playing, etc. And who gets upset by her sister's crying and sometimes nurses more fussily herself as a result.

I'm going to go eat some easter candy now.

Words, words, words

2007-04-05T20:03:00.000-04:00

If you could read the type on this crossword puzzle from today's Metro, you would see that the clue for #58 across is "Famed lioness" (answer: Elsa) and the clue for #52 down, intersecting the former, is "Ad award" (answer: Clio).

Coincidence?? Or do we have a Jane's Calamity reader at the Metro headquarters?Either way, I'm taking it as a good omen. Thanks to my friend Mara for bringing this to my attention.

Speaking of Elsa and Clio -- which I usually am -- I must say, they are the most schizophrenic damned babies you ever met. For the past few days, Clio has been a terror, crying and fussing, waking up to wail inexplicably in the middle of the night. (And man, that baby has some pipes on her. Jennifer Hudson, look out.) I was beginning to wonder if she had late onset colic or something. Elsa, meanwhile, was being the "your sister" as in "why can't you be more like your sister?" Calm, smiley, contented, adorable. Then, today, Elsa was suddenly Fusspot #1, while Clio appeared to be making a bid for Baby of the Year. We spent ten whole minutes just grinning at each other. She even spoke: "Guh!" she said.

Speaking of speaking, I think these babies ought to be doing more of it by now. Not reciting the Gettysburg Address, mind you, but cooing. Aren't they supposed to be cooing? Ahs and Ohs and Ooohs? They come out with short little bursts of verbalization (see "Guh!" above) and sometimes make drawn out guttural gurgles, that sound more or less like "lllll!" They occasionally squeal. But they don't coo, per se. Maybe they're skipping vowels and going straight to consonants. Crzy Ls nd Cl.

Peas-n-carrots

2007-03-25T21:15:00.000-04:00

Here are the gals (Elsa left, Clio right) at 12 weeks, sporting their peas-n-carrots onesies, hand-painted by the lovely and talented Jennifer Kimball. Both girls are wearing their best "can we end the damned photo shoot and take a nap already?" faces.

We did, in fact, put them down for a nap after trying in vain for about fifteen minutes to get them both to smile at once. They slept for maybe 20 minutes, then Clio woke up and started expressing herself, which woke Elsa up. After trying unsuccessfully to get them to go back to sleep, we brought them both downstairs. Clio promptly fell back asleep in A's arms, while Elsa, quite distressed, fussed in mine.

They've definitely been reacting to each other more lately, waking each other up and upsetting each other with their crying. Not always, mind you. If one is truly sound asleep, she won't wake up when the other one cries, and if one is in a great mood she won't get upset if the other one is pitching a fit. But if they're both on the edge, forget about it.

Example: last night I started to feed a very hungry Elsa at around 6:30. Clio was starting to get restless, kvetching a bit in her swing, but I thought she'd be able to hold out until Elsa was done. No such luck. I tried to change gears and feed them both at once, but it was too late. Clio was so worked up she wouldn't nurse, and when I took Elsa off the breast -- the other breast, that is -- to try to help Clio out, Elsa started screaming, and before I knew it I had a full-scale double meltdown on my hands. (Of course, this only happens when A. is out, which he was, at the gym, apparently trying to set a new personal record for time spent on the treadmill.) Neither baby could be consoled, not even for a few seconds. At one point I was so frustrated and frazzled I just had to place them ever-so-goddamned-gently down in the pack-n-play and take a breather while they screeched. (Step away from the babies, ma'am!) In the end I bottle-fed them both.

So, two valuable lessons learned, both of which we capitalized on today. First, we're starting to sleep them in their separate cribs for naps and for the first part of the night, before we bring them into the bedside crib in our room. Yes, yes, it's adorable to see them side by side in one crib, I know, but it's not so adorable when they're doing tag-team catnaps, becoming steadily more cranky and overtired and miserable.

Lesson two: start the early evening feeding before the girls start acting visibly hungry. They'll gladly eat, and the chances of a double feature scream-fest are greatly diminished. I did this tonight with excellent results. (Aside: the Nystatin treatment for thrush is definitely working. Clio is nursing much more happily now, last night's freak-out notwithstanding, and Elsa's tongue no longer looks like she just downed a vanilla shake all the time. My, er, issues have also improved.)

Today was pleasant for another reason, too: I think we found ourselves a church. This deserves a post of its own, but every time I say I'm going to post about something next time, I never get around to it, so here goes: we went out to breakfast with the girls at the only breakfast place we know of that's roomy enough and un-crowded enough on a weekend morning to accomodate us and two bambinas in carseats. The service and the food are both mediocre, but we're strangely fond of the place. It's shabby and dimly lit, full of bad framed artwork and fake flowers and mismatched coffee cups and wobbly tables. It's also near the Unitarian Universalist Church we've been meaning to check out for a while. Today, on a whim, we did.

It's a little like the breakfast restaurant, in that it's a bit sad; a Charlie Brown's Christmas Tree sort of church, with barely 100 members. But everyone was so kind and warm. The congregation is a ragtag mix of families and couples and kids and old ladies (every church must have its old ladies) and lesbians (every UU church must have its lesbians), with a tattooed, former punk-rocker minister who isn't the most impressive orator, but seems like a genuinely good guy.

I was raised Congregational, and my family was very active in our church, something I wasn't always crazy about as a kid, but which I value in retrospect -- along with piano lessons and no sugar cereal and not being allowed to get one of those green and white Benetton rugby shirts like every other girl in the 6th grade because they're fifty dollars for God's sake, and why should we pay fifty dollars for you to advertise for them? They should pay YOU that much to wear their name on your chest. Absolutely not. We can get you a perfectly good rugby shirt from Read's for less than half that price. (And so we did; blue and red. I wore it with fake pearls.)

Ahem. Anyway, neither A nor I have gone to church on a regular basis in our adult lives, but we've dabbled in the world of Unitarianism, and while its earnest and sometimes self-congratulatory liberalness can get on our nerves, it is also the religion that's more in synch with our values and views than any other, mainly by virtue of not really being a religion.

We want Elsa and Clio to be a part of some kind of spiritual community, get some basic Judeo-Christian grounding, and have something to fight with us about every Sunday morning when they're 13. Maybe they'll even use the same arguments my brother and I did: "It's a beautiful day out, Mom. Don't you think God would be happier if we spent it outside?" Which really means: we want to stay inside in our pajamas, eat Kix, and watch Woody Woodpecker cartoons and the Abbott and Costello movie.

My point is: this church felt good. It felt right. I like the idea of our family (holy crap, we're a family!) becoming a part of it.

Peas-n-carrots out, man.

Clio the Claw, Part 2

2007-03-22T22:03:00.000-04:00

It appears that Ms. Clio (and most likely her sister, too) may have a mild case of oral thrush. I knew that this was a possible explanation for Clio's nursing woes all along. But since the girls didn't have white patches on the insides of their cheeks and lips, which is the most common symptom in infants, and since I didn't have sore / inflamed / otherwise beleaguered nipples, it didn't seem likely. Enter the sore / inflamed / otherwise beleagured nipples.

I can't believe I'm writing about my nipples on the internets. Ah, well.

Anyway, we took the girls into the pediatrician today, and she thought that the coating on their tongues, which I'd heretofore assumed was milk (and which may well be...) looked suspiciously thick. Bottom line: to be safe, we are treating them (and me) for thrush.

It's a pain in the ass -- Nystatin drops in their mouths after feedings four times a day, ointment for me, and we have to boil everything (pacifiers, bottles, pump parts, etc.) every day. I'm taking acidophilus, drinking Pau D'Arco tea, and am theoretically going to cut down on sweets and carbohydrates, which is supposed to help. But I'm not too good at dietary restrictions. Especially when their benefit is questionable at best. It could, I suppose, knock off the last 8 pregnancy pounds.

So, a svelter me and a happier Clio coming soon to a blog near you? Let's hope so.

Clio the Claw

2007-03-21T10:59:00.000-04:00

It's been more than a week now since Clio has become an extremely temperamental breastfeeder, often yelling and resisting after the first 5 minutes or so of nursing. Sometimes she'll go back on a little later after calming down, sometimes she won't. Sometimes if I give up and offer her a bottle she'll gulp it down, other times she won't.

I don't think it's reflux; her crying doesn't sound like pain, but anger and frustration. The little clawmarks on my chest from her flailing further suggest that she's not uncomfortable so much as pissed off. I've talked to the pediatrician, a La Leche volunteer, a lactation consultant and the overnight nanny now. So far, the following possibile explanations have surfaced: she's gotten lazy and gets frustrated when the flow slows down after the first 5 minutes, she's gotten incredibly efficient and is just done faster, she's teething and it hurts her gums to suck, or possibly some combination of all three.

I'd like to add the following additional theories to the list:
1. She's fiercely heterosexual, and the idea of sucking on another female's breast is repellent to her
2. She's actually gay but in denial, so the fact that she loves sucking on another female's breast frightens and upsets her
3. She's feeling left out because Elsa gets medicine for a feeding issue and she doesn't, so she's totally faking
4. She's on a hunger strike in protest of our use of disposable diapers instead of cloth
5. She knows I'm going back to work soon, and is subconsciously preparing herself for the fact that soon she'll mostly be drinking from bottles. (This explanation would also mean that she understands English, which is pretty exciting.)

So, yes, my return to work looms -- I go back on April 2. And it worries me that once Clio starts getting bottles more frequently, she'll lose all remaining interest in breastfeeding. Not the end of the world, of course, but a little troubling.

Breastfeeding concerns aside, I'm mostly looking forward to going back to work. I think. It's only 25 hours a week (2 full days, 2 mornings) so I don't think I'm going to suffer from major separation anxiety. In some ways I think it will be nice to have my time more clearly regimented: work time, baby time, and me time -- that would be Thursday afternoons and Friday mornings, when the nanny will be here and I'll theoretically be able to work on my novel.

On the other hand, having to spend any time at all in corporateland may be tough. I have a hard enough time taking advertising and marketing seriously as it is. Now, with my two fab daughters waiting at home, smiling and learning and growing every day, I may find it even harder not to roll my eyes when people say things like, "We're getting some real traction with this campaign," and "Let's find new, out-of-the-box ways to leverage our brand equity," and "flush things out." Oh yes. I'm really gonna lose it the first time I hear someone say "flush things out."

I heart Elsa & Clio

2007-03-16T03:24:00.000-04:00

OK, it's official; I have a total crush on my daughters. And not just because they're sleeping longer at night -- recently doing 5 hour stretches between feedings -- although that certainly is endearing. Mostly it's just that they're turning into such little people.

Elsa will sit in her bouncy seat and grin and squeal with delight at the little stuffed bunny hanging from the crossbar, then give me this sheepish smile, like "I know it's a little silly to get so excited about a bunny, but...A BUNNY!!!" And Clio loves to hang out in her new rainforest chair (a loaner, courtesy of the rad Baby Daddy family). She'll bat at the dangling toys with her feet and hands (not quite intentionally...not yet), which turns on the music and causes the plastic waterfall to light up and the treefrog to move and then she'll just stare at the stuff with a sort of bemused smile on her face, like "Shit, can you believe it? This is CRAZY, man!"

Also, they almost cuddle a little bit now when I pick them up. A tiny hand on my shoulder, a tiny head nuzzling against my neck. Damn, it's sweet. Almost makes me feel like I'm more to them than just a dairy bar.

It's easily enough to outweigh things like the fact that Clio has been a royal pain in the ass the past few days when it comes to nursing. I don't know what her deal is, but she'll nurse happily and voraciously for 5 minutes or so, then pull off and start yelling and clawing at my chest. She's not happy if I try to put her back on, not happy if I don't. Then usually she'll calm down, suck on a pacifier for a little while, and act like she's not hungry at all. Until about 15 minutes later, when she starts crying to be fed, and we repeat the whole routine. Other times, she'll nurse for 5-10 minutes, then start bobbing and slipping on and off the breast like she's forgotten how to latch on. She doesn't show signs of reflux like her poor sister did before Zantac (and did again when I cruelly decided to take her off for a couple of days to see how she did -- one piercing scream of pain was all it took to end that experiment, and make me feel horrible). So who knows what's going on. Maybe it's just a rebellion thing. Crazy Clio.

Well, I normally would balance things out here by writing about some pain in the ass thing that Elsa does -- probably her talent for filling her diaper so completely that she manages to gets poop all up and down her back, on everything she's wearing, and some things she's not -- but as you can see, it's 3:30 in the morning. I've been pumping, the bottles are full, and it's time to go back to bed.

From the customer service department

2007-03-12T12:02:00.000-04:00

To expedite and improve our newborn services, we've created the following questionnaire. Please submit completed forms to the nearest parental unit, and one of us will do our best to respond to and resolve your complaint within thirty (30) seconds.

I am fussing and crying because (check as many as apply):

-- I am hungry
-- I have a soiled / uncomfortably wet diaper
-- I am gassy
-- I am overtired
-- I want to be held
-- There is no pacifier in my mouth
-- I'm bored of staring at this windowsill / wall / piece of furniture and would like to stare at a different windowsill / wall / piece of furniture
-- My foot is caught in the leg of my sleeper and it's bugging me
-- My sister is crying, and her unhappiness distresses me
-- I'm sitting in a bouncy seat / swing, and I'd rather be lying on my back
-- I'm lying on my back, and I'd rather be sitting in a bouncy seat / swing
-- I'm lying on my stomach, but I'd rather be in downward dog
-- This outfit makes me look fat
-- I feel like you don't really "get" me
-- I am frustrated by the administration's lack of a clear exit plan for Iraq
-- I honestly don't know
-- It's just something to do
-- I like to watch as you try in vain to figure out how to make me stop
-- Global warming
-- Other (Please explain. Please. For the love of God.)

Babies do the darnedest things

2007-03-07T20:45:00.000-05:00

Much has been made of the girls’ smiling abilities. But what of their other talents? Surely, you say, they must do more than simply lie about moonily grinning. Dear reader, prepare to be dazzled , dumbfounded, and delighted as I tell of the infantile feats and fancies of Mlles Elsa and Clio.

Lint Collection. The twins are amazingly adept at this. Look between their fingers or toes or in the creases of their palms at any given time, and you’re sure to find little bits of fuzzy gunk. How does it get there? Where does it come from? I’m not quite sure. I suppose some of it comes from my own clothing, which they tend to clutch in their little mitts while nursing. And the toe fuzz must come from the inside of their sleepers. I love to pick and pluck at things, so I’m perfectly content to play the role of monkey mama , clearing the stuff from between their fingers with mine and flossing between their toes with baby wipes. But it is strange how often I find myself doing it. Those gals really like their lint. I guess ultimately it's a sad commentary on my housekeeping abilities and/or the rate at which our cat sheds.

Squealing / Squawking. The ladies’ noisemaking repertoire has expanded beyond grunts, snorts, elephantine trumpeting sounds, and crying to include some little gurgles, squeals, and phlegmy guttural interjections of what I can only assume is pleasure, as they tend to make them when they’re lying on their backs smiling and kicking after a good feeding. They don’t really coo, but they do make some short vowel-sound bursts. Clio has her own trademark squawk, which sounds something like “Bwah!” and can indicat e either excitement/contentment, or annoyance and impending despair. It’s like Chinese; a slight difference in intonation changes the meaning completely.

Looking at things. This is one of the ladies’ favorite pastimes. Though we eagerly dangle brightly colored, developmentally appropriate toys of all kinds in front of their faces, what really seems to captivate them are furniture, walls, ceilings, windows, picture frames, piles of laundry, and other developmentally irrelevant objects. Eyebrows, hairlines and long hair are also popular.

Speed-Nursing. During their first few weeks, each baby would nurse for anywhere from 25 to 40 minutes. Clio would have hung out and nursed all day, alternately slurping and snoozing if I’d let her. Now, I’m pleased to report, the average nursing time clocks in closer to 15 minutes per baby. Clio is still a more leisurely – and sloppier – eater, and Elsa has been having some acid reflux issues, making for some fussy feedings and a lot of spit-up (baby Zantac seems to help somewhat) but overall , their nursing aptitude and efficiency has made impressive gains. I finally understand why people say nursing is more convenient than bottle feeding.

Production of simulated ricotta cheese. Otherwise known as spitting up. Both ladies excel, but Elsa, as previously mentioned, has the edge. Both babies are also good at initiating games of "hide-and-go-puke" wherein they spit up whilst being burped and we don't notice until later when we see (or feel) the wet, clotty stains all over the bed / couch / our clothes / etc. Fun for the whole family!

Swimming. OK, not exactly swimming, per se. But they’ve become quite agreeable about being bathed. Part of this we think is due to the fact that we’re submerging them more completely in the water, rather than using the hammock contraption that came with the little plastic tub, so they don’t get as cold. But I like to think that it’s also because they’re learning to appreciate the finer things in life, a nice warm bath being chief among them. Soon, we hope, they’ll feel the same way about sleep.

Next time (probably) the story of our quest for a part-time nanny/sitter as I prepare to return to work.

On the charts

2007-02-28T12:39:00.000-05:00

Today the ladies had their 2 month checkup, complete with shots. It's such a cliche, but I actually did get teary, seeing them lying so sweetly and unsuspectingly on the exam table, then having their meaty little thighs jabbed. It's pure projection, of course, but their screams seem to be not just screams of pain, but screams of "But why? Why would you let this happen to me??" Heartbreaking! Fortunately, they calmed right down afterward; no prolonged sobbing or accusations of sub-par parenting.

Both gals, I'm proud to report, are gaining weight at an impressive rate. Elsa is eight and a half pounds (this in spite of the fact that she's got a little reflux problem), and Clio is just a few ounces behind. They are now officially on the charts, at around 10% for height and weight. I guess I should be proud of how well they're doing, seeing as they're being fed exclusively on breastmilk. Lots of people--nurses, doctors, the overnight nannies, etc.--seem quite impressed by this fact. Really, though, it's not like I'm really doing anything that extraordinary; I'm just lucky to have a body that's willing to make enough milk for two. (And how -- put a fourth bag of pumped milk into the freezer this week!) I guess it is a time consuming choice, though it's arguably less time-consuming than constantly preparing formula and washing bottles. And it is physically demanding on some level; I have to stay healthy and well-fed, hydrated, and rested (ha!). But I can't say I consider it a sacrifice to have to consume an extra 1000 calories a day. In fact, maybe if I didn't use breastfeeding as an excuse to eat dessert every day, I'd lose these last 10 pounds. On the other hand, maybe my milk supply is, in fact, as copious as it is because of those desserts. Really, I wouldn't want to mess with a system that's obviously working...

So, we've got healthy, growing babies, looking good. But Clio is still not really smiling or making much eye contact, and this has us worried. The pediatrician told us that this was still "within the range of normal," but that didn't sound terribly reassuring. And for the rest of the visit she kept checking to see if Clio was making eye contact. I'm trying to tell myself that she's fine, she's just lagging a little bit, and if we didn't have another baby to compare her to, we wouldn't be worried. But it makes me so damned sad -- not being able to have the sort of connection I'm starting to feel with Elsa. And it makes me sad to think about her suffering from some condition. And -- jeez. I have to stop. She's probably fine. Right? Right. And I will not spend the next hour Googling different combinations of the words "infant," "eye contact," "autism," and "Diet Coke consumption during pregnancy."

As promised...

2007-02-25T21:26:00.000-05:00

Elsa smiles, and Clio rests up for her big smiling debut. (Any day now, we think...)

You're never fully dressed...

2007-02-20T12:43:00.000-05:00

The title of this post is my lame, Broadway musical attempt to link the two quick bits of news that I have to report:

1. The girls have basically outgrown all of their preemie and just-born clothes, and have moved into the realm of "Newborn" and 0-3 month fashions. Granted, some of them are still much too big, especially on Clio, who can often be found with both legs worming their way into one leg of her sleeper. But the Gerber Sleep-and-Plays that the girls have worn almost exclusively until now are stretched to the max. In a way this is exciting. (They're growing, they're actually growing!) At the same time, it's a little sad. Soon they'll cease to be little, curled up bundles of newborn, light enough to cradle in one arm, and become bonafide babies. And then toddlers. And next thing we know they'll be sneaking in after curfew chewing gum to hide the liquor on their breath just in case we're waiting up. I'm trying to savor these last newborn days even as I'm looking forward to the next phase of babyhood.

2. Elsa is starting to smile! At first we weren't sure...was it gas? Facial muscle experimentation? Our own wishful thinking? But now it seems quite certain. When she's in the mood -- usually right after a good feeding -- she will respond to persistent, maniacal grinning and cooing by an adult with a very cute little grin. Not every time, mind you. But enough. It's the bomb. Of course, now we find ourselves obsessing over the fact that Clio isn't smiling yet; in fact she's not really so great at the whole eye contact thing, instead sticking mainly to kewpie-doll style side glances and wandering surveys of the ceiling and walls. We've diagnosed her as autistic, blind, mentally challenged, perpetually stoned, etc., when in reality she's probably just a week or two behind her sister, and we have no reason to be worried.

Anyway, we're still down visiting A's parents, but when we're home, I'll post an Elsa smile captured on film this morning.

In the fog

2007-02-12T17:52:00.000-05:00

Many of you have commented on how well I seem to be coping. Thank you. Yes, overall, I'm coping well, managing to remain sane while transitioning into this life of twin parenthood. But I wouldn't want to give the impression that everything is just hunky-dory all of the time.

In the past couple of weeks (I think? Time is a blur...) the girls have become much more alert, which is fun -- they look around more, even at our faces sometimes. They make squealing noises and kick their legs and flap their arms when we put them under The Stimulator (click the link for the live video expereince). But they also much fussier. Some of it is definitely related to gassiness, judging by their writhing and whining and, well, the farting. As I've postulated, infant flatulence may be the key to world peace, but it also makes for unhappy, uncomfortable babies.

The other frustrating thing is that fussy babies just don't know what's good for them. Sucking on a pacifier soothes them, but they're constantly spitting their pacifiers out, then screaming bloody murder for us to put them back in. They like being in the baby slings we wear, but protest horribly while we put them in.

They even forget that they like their favorite thing of all: nursing. Elsa or Clio will be happily sucking away, then pull suddenly off the breast and start crying, while rooting and opening her mouth for more. I try to get her back on while she bucks and screams and pushes away and I am saying as sweetly as I can manage, "You got it! It's right there! My breast is in your mouth! All you have to do is close your mouth around it! You were doing it ten seconds ago! You were happy! What happened? What the hell is the matter with you, you ingrate? Do you realize that I am feeding you with my body here? That all I do all day is sit around with my tits out so you'll grow? Do you realize what a sacrifice I'm making for you? You never write, you never call..."

As soon as I get the baby in question to latch back on -- sometimes after several minutes of soothing and letting her suck on a pacifier or finger -- she's happy again. Or, in Elsa's case, sucking and whimpering poutily, like I'd been the one keeping her from eating all along. The mean lady with the breasts.

And, naturally, they get fussiest in the evening, when we want to eat dinner, relax, wind down, etc. Last night, they were both so hungry, and so restless. At ten p.m. I was feeding them for the third time since five o'clock. I started with Elsa, then Clio woke up and started screaming, so I nursed them both at once, which is hard to do when they're both agitated, because I don't have a free hand to help if one needs help re-latching. And I was just so goddamned tired, but there was no relief in sight. I'd have to get up again in three hours, and in another three hours after that. And on, and on, and on. And sitting there on the edge of the bed, a wailing baby under each arm, I just started crying.

The author of Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child, which was recommended to us by other twin parents, claims that babies reach a peak of fussiness at around six weeks after their due date, and then tend to mellow out, sleep longer at night, cry less, etc. Since the girls were born at 37 weeks, that means we've got two and a half weeks to go. I hope he's right.

In the meantime, we do what we can: we rock, we shush, we swaddle, we sing, we try to reason with the little buggers, we stick pacifiers in their little rosebud mouths. And if all else fails, there's always the vacuum cleaner CD. A. bought and downloaded 60 minutes of continuous vacuuming sounds. It's grating as hell, and I can't stand the sound of it, but it works wonders and is cheaper (I think) than running the actual vacuum cleaner. We turn it on, and the girls konk out. But not indefinitely. I've had it running while writing this post, but the magic is wearing off. Clio is crying.

And so it goes.

Products I will not be buying

2007-02-08T10:54:00.000-05:00

This product allows you to nurse modestly in public while looking like that kooky guy you knew from college (or was it high school?) who was funny but bordering on annoying, who came to that Halloween party dressed as someone in the shower, with a shower curtain around his neck, no shirt, and a shower bonnet on his head. You know; the one who brought that big bottle of Jaegermeister and two bags of Cheetos, one for himself and one to share? Yeah, him.

I don't think I'll be buying one. I'm sure it does its job quite well, but I'd rather master the traditional blanket-slung-over-the-shoulder approach. I gave it a shot last weekend -- my first public nursing attempt! -- when we took the girls on an outing to the Institute of Contemporary Art at its shiny new waterfront location. (OK, really, we took ourselves, to avoid cabin fever, and brought the gals along.) The museum was, not surprisingly, rife with babies. When it's 14 degrees out, your choices for outings with babies are basically limited to museums or the mall -- the two extremes of American culture, high and low. We've done both twice now.

So, we found a place to sit in the media room off of one of the galleries, and I nursed Elsa, who is the more reliably adept latcher-on at this point, while A. gave Clio a bottle. I had my back to a big glass wall overlooking the shaft where a humungous glass-walled elevator rose and fell, bringing people to and from the galleries. I wonder if the passengers thought I was an installation myself: in the midst of this ultra-modern building full of avant-garde, contemporary stuff, a mother sits with a pink blanket over her shoulder, nursing, reminding us that no matter how technologically advanced our society becomes, we are still ultimately ruled by our biological nature. Or something like that.

Anyway, the point is, I managed to feed Elsa without exposing myself or traumatizing her, which I was quite proud of.

While we were at the ICA, we saw two other sets of fraternal twin girls: a pair of 4th graders, who were cool as can be, one tomboy and one not, and a pair of sharply dressed one-year olds with their two dads. (I heart Massachusetts!) We've found that parents of twins or people who are twins themselves are always eager to stop and talk -- an instant bond. Of course, other folks like to gape and chat and ask questions too. So far the attention hasn't been too annoying, but I can imagine how it could be if I was trying to run errands or was in a pissy mood.

Or if I had a shower curtain hanging around my neck.

Make gas, not war

2007-02-06T19:24:00.000-05:00

Babies fart a lot. At least, ours do. Impressively loud, adult-sounding farts, sometimes accompanied by adult-sized aromas. I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that this is pretty universal among newborns. I'm guessing it's also fairly universal that parents find it entertaining. No matter how serious or sophisticated you may be, how can you not laugh when your precious little bundle of joy -- so sweet, so delicate -- starts farting like a frat boy whose finger has been pulled?

I was ruminating on this this morning at four-thirty a.m., half asleep, while nursing Elsa. Or maybe it was Clio. Or some other baby altogether. At four-thirty a.m., who the hell knows?

Anyway, I got to thinking: if we could all just remember that around the world, from Massachusetts to Paraguay to Palestine to China, there are small, flatulent babies, and doting, lovestruck parents chuckling goofily at their intestinal emissions, then maybe the world would be a better, more peaceful place.

Picture a young father in the Middle East, who maybe happens to be a Sunni separatist or a member of Hezbollah, giggling as his newborn screws up his or her little face and lets one rip. Picture an Israeli soldier or a Sudanese refugee or an Afghan warlord or a Southern anti-gay crusader or, hell, Osama fucking Bin Laden smiling as his son wriggles in his crib and toots, and you can't help wondering: can't we all just get along? Can't we forget the scant, superficial differences that divide us and focus instead on all the rich, lovely, malodorous humanity that connects us?

Sleep deprivation. It's a killer.

Mangia, Mangia!

2007-01-30T19:40:00.000-05:00

Clio looks exactly like this kewpie doll sometimes when she's breastfeeding. She gets this impish little proto-smile on her face. Then her eyelids sag, and she looks like a happy baby stoner. Then, she's sound asleep. When she pulls away from the breast (falls off it, more like it), she pouts adorably, her lower lip thrust out, her eyebrows raised, and her chin covered with milk.

We have a whole series of "Wake up the baby" rituals we practice on her mid-feeding to try to get her to perk up: blowing on her face, tugging on her ears, squeezing her feet and hands, and, our favorite, holding her upright and bouncing her while we sing "Bouncing Baby," an original composition to the tune of "Frere Jacques." It doesn't always work, but it's fun to watch her facial expressions while we torture her with it.

She's a terrible eater, really, but she's just so damned cute.

Elsa does much better -- it's no wonder she's half a pound heavier. She chugs like a frat boy at first, voracious and alert, then downshifts into a steady, businesslike sucking. Sometimes she forgets to open her mouth wide before latching on, and makes a little kissy-wissy face instead, but eventually she remembers to open up like a baby bird, and all goes smoothly.

She is, however, a noisy little thing during and afterward, with frequent hiccups and burps and hiccurps and burpups. She's also prone to spitting up. Last night, after I'd fed her and was getting Clio started, she was sitting in her bouncy chair and started clicking/pulsating, much like our cat does before she barfs. (And rather like the Fire Swamp, before the flames shoot up out of nowhere.) She spit up a little bit, then a little bit more, with more force. And then she did this big, huge, projectile barf, like a tiny Linda Blair -- a thick column of milk, just spouting out of her mouth.

I yelled for A. to come do something, quick. I don't know what; I guess I was afraid her head was about to start spinning around. It was quite disturbing, though Elsa herself didn't seem in the least bit bothered. A. changed her sleeper, which was soaked, and then she promptly went to sleep. I'm amazed she wasn't crying to be fed minutes later. The volume of milk she expelled was extraordinary. Maybe we've been giving her a complex by calling her "piglet" since her last pediatrician visit. Oh dear. Our one-month-old has an eating disorder. See? This is why I was afraid of having girls.

Fat babies

2007-01-27T23:41:00.000-05:00

The girls had their one month pediatrician visit yesterday. One month already! What a month it has been; a hazy progression of days and nights all more or less the same: eat, sleep, pee, poop, cry, fidget, grunt, squeak, stare. And that pretty much sums it up for the babies, too.

I feel closer to and more fond of them than I did in the first couple of weeks. They are starting to be a bit more alert, and occasionally even make what could be considered eye contact. I am still very much looking forward to their first smiles and coos, though. A change of wardrobe would also be nice. We have to dress them in the same damned Gerber sleep-n-plays day in and day out, because nothing else fits. We have lots of adorable sleepers labeled "newborn," but I've decided that that must mean newborn baleen whales. We could fit both Elsa and Clio into the sleeve of one of them.

Having smaller than average babies really does throw your perspective off. Other babies start looking like monstrous pituitary cases by comparison. At the doctor's office a couple of weeks ago I saw a baby just a week older than ours with a head like a sumo wrestler's. I mean, it seriously looked like someone had inserted a bicycle pump needle in his ear and inflated him. I thought maybe there was something wrong with him until I saw another similarly fat-headed newborn a few days later and began to realize: hey, our babies are wicked small. (And much cuter if you ask me.)

But soon enough, they will become little plumplings too, and we'll swoon over how many folds of fat they have around their wrists. At yesterday's appointment, Clio weighed in at six pounds even, and Elsa the Insatiable clocked in at an impressive six and a half – a one pound gain in two weeks! It was quite gratifying to find out that they'd grown, and that all the breastfeeding was actually doing something besides keeping them alive. When the nurse announced Clio's weight I exclaimed jubilantly, inexplicably, "You're like a real baby now!"

Note: I had to take a break from writing this, as both babies suddenly decided to wake up and fuss their heads off. A few minutes in the sling seemed to do it for Clio, and then I sat and rocked Elsa for a while until she fell asleep. Then, naturally, as soon as I put Elsa down in the crib, Clio woke up and started crying in her bleating, comically explosive sort of way, and a few minutes later Elsa was crying too, in her more whimpering, distressed sort of way, and shushing and pacifiers didn't work, so I tried something new: I took the hose out of the vacuum cleaner and plugged it in next to the Pack-n-Play for some nice white noise. I noticed the other day while actually vacuuming that it seemed to calm them. Now they're both asleep, and the question is: do I turn off the vacuum or keep it running? It's awfully loud…OK, I turned it off. Both of them sort of twitched a little, and Clio is doing some of her baby tai chi with her right hand, but they haven't actually woken up. And if they do, well, it's almost time for another feeding anyway.

It truly does suck when they're both crying and there's no one else around to hold and comfort one baby while I tend to the other, or, in the case of two hungry babies, to help me get them both nursing at once.

Shit, there goes Clio. "Blaaah!" Do I turn the vacuum back on? Let's try and see what happens…

Right. That worked. Well, sorry Earth. Sorry twins' college fund. We're going to be running up some astronomical electric bills in the next few months. Between the extra laundry and dishwasher loads, the space heater in our bedroom, and the fact that we're home all day and it's January, we're already breaking new utility expenditure records. What's a few bucks more to employ the Dirt Devil as a stereo system?

Or drive the Subaru aimlessly around with the girls in the back. We did that the other night to calm them down when we cockily decided to try to go out to dinner and bring them along. We figured, why not? As long as they're asleep – which they are about 75% of the time – we can just have them sit in their car seats next to us in a booth and enjoy dinner while they snooze. We'd go to El Guapo – the mediocre Mexican place a few blocks away from our house, which always has a nice hum of background/bar noise, and which we can escape easily if the babies have a meltdown.

We concocted this plan last week, but didn't get around to executing it until this week. And what a difference a week makes. Whereas last week, the gals would have conked out for a good two hours after their early evening feeding, this week they have begun a campaign of dinner hour eat-and-fuss binges. So our foolhardy dinner outing began with spending forty-five minutes driving around trying to get them to fall asleep. First, we just stuck to local roads, but soon realized that they were about as smooth and pothole-free as your average road in Gabon, so we got on Route 93 and drove a few exits up and back. Clio fell asleep, but Elsa was still wailing when we got off the highway, so we pulled off the road and I crawled into the backseat (did you know that it's possible to wedge yourself between two carseats in the back of a Subaru if you can balance on one hip?) and gave Elsa the "top-off" bottle we'd brought. She sucked the whole thing down, and finally fell asleep just as we were pulling up to the restaurant. The only parking spot remotely close was a fifteen-minute one. I said fuck it; it's 19 degrees out. Let's take our chances.

From there on out, dear readers, I'm happy to report that the gods of infant care smiled upon us. We didn't get a parking ticket, and the girls slept like rocks, tucked into their carseats, tucked into the booth near the back of the restaurant where we were seated, while we ate our mediocre Mexican food and made snide comments about the musical act – a twenty-something guy with an acoustic guitar doing covers of nineties alterna-pop tunes. (Me: Whose stupid-ass song is this? 182 Melons? A: I think it's Blind Hazel Eye. Me: Or Hooty and the Gin Sister?)

OK -- I just tried turning off the vacuum again, and now, five minutes later, Elsa is starting to fidget. (I can tell their noises apart from afar now.) At least they're tag teaming instead of both going at it at once. But I have a feeling we're on the verge of a double meltdown. It's been almost three hours since their last feed, so it's time to give in to the inevitable and pull out the milk jugs. (Hey: is that where the term "jugs" came from? It never occurred to me before...)

More soon...

Sleeping beauties

2007-01-22T14:12:00.000-05:00

Clio on the left, Elsa on the right.

What do you suppose babies dream about? I'm mystified by their sleeping grunts and squeaks and facial expressions. They don't have much in the way of visual vocabulary, so I can't imagine that they're actually *picturing* anything the way we do when we dream. Maybe they dream in sensations? Hunger, satisfaction; comfort, discomfort; safe, unsafe?

The night nanny came again last night -- and not a moment too soon; the night before had been a tough one. The girls had been fussy all evening, and I had hit something of a fatigue wall. She (the nanny) seems somehow magically able to soothe and calm them. She got them both to sleep for four hours between feedings, which we haven't accomplished yet. Is she giving them breastmilk white Russians? Turning the oven on, blowing out the pilot light, and popping them in for a quick gas hit? Or maybe -- most likely -- she just exudes calm and confidence. Which sucks, because the other two would be much easier for us to pull off.

Anyway, today I felt so refreshed that I even did some yoga. It was nice to feel like my old physical self, more or less. While being pregnant was a fascinating experience, I can't say that I miss it, though I do get a little nostalgic for feeling the babies move inside. It was so odd; the first few days after they were born, I felt what I can only describe as "ghost movements," where I swore I felt a kick or a squirm. It was probably my internal organs moving back into their regular positions. Still, the consciousness of the belly lingers. Last night was the first time I slept on my stomach, and I didn't do it for long.

So, taking stock, part by part:

Feet: shrunken back to their regular size, or close to it. I haven't tried wearing any of my dressier shoes, so I don't know if they still fit, but I suspect they will.

Ankles & legs: Wow! I forgot what nice, slender ankles and calves I had pre-pregnancy. I could be a freakin' ankle and calf model! That is, if I had time to shave my legs.

Privates: irrelevant, for the moment. But at least now I can look down and know that they're there.

Bladder: Liberated. Greeting the babies with flowers and dancing in the streets. I'm amazed at how infrequently I have to pee, especially given how much liquid I'm drinking. I guess most of it gets turned right into breast milk.

Belly: Back to looking like that of a boozy sorority girl, only squishier. The skin is oddly tan and dry, and the linea negra is still there, making for a strange overall appearance. But no stretch marks! Lucky me.

It is the remains of my belly which, I assume, constitute the 10 or so extra pounds I'm still carrying around. I didn't expect to lose so much weight so quickly, and it's great, but also annoying from a sartorial perspective: my maternity clothes are all too big now, but I can't fit into most of my pre-pregnancy clothes, particularly pants. So I'm stuck wearing knit and sweat pants and one pair of "transitional" jeans I bought at eleven weeks pregnant. This is fine for now, considering I rarely leave the house, but will pose a conundrum when it's time to go back to work.

Boobs: I've covered this elsewhere. (See previous post)

Hands: They appear to be back to normal, but my wedding and engagement rings are still snug enough that I'm afraid to wear them. Is it possible that my knuckles expanded during pregnancy? If so, can someone please explain why?

Face: Deflated almost to pre-pregnancy levels. One and a half chins as opposed to four.

Hair: I got it cut last week as a treat to myself, in a desire to look a little more polished and stylish. (Which one really ought to look when one sits around the house all day with her boobs hanging out.) I'm semi-pleased with the results. The fact is, I have great hair -- very thick and healthy -- but am incredibly lazy when it comes to doing the necessary work to make it look good.

Overall: A few lingering aches and pains occasionally flare -- the beleaguered pelvis, the taxed lower back -- but other than that, I feel almost normal. How lovely it is to be able to bend down and pick things up, trot (instead of lumber) up the stairs, and not feel like I have a laceration in my upper left abdominal muscles.

Oh yes -- and it's nice to be able to drink wine. Just the slight, single glass with dinner, as I do not wish to intoxicate the wondertwins and jeopardize their little brains. But even that -- Ah. So nice.

FAQ

2007-01-18T12:10:00.000-05:00

Thanks, everyone, for your replies to my last post. That's what's so great about this whole blogging thing -- you really do find out that you're not alone. I'm pleased to report that the hormones seem to be settling down a bit and I'm feeling somewhat better.

I also feel like I'm getting to know and enjoy the gals a little bit more. I'm trying to take more time to hold and look at and talk to them, unresponsiveness be damned! They do cuddle well. And this morning I read them a story, The Mitten. I think some of the finer points of the plot and themes were lost on them, and they were quite frankly indifferent to the gorgeous illustrations, but that really isn't their fault since they can't see more than a foot in front of them. And can't speak English. But they seemed to like the sound of my voice, and I felt like I was being a Good Mother.

Now, answers to your most pressing queries:

1. How did you come up with the girls' names? And how did you decide which to name which one?

Elsa was inspired by the character Ilsa Lund in Casablanca. (We're big Ingrid Bergman fans. Congratulations to the Motel Manager for guessing this one correctly, by the way!) We considered Ilsa, but decided to go with the slightly less foreign-sounding version of the same name so people wouldn't think that we hate America. And freedom. Elsa was the quieter of the twins in-utero, and has a sort of elegant look to her (for a baby, that is). There is also something elfish (elvin?) about her, which makes a nice mnemonic: Elsa the elf.

As for Clio, we liked the idea of a name from Greek mythology, hoity toities that we are, and were considering "Calliope" but weren't crazy about the nickname "Callie." So we checked out the names of the other Greek muses. Clio is the muse of history and heroic poetry, and is known as "the Proclaimer." We had a feeling this would be the right sort of name for Twin B, who liked to make her presence known in the womb. Indeed, Clio now likes to raise her arms and wave them around like a little dictator, so the "proclaimer" moniker still fits well. I'm annoyed to say that there is also an advertising award show called the Clios. So far, amazingly, none of my advertising colleagues have made any jokes about this.

2. How are things going with the doula?

Things went well. We had three visits from Arlene, who helped me figure out how to tandem breastfeed, offered encouraging advice, did some light cleaning and laundry, and one day made us a really excellent omelette for lunch. We also had visits from two other doulas when she wasn't available. Having them was nice, but we found ourselves not having too much for them to do. With A. being home, and both of us being fairly organized people, we've been managing to hold things together pretty well. So, we've decided instead to get an overnight nanny service that specializes in twins once a week. They came for the first time on Monday night, and Oh. my. God. I only had to get up once to pump, and therefore got almost a full night's sleep. The nanny stayed downstairs with the girls, gave them bottles (of pumped milk), changed them, swaddled them up like cigars, did their laundry, and emptied and loaded the dishwasher. Even though I'm not paying for it, I am embarrassed to say how much this service costs. But, it is so choice. If you have the means...

3. Which twin do you like better?

What a ridiculous question! Obviously, the one who's sleeping. Seriously, though, it is an odd thing to have these two completely different babies to divide my affection and attention between. "Divide" feels like the wrong word, though, because it's not like they each get half what they'd get if they were singleton babies. At least, I hope not. Though it is heartbreaking to have to let one cry while I'm feeding or changing the other one, simply because I can't get to them both at once. (N/A, of course, if A. is here and we can do man-on-man baby handling. Then, he doesn't have tits, which does put him at a disadvantage sometimes.)

The girls do have different personalities and tendencies, though I wonder how much of it is real and how much is our own projection. Elsa seems more serious and complex, Clio more silly and emotional. Elsa is prettier, Clio is cuter. Elsa's going to be a straight-A student, Clio's going to be a party girl. See? You get into dangerous territory when you start comparing. And yet, it's impossible not to.

4. Are you getting out of the house at all?

Believe it or not, yes. Now that I'm more or less recovered, physically, from the delivery, I'm trying to get out at least once a day, even if it's just to walk up to CVS. Over the weekend I went to a friend's baby shower, and yesterday I went to a lunch for a work friend who's leaving for another job. On Tuesday, at A's insistence, I went out to the local coffee shop for an hour and a half and had an au lait and read a novel. So, I'm managing not to get cabin fever. At the same time, I'm getting more accustomed to the rhythm of just being home and hangin' with the babies, and enjoying it more.

5. How are your boobs holding up?

Marvelously. They're just about the size I'd want if I were going to get a boob job. I'll miss them when they're gone.

Bright days, blue nights

2007-01-13T15:32:00.000-05:00

Last night A. and I went on a date. His parents are in town visiting/helping, and watched the babes for a couple of hours while we went out to dinner. It was nice to get out of the house and have some time alone together. But it also felt disconcertingly normal -- almost like any other Saturday night in our life up until this point. I didn't feel like a parent. If you told me that, no, I didn't, in fact, have two baby daughters waiting at home, I might have been convinced. And realizing this made me feel quite guilty. Aren't I supposed to be rapturously in love with my daughters? Aren't I supposed to spend hours just staring at them, marveling? Aren't I supposed to feel like a mother? I want to. I'm dying to. When does it start?

I love these babies dearly. I love watching their little faces scrunch and stretch in sleep, love the way it feels to hold them, love to kiss their little cheeks and heads and mouths, and am still quite amazed each time I see them feeding at the breast, being nourished by my body. And yet, I have to admit, they don't feel quite fully mine yet. They can't interact or smile or acknowledge. They are mostly either eating or sleeping -- there isn't much in between. In other words, as lovely as they are, they are also rather boring.

If you haven't had children, or if you happened to have a soft-focus Hallmark Card mothering experience, you're probably thinking that I'm a horrible person. But I daresay that I'm not alone in feeling this way. And I think it's a big part of why the first weeks with a newborn are so hard. Yes, the lack of sleep, the constant feeding sessions on top of the demands of "normal" life (i.e. eating, showering, laundry, etc.) are in and of themselves challenging -- doubly so with twins. But what makes it even harder is the sense that you're basically just life support for these little munchkins. You give and give, and receive little in return. You feel, in a way, like your faith is being tested.

For me, it's the hardest in the evenings, when I've lately tended to be a little weepy and down (damned hormones), and when the night lies ahead, promising no real rest. I wonder: Why did I want this? Will it get easier? What is wrong with me?

By morning, though -- that first daylight feeding, when the four of us are all in the bed together, and A. and I are alert enough to laugh at Clio's dramatic hand gestures and Elsa's strange squeaks and grunts, and both babies finish their feeding milk-drunk and smacking their lips and smiling in their sleep -- things feel brighter. Thank God for the mornings.

Chapter One: We are born.

2007-01-10T11:29:00.000-05:00

OK, this may be the longest post in the history of blogging, and if it were going to be workshopped, I'd most certainly be accused of the cardinal sin of abject naturalism. Truman Capote might say of it what he said of Jack Kerouac: "That's not writing; that's typing." It's short on wit, long on detail, and probably rife with errors, but I really wanted to get it all down, in large part for my own future reference. If I had time, I'd have created an abbreviated version for the blog, but -- well, time is about as scarce as dry diapers 'round these parts. So, feel free to skim, ignore, etc.

I promise that the next post won't be so prolix!

* * *

By Wednesday the 27th I was just so damned ready to not be pregnant anymore. Not purely because of the discomfort, but because the waiting was getting to be awfully tedious. I was too big and uncomfortable to leave the house much and too distracted (and also uncomfortable) to get any productive writing done. It was beginning to feel to both A. and me like the girls had resolved to stay inside for as long as fetally possible.

And then, whaddya know. Just as I was getting into bed, at about 11:45 pm, my water broke. We'd just finished watching The Innocents with Deborah Kerr, (an adaptation of James's The Turn of the Screw). Nothing like a movie about creepy, possessed demon children and a possibly mad governess to induce labor, I guess. I'd had some mild contractions throughout the evening, but they were no different from what I'd been experiencing most evenings for a while, so I didn't let myself get too excited about them.

The sensation of the water breaking was unmistakable – a warm spreading gush. Rather nice, actually. I leapt (as best a woman with a belly the size of a prizewinning hog can leap) out of bed and ran to the bathroom, heroically sparing the sheets. We'd changed them a couple of days earlier, which seemed a good Murphy's Law kind of way to encourage my water to break.

After a bit of running around, packing things up, and—yes—a quick blog post, we were on our way to the hospital. I'm so glad it happened late at night, incidentally. For the same reason I love driving to the airport when it's still dark out: this feeling that you're in a slightly altered version of the world, where only a small, strange population is awake and exciting things are about to happen.

My contractions started coming on soon after the water breakage, growing stronger and more regular. Very manageable, though. (Hooray for ujayyi breathing!) When we got up to the labor/delivery floor, they johnnied me up and checked to make sure my water had really broken—a sophisticated diagnostic test consisting of seeing just how fully one soaks the paper on the exam table—then hooked me up to two fetal heart monitors and a contraction monitor. These would soon become the bane of my labor. I was also readied for an IV, but asked them not to actually hook me in until it was necessary; the fewer encumbrances the better. I guess I'm a fairly assertive person in general, but I was impressed with my own ability to draw lines and make my preferences clear. A. was also a great support in this respect.

And it's a good thing, because the on-call doctor was a freakin' idiot, with a skittish, nervously smiling bedside manner. He told me that it's "standard procedure" for twin mothers to get an epidural. I informed him that no, it wasn't; it was my choice. He smiled skittishly and nervously. Then we asked him if he was prepared to do a breech extraction for the second baby if necessary. He said he didn't do breech extractions. Needless to say, we didn't exactly feel like we were in expert hands here. My next question to the nurse, when the doc left, was what time his shift ended and someone new would be in. 7 am. Excellent. I wouldn't even be close to delivering then. I thought.

We were brought into a labor room with a gorgeous view of the Charles River (not that we had much time to enjoy it). A labor nurse came named Chrissie and helped us get settled, then I had to lie on the labor bed (grrrr) while she tried to get a good trace on both heartbeats. They'd been having trouble getting a good line on Elsa. Meanwhile my contractions were getting stronger and closer together, moving more prominently and painfully into my lower back, and I was itching to move around, sit on a birthing ball, assume wolf-woman primitive squatting poses and channel lunar energy and whatnot. But there I was, stuck on the bed as the heartbeats fluttered in and out of view. I had to do this a couple more times during the course of the labor – lie down and have them attempt to find the heartbeats and it was just terrible to be stuck in that bed.

Not that being off the bed was that much better. With three contraptions strapped to my belly, their tubing draped over my neck, and a Johnny that kept falling off (the person who designed that garment ought to be drawn and quartered) it was tough to maneuver. I began to understand why the people in natural childbirth books are always naked. I would have killed to be naked and unencumbered. My most oft repeated phrase for the next hour or two, I think, was (in reference to the tubing) "get these fucking things out of my way!" A. was a saint, patiently rubbing my back, helping me disentangle myself from the tubing, giving me ice chips, and even managing to make me laugh. What was strange to me then, and even moreso now in retrospect, is the fact that the nurse didn't stay with us and help me through the contractions or coach in any way. Which was OK, I guess; A. was on the job. But I sort of thought that was a big part of a labor and delivery nurse's job....

At some point in all this, the other on-call doc came by for a visit—the chief resident, a woman my age or younger—who told us she did do breech extractions, and explained the risks, etc. Explanation! Respect for my wishes! Thank you!!

But then, a visit from another dickhead doctor, the on-call anesthesiologist. I'll cut him a little bit of slack, noting that a language barrier might have been part of the problem. Maybe he didn't really mean to sound like such an ass when I asked him about having the epidural catheter inserted but waiting on meds and he kept saying, "Why would you do that? It doesn't make any sense. Why suffer if you don't have to?" Apparently he and the on-call OB read the same book on how to perpetuate stereotypes about doctors and modern, medicalized birthing. I actually snapped at him at one point. "No, you're not listening to me. This is why I want what I want…." That felt great. I was really enjoying being difficult. Don't fuck with a woman in labor.

I took a walk around the floor, stopping to grasp the handrail and have A. rub my back during contractions (now less than a minute apart, if that, and evilly focused in my lower back). Stupid-ass on-call doc smiled skittishly at me as I passed and said, "we do offer the epidural, you know." I all but flipped him the bird.

It took a bit of pride swallowing for me, therefore, for me to finally ask for the epidural at around 4:30 am, at 5 cm dilated. The pain was so intense in my back, and the contractions were coming so hard and fast (I was under the mistaken impression that the time between them would be longer than 20-30 seconds.) Oh yeah, and because no story of mine would be complete without vomit in it, I'm pleased to report that I also puked.

Thinking that I still had hours to go, I told A.: "I don't think I'm going to be able to do this without the epidural." I might have been able to go a little bit longer without, but worried I wouldn't be able to stay still for them to insert the line. As some of you may know, I had a very bad, extremely painful experience after a spinal tap a couple of years ago, when the doctor nicked a vein on the way in. I wasn't about to risk going through that again.

Listen to me rationalizing. Yes, I would have loved to do the whole thing without pain meds. But at the time, and in retrospect, it felt like the right decision. When the anesthesiologist came in (a resident, not the dickhead from earlier) I was so glad to see him I held out my hand for a shake and said, "It's great to meet you," which seemed to take him slightly by surprise. Staying still for the insertion was tough, but the meds acted blessedly fast. I could barely feel the contractions once the epidural took effect, and yet I could still move my legs fairly well (though I wasn't allowed to get out of bed). Really, I was quite comfortable. "We should have brought Scrabble," I said to A.

I even managed to get a bit of sleep. Then, all of a sudden the doctor and a couple of nurses were in the room, and I could tell they meant business. Elsa's heart rate was dropping, as was my blood pressure. They put a shot of something into my epidural or IV (Ephedrine?) and slapped an oxygen mask on me, and that seemed to help. (Pro: the oxygen mask smelled like a Pecan Sandie. Con: it ironically felt harder to breathe with the mask than without it.)

They also put an internal fetal monitor on Elsa's head so they could get a better and more consistent read on her heartbeat. Everything seemed to be OK, but for next hour I couldn't take my eyes off the monitor. Every once in a while, Elsa's heartbeat would go down down down, into the 70s or 80s, and I'd be seriously tempted to reach up and hit the Code Blue button. Then it would climb back up.

At the same time, with each contraction, I was starting to feel a stronger and stronger urge to push. I think I expected this to feel more…er…vaginal in nature. But really, it just felt like an urgent need to take a crap. The next time the nurse came in (new nurse, now; a feisty gal from Georgia named Penelope), I asked – thinking I must still have a few hours to go – if she had any tips for trying to stave off the pushing urge. Her answer: let's have the doctor take a look at you. (And by "look" she meant a couple of fingers in the cooter). The doctor—a new one, a young woman, very smart, friendly and direct—introduced herself, then promptly shook hands with my cervix. Lo and behold, I was fully dilated. It believe it was just before 8 am.

It would be grossly inaccurate to say that the pushing was fun. But there was something rather satisfying about it – this feeling that I was actively doing something, rather than letting my uterus do the work for me as it had been for the previous seven hours. For each push, I'd wait for a contraction, then hold my legs up, bent at the knees, curl forward, take a big breath and bear down like I never had before, making all kinds of strange noises and ridiculous faces, while the doctor and nurse urged me on and said things like "push right into your bum," and "all your strength, all into your rectum." I swear that at one point somebody's finger was in my butt. Who knew giving birth was such an ass-centric activity?

Despite my hard work, the pushing was not going well. Elsa wasn't making much downward progress, and each time I pushed, her heart rate would drop. Her cord was evidently wrapped around her neck or was otherwise getting compressed with each push, so I had to wait out every other contraction to give her some recovery time. We tried some different positions—me on one side, then the other. Still, she wasn't descending the way they wanted. The doctor finally said that if we didn't make any more progress in the next few minutes, we'd need to go into the OR and try some vacuum extraction. Or….menacing music…we may have to go to C-section.

Well, that did it. I don't know if was me or Elsa or both of us, but on the very next push we made us some serious progress, oh yessiree. I said to myself, I know I can do this. If I can hold a challenging yoga pose just a few seconds longer than I did the last time, if I can climb the highest mountain in Central America fighting altitude sickness and nearly blacking out every step of the way, if I can spend three years writing a novel only to have it rejected and then go ahead and write another one, if I can deal with depression and a major disease scare, if I can deal with my crazy family, if I can carry two babies around inside me for nine months while keeping all three of us healthy, then I can push these babies out of me myself.

(Ahem. That was the inspirational paragraph, if you didn't notice. The one where the John Williams soundtrack swells to a rousing, moving climax.)

So, the pushing progressed, while a steady stream of people in surgical scrubs started coming in and out of the room, introducing themselves: pediatric nurses, physicians, anesthesiologists, chefs, jugglers, God knows who, all of whom would be in the OR while I delivered. (It's hospital policy for twin and other high risk births to happen in the operating room.) There must have been at least a dozen people who came in and out, all very cheerfully introducing themselves between pushes. As if I would remember who any of them were, or recognize them once they were in their surgical gear. At one point I looked over at A. and gave him a "what the hell?" look. (He'd put on his scrubs now, and I must say, he looked pretty damned cute in 'em.)

Finally, I was wheeled into the OR by a wisecracking anesthesiologist who made fun of the nurse pushing the bed for nearly crashing me into the wall several times. I was moved onto the table in the operating room—again, I was pretty mobile, so I wasn't flopped around like a rolled up carpet, but was able to do the moving myself.

More pushing ensued, and things seemed to be progressing well, with the doctor and a resident cheering me on as I pushed through one contraction, then rested through one to give Elsa some time to recover, and so on. Again, I really think that at one point someone had their finger in my butt.

Then, A. said, "look who's here." My obstetrician, the fab Dr. Huang, had happened to be in the hospital to perform a GYN surgery that was cancelled, heard I was here, and quickly suited up to come deliver the babies. The on-call doc stepped out, and he took over. "Fairy tale ending" sounds rather silly where mass amounts of blood, amniotic fluid and grunting are involved, but it felt quite auspicious that he showed up.

Back to Miss Elsa: I could feel that head a comin' down the chute, and at one point got to reach down and feel it – it was soft and wet, like a baby chick. A., brave man, was down there helping to hold my left leg back while I pushed, and got a front row view of the head emerging. Everyone was saying "she's almost out! She's right there!" It was thrilling, especially to hear the excitement in A's voice.

But Elsa wouldn't quite get her little coconut out the door. My doctor asked me if I would be OK with a small (2nd degree) episiotomy. Hell, at that point, I would have let them amputate my left hand if that's what it would take to get the baby out. A quick snip—I didn't feel it at all—and Elsa's noggin emerged, face up.

The cord was wrapped around her neck, so they cut it immediately, and then the rest of her slipped out. (Amazing how small the rest of a baby seems once you've passed its big ole head through your vagina.) I only got a quick glimpse of her; she was quiet and quite pale, her eyes wide open. She was whisked away immediately for oxygen and Apgar-ing (she got a 5 to start, then an 8), then taken to the Transitional Care Unit for some extra TLC. I remember being slightly concerned, but not scared. I must have delivered the afterbirth at this point, though I have no memory of it.

Meanwhile, Clio was ready to roll, having cooperatively stayed head down. They broke my water with something resembling a crochet hook, which resulted in an impressive splash onto the OR floor. It didn't take long at all to push Miss Clio out, and I felt like an old pro at that point. She came out screaming and looking quite pissed. (Apgars: 8 and 9) While she was weighed and swaddled, the doc pushed on my belly to help deliver the afterbirth. When that was over, I took a look at my belly—it was so odd to see it so much smaller. There was an odd football-ish shaped mound in the middle that emerged when I tried to sit up a little. The resident said, "that's your little alien," – the result of the abdominal muscles having separated. Or something.

Clio was brought to me then, wrapped in a blanket, her face still wet with vernix. She looked surprisingly like her U/S pictures – a little turned up nose and round baby face (both courtesy of her Dad, methinks). I was awfully glad to see her, but I didn't cry. I didn’t really expect to. I'm weird like that – I cry in anticipation of and after momentous events, but rarely tear up in the actual moment. During my pregnancy I got blubbery every time I watched a video of a baby being born and put into its mother's arms, but I somehow knew that I probably wouldn't cry when it happened to me. It was all just so intense, so real – I was too close to it all to have any sense of emotional perspective or context of the sort that would cause me to cry. Or, maybe it was just the fact that I was so damned dehydrated. I'd never felt so thirsty in my life.

Clio and A. and I all went back to the labor room to chill for a little while, enjoy the view of the Charles River in the morning light. They took my vitals, we were brought some breakfast, and I took a first shot at breastfeeding Clio. It was amazing to see her instincts at work – opening her mouth wide, looking for the breast, sucking. (She didn't actually get a very good mouthful of boob, so it was more like she was giving me hickeys, but hey, it was a start.)

We were then moved down to our room on the post-partum floor. I won't go into detail about the next 48 hours, except to say this: it is absolutely EVIL that the hospital / insurance companies / the Man / whoever only let you stay 48 hours after a vaginal birth, even if it's twins. I had thought that the hospital stay would be a chance to rest and recover a little bit, but instead it was like a three ring circus – a nonstop succession of people in and out of the room: to check the girls' vital signs (their temps were tending to run low), to check my vital signs (my blood pressure was running high; I had elephant feet and a moon face), to have us fill out paperwork for birth certificates, to empty the trash, to bring food (which wasn't bad, but which was inevitably cold by the time I got around to eating it), to help us with breastfeeding/supplementing, to go over mandatory lists of "things I should know" about my recovery and the girls' first days at home, to show us how to bathe the girls. There was also a baby care class to take, and stress tests to run on the girls in their car seats because they were so small. Plus feedings every three hours, with a complicated catheter/syringe formula supplementation system, and even some milk pumping, so we'd be able to take the babies home with us. (The pediatrician said they might have to stay an extra day if they lost too much weight, but I'd be discharged, which meant we'd have to camp out in a room in the NICU and fend for ourselves re. food, etc.) Then there was the fact that every time I had to go to the bathroom, it was a 5-10 minute operation, involving a squirt bottle, gigantic mesh underwear, ice packs, and diaper-sized maxi pads. Ladies who've given birth will know what I'm talking about.

All this, plus visits from A's parents, my parents, and phone calls to and from friends, all of which were delightful and much appreciated. But Lordy, the whole hospital stay felt rather like running a small corporation. So, while more time to recover would have been nice, I guess in some ways it was actually a relief to come home.

As we left the hospital, a light snow was falling. Much oohing and ahhing over the twins in the hospital lobby while I waited for A. to get and warm up the car. The drive home was, indeed, a little harrowing. Every other driver on the road was a menace, an asshole, an idiot. Which is par for the course in Boston, naturally, but we felt it more keenly that day. A. decided we should get a "Baby on Board" sign, reasoning that whenever he sees one he tends to back off a little. I wasn't wild about the idea on principle, but on our next trip to Babies-R-Us we picked one up. It makes a nice counterpart to the "Anarchy" magnet.

The strangest thing about all this, is that I'm actually already nostalgic for it: the excitement of the birth and the first precious hours. The intensity and strangeness of it all. It was so surreal to think: these are our children. We made them. It still hasn't fully sunk in, I don't think, and as much as I adore them, they still feel like strangers sometimes.

But more on that later...

A few things...

2007-01-05T10:12:00.000-05:00

I am working on an account of the girls' birth, which I'll subject you to in the next day or two -- just getting a paragraph down here and there between feedings -- but in the meantime, a few quick observations:

--I feed babies. That is my full time job. I breastfeed and I pump. (Plus some diaper changing and baby holding.) I can feed both girls at the same time with assistance from A. or the doula -- it's almost literally a juggling act. They are learning to latch on better and eat more efficiently, which is nice, since it's been taking us about an hour all told to do each feeding (changing, burping, soothing, etc.). Then two hours more and we do it all again. 24 hours a day.

--The nusing tank, nursing bra and the hands-free pumping bra are three of mankind's greatest inventions.

--My pregnancy weight topped out at about 165 lbs (almost a 50 lb gain). I now weigh about 130. Unbelievable. My favorite maternity jeans, which I couldn't wear the last month of the pregnancy, are now almost too big.

--We picked the right names. Every day the girls feel more and more like what we named them, and more and more like ours. They are absolutely incredible.

--I don't know how ANYone takes care of twins without a husband / mother / hired help around. It seems like it would simply be impossible, and yet it must happen all the time. I feel so blessed to have a husband who can be here to help, in-laws who are paying for extra help for us, and a mom who was willing to spend the first 4 nights at home with us. I don't think we would have eaten otherwise.

--My husband is the greatest guy in the universe. He's so wonderful with the babies, so helpful, so patient. We are absolutely 50/50 in this.

--This is easily the most challenging thing I've ever done, and yet I can't remember the last time I felt so happy and so intensely alive and aware of all the richness, beauty, squalor, heartbreak and gloriousness of the world. I find myself thinking and speaking the word 'God', which I rarely ever did before. Not to refer to any kind of divine being--no thanks--but for this...this...whatever this intensity of emotion and awareness and feeling of interconnectedness with the rest of humanity is. I suppose you could also call it "hormones." But I'm gonna stick with God for now.

My goodness, what an earnest post. This is what parenthood will do to ya. I'll have to be sure to drop a few F-bombs into the birth story, lest anyone think I've turned into a complete sap.

Sneak Peek

2006-12-31T17:02:00.000-05:00

How to tell them apart: Elsa (bottom) has a pointier chin and slantier eyes. We think she looks like a little elf. Clio (top) has a wider face and more turned-up nose, like her dad. We think she looks like a little tomato.

They share the same exciting array of interests: eating, sleeping, sucking on things, pooping, peeing (usually while they're being changed), making little squeaking and grunting noises, being the center of attention, and downhill skiing.

They're Here.

2006-12-30T16:16:00.000-05:00

Thursday December 28, 2006

Elsa Margaret Moock
9:28 am
5 lbs, 2 oz

Clio Rose Moock
9:37 am
5 lbs, 5 oz

Mom pushed 'em both out the old fashioned way. Everyone is healthy, happy, tired and thrilled.

Many more details & photos to come when we catch our breaths (so, a year or two, maybe?) I gotta go pump....

Love you all and thanks for your good wishes,

Jane & A.

Showtime!

2006-12-28T00:17:00.000-05:00

Midnight, and the girls are ready to party. My water just broke, and we're on our way to the hosptital.

Stay tuned!

Progress report

2006-12-26T17:43:00.000-05:00

And I'm pleased to report that there is, in fact, a little bit of progress. I'm 50% effaced and 1 cm dilated, so my cervix is starting to gear up for labor. But it's still anybody's guess as to when it will actually start.

As for the babies, they're a strapping 6-1/2 and 6 pounds. Yes, that's right, I'm carrying over 12 pounds of baby + 2 amniotic sacs and placentas. And yet, I can still walk upright and carry on semi-coherent conversations.

The only new quirk is that Baby B apparently has a bit more amniotic fluid than average, which means there's a higher chance that she could flip to breech after Baby A is born -- she's got lots of room to move around. But the doctor says (and we agree) we might as well try to go for a vaginal delivery if that's what we want. We just have to be prepared for the possibility of having to go to C-section for Baby B.

Gee, I could be lucky enough to have both a vaginal bith and a C-section. Who says you can't have it all? Of course, they may also be able to deliver Baby B breech without a problem. All this needing to be flexible and open to all possibilities is, I think, good training for parenting twins.

As for the induction thing, we still have our date with destiny scheduled for January 3 (a week from tomorrow) if needed, but I still haven't decided for sure if I want to go through with it, or try to wait it out a little longer. I guess I'll just see how I feel, if we get that far. It's not that I'm so scared of Pitocin; it just seems like part of the whole miraculous mystery blah blah blah of giving birth is letting it happen on its own, whenever it's "meant" to happen. I didn't get to experience becoming pregnant without medical intervention. Is it too much to want to get un-pregnant without it?

On the other hand, the waiting is definitely starting to get tiresome, and both A. and I are starting to get a wee bit stir crazy. I try to remind myself to enjoy the quiet, and also remind myself that the longer the babies stay in, the better. If they make it to 37 weeks (tomorrow) or beyond, they'll supposedly be better sleepers and have an easier time with breastfeeding and be capable of changing their own diapers and filing our income taxes for us and stuff. So that's a plus.

But still. Come on, girls. Let's get this show on the road...

All is calm -- for the moment, anyway

2006-12-23T18:07:00.000-05:00

I don't have much to post about -- really, I'm posting because I fear that if I don't, you'll all assume I'm on the brink of giving birth or already have. Because, obviously, in the midst of the holidays, you're all waiting on pins and needles, checking this blog obsessively, utterly consumed with thoughts of when I'm going to deliver. Because it's all about me. Me, me, me.

Me who is still most decidedly, uncomfortably pregnant.

What can I tell you....over the past few days, the sharp, stretching pains in my upper abdomen have gotten much worse. Yesterday afternoon, the pain actually woke me up from a nap and caused me to yelp. It's the strangest thing -- not like any sort of discomfort I ever expected to experience in pregnancy. It actually feels like a cut or a sore, but there's no evidence of anything on the surface of my skin; not even a stretch mark. What really sucks is that there's basically nothing I can do to relieve the pain. Icing it seems to help a little, but I can only do that for a few minutes at a time, lest the gals get chilled.

I'm having more contractions now, too, mostly in the evenings -- not Braxton Hicks, but the real thing, cramping up my lower abdomen and back. They (obviously) haven't yet gotten into a pattern of intensifying and coming closer together. Still, I take their presence as a good sign that things are progressing. I really would like to go into labor on my own, sans medical intervention.

In other news, yesterday I treated myself to a pedicure, then promptly ruined it by putting my shoes back on too soon. But that's OK. There's really not much improving the appearance of my disgusting, swollen feet at this point. The main reason I went was to be able to sit in the massaging chair and read People Magazine for a half an hour. And I'm sorry to report that it's official: Vince and Jen are no more.

It will be a quiet Christmas here in the Calamity household -- just me and A. and the cat, my overtaxed uterus and its residents, a pre-prepped Christmas dinner from Whole Foods, and It's a Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol (starring A's namesake) on VHS.

Unless, of course, the babes decide to make a dramatic Yuletide entrance, squeezing their way down the chimney of life and bursting out into the gaily decked halls of human existence. It would be lousy for them down the road, I suppose, to have their birthday(s) fall on Christmas eve or day. But for me, it would be the rockingest Christmas present ever.

And, as I noted earlier, it's all about me.

And you. Thank you for reading, and for all your support and encouragement and enthusiasm. It's been great to have you along on this long, strange trip. (And it ain't over yet.) Here's wishing you a healthy, happy, peaceful Christmas (and/or Hannukah, belatedly.)

(Contracting as I type this, by the way -- bring it on!!)

Prayer request, News, and a Diversion

2006-12-20T11:12:00.000-05:00

I know, I'm becoming a posting whore. I guess you could say I have a little free time on my hands.

1. Those of you who aren't already, please send your good wishes and healthy baby vibes to my friend the motel manager, who got some atypical amnio results and is waiting in limbo-land to find out what -- if anything -- they mean. I can't imagine how stressful and worrying this must be.

2. I saw my OB yesterday. Not much to report, except that both heartbeats are healthy, and the nurse I've gotten the past few times to do the preliminary checks is an idiot. Three weeks in a row now, she's asked me what I plan to do regarding birth control after the babies are born. Each time I've given the same response. (I plan to look haggard, unwashed and exhausted all the time. That oughta do it.)

This time, she also asked me if I was interested in taking any childbirth or childcare classes. WTF? I guess this is on her "questions to ask" list for the 36-week visit for singleton mothers. I wanted to say: "I'm 36 weeks pregnant with twins, you idiot. I could go into labor yesterday. I took my damned courses." But I didn't.

My doctor didn't have much besides sympathy to offer for the abdominal pain and tenderness I'm feeling, which seems to get worse by the day. All par for the course. He did, however, have me schedule a date for induction at 38 weeks. January 3, specifically. (At the front desk, they said "9:30 OK?" Umm...gee..could we make it 10:00? I have a hair appointment that morning....)

It's nice to have an end in sight, but I am sincerely hoping that I'll go into labor on my own before that. I'm not too keen on the idea of a pitocin-assisted birth. On the other hand, I'm not too keen on the idea of going on like this for more than two more weeks.

In the meantime, I am going to start trying some mild, natural induction techniques: massaging certain pressure points, trying to get out and walk every day (hobble would be more accurate), spicy food (this is just a wives' tale, but what the hell), and some other things too delicate to mention here. I may also make an appointment to see my acupuncturist at the end of next week and see what she can do.

3. As I was lying in bed last night, tired but unable to fall asleep, I amused myself by thinking up some clues for the babies' (proposed) names. If you're bored at work, or need to procrastinate, feel free to take a guess or two. I won't reply yea or nay to your conjectures, but if you guess both correctly, after the twins are born I'll send you...um...a honey baked ham. Or perhaps something more appealing, like a box of chocolates.

Here are the clues (these are for the first names only, FYI):

--One of the names is that of a figure from mythology

--One of the names is one letter away from being the name of the heroine of a classic Hollywood film

--One of the names starts with a vowel

--One of the names starts with either B, C, or D

--Neither of the names are in the top 500 for 2005, according to the Baby Name Wizard.

Modern Medicine 2, Herbal Remedies 0

2006-12-19T11:39:00.000-05:00

My prenatal yoga teacher has regularly extolled the heartburn-healing powers of papaya enzyme. So, a couple of months back, I went to my local natural foods store and bought me a bottle of papaya enzyme tablets, but they didn't do much if anything for my heartburn. Still, it was nice to think I was trying this nice, natural remedy. (Cue acoustic guitar and flute music.)

Tums proved much more effective. (Cue upbeat, 1950s style TV commercial music) For awhile now, I've kept a big bottle on my bedside, and popped a few each time I wake in the middle of the night feeling like I've just gargled hydrochloric acid. Alas, their curative effects are sadly temporary.

But you know what really works? Fucking Zantac. Yeah, baby. (Cue something by Zeppelin) I asked my doctor last week if there was anything besides Tums I could take, and he said Zantac was A-OK. I've taken it before bed the past two nights, and have had NO heartburn. I have, on the other hand, had insomnia from 5:30 am to 7:00 am, but I don't think this is related. And I'll take it over the heartburn.

Meanwhile, one of this babies is trying to tunnel out through my upper abdomen with her foot, or perhaps some small hand tool -- a putty knife comes to mind -- and it REALLY HURTS. I don't think there is anything to take for this, except maybe a big ole dose of Pitocin.

The Waiting Game

2006-12-16T12:15:00.000-05:00

It is a strange thing to be simultaneously wishing I'd go into labor already and hoping for a week or so more to savor my quiet, self-absorbed, childless existence.

Each day the twins hold off on making their debut represents a couple more pages of my novel draft, a few more hours of sleep, a chapter or two more of the books I'm reading (The Third Chimpanzee by Jared Diamond and The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri). At the same time, it also means another day of annoying aches and pains, heartburn and fatigue, and, well, not getting to hold my fabulous baby girls in my arms.

There are several things that have been going on which suggest that labor is imminent: more dull lower back pain and menstrual-like cramps in the evenings and mornings, loose and frequent bowel movements (TMI? Oh well), increasing downward pressure in my pelvis/groin, and the fact that I seem to have stopped gaining weight. (Total net gain: 42 pounds.)

And there was the fact that this morning after breakfast--until A. ordered me to stop--I started cleaning the outside of the kitchen cabinets and dusting the baseboards in the living room because suddenly the house seemed irredeemably filthy to me. But I have these little microbursts of cleaning energy fairly regularly, so I'm not sure I'd call this the telltale nesting urge.

At the same time, there's plenty to suggest that labor is still a ways off. The babies are still quite active, I've had no unusual...er...secretions down below, and my pseudo-contractions are still fairly infrequent. Part of me thinks (fears?) that this pregnancy is just going to go on ad infinitum. My body and its passengers have behaved so well this whole time, with no complications or problems or discomforts beyond the expected, that it wouldn't really surprise me if I made it to 38 weeks -- the point at which my doctor would be willing to induce me if I wanted.

So, I wait. I write. I blog. I wear the comfiest clothes I can fit into, and don't leave the house much. I do a little yoga. I admire the consummate tackiness of the Christmas lights and plastic figurines decking the porch and garden of grumpy old Tony across the street. I stare wistfully at our bookshelves and wine rack and grieve the lifestyle I'm about to lose, then go into the nursery and stare wistfully at the cribs and the little clothes in the closet and can't wait for all that I'm about to gain.

And I nap. Oh, how I nap. Pardon me while I go do some of that right now...

Conspiracy Theory

2006-12-13T18:43:00.000-05:00

Yesterday we went to the police station to have them check whether or not A. had installed the infant car seats correctly in our new family car, the Subaru Forester. He had, much to his fatherly pride. Unfortunately, there is barely enough room for him to fit into either the driver or passenger seats up front without bumping up against the infant seats behind him.

We'll be able to make do, but when the kiddos outgrow their infant seats and we have to get the larger, convertible car seats that go in backward until the babies are over a year old, there's no way both they and A. will fit into the car. (Unless the babies fit in the infant seats for a full year and can go straight to front-facing, which seems unlikely based on what I've heard from other mothers.)

"You're going to have to get a mini-van," the officer informed us.

Now, I don't have huge aesthetic hang-ups with getting a minivan or a small SUV (our Forester is a utility wagon, not an SUV, remember?) If we need it, we need it. With twins, it's not like we can go around kidding ourselves and other people into thinking we're all hip and young and unfettered.

But the whole thing did get me to thinking: a Subaru Forester is not exactly a teeny car. And at 6'1", A. is tall, but not freakishly so. Surely in the Netherlands and Scandinavia, where a hearty proportion of the population, male and female, is pushing 6 feet, people have twins. Or have both an infant and a toddler, necessitating two carseats at once. Or even just have one rear-facing car seat, and a tall adult in the passenger seat who needs a litle legroom up front. But you don't see the roads of these countries clogged with minivans and SUVs, do you, now?

My theory: the U.S. government is in cahoots with big oil and auto manufacturers on this one. The Fed's "safety" standards require that all rear-facing carseats are ju-u-st big enough so that anyone over, say, 5'10, has to seriously consider upsizing to a larger, more expensive, less fuel-efficient vehicle.

What do you think? Who's with me? I say we take to the streets.

An amusing aside: the officer who told us we needed a mini-van also told us he felt sorry for us that we were having twins. Not because it meant we needed to buy a new car. Just in general. Ah, so nice to receive condolences for one's children.

Dear God, what is that thing?

2006-12-12T10:51:00.000-05:00

I had to use the watercolor effect on this picture to give it some semblance of aesthetic appeal. I mean, good lord. It just keeps on growing. Almost 35 weeks. The babies are almost certainly 5 pounds now. That means I'm carrying the equivalent of one really big honkin' singleton baby, plus two placentas and a double dose of amniotic fluid. Anyone feel like trading bodies for a day or two?

The pressure/ache in my pelvis is getting worse, particularly on the left side, which is where both little heads are. It's quite painful to walk, especially by the end of the day. Certain yoga poses still feel good, though. And A. got me an exercise ball, which I am sitting on as I type this, because it's more comfortable than an ordinary chair. My abdomen aches as the babies angle for space. I get weird twinges and cramps. My nose looks strangely red. (?) But I soldier on.

I am really loving not being at work. Some people have asked me "what will you do all day?" and "won't you get bored?" These are silly questions to ask a woman who is trying to finish a draft of a novel knowing that any day she could give birth to twins.

My pattern so far is thus: get up around 8:30 and eat breakfast while leafing through back issues in the stack of New Yorkers that is forever accumulating on our kitchen table. Check email, then write until around 12:30 or 1:00 or however long it takes to meet 1000 word minimum, taking occasional breaks to snack, refill my water glass, hobble to the bathroom, etc. Then, after lunch, I can spend the afternoon doing whatever the hell I want. Yesterday, I cleaned out my office, uploaded some CDs onto my iPod, and read some childbirth/care articles whilst lounging in bed. Today, I have a doctor's appointment and some thank-you notes to write.

I suppose it's possible that I could get bored with this sort of existence, but somehow I'm thinking I can handle it for a couple of weeks.

I hope you are all doing well, and enjoying the festiveness of the holiday season. I am, mostly in the form of gazing at our Christmas tree and declining invitations to holiday parties in favor of having friends come over, bearing food. One holiday nit: I was bummed to learn last night that a Charlie Brown Christmas already aired, way back on November 28. What's up with that??

Thank you all, by the way, for your labor advice. I should probably be more scared about the whole thing, but I'm oddly excited.

And, FYI, at the moment, T-Bone is my favorite reader, for kindly guessing 12/19 as my delivery date. Anyone for 12/16? 12/17? Please? Yeah, yeah, I know; the longer they stay in, the better. I just don't want them to miss Christmas. Yeah, that's the ticket....

Please advise

2006-12-08T11:14:00.000-05:00

As D-day approaches, I'm thinking more and more about the realities of labor and delivery, and formulating something resembling a birth plan to give to my doctor and/or bring with me to the hospital when it's time. I'd very much like to have as natural a delivery as possible, and avoid pain drugs if I can. Not that I would feel like I'd failed if I do end up using them. I have no idea what it's going to be like, or how I'll cope, so it seems a little nutty to take a hard line on the issue, especially with twins.

Here's the thing, though. In a twin delivery, there added risks to consider -- a higher likelihood that one or both of the babies will go into distress, the possibility that the second baby will flip to breech during the course of delivery of the first, a higher chance that a last minute C-section will be needed. And then there are the risks of any delivery -- that forceps or suctioning will need to be used, etc.

The doctors are supportive of the natural birth thing, but would greatly prefer me to have an epidural, in case of unexpected complications, so I don't have to be put under general anasthesia at the last minute if time is of the essence. I don't want to be put under general anasthesia either. Seems like an awfully big moment in life to be unconscious for, and it's not so great for the babies, either.

A compromise would be to have the epidural catheter placed, but not run meds through it until (unless) it becomes necessary. That way, if they need to juice me up quickly they can, without putting me under. Again, I'd rather have nothing at all. And having had a horrible experience with a spinal tap, I'm not terribly keen on having a spinal placed, but most likely it would go OK.

Of course, nothing is hard and fast, and there will be plenty of opportunities along the way to assess how things are going. I'm just imagining I won't be at my most clear-headed in the the throes of labor, so I'd like to have some general plan in mind. Any words of advice or wisdom from those of you who have given birth (or not)??

In other news: yesterday I got a pre-natal massage (a most excellent shower gift) and they had the table with the belly cut-out, so I got to lie on my stomach, which was bliss. We also got our first Christmas tree ever yesterday, and it looks very cute in our living room. Expect pictures of babies beneath it. Meanwhile, I feel like someone is slowly, gradually prying my hips apart with some kind of medieval torture device, and I walk around like an arthritic, 12-year-old golden retriever when I walk at all.

Fa la la la la.

What ails me

2006-12-05T12:16:00.000-05:00

--A host of new and strange aches, pains, pangs, cramps and twinges centered in my pelvis and lower abdomen. Sometimes they feel muscle/ligament related, other times quite uterine/cervical, and other times, well, it's just a baby doing a handstand on my bladder. I do not walk anymore; I lumber.

--The right side of my back and abdomen. Still. Ouch.

--Fatigue. A good night's sleep has become a thing of the past. I am up approximately every 2 hours to pee or change positions or down a handful of Tums for heartburn. And lately, once I'm up, I have trouble falling back asleep. Mother nature, preparing me for the sleepless nights ahead, is a cruel, cruel mistress.

--My maternity pants. None of them quite stay up over my belly anymore. This is a problem since at the same time, most of my tops now barely cover my belly either. And the bared midriff with linea negra look is so out.

--Bruce Springsteen's version of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." It bugs the shit out of me.

In spite of these nuisances, I'm in a very good mood overall. And getting more excited each day. The majority of twins are born between 34-37 weeks, which means it could literally happen any time now. Any guesses? My completely random and unfounded prediction is December 27.

I should also note my extreme delight at the fact that tomorrow is my last day of work.

Cock-a-doula-do

2006-12-03T11:43:00.000-05:00

I'm enjoying a sunny Sunday morning alone in the kitchen with coffee and the cat, listening to Handel's Messiah, and feeling quite blissed out. Finally, a few moments to write the doula post I kept meaning to write. (I'm sure you were all holding your breath…)

For those who aren't familiar with what a post-partum doula is or does, it's a woman who helps you in the first weeks or months after giving birth with everything from breastfeeding support/advice to baby care to laundry and cooking. Her main role is to "mother the mother" -- help mom (and dad, as the case may be) make the transition into parenthood without losing their sanity, and get a good meal and a nap now and then.

She'll come four hours a day, three to five days a week, for the first two to three months, probably. A.'s parents are generously paying for this for us. (At $29 an hour, we could never swing it.) My MIL actually wanted us to get a live-in nurse for the whole first month, but we opted spread their generosity over a longer period of time. 24-hour help seemed like overkill to us since we'll both be home, and my mom will be around for the first few days. And I'd like at least a little privacy.

So. Two weeks ago we met our post-partum doula-to-be, Arlene, who specializes in twins. In spite of her name, I think I was expecting a yoga-teacher-ish sort of woman, maybe in her thirties or forties. Someone who had backpacked through Southeast Asia and frequently baked bread from scratch and used all cruelty-free, non-petroleum based personal care products and wore cool, crafty jewelry.

But in walked a gray-haired woman well into her sixties, in pants that couldn't be described as anything but slacks, and a top that was most decidedly a blouse. She was carrying a woven Guatemalan bag, kept talking about having children as a "spiritual experience," and revealed later that she was active in a Unitarian church, so she certainly has an earthy streak. I mean, she's from Cambridge, after all. But if you saw her on the street, you would probably think "nurse," not "doula." (In fact, she was a nurse for many years.) I'll admit, I was a little disappointed.

This woman was intense, assertive, and fairly opinionated. At first, I wasn't quite sure what to make of her. But the more we talked, the more I liked her -- her practicality and no-nonsense attitude. During her one hour visit it was settled that the couch in our living room will be my primary nursing site, our sideboard will serve as a second changing table, we should start locking the cat out of our room at night to get her used to it, and she (Arlene, not the cat) will bring over a blender so she can make me smoothies. At one point, when she saw that was looking a little uncomfortable in the chair I was in, she suggested we switch places. I, of course, politely demurred, but she insisted. Next thing I know, I'm lying on the couch and she's arranging pillows around me. And I'm much more comfortable as a result.

She was not rigid, though; for example, when she suggested I use the chair in my office for breastfeeding upstairs, I thought about it and said that I'd rather not make my work space -- my sanctuary -- a baby space if I can help it. She was very understanding and supportive of that. In fact, she was quite warm and encouraging and generally maternal (or grandmaternal, I guess), but in a no-bullshit sort of way, which I appreciated. Mary Poppins meets Juliet's "Nurse."

By the time she left, I was actually thoroughly glad she wasn't a young, yoga teacher type. Because, I realized, if it were a young, yoga teacher type, closer to my age, I think I would feel more of a need to be friendly and sociable; to make her like me. I would be less likely to ask for help. But with Arlene, I feel like I really don't have to make any effort at all. She will take care of business. She will take care of all of us. Away with the maidens--bring me a crone!

A. liked her too, though he found her a bit intense, and didn't appreciate some of the more personal question she asked. (We got into a conversation about religion which was a bit odd, but I think she basically was just curious to know if he was Jewish, because she is.) I told him I agreed she was sort of a strange bird, but I thought it would be a good fit. BUT, I said, I would be happy to interview some other candidates if he wanted to find them and set up the appointments. Yeah, well, that sealed the deal. Arlene it shall be.

In other news, yesterday I went to Goodwill and bought a pair of size 7-1/2 shoes (a size up from what I normally wear) because my feet are so damned swollen that even my fab Dansko clogs are tight by the end of the day. I swear, my calves, ankles, and feet look like they belong to someone else. Someone very fat. I try to avoid looking at them, and urge you to do the same.

Beastly babies

2006-11-30T09:32:00.000-05:00

Ugh. I dreamt last night that I had the babies, and they were really big -- like the size of one-year-olds -- and rather hideous looking and could already talk. And they were totally obnoxious, snotty, demanding brats, and I hated them, but was trying really hard to love them. At one point in the dream, they morphed into rats, and one chewed the other one's ear off. Meanwhile, I had no recollection of the birth whatsoever, but my mother and husband assured me that everything went well. I did it all without medication. I was glad to hear it, then said that I should probably try to wrap up a few projects for work since my maternity leave hadn't actually started yet, and they agreed that that would be a good idea. The giant jerk babies were left to their own devices (whenever I dream about babies, they can somehow be left alone for long stretches of time without feeding or changing) and when I came back later in the day to check on them, they'd climbed out of their cribs and were wrestling on the floor of the nursery. God, I HATED those babies!!

And all the children are...average.

2006-11-28T19:19:00.000-05:00

Just got back from an ultrasound / OB appointment, and am happy to report that both twins are still firmly head down (waaay down) and growing nicely. In the race to stretch their mother's uterus as much as fetally possible, Twin A, aka "The Bladder Banger" is in the lead, weighing in at approximately four and a half pounds, putting her squarely in the 50th percentile (for singletons!). But Twin B, aka "Kicky the Abdomenizer" is no slouch either, weighing in at approximately four pounds, landing her respectably in the 30th percentile. I like to think she's purposely refraining from outpacing her sister because she knows her mama wants a vaginal birth, and this is generally easier when the presenting (first) twin is bigger. So thanks, Kicky. Now could you please remove your feet from the top right portion of my abdomen where they seem to be lodged, causing me intense, constant discomfort?

Everything else is good. I didn't even get faint during the ultrasound, thanks to an innovative propped-on-my-elbows pose I decided to assume. And the fact that now they're skipping the tech and going straight to the doc, so I don't have to suffer through two whole twin-length ultrasound exams.

My OB confirmed that the menstrual-ish cramps I've been starting to have periodically in the evenings are, indeed, practice contractions, and will continue and probably increase in frequency, but as long as they're not coming hard and fast and more than four times an hour, all is well. At this point, actually, they probably wouldn't try to stop labor if it happened. But hopefully the monkeys will hang in for another three or four weeks. (And hopefully not much longer!!)

Only one grouchy complaint about today's visit -- in addition to the fact that they were running an HOUR behind (they're usually right on schedule, so it wasn't too aggravating just this once). A. and I always joke about how when the nurses come out and call people in, they garble the pronunciations or speak very very softly, and we have no idea how anyone knows they're being called. "Sqwggtttppbb?" they'll mumble, and someone will rise confidently to their feet and go in. Huh?

Well, usually "Jane" comes across pretty loud and clear. But today, a nurse came out twice looking for a "Yah-nay." If I hadn't been aware that this is the phonetic pronunciation of my name in Spanish, I would have sat there forever. But the second time, I thought I'd better check and see if it was me she was looking for, since there were no other takers. Now, I'm not one of these "learn English, dammit!" people by any means. But honestly, if part of your job is coming out into a waiting room and calling people's names, at the very least you should be aware of basic English pronunciation. Grumble grumble.

Oh yeah, and speaking of linguistic grouchiness, this morning I actually broke down and sent that email out at work about "flush out" vs. "flesh out." I did my best to make it funny, and it seemed to go over well. A few people actually thanked me, and told me it had been driving them nuts, too.

And then I felt a little guilty later because in the afternoon they had a little suprise baby gifts-n-cake thing for me. It was very nice, if a little awkward. Whenever we have these office celebration breaks -- usually for people leaving -- everyone just sort of stands around, smiles, then eats some cake. It seems like there should be a speech or something. But no one really takes charge.

One thing I'll say, though: when you're an advertising creative (yes, that's what we copywriters and art directors call ourselves: creative as noun. Obnoxious but true), and your work friends are creatives, you get good custom-made cards. This one featured a silly, hammy photo of me making a faux-vampy face at the camera (I was goofing around when we got our photos taken for the company web site), printed twice, with the line "Look out world" on the front, and inside "There's going to be two more of them." (I benevolently forgave the improper use of "there's" because it really does flow better than "there are.")

What was even better, though, was the rejected version, judged too racy to be presented in front of the whole company, but which my art director buddy showed me: the same silly mock-sexy photo of me with the headline (in recognizable type): Got MILF?

Don't know what MILF means? I didn't either until a few months ago. Look it up.

I know I said I was going to write about our fab post-partum doula, and I shall, I shall, but I can't stay sitting down any longer. Next post....

Big enough for ya?

2006-11-25T15:48:00.000-05:00

No, I am not concealing a globe, beachball, or prizewinning pumpkin beneath my shirt; that is my belly, now at 32+ weeks reaching mammoth proportions. It's taut as an over-inflated basketball, as my father recently observed, and sometimes I feel like the babies are straining for more room. Is it possible that I'm going to get even bigger? Yes. Sadly, yes. But get this: I AM STILL WEARING MY PRE-PREGNANCY UNDERWEAR!! Granted, not the more slight and sexy pairs -- what would be the point anyway? -- but still. My ass has not become pregnant. Not very, anyway.

Despite the joy and pride that this brings me, I am officially very uncomfortable. My back hurts almost constantly, as do the muscles over the top of my belly, particularly on the right. I feel generally stiff and unwieldy. I have to eat less and less per sitting and the heartburn is more frequent. The worst culprit, it seems, are liquids -- water, juice, etc., which fill and distend my ever-shrinking stomach. And, of course, I'm constantly thirsty which makes this oh so convenient.

But in spite of all this, I remain in good spirits, and am getting more and more excited. I'm just trying to be a trooper, get plenty of sleep, and get A. to give me lots of back rubs, which he does very willingly. (The other day, after a particularly achey, tired day, as we were settling into bed, he said "You're doing great," and it made me so happy. It's the little things...and the backrubs.) I'm really glad I've only got 2 more weeks of work; I'm ready to be lounging around in my PJs, not trying to look presentable and sit in a desk chair and uphold my reputation as a skilled professional.

Our Thanksgiving was a good one. Lots to be grateful for this year -- an uncomplicated, healthy pregnancy; the promise of two new family members; a Democratic House and Senate; health, prosperity, a peaceful existence, etc. My brother, parents, and in-laws were all here. They, and A., did the lion's share of the cooking, cleaning up, etc., while I served primarily as armchair orchestrator. ("Someone should check the broccoli. Time to start boiling the potatoes. Who's on dinner rolls? Broccoli? Status, please?) There was a palpable sense of excitement and preparation around the bambinas, and as we all said goodbye it was remarkable to note that the next time we see our parents, they will most likely be grandparents.

Wowza.

I don't have time now, but will soon post about our post-partum doula-to-be, whom we met earlier this week. Stay tuned...

(Quick fashion shout out: pants and stylish faux-suede over-shirt featured in photo are courtesy of Bihari. They will soon be passed along to the Motel Manager.)

Five things

2006-11-16T15:56:00.000-05:00

I've been tagged by the Motel Manager to tell you five things you don't know about me, and now I'm wishing I hadn't revealed in an earlier post my favorite little surprise to spring on people – the fact that I did some professional acting/modeling, including a couple of national commercials, as a kid. Not that my career was particularly illustrious, but it makes a good party anecdote. Anyway, here are 5 other things you probably don't know about me.

1. I have an excellent ear for foreign languages and can parrot phrases from almost any language virtually accent-free. (I admittedly haven't tried it much with Asian languages). This gets me into trouble sometimes, because I'll be traveling or talking to a foreigner and say something like "hello, how are you," or "how much does this cost?" or "where is the bathroom," quite skillfully, and the person I'm addressing, assuming I am fluent or close to it, will launch into a fast, complicated reply. I then have no choice but to look at them blankly, say, "excuse me?" (perfectly), and feel like I've disappointed them in a profound way.

2. Dirty Dancing is one of my favorite movies. Not in an ironic way, and not in a purely nostalgic way either. Although I am well aware of its cheesiness, and the fact that it is pure soft-porn fantasy fodder for women, I actually really like it. And if Johnny Castle pointed at me to come dirty dance with him after I'd carried a watermelon up to the staff party, I'd be there in two seconds flat. You got a problem with that?

3. I have eaten the flesh of the following animals (in addition to the basics – chicken, cow, fish, etc.): African porcupine, monkey, jungle cat, alpaca, antelope, wild boar, buffalo, alligator, and grub.

4. I hate olives, and wish that I didn't. I like the idea of olives. They seem to go right along with things like cheese and bread and wine and even olive oil, all of which I love on both an aesthetic level and for their taste, texture, etc. But not so with olives. I really can't stand them. And it makes me sad.

5. I am related quite closely to Dick Thornburgh, former governor of Pennsylvania and U.S. Attorney General under George Bush the 1st. (He is my late grandfather's first cousin). I am related more distantly to Benjamin Franklin (I am a descendant of his niece, Polly). I am also a direct descendant of Sir Thomas More (whose daughter, scandalously, married the protestant William Roper).

And you, my dear readers? What 5 things don't I know about you? Feel free to post a reply in your comments. And if you've got a blog, consider yourself tagged.

A belly shot soon – I promise!

The End is Near

2006-11-15T09:25:00.000-05:00

I saw my OB yesterday, and he confirmed my suspicion that the abdominal tenderness is most likely due to BFS (Baby Foot Syndrome), in combination with the overall stretching and straining of my uterine walls, stomach muscles, and skin. There's just a whole lot going on in there, he said, and the tenderness is nothing to worry about unless it gets noticeably worse and/or is accompanied by any bleeding or other scary symptoms. So, I am reassured.

I'm also suddenly aware that I'm very much on the home stretch, and that before I know it, these babies are gonna be on the outside. At yesterday's appointment, I was handed a stack of brochures about hospital birth procedures and anasthesia, consent forms, and birth certificate worksheets. I was asked how I planned to feed them (I almost said, "Well, I make a decent living...." until I realized she meant boob or formula) and if we had bought car seats yet. (Yes, and in fact A. and his dad installed them this weekend, just to make sure they fit, weren't defective, etc.)

The weirdest thing, though, was hearing the doc say, "We just want to keep those babies in there for at least another three and a half weeks." Three and a half weeks!! Crazy to think that they could be born that soon, and probably be more or less OK, with a little extra baking in the NICU. But I think they're going to hang in longer than that.

Then, last night, I did a prenatal yoga video, and -- I know this is ridiculous -- but I felt slightly sad about the prospect of not being pregnant anymore. On a psychological level, mind you, not a physical one. All the anticipation and hope and preparation and excitement are so uniquely intense. And then there's the apprehension at the prospect of suddenly having these two new human beings in our life. They may make my back hurt, but they're basically pretty easy to take care of at this point, and I enjoy feeling them wriggling and boogeying in there, so much a part of me. I'm not quite ready to flush them out yet.

Try a little tenderness

2006-11-13T20:21:00.000-05:00

In addition to the aching on the right side of my back that seems to develop and worsen as the day goes on, I now am experiencing some pain/discomfort in my upper abdomen. There is a specific spot on the upper part of my belly, just right of center, that's very tender to the touch. (And often, when I press there, I feel some small baby part of some sort underneath....I think.) In addition, the general area of my upper right abdomen, right at the top of my big ole watermelon belly, feels like a pulled muscle or a stitch in my side.

My first thought was that the tender spot came from the vivacious Twin B's constant squirming, stretching, and kicking, and that the pulled-muscle sensation was just growing pains. But I made the mistake of Googling "tender abdomen pregnancy" and "abdominal tenderness pregnancy" and the like, and have now diagnosed myself with either a placental abruption or appendicitis. Damn the internet! Fortunately, I'm seeing my OB tomorrow, and hopefully he will be able to shed some light on this latest little discomfort and cure me of my paranoia.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm this close to sending a surly email out to everyone in my office informing them that the expression is "flesh out," NOT "flush out," unless they're talking about colonic irrigation.

Things I'm looking forward to

2006-11-08T09:59:00.000-05:00

Specifically, those that have to do with not being pregnant. At 30 weeks and 34 pounds above my pre-pregnancy weight, it's starting to get a little old. I will look forward to....

1. Being able to sleep on my back or stomach or however I damn well please. (In what little time I actually get to sleep...)

2. Wearing non-maternity clothes

3. Wine

4. Not waddling

5. Not constantly aching

6. Not constantly having to pee

7. Did I mention the wine?

8. Not having cankles and swollen feet

9. Being able to wear my wedding and engagement rings again

10. Finally meeting (holding, feeding, dressing, soothing, changing, bathing, gazing moonily at) my little girls

On the other hand, I will miss...

1. Having an excuse to get out of events and social occasions I'd rather skip

2. Not feeling guilty about eating dessert, or eating in general

3. Not feeling guilty about driving to work

4. The simplicity of wearing the same clothes over and over again

5. Getting as good a night's sleep as I actually am getting, relatively speaking.

6. Getting massages from my husband that I'm not obligated to reciprocate

7. Having time to write

8. Having time to read

9. Feeling the monkeys kicking and moving inside me

10. The money I've saved by not drinking wine

Breaths and Compressions

2006-11-05T13:08:00.000-05:00

Yesterday we took our third and final baby-related class: infant safety and CPR. This was infinitely better than our childbirth class. Of course, now I feel compelled to insist that anyone who is ever alone with our children be CPR certified. The instructional video we watched included a harrowing scene of two grandparents babysitting their infant granddaugther. ("Don't worry; everything will be fine. You kids have a good time.") When grandma goes in to check on the baby in her crib, she's stopped breathing. She proceeds to perform CPR until the paramedics arrive. We don't find out what happens, but to my eye, that baby looked pretty dead. Then again, it was a doll. My point, though, is that neither my parents or A's know how to perform infant CPR. I think when they're here for Thanksgiving, I'm going to give them a little crash course. I'll demonstrate on the turkey.

No other big news. I'm feeling increasingly tired, unwieldy, and achey. A good night's sleep is a thing of the past; I wake up every few hours either needing to pee, needing to change positions (which takes some doing), or needing to pop a couple of Tums. The heartburn is killer, and what or when I eat seems to make no difference. It really is a cruel irony that in the last weeks of pregnancy it's impossible to sleep through the night.

The fatigue and achiness, coupled with the feeling that there are a million things I need to do, make it difficult to get in good, solid stretches of writing. And being on the homestretch of a novel draft is a surprisingly daunting place to be. I've been piling up characters and plotlines and now, somehow, I'm supposed to make it all come together and Mean Something. Knowing, of course, that most of what I wrote in the beginning will end up changing in the rewrite anyway. It's a little like running across a bridge that's crumbling behind you.

And sometimes I'm convinced that I've forgotten how to write entirely. The other day, I copied out a few paragraphs from a novel pulled at random from my shelves, just to convince myself that what I'm writing bears at least some passing resemblance to what is generally accepted as fiction writing.

I'm trying not to worry too much about how I'm going to get this novel done after the monkeys show up, and simply accept that it may take several years. At 32, I'm too old to be a wunderkind, or even a "promising young voice in contemporary fiction," anyway. The (Iowa Writers') Workshop sort of fucks you up into thinking you have to hit it big as soon as possible. Things like family, children, the need for income, etc. don't really figure in. I've tried hard to remind myself that there are many paths and paces to publication. (Julia Glass, for example, didn't publish the fabulous Three Junes until she was in her mid-forties.) But it's not always easy to hang on to that perspective. Especially when you see your classmates' stories showing up in The New Yorker or spot their books on the shelves of your local B&N. They're giving readings, I'm giving urine specimens to my obstetrician. It's my choice, and I don't regret it. I just hope I don't lose the time and motivation to write entirely.

My babies rule.

2006-10-31T11:34:00.000-05:00

Ultrasound / checkup results:

Twin A (presenting, i.e. closer to cervix): 3 pounds (35th percentile - just fine for a twin)

Twin B (upper): 2 pounds, 12 ounces (25th percentile -- ditto)

Both: Still girls, head down (Wahoo!!!), healthy heartbeats, very active, good amniotic fluid, and extremely cute

Cervix: Long-n-tight, no funneling

Mama: good weight gain and blood pressure. Survived icky glucose challenge -- results TBA. Got flu shot. Once again, not so good at the whole ultrasound thing. Two bouts of faintness/dizziness, luckily caught in time. (No vomiting or passing out). Taking a break, changing positions and cold compresses helped. A. was a champion advocate. And the doc doing the scan was very good, compassionate, vigilant, etc.

A.: Awesome. Not afraid to ask questions, check in frequently, or speak on my behalf and ask for more time / help / rest / explanations / etc. when I'm trying to be a tough guy or a nice, well-behaved patient. He's going to be amazing during the birth.

Overall: Fabulous. All is going extremely well. No problems, no signs of early labor, both babies growing well. I'm thrilled that they're both head down. They could still conceivably change positions, but their current positions bode well for a vaginal delivery, which would make me very happy. I'd really like to avoid a casearean birth if possible.

Best Halloween costume seen in waiting room: a man with a hat in the shape of a roast chicken. The best part was how he just sat there next to his pregnant wife, reading the paper, acting perfectly normal and quite serious -- but with a chicken on his head.

Shower #2

2006-10-30T09:53:00.000-05:00

If shower #1 was lovely, shower #2 (co-ed, planned and attended by friends only, no family) was downright cool. The gifts were decidedly hipper (see above), the banter much wittier (even without my deaf, senile great aunt in attendance), and the energy more youthful, celebratory, and ribald. I even broke out my fishnet stockings for the occasion. There were three other pregnant women in attendance, as well as some cute little peanuts. Trust me: you haven't lived until you've heard a two and a half year old stand in the middle of your kitchen and sing Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire."

It was funny, though -- a few times during the afternoon I was struck with the sensation that the grownups had gone out and left the kids (A. and I and all of the guests, that is) without a babysitter. Not because we drew on the walls or swung from the chandeliers or anything. In fact, there are no chandeliers in our house. But because there we were, with our friends ranging in age from their early thirties to early forties, celebrating this huge, imminent thing completely on our own. No real grown-ups there to smile knowingly and dole out motherly advice. Of course, there were a few moms there, but young ones with small children, still in the thick of things. Quite a different presence from that of the aunties and grandmas and other matriarchal types at Shower #1.

I'm very glad to have had both kinds of showers -- the lovely and the cool. Seems like it's a good reflection of the kind of help and support one wants and needs going into parenthood: wise, old relatives to make you feel safe and secure and part of a generational continuum; and friends closer to your own age and stage in life who can keep you laughing and feeling like yourself.

Many thanks to the two ladies (both frequent blog readers) who put yesterday's coolness together. You rock.

Livin' Large

2006-10-28T15:00:00.000-04:00

Well, I passed the 28 weeks mark a few days ago, which means I'm now in my third trimester. Although, given that I'll probably deliver at or around 36 weeks instead of the usual 40, I suppose the math should be a little different. But anyway.

As you can see, I just keep on getting bigger. (Though people continue to tell me I don't look as big as they would expect me to; they may just be saying it to be polite.) My weight gain has now surpassed 30 pounds, and I'm definitely feeling heavy. My back is frequently quite achey, getting up and down out of chairs or bed takes some doing, and picking things up from the floor is a real pain in the ass. I don't know how women with toddlers manage being pregnant. In my experience, keeping after toddlers requires a lot of picking things up off the floor (sippy cups, goldfish crackers, globs of play-doh, little plastic toys). And it strikes me as rather dangerous to leave them there if your view of the floor is obscured by a large, burgeoning abdomen. Hats off to those moms out there who have managed it.

The end is certainly within view now, and it's exciting. I feel as ready as I think I'm going to. In fact, in general, I've felt much more emotionally and psychologically solid in the past few weeks, even as I feel less comfortable physically.

Some part of me, I think, decided it had had just about enough of fear and doubt and neurotic churning. That part said, step aside, ye lackeys, I'm taking over. It's time to get excited and googly-eyed about these babies, ready to welcome them into the world and love them, ready to dive into the intensity and earth-shattering change of parenthood, in all its splendor and squalor.

Or, to quote the great John Prine, "Your heart gets bored with your mind and it changes you."

Of course, there are still moments of panic and disproportionate moodiness: Me, yesterday, at Babies-R-Us (shudder) with A., struggling to fit infant seats onto the double stroller frame I'd bought off of Craig's list, realizing they wouldn't fit, and that I'd wasted fifty bucks. Sitting in the car on the way home in tears, pouting, whining, "I don't want two babies! Why can't I just have one baby like everyone else?" Wah, wah, wah.

In other news, we've met with a couple of pediatricians now; the first one didn't impress us. She came off more like a PR exec than a doctor -- suspiciously well-coiffed and bearing a glint of something like lunacy in her eyes. Also, strangely, there were almost no toys in the waiting room; just a little table with a jigsaw puzzle on it. Hmm... The second doctor was much better: young, laid-back, friendly, accessible, and quite sharp. Also, they had good toys. We're going to meet with one more doc before we decide, but I'd be very happy with #2. (Who knew you were supposed to interview pediatricians? Not me a year ago, that's for sure.)

Well, the ole novel is a calling. I spent an hour yesterday roughly outlining what needs to happen in the next few (final!) chapters, and have no excuse for stalling.

Ultrasound on Tuesday. We expect the twins to be in costume. Here's hoping they are also both heading in the head-down direction, and growing beautifully.

Hear me meow

2006-10-22T10:30:00.000-04:00

Ten minutes into the day-long intensive childbirth class we took yesterday, the instructor put this photo up on the screen. "What does this photo say to you?" she asked.

Silence, slightly bewildered looks.

"Come on, what does it say to you? Nothing?"

A few people offered half-hearted replies. (Well-trained dogs? A stupid cat?)

No, no, no. This picture was supposed to make us think of a strong, confident woman. And inspire us as we thought about birth, and our ability to get through it successfully.

Five minutes later, we were sitting on birthing balls getting our backs rubbed by our husbands, having been given absolutely no context on the process or progression of labor, physiological, emotional, or otherwise. That came about an hour later, after we covered what to pack for the hospital, were asked "What does a hospital johnny mean to you?" and two men were goaded into putting on empathy bellies and asked to bend over to tie their shoes for our amusement.

For my money -- $150 to be exact, most of which will fortunately be reimbursed by our health insurance -- a childbirth class is pretty important. They shouldn't let people with the competence of your average high school substitute teacher run them. No matter how long they've been an obstetric nurse, or how grandmotherly and warm they are, or how amusing their Boston accent may be.

I wouldn't say the day was a total loss; the tour of the maternity ward was good, and I liked getting my back rubbed by A. It's also been a long time since I had the fun of trying to suppress hysterical laughter, as I did as a result of the German shepherd / cat / I am woman moment. In fact, I'm considering printing out the picture and bringing it with me to have at the hospital while I labor. Laughter has got to be good for getting through contractions.

Baseless scientific theories

2006-10-18T15:06:00.000-04:00

Every once in awhile, I like to come up with my own medical/physiological theories, based on absolutely nothing except my own experience and my 11th grade level of science education. It's fun!

For example, (warning: TMI ahead) in the 15 months that we were trying to conceive, there were two specific times when I had distinct signs that I might be ovulating, in the form of abundant, fertile-quality cervical mucus. Both times, I happened to be in Europe. (Please note: it's not generally a habit of mine to go to Europe twice in 15 months, but it was a year of consciously doing things I wouldn't be able to do after children.) Therefore, I postulated that either 1.) Europe makes me ovulate or 2.) The whole milk, cheese, and chocolate that I tended to consume more of in Europe was making me ovulate. It also occurred to me that it might be some weird side effect of jet lag -- my hormonal clock getting thrown out of whack. In fact, this is probably the most plausible explanation. But that didn't stop me from eating more cheese and chocolate as we continued in vain to try to get pregnant.

So, here's another theory: trapped gas can cause muscle aches. How do I know this? Well, my back has been quite sore for the past week, partly as a result of lifting something I shouldn't have lifted. Last night, A. came home after being away for several days, and gave me a nice long massage. While he was doing it, I couldn't stop burping. It was the strangest thing. I just burped, and burped, and burped. A. thought I was about to explode. Now, normally, in my experience, husband-administered massages feel good while they're happening, but don't really get rid of the pain. But after this particular one, I felt almost 100% better. I attribute it to the burping.

I leave you with one final theory -- well, a hypothesis, really -- perhaps slightly less scientifically plausible than the others: The twins understand English. I swear, whenever A. or I say anything remotely negative or skeptical about life after these babies come--like "how the hell are we going to go anywhere with TWO infants?" or "maybe we should have waited another 10 years to have kids" or "I say we make them get jobs and pay for their own damned diapers" -- they start thrashing. Particularly twin B, who is closer to my mouth, and obviously can hear me more clearly. It gives one pause.

Lovely

2006-10-15T23:11:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, my aunt hosted a lovely baby shower for me, down in my Connecticut hometown. As I write this, I realize that the only time I seem to use the word "Lovely" with sincerity is in reference to things like wedding or baby showers, wedding ceremonies, memorial services, flower arrangements, and quaint hotels. If I were ever to attend a garden party, I'm sure that would be "lovely" too. Lovely can be nice, if one is in the mood. Fortunately, I was.

In attendance at the shower: aunts, great aunts, cousins, cousins-in-law, A's mother and grandmother, my mother, several high school friends, and a few family friends. I think I managed to do a good job of being gracious and grateful and refraining from making un-lovely, off-color comments as I opened gift after gift after gift. It was hard work, though. My mom took lots of pictures of me opening things and reacting pleasantly, but these pictures highlight the fact that in addition to carrying around two babies, I am carrying an extra chin. So there's no way in hell I'm going to post any of them here.

Instead, I give you a shot of the haul, above. It was quite impressive. Lots of cute clothes, blankets, toys, books, etc. Even a couple of gifts for moi – a "new mom" goody bag, a pair of awesome "thank you for carrying our grandchildren" earrings from my mother in law. Not shown here: two infant car seats, two high-tech high chairs passed along by a friend, and two bouncy seats.

Also not shown: the "room box" that my aunt made. It's like a dollhouse, but just one room (a nursery), so more like a diorama. It's got miniature wallpaper, carpet, two cribs, a changing table, and shelves with teeny little toys and baby products, including a box of Pampers, a tube of Desitin, and a bottle of Johnson's baby shampoo. It's quite, well, lovely.

It was one of several extremely girly gifts I/we got. Others included a couple of lace bonnets accompanied by a poem about how they're supposed to become the "something old" at each girl's future wedding (someone said, "and if one of them turns out to be a boy, he can give it to his bride" I said, "and if they turn out to be lesbians, well then…"); and a pair of pink tutus. According to the experienced moms there, many little girls go through a phase where they want to wear a tutu everywhere they go. We'll be prepared. There is actually a pretty decent picture of me with one of the tutus on my head. If I can figure out how to airbrush out my second chin, I'll post it.

I should note, I have nothing against girly gifts for my girls. Really, they're all very sweet and thoughtful things, and for all I know, the girls will adore them. I guess I just have a hard time getting excited about them because that's not the kind of little girl I was. It's not that I was a tomboy; I had dolls and even a dollhouse, I liked wearing dresses, I liked fairy tales, and I took ballet classes (though I never went through a tutu phase as far as I know). But I was much more into stuff like books and word games, coloring and painting, singing and listening to music, playing outside, doing the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle, building particle accelerators, coming up with novel wine and cheese pairings, etc. It will be interesting to see to where each of my girls ends up on the girly-girl spectrum. (That's an actual, scientific spectrum, by the way; I read some articles on it in scholarly journals when I was three and a half.)

Another interesting little moment: my aunt reminding me (before everyone got there – thank goodness) that she had the family Christening gown to give me, and then wondering how we'd decide which one of the twins would wear it. It was the first time I'd actually told anyone beyond my immediate family (who could care less) that we're not planning to baptize the girls. It wasn't a huge deal; my relatives, with a couple of exceptions, are not uber religious. But the majority on both my father and mother's side are church goers, and it follows that babies in the family have always just gotten baptized as a matter of course.

The thing is, I don't consider myself a practicing Christian anymore, and A. is technically Jewish (his mother is Jewish, his father Protestant) but isn't religious. We don't belong to any church or congregation, though we hit a Unitarian service now and then, and may join a Unitarian church when the girls are older. And if they decide they want to become Christians or Jews or Zoararastrians, more power to 'em. Initially, though, they're just going to be little heathens.

A few more quick highlights from the day:

1. My great aunt, 90-something, mostly deaf, and entirely senile, asking me who I was after I kissed her hello. Later, apropos of nothing, while I was in the middle of opening a gift, she hollered, "I don't think I've seen you since you were a little girl!" I told her she'd been at my wedding five years earlier, but this fell on deaf ears. Literally. I tried talking to her later, but by then she'd forgotten who I was again. Poor woman. It must be disconcerting to be driven three hours to a house full of strangers and have absolutely no idea why you're there. But I guess as long as the food is good…

2. A's Grandmother, 96 years old: "Honey, when is the baby due?"
Me: "Early January, but more likely late December. And it's two babies, remember?" (she'd just given me two sleepers. And she's known since June that we're having twins.)
Her: Two?! How wonderful! Is it a boy or a girl?

3. One of A's relatives saying in front of the whole group – perhaps a third of whom knew that I'd used fertility drugs – "So, really, no twins run in the family at all?" I smiled and shook my head. She kept going. "It's just unbelievable, isn't it? Nobody in your family, really?" My mother gallantly jumped in at that point and said that my second cousin twice removed, in England, had identical twin daughters. (This is, in fact, true, but completely irrelevant.)

4. After A's grandmother and great aunt left, my deaf great aunt hollering, "who were those old people?"

All in all, it was a lovely time. To those of my dear readers who were there: thank you.

I am my own grandpa

2006-10-12T13:24:00.000-04:00

Well, it's official: I am starting to walk funny. I've just noticed it in the past few days. I wouldn't call it a waddle, exactly. It's just a slow, slightly stilted gait. I feel like I'm being pulled forward by my belly, and the rest of my body is a few paces behind. Actually, I think I 'm walking rather like my late grandfather -- a sweet, rotund man with hypertension who played Santa Claus at church functions when I was a kid. I usually walk REALLY fast (friends always tell me to slow the hell down) so it's funny to have it take so long to get places.

And speaking of it taking a long time to get places: I'm starting to get impatient. I really want to meet these babies. It's not that I'm fed up with being pregnant (though a glass of chardonnay and a good night's sleep on my stomach or back would certainly be nice), and Lord knows I could use the time to power forward on this novel draft and do other things that I won't be able to do easily after they're born. But I'm growing a bit tired of being in limbo, not knowing what to expect. The more I feel these little monkeys moving around, the more eager I am to see what they look like and hold them and feed them and kiss their little cheeks. Then, patience has never been one of my virtues.

10-12 more weeks, if all goes well. Time waddles on.

How incredibly cool is this?

2006-10-10T18:07:00.000-04:00

My company is doing major renovations to our office, and is going to be crowding everyone into one side of the office and then the other to get it all done --everyone, that is, EXCEPT those people who can easily work from home, including yours truly. SO, for the next 3 weeks (at a minimum) I will be working from home, only going in as needed for meetings/brainstorming sessions. Wahoooooo! The timing couldn't be better. I'm hoping that, as with most major construction projects, it gets delayed and extended so that I end up having to work from home right up through Thanksgiving when I say sayanora.

What else? Today I had an OB visit. The babies' hearts are pumping away -- wah, wah, wah, wah (that's my impression of a doppler). Baby A's heartbeat was 140 and Baby B's was 156 (she's the one who is generally more active, so this wasn't surprising.)

My doctor said my measurements and weight all look fine, though he could stand to have me be gaining weight a little more quickly. (The words every girl loves to hear...) This blows my mind, though, given how huge I feel. Also, I think he's counting from my weight at my first visit, at which point I'd already gained 5 pounds. From pre-pregnancy to now I've gained a total of 28 pounds. Given that I have at least 10 weeks to go (knock on wood), that seems pretty damned good to me. I don't doubt that I will top 40 pounds of gain, which was the goal all along.

My next visit will be on Halloween, at which time I will do the glucose tolerance test (bleah) and have an ultrasound to see how the bambinas are growing. I can't wait for that. Here's hoping there won't be barfing/fainting involved this time.

Ye Olde Pregnant Lady

2006-10-08T20:52:00.000-04:00

We went to King Richard's Faire yesterday, an annual renaissance /medieval /whatever nerdfest on the South Shore, in the heart of cranberry country. It was a good, if expensive afternoon, rife with jousting, juggling, overpriced food, cleavage, tights, cloaks, etc. I kept thinking the whole time how much fun it would be to come back in a few years with the monkeys, preferably dressed up as princesses or pirates or something. (There were many cute, costumed kids in attendance, and far more costumed adults, many of them not especially cute.)

Anyway, I wanted A. to take a picture of me with something that would make me look less huge by comparison, so this is what we came up with: some big purple guy thing. Actually, I liked this purple guy, because while everyone else there was attempting horrible, terrible, no good, very bad (and no doubt historically inaccurate) British accents, this purple guy had a Brooklyn thing going on: "You want a pikcha, sweethaht? Soitenly!"

And then there are days like today

2006-10-05T13:13:00.000-04:00

When A. and I wake up and loll in bed for half an hour thinking up baby names (two is a lot harder than one, because they have to sound good together, sort of); and when I look out into the back yard while I eat my breakfast I imagine, a year from now, watching two little baby girls in sweaters taking their first bobbling steps; and I get a package in the mail from my friend Viva containing two of the kick-ass toddler t-shirt pictured above; and the babies are kicking and rolling and squirming all over the place; and I'm about to spend the afternoon writing, and the air outside is crisp and autumnal, and life feels pretty damned good.

Whereas yesterday, I was exhausted and out of it and blue, feeling as if my life, like some goofy cowboy's horse, had at some point walked out from under me, and here I was hanging onto a branch, feet dangling, wondering how long I'd be stuck like this. Only about 16 hours, as it turned out. Then, who knows how I'll feel tomorrow?

OK, but seriously

2006-10-03T11:31:00.000-04:00

Several readers have requested a follow-up to yesterday's post, so here goes: Fortunately, the fainting and my ignominious exit from the train happened at the Mass General T stop, which meant I could go right across the street and up to my OB's office. A T employee was kind enough to escort me to the hospital door.

One of the triage nurses saw me, took my blood pressure, checked the babies' heartbeats, and deemed everything A-OK. Fainting is pretty common in pregnant women, she said. It was probably a combination of low blood sugar -- I had a bowl of cereal for breakfast, but she suggested I start eating more protein in the mornings -- and the stuffiness/squeeziness of the train. So, I took a taxi home and spent the rest of the day napping / eating protein / drinking water / and even doing a little work. Then I ran 4 miles and lifted some weights. Just kidding!

The whole thing was indeed scary and unsettling, but at least there was no damage done.

I'm still not feeling 100% today. But I did have one helluva breakfast: an egg sandwich with cheese, a banana, a blueberry muffin, and orange juice. All this spread out over a two-hour span of time.

A. and I have decided it would probably be best for me to drive to work from now on, and I'm sure the employees of the MBTA would agree. Of course, if I pass out while I'm driving, I'm truly fucked, but I don't think it's likely. I promise to A.) Eat more protein in the mornings B.) Pull over immediately if I feel even the least bit woozy and vow on the souls of my unborn children never to drive myself to work again.

Here's hoping that this works out. Not that I would mind terribly working from home. But I'd rather not resort to it unless I absolutely have to. My plan is still to keep working as usual -- and I only work 3 days a week, mind you -- through Thanksgiving. Then, I'm going to spend the last 2 to 6 weeks of my pregnancy lounging around in my jammies, Christmas shopping online, reading books I won't have time to read later, and finishing my novel draft. Poor me!

Thanks for your concern. And remember to support your local performance artist!

Hendrix-themed Performance Art Stuns Red Line Commuters

2006-10-02T10:32:00.000-04:00

BOSTON -- A select group of commuters riding on the Red Line today witnessed an unannounced, groundbreaking work of performance art, which culminated in the artist--an unidentified woman in her early thirties, visibly pregnant--lying unconscious in a pool of her own vomit.

The performance began at approximately 7:50 am, when the artist boarded the train at Alewife station. For the first ten minutes of the work, she sat calmly reading a paperback copy of Middlemarch. John Clemson, 42, a biotech executive from Belmont who was sitting across from the artist recalls, "at that point I didn't realize it was art. I don't think any of us did. I just thought it was an ordinary woman on her way to work, reading a really big book."

The tone of the performance shifted when the artist began to appear somewhat uncomfortable, just as the train was leaving Harvard Square station. She began taking deep breaths and sitting up straighter, her eyes closed. According to spectators, as the train left Central Square station, she put her book into her bag and sat leaning forward, her elbows on her knees and her head reclined. Clemson recalls that at that point, he began to wonder whether "something was up."

The train was leaving Kendall Square station when "all of a sudden, she just, like, keeled over onto the seat next to her," according to Katie Donovan, 20, a Boston College student. "And I guess she puked or something, because when she got up there was stuff in her hair and on her clothes and on the seat. I figured she was just drunk. I did practically the same thing on Friday night. But I would never drink if I was pregnant. That's just wrong."

While train was stopped at the Charles/Mass General Hospital station, a passenger alerted MBTA staff to the incident. Another passenger came to the artist's aid, waking her up and asking her if she was all right. The artist seemed confused and disoriented, and after sitting up, began looking in her bag, evidently for tissues, to clean up the vomit on the seat.

An MBTA official then boarded the train and escorted the artist onto the platform. It isn't known whether he was a collaborator in the performance or was simply responding to the situation as if it were, in fact, an actual medical emergency. While the train was still stopped and the artist stood on the platform, looking dazed, several women exited the train and offered her napkins and tissues, which she accepted. Finally, she was escorted away from the halted train by another MBTA official.

"I thought it was brilliant," said Lawrence Cahill, a professor of art at Harvard University, who also witnessed the morning's performance. "When I started applauding, everyone looked at me like I was being insensitive. But I explained that, clearly, this was meant as a surrealist, post-feminist homage-cum-protest piece, most likely referencing the demise of Jimi Hendrix. It all made perfect sense: the pregnancy, Middlemarch, the fainting, the vomit, the bizarre yet telling search for tissues. Even the time and place: rush hour on a Monday morning, on a phallic-shaped mode of public transport. The influence of Koptenschauer is clear, and possibly Graemson. Of course, naturally one can't help wondering if there was a nod to DuChamp in there as well." According to Cahill, two or three other passengers eventually joined him in applauding the work.

"It was a little scary," said Somerville's Marcus Lowe, 26, a Dunkin Donuts cashier, "but I like how it challenged the definition of art. That's something you don't normally get on your Monday morning commute."

The artist herself could not be located for comment.

Let the nesting begin

2006-09-30T12:39:00.000-04:00

A. finished painting the nursery this week -- he did a fabulous, beautiful job -- and on Thursday we put up the above wall border. Adorable, ain't it? There's also a camel on it, which you can't see on the swatch, but which is ecologically incorrect anyway. Camels don't live in the same habitat as monkeys, elephants, and giraffes. I hope this kind of thing won't keep our daughters out of the Ivy League. On second thought -- yeah, like we could afford to send one child, let alone two, to an Ivy League school. Yes, girls: two-humped camels live in the African savannah. 2 + 3 is 7. And it's pronounced "Nuke-yuh-ler." Now fill out those beauty school applications.

Anyway, all the gear that has lived on our porch for the past month now lives in the nursery. Next up, we need to assemble the cribs, move in the old bureaus my parents are bringing down for us, hang some curtains (I may make them, if I'm feeling inspired), and add some other decor. When it's all done, probably not for at least a month, I'll take some pictures and post 'em here.

I also scored some stuff today from the big tag sale put on by the Mother of Twins club. Oy. What a zoo. First, you have to make it past the shrieking, nubile young teenage field hockey players running a car wash out front (it was held at a high school). Then, you wait in line (it opens a half hour early for members, and I was told that all the good stuff goes quick) and make chit chat with other twin mothers or mothers to be. Then the doors open and you cram into a space which was most decidedly NOT the gym, as I had imagined, but something much squeezier and labrynthine, and try to maneuver your way around unwieldy double strollers and unwieldy pregnant women, oblivious toddlers, beleaguered fathers, and aggressive grandmothers to get to the gear section, where the "good stuff" is.

As I wasn't in the market for cribs, high chairs or a stroller (a friend just gave us their gorgeous Peg Perego double stroller -- ciao bella!) I just checked out the bouncy seats and bathtubs, scored one of each in mint condition, then moved on to the clothes. There were mounds of these. I got a bunch of 0-6 month stuff -- onesies, sleepers, denim overalls (too cute for words), etc., much of it Baby Gap and Carters. Quality shit, man.

Getting the clothes raised an interesting question in my mind: at what point will it be important for each of the girls to have "their own" clothing, rather than communal, interchangeable stuff? At this point, I'm definitely not thinking of clothes for Twin A and clothes for Twin B. I'm just thinking: clothes. Whichever baby and onesie I happen to grab first, well, that's what you're wearing, kid. Any thoughts, theories, etc.? I'm guessing there's probably an age (maybe around 2 or 3?) where twins start to get possessive about what's "theirs," and maybe this will be the time to start "hers" and "hers" wardrobes. I just hope they start sharing again by the time they're teenagers.

And at this point, incidentally, if one of these babies turns out to be a boy, he's just going to have to be a transvestite. I may start playing some Judy Garland for the babies in utero, just so I have my bases covered.

Three questions and a hypothesis

2006-09-25T09:40:00.001-04:00

1. Shouldn't my boobs be getting bigger? I think they're smaller now than they were during the first trimester, and less dense. Or maybe my big ole belly is simply making them look small by comparison. In any case, they definitely don't seem to be growing. This concerns me a little bit. I hope they'll burgeon properly toward the end...

2. WHAT compels people to write thank you notes in the voice of their baby / child? As in "thank you for the beautiful blanket. My mommy wraps me up in it whenever we go out on walks." Ugh! Bleah! Gross! I'm sorry, call me a spoilsport, but I find this practice extremely un-cute and wholly annoying. I vow never to do it, ever.

3. Why, in books about natural childbirth, are the women in the photos and illustrations all completely naked? I mean, is it really necessary to be completely nude to labor and give birth naturally? I suppose if you're hot and sweaty and working hard, it might be more comfortable and practical to be unencumbered by clothing. But I get the feeling that these women are doing it to feel primal or natural or something. Most of the time their husbands are half-naked, too. I don't know; maybe it's because they all live in California. Anyway, there's just a little too much old Yankee WASP in me to long for this sort of communion with....whatever. I'll take a hospital gown, please. And one of those cute little surgical hats for my husband.

4. I think one of the girls had the hiccups last night. I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, when I felt a series of powerful little monkey convulsions in there, about 10 seconds apart. It lasted for a minute or two, and made me laugh out loud.

In the 24th week

2006-09-24T10:26:00.000-04:00

This week marks the arrival, in no uncertain terms, of the linea negra. Though in my case it's more like a linea light tan-a. If the pic weren't in black and white with the contrast pumped up, you'd have to strain even more to see it, but it's there. For some reason I find this very cool. An aside: whenever I think "linea negra" I think of the theme song from "Villa Allegre," which was a bi-lingual (Spanish) show that was on PBS when I was a kid. ("Linea Negra" fits into the melody/rhythm well, right where the words "Villa Allegre!" went.) I wasn't a fan of the show, though, and it always bummed me out when it came on after Sesame Street instead of Electric Company or, my favorite, 3-2-1 Contact. Just a bit of Gen X nostalgia for ya there.

Meanwhile, our front porch is getting quite crowded with second-hand baby gear. Last week, we bought a pair of beautiful Pali cribs & mattresses off of Craig's List. Also in residence on the porch: a double snap-n-go stroller frame (also courtesy of Craig's List), bags of hand-me-down girl baby clothes and crib bedding, a double breast pump brought all the way from Iowa City by a friend (hello, friend!), a "My Breast Friend" nusing pillow, which may or may not work for tandem twin nursing, and a beautiful rocking chair from my parents' house, which I have always loved. My parents have a picture of me in it at 2 years old, in a yellow bunny sleeper, with my thumb in my mouth and my finger in my belly button -- a strange security habit I had as a toddler.

SO, just waiting for A. to finish painting the nursery, and in it all goes. That's going to be fun; I love decorating. And it will be nice to have something so tactile and tangible to do.

What else? Well, my emotions continue to range from abject fear, sorrow, and regret to uncomfortable numbness to unadulterated excitement and elation -- the latter particularly when I feel the babies kicking and squirming, which they do with increasing force and frequency.

I wish I could say that I walk around on cloud nine all the time, but that just isn't the case. People seem to want pregnant women to be constantly, unambivalently blissed out. They come at you with big, knowing smiles on their faces, shower you with congratulations, and say "you must be so excited!" I can just imagine the looks of horror if, in reply, I said (quite truthfully) "Well, yes, I am very excited, but I'm also afraid that this is going to turn me into someone I don't know or even necessarily like, ruin my marriage, torpedo my husband's career, and prevent me from ever writing a word of fiction again. But I'm also just dying to meet my daughters, whom I love with the primal intensity of a mother Grizzly bear."

Am I a head case, or what?

But let me say this, ladies (and the rare, occasional man): it is a source of great comfort to be able to vent and ramble on this blog, and to read your wise, kind, funny, and supportive comments both here and via email. Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading.

It's the beginning of the end

2006-09-19T18:17:00.000-04:00

Of the honeymoon, that is. Sigh.

I've been blessed with a fairly easy pregnancy so far; hardly any morning sickness, no hemmorhoids, no bad acne outbreaks and, so far, no stretch marks. But, in the past week or so I've been starting to really feel the extra weight. I'm walking slower, getting winded more easily, feeling more tired and achey. And this morning, yet again, I almost fainted after walking to the T station. WTF?

The triumverate of pregnancy powers that be -- myself, my husband, and my doctor -- has concluded that it would probably be best if I bid farewell to my daily 17-minute walks to and from the T. I'm not happy about this; I really enjoy the walk, for the exercise and the pleasure of it. The overachiever in me says, "Oh, come on, it's not so bad, just slow down a little!" But even walking slowly, as I did on my way home tonight, wears me out. Not to mention the fact that in the evening when I walk my hands swell, and it hurts unless I hold them up in front of me like a surgeon. Which just looks deranged.

My doctor, who I saw today, said that this "doesn't bode well," for my being able to continue working indefinitely, and asked if in the next few weeks I might be able to start working from home some of the time. I probably could, but would hate to ask before it's absolutely, urgently necessary. I only work 3 days a week as it is. My goal was to keep working as usual through Thanksgiving, then use the vacation/unpaid time built into my contract (long story) to take me through delivery while still collecting a paycheck. We shall see.

I hate feeling impeded / limited. It's just not my style. And it's only going to get worse in the next 3 months. At least it's only temporary, and for a good cause.

On the upside, these babies are little kickin' fools! The nurse who did the doppler today was very impressed (and slightly frustrated, I think) by how active they were. Last night I took a look at my belly while they were breakdancing, and could see little pokes and pops from the outside. I love it! It makes me want to just bundle them up in my arms and kiss their little monkey faces. (After wiping off all the amniotic fluid and vernix and other gunk, of course.)

Belly shot to come soon....

Yoga for three

2006-09-18T17:08:00.000-04:00

Last night I finally went to a pre-natal yoga class at the yoga studio where I regularly (if not religiously) take classes. I'm not crazy about the time -- Sunday evening -- which is generally when I like to sit down with the mister over a big, starchy dinner and have whiny, existential conversations about the meaninglessness of our lives.

But the main reason I hadn't gone was that I've been being macho. I don't need no wimpy pre-natal yoga! I can still do the real thing! And I can -- certain postures aside. But this class rocked. It was relaxing but still somewhat rigorous, the teacher provided lots of modification options, and it was nice to be in a class with all pregnant women. Moreover, I liked having a bounded time and place to focus on my body and breathing and think about being pregnant in a more meditative and -- dare I say -- spiritual sort of way.

As the only twin mama in the class, I also got a sort of sly, secret satisfaction in thinking "babieS" whenever the instructor said baby, singular, as in "put your hand on your baby" or "try to picture your baby," etc. I felt like we were this cool, exclusive little club: me and my girls, hanging out on a Sunday night together, getting our prahna on. The thought of only having one baby inside seemed so lonely.

In other news, I finally feel like a real blogger, as I have been tagged by the Motel Manager to do one of these word association thingys. I'm supposed to quickly riff on the four words provided by the MM. Here goes:

Deodorant. I immediately think of an armpit--perhaps my own--striated with white, creamy, flaky lines of the stuff. Then I think of my mother getting dressed when I was a kid, and how after she put on deodorant (the roll-on kind) she'd flap her elbows up and down, chicken-like, to get it to dry (I assume). Then I think of the first deodorant that I ever got, in sixth grade, which was a tiny white and pink container (tube? receptacle?) of -- I kid you not -- Teen Spirit. Smelled like a mosquito, my libido, etc.

Throwback. When I think of this word, it is immediately followed in my mind by either the phrase "to the McCarthy era" or "to the Nixon years." I have no idea why. I wish, instead, it made me think of fish that are too small and have to be thrown back, but I'd be lying if I said it did.

Period. After all these years, Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret still springs immediately to mind. But maybe only because I was just thinking about the Nixon years, which is when I think the book was published. All I know is that by the time I read it they didn't sell belts for sanitary pads anymore, and I wish I'd known that the first time I read the book, because they sounded like some kind of medieval torture device, and undermined the whole premise of the plot for me: why the hell would anyone want to get their period??

Blossom. This also makes me think of Are You There God? It's Me Margaret. Is something wrong with me? On second thought, I am reminded of the hit television sitcom of the early nineties, and more specifically of the actress Jenna Von Oy, who played Blossom's best friend, Six. Jenna and I and our mothers used to ride the train into New York together, back when I was doing modeling/TV commercials as a kid. She was sort of like a kid sister to me. Once we were in a commercial together for Duncan Hines "Crispy Chewy" Chocolate Chip Cookies. (Jingle sung to the tune of "Love and Marriage" by yours truly and a chorus of other belting brats.) Jenna Von Oy is her real name, but the umlaut she started putting over the "Oy" is totally fake. Still, I respect her work.

I think I'm supposed to tag other people now and make them do this, but I basically read the same blogs the Motel Manager does, so I'm at a loss. But I suppose I could tag Bihari at Iowadrift and Scruffylooking at her eponymous blog. And anyone else who wants to reply in the comments, be my guest. Here are your words:

1. Doughnut (or "Donut" if you prefer)
2. Kick-stand
3. Monkey
4. Attic

Feet, hands, teeth

2006-09-15T12:09:00.000-04:00

My Dansko clogs have arrived, and already I have developed a deep and abiding love for them. Marvelous shoes! I also got myself a pair of cheapo slip-on flats at Old Navy yesterday, so I'm covered in the pregnancy footwear department, assuming I don't have any dress-up events to attend in the next few months (don't think I do....) and it doesn't snow bloody murder before I stop going to work.

Meanwhile, today my hands have been swelling, making me fear that my wedding and engagement ring were going to get stuck, if not now, then soon. So, off they came, and the ring is now on a chain around my neck, because I'm a sentimental gal like that. It also makes for easy old-world gender-prediction tests on the fly. The ring does two different things when I hold it low (Baby A) or high (Baby B), which suggests three possible conclusions: 1.) One of our girls is not, in fact, a girl 2.) One of our girls is gay? 3.) The ring test may not, in fact, be 100% scientifically accurate.

If we found out at this point that one of them was a boy, that would be really, really weird. I'm totally used to thinking of them as girls now.

A final observation before I end this rather lame post: while the pregnancy questions can get tiring, it is a nice sense of connection with other women. I had my teeth cleaned today, and the hygienist, probably in her early fifties, Medford born and raised with a fabulous Boston accent, was asking me all about my pregnancy, and telling me all about hers. She told me that she at one point craved yellow cake with white frosting, baked one for herself and ate it all in two days.

Normally, I'd really have nothing much to talk about with this woman besides the weather -- not that the dentist's office is the best place for conversation anyway, but nevertheless -- but because I was going through this universal womankind experience, we had a point of connection. As I left, she said "Make sure you come on a Friday for your next visit in six months so I'll get to see you again and hear all about your girls." I wish there was a female equivalent of "avuncular" because that's what she was, and it was sweet. Auntular?

Off to visit the 'rents for the weekend -- they haven't seen me looking this pregnant yet, so it should be trippy.

Mama needs new shoes

2006-09-12T13:22:00.000-04:00

My feet appear to be growing / swelling. Yesterday morning, I was all excited to put on my favorite black ankle boots, heralding the arrival of cooler weather, and found them a bit snug. Still, I was foolhardy enough to keep them on and attempt my usual 15 minute walk to the T station. After five minutes, my feet were killing me. Aching, throbbing, as if I'd been sightseeing for nineteen hours straight.

Once I sat down on the T, I thought myself recovered, but after a few stops I started feeling like I couldn't get enough air into my lungs, and then I started feeling decidedly faint. I got off at the next stop -- which, happily, was the Mass General stop, both open-air and across from my obstetrician -- inched my way out of the train and onto the platform and, since there were no benches, sat my pregnant ass right down on the ground until I felt better, then got on the next train. But not before three T employees had gathered around to make sure I was all right, urging me not to get back on a train until I was really REALLY sure I was OK. At first I thought they were just being nice, then it occurred to me that rush hour on September 11 is probably not the best time to have people fainting on trains, causing delays and inciting general panic.

When I got to work -- after a brief call to the obstetrician's office for reassurance from the triage nurses -- I promptly went online and did something I've been wanting to do for awhile but told myself was unnecessary/too expensive: ordered myself a pair of Dansko professional clogs. Roomy, orthopedic, and chic in a food service worker kind of way. I am eagerly anticipating their arrival. I'm not entirely sure that my tight shoes were the direct cause of the near-faint, and they certainly weren't the only contributing factor, but any mildly reasonable excuse to drop $100 on leather footwear is good enough for me.

In other news, we went to Babies-R-Us on Sunday to do some registering. What can I say? It's a wonder any of us survived our infancy without an ergonomically correct bouncy seat with six different vibration settings. Or a $300 posture-pedic crib mattress. Or -- and really, any parent who doesn't buy one of these should be reported to DSS -- a baby wipe warmer.

Actually, a serious gear question for the experienced moms out there: they are now making infant seats (rear facing, that detach from the base) that are a little longer and hold kids up to 30 lbs. They are a good 5 or so pounds heavier than the older, smaller kind, but one mother in the store emphatically urged us to get the larger size. Apparently her child is 6 months old and his feet are already kicking the back seat, so she's having to upgrade to the larger size. Is her child just a mutant pituitary case? Or should we get the larger ones to be safe, in spite of the added heft? A. is on the tall side....

21 weeks and growing

2006-09-08T12:44:00.000-04:00

First off, thanks to all of you for your kind and sympathetic responses to my past few, somewhat gloomy posts. It's good to know that others can relate, and I'm glad to report that I'm now feeling much better, saner, and more optimistic. Not to mention more focused and productive. In fact, I wrote 1200 words of novel before noon today. Kick ass!

And yes, I know -- I'm getting fucking huge. With still a good 16 or 17 weeks to go, hopefully. I think the past two weeks have been a major growth spurt. (I'm wondering if this was partly responsible for my depressive dip?) However, I am very pleased to report that my pre-pregnancy underwear STILL FITS!! Pretty much.

And I'm still feeling more or less comfortable, physically speaking. Looking a little less graceful when I get up off the couch or attempt to bend down and pick things up, but still moving at a good clip. And sleeping better, if you don't count having to get up and pee. Last weekend, I spent the best $15 of my life on a piece of egg-crate foam to put on my side of the bed, under the fitted sheet. It has done wonders for my hips and back.

The monkeys, meanwhile, are getting very active -- especially right after I eat, when they dance to the gurgling melodies of my digestive system. I love it. I think both have their feet on the right side of my belly, as that's where most of the action tends to be. Or maybe they're into headbanging.

In other uterine news, I suspect I may be starting to feel some Braxton Hicks contractions. A few times recently, at the beginning of a brisk walk, I'll feel a slight, strange sort of tightening, low in my abdomen. Not painful, exactly, just....tight. It lasts for a minute or so, then goes away.

But enough about me. A round of jubilant, congratulatory applause for the motel manager, who looks like she may finally have a long-term guest....

Hormone-induced Amnesia?

2006-09-06T17:25:00.000-04:00

Anyone who has been trying and failing to conceive should skip this (very long) post. Or accept my apologies in advance. Because it’s going to sound horribly ungrateful and ridiculous. If I’d read this six months ago on someone else’s blog, I would have rolled my eyes strenuously and had to physically restrain myself from making a snippy “get over it” sort of comment.

I should also warn that this (interminable) post falls into the Too Much Information category, so feel free to skip if the minutiae of my reproductive system don't, in fact, interest you. (I can’t imagine!)

A year ago today, we’d been trying for nearly 8 months to get pregnant, going at it like rabbits on Viagra, and I was starting to get discouraged by our lack of success. I’d had only 3 periods since going off the pill, one of which was induced with a 10-day progesterone supplement from my doctor after 9 weeks with no flow.

I shouldn’t have been surprised; my periods had been irregular all my life. I got the first one when I was just shy of 14, then didn’t get another one for an entire year. After that, I had them anywhere from every 4 to every 10 or so weeks. Almost as soon as I got to college, I went on the pill, tired of constantly fearing pregnancy. (Not that I was getting that much play, but still.) I was on it for almost twelve years straight. I thought that when I came off, maybe my cycles would suddenly, miraculously be normal, but no such luck.

I visited the fertility docs last December, and while my blood work, fallopian tubes and A’s numbers were all fine (his numbers were staggering, in fact), an ultrasound showed that my ovaries each had a “string of pearls” of small cysts, indicative of infrequent or nonexistent ovulation. A possible, mild-end case of PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome) without, luckily, the hirsutism, diabetes or obesity that often come with it, but with the high cholesterol, irregular periods, and tendency toward depression that also do.

Meanwhile, I’d wasted countless pregnancy tests and ovulation predictor tests, all of which always came up negative. I’d taken chasteberry extract and cut back on caffeine and alcohol (well, I tried, anyway). I’d charted three (irregular) cycles but never saw a thermal shift or any consistent pattern to other fertility signs. I was starting to feel like I was defective. It was never going to happen.

So when the doctor said he thought fertility drugs could help me, I didn’t hesitate for a moment. I was dying to be pregnant, wanted to have not just one but two kids eventually, and wasn’t getting any younger, so why wait? In fact, the only thing I initially balked at was having intra-uterine insemination because it seemed so cow-like and clinical. I wanted to see if we could pull it off the more “romantic” way. But I got over that fairly quickly. Babymaking sex, as I’m sure some of you know, gets to be the antithesis of romantic (hot, erotic, interesting, etc.) after a while.

Anyway, after a failed Clomid cycle and a failed cycle with injectables/IUI, I started to prepare myself for a long haul. Friends and acquaintances were getting pregnant left and right, like it was the most natural thing in the world (and isn’t it?) and I felt like I would forever be on the outside. I would have given anything to be in their shoes. A. and I were soon to celebrate our 5th wedding anniversary, and had been together as a couple for years before that. I was so ready for us to become a family. Abso-bloomin-lutely 100% ready. At the same time, I was feeling incredibly pessimistic and generally bummed out.

Then, whaddya know: after the next cycle of injectibles/IUI, exactly one year and three months after we started trying, I was knocked up – and how. I got my positive blood test results the day of our 5th anniversary, and was thrilled beyond belief. Finding out it was twins was certainly a lot to swallow, but I told myself, hey, better two than none. Anyway, that’s the risk you run when you take fertility drugs. And if I hadn’t taken them I probably wouldn’t have gotten pregnant. At least not for a good long time.

So, here I am, 5 months pregnant, and I love these little babies. My girls. I am dying to meet them. Today, they have been kicking up a storm, both of them, and each time I feel it I get giddy with joy and excitement. I want to tell the whole world. When I push on my belly, they push back. I’m interacting with them! Last night, A. got to feel a couple of good solid kicks for the first time, which thrilled me even more than it did him, I think. See? I said, I’ve got our children in me!

And yet…and yet. Recently, increasingly, there is also this part of me (the same part that has always told me things like I don’t exercise enough, I make stupid clothes-buying decisions, I am not disciplined enough about my writing, I drink too much, spend too much time online, etc.) that’s saying, in a scolding, smug little voice, why didn’t you keep trying longer on your own? You didn’t have to end up with twins. It might have happened eventually, and you’d most likely only be pregnant with one right now, instead of an overwhelming, career-ruining, life-shattering two at once. You’d been on the pill for 12 years, after all. Maybe you would have started ovulating. Sure, it might have taken another year or two, but, jeez, you’re only 32. 15 months of trying really isn’t that long. Think of all the people who try for 2, 3, 10 years and eventually succeed without medical intervention. Why so impatient, Missy? Why mess with fate?

And twins aside, do you really want to be a parent yet anyway? You haven’t published a book yet, and your husband’s career is still developing. And it’s not like you’re rolling in dough. What was the hurry? You could have both used a few more years without kids. It’s really a shame that you couldn’t hang onto just a little more perspective, young lady.

I ask you, my wise readers, what is all this self-loathing static in my brain? What is this strange amnesia, causing me to forget how badly I wanted a baby and how hopeless I felt about my prospects for having one? Is it, maybe, a by-product of my recent, shitty mood? Or perhaps simply panic setting in as I feel more and more pregnant and these babies feel more real to me? Or am I just a hopeless control freak, wanting a degree of authority over my life that simply isn’t realistic or healthy?

I know, I know. I should just shut up and be happy. I am, I swear. Just yesterday, I made myself cry thinking about how completely shattered I would be if I miscarried, or if one or both of the babies didn't survive. I love them, truly and completely. But I'm also prone to analyzing my every action and fretting over every possible wrong choice in some vain attempt to lead The Perfect Life. Such contradictory emotions! Such complexity! (It's enough to make a neo-con hurl himself, screaming, off a cliff!)

I may regret posting this. It’s awfully honest. Which is an awfully scary thing to be. Please be gentle....

Noli me tangere

2006-08-26T15:42:00.000-04:00

OK, so I lied. I'm posting one more time before we leave, because I just have to vent about last night and whine about my fears for the upcoming week.

A. (who is a musician/performer as many of you know) had a big solo show at a certain club last night, and many people we know -- some well, some through family or only in the context of his career -- were in attendance. I always find it a little stressful to go to gigs like this one, having to play the social butterfly, "first lady" role, making pleasant chit chat with people I don't know well while trying to make time to talk to actual friends, all in the context of being The Wife. It's not the most fun in the world for someone who can play the extrovert in short, determined bursts, but who is really by nature more of an introvert. But I get through it.

Last night, though, was so exhausting I was on the verge of tears by the time I went home. Completely emotionally fried. Pregnancy hormones and the slight slowing/dulling effect they have on my brain are, no doubt, in part to blame. I had been feeling a little "fragile" all day. But I think anyone would have found it trying. (God bless the one friend who smiled sympathetically and said, "getting sick of all the attention yet?") At the end of the night, I literally had my arms wrapped around my belly and all I wanted in the world was to get home and be alone with my girls. And the cat, who I forced to cuddle with me.

Anyone who has traveled in a remote part of a developing country or other place where they they stand out like a sore thumb and, as such, are the subject of constant gawking and scrutiny and objectification (an experience I highly recommend everyone have once in their lifetime, incidentally) will have a good idea of how I felt. Suddenly all anyone could see or talk about was the fact that I was pregnant. The shape of my body, my state of mind, my eating and sleeping and peeing habits were all fair game for public consumption. My belly was touched, without my permission, six or seven times. (Most of those times by men, I might add.) I was asked approximately ten thousand times when I'm due, do twins run in my family, how do I feel, etc.

All perfectly innocent, well-meaning, lovely questions, asked by genuinely kind people who were obviously just happy and excited for me. I don't blame anyone at all. But the sheer volume of it, the sameness and intensity of it, the invasiveness of it, the social energy and forced grins it required of me over and over again, and the fact that everybody and their fucking brother wanted to talk to me at once, made me want to curl up in a fetal position under a table somewhere.

Allow me to interject here -- because some of my dear readers were in attendance last night -- that it wasn't YOU who were getting on my nerves. It was the onslaught of so many people at once, particularly ones I don't know well or see often, and some total strangers, that made me feel like a small, sad, plump fish in a fishbowl.

And yes, I am whining. And no, this is not a big deal. And yes, in some ways the attention is fun. But oy -- I am about to go spend a week in NH with a whole slew of kind, well-meaning people that I only see once a year, who are going to barrage me with the same damned questions over and over and over again, and at the moment it feels like the very antithesis of a relaxing vacation.

I should just make myself a t-shirt:

I'm due 1/4/07 at the latest.
It's twin girls, fraternal.
They don't run in my family.
I feel great.
Now leave me alone.

Bon voyage, mes amis. And if you see a pregnant woman you know, do her a favor and ask her what she thinks about the situation in the Middle East. Or what book she's reading. Or better yet, just blab about yourself. She'll love you for it.

Everybody was kung fu fighting

2006-08-25T10:07:00.000-04:00

Well, I'm about to head up to the shores of Winnepesaukee for a week, and most likely won't be posting again until after Labor Day (the holiday; not mine). But I leave you with some action shots of the twins, caught mid punch/kick. Aren't they adorable? Brilliant? Courageous? Witty? Badass? My mother thinks she sees a penis on Twin A (bottom picture), but I'm pretty sure it's just a leg bone or joint or a banana in her pocket or something.

Girls scare me a little.

2006-08-23T11:05:00.000-04:00

First, let me say this: I'm thrilled to be having two girls. It's going to be wonderful in countless ways, not the least of which is the fact that they can borrow each other's clothes, thus saving us precious college fund money. Seriously, though. I love girls. I am one. I think we're smarter and more mature and generally better adjusted than our male counterparts. Sure, we're really mean to each other when we're adolescents, but that passes. We generally don't go around starting wars and committing genocide and raping and murdering and pillaging. All major pluses.

I've been thinking a lot over the past few days about why I was hoping for boys. It has actually been A.'s reaction to the fact that we're having two girls that has helped me understand it better. He said, "I feel like this takes a lot of pressure off of me." He doesn't have to teach them "how to be men," or how to fight back (or not fight back), or have the dreaded sex talk with them. Not that he suddenly thinks it's going to be all piggy back rides and getting his hair braided (thank you for that image, SER). But, he definitely feels like he's got a little more leeway somehow. Interestingly, both my father and his father independently said that while a boy and a girl would have been nice, two girls would be their second choice. Little girls love their daddies, and daddies love to be loved by their little girls.

I guess I felt the same thing about having boys: there wouldn't be quite so much pressure on me to be a role model or confidante. I could just be their adored mama, who they think is the most beautiful and perfect woman in the world. In short, I wanted to create a little man or two to worship and depend on me. It's all so damned Oedipal, isn't it?

With girls, it feels more complicated. What if they hate me? What if I disappoint them, mess them up, emotionally scar them, give them eating disorders? It seems like there is so much more potential for conflict and complexity. I fear this, and yet, my relationship with my own mother is now infinitely smoother, simpler, and less antagonistic than my relationship with my father -- more and more so as the years pass. Still, I was definitely a daddy's girl when I was growing up, and my mom and I aren't exactly what you'd call BFF.

I will love these girls to death. I already do. I can't wait to see who they are, and who they become. I just hope I can be the kind of mother they deserve.

Their movements are starting to feel more and more like actual kicks now, incidentally, which is fun. Last night, hand on belly, I even felt them from the outside. It's like having Lucy Liu and Uma Thurman in there. Excellent.

So much for intuition!

2006-08-21T14:50:00.000-04:00

My reputation (such as it was) as a spiritually attuned earth goddess of intuition has been shattered: we appear to be having two girls. (Either that, or two boys very good at hiding their genitalia between their legs.)

Two girls!

In the spirit of full disclosure, I will admit that I am a wee bit disappointed; I would have liked at least one boy. But that disappointment is fading by the minute, being quickly replaced by the joy of feeling a much more personal connection to these little bambinAs. Now I get the fun of imagining what they’ll look like as babies / girls / women and speculating on whether they’ll be tomboys or girly girls or some combination of both, like their mother. Already, they feel that much more like actual miniature people.

Some pragmatic pluses of two girls: no circumcision debate, they can share a bedroom in perpetuity, and we have many more friends with girls who can give us hand-me-downs. One big pragmatic con: when they get to toilet training age, I’m going to have to take both of them into public restrooms at once, rather than dividing them between me and A. Oh well.

As for A., he is very happy. He said, “Suddenly, this feels much more manageable.” He also said he’s already feeling protective of them. He doesn’t like the idea of lecherous guys thinking, “Ooh, yeah! Twins!” We’ll have to be sure not to name them Bambi and Bunny.

Anyway, most important of all – as I am supposed to say, and truly do feel -- both babies are doing great. They look healthy and normal and right on track for their development. They actually swapped positions since last time, so twin A is now twin B and vice versa. Competitive little things!

It was their Mama who almost flunked the ultrasound. Take heed all ye pregnant women: the don’t-lie-on-your-back-for-too-long thing is for real. After the technician had been probing around for about ten minutes and girl #1 was announced, I started feeling weird, then faint, then my lips went cold, my hearing went wonky, and ultimately I had to make a run for the bathroom across the hall where I threw up, almost missing the toilet entirely, and making a nice mess for some poor orderly. Oops!

After that, I lay on my side, and was OK – I thought. Then a doctor came in to do another, more detailed ultrasound exam. He was one smug prick of a doctor, I might add; we asked him if he could confirm the genders (I still couldn’t believe it) and he replied in his best this-is-how-I-talk-to-naughty-wittle-puppy-dogs-and-patients tone, “Well, I’m focusing on looking at the hearts and lungs and brains, but if I happen to see something I can certainly let you know.” The implication being: I have more important things to do than help you plan what color to paint your nursery, you putzes. He didn’t even angle the screen so we could see. And he said more than once that my lying on my side made doing the ultrasound a bit more challenging. So sorry to inconvenience you, asshole. I’ll just lie back and have a fucking stroke if it would make your job easier.

I wish I could say that I vomited all over him, but unfortunately I didn’t. I did, however, start to feel faint again and said I needed to sit up and take a break. Dr. Prick left the room. After a little while, I got up to walk around, hoping that might help get the blood flowing, at which point I promptly collapsed onto the floor. Luckily A. was there to catch me, and I sat there on the nice cool linoleum for a few minutes until I felt better.

The rest of the ultrasound continued without incident, and was blessedly brief. Goodbye, Doctor Prick. I hope we never see you again, and God help us if you’re the one on call when I deliver. Actually, God help you, because my husband will kick your ass.

So, that’s the news from twinville. We got some great pictures, by the way, and if I can get my act together, I’ll try scanning them and posting them here so you can tell me how adorable my daughters are. Daughters! I’ll be damned.

PS -- congratulations to my dear readers on getting the 'Airplane' reference. I love you!

And Leon's getting larrrrger!

2006-08-19T12:34:00.000-04:00

Anyone who gets the reference in the title wins my undying affection. (A $50 value; void in Arizona)

So, here I am at 18 weeks and 2 days, having fun with the visual effects on my photo editing software. And salvaging a blurry photo, because I was too lazy to bother taking and uploading another one.

All of a sudden, I'm starting to feel big. And I know, this is nothing yet. But today for the first time, I felt truly impeded whilst doing my yoga practice. Normally I'm a pro at seated twists and positions that require me to reach around my back and grab my foot and that sort of thing -- I've always had a very flexible back and shoulders -- but today there was just too much of me in the way.

The sea monkeys (which doesn't feel like quite an accurate moniker anymore; they are no longer abstract little magical creatures to me, but actual babies) have been quite active lately, tingling and bubbling and wiggling around inside me like -- OK, like sea monkeys. It just makes me smile everytime I feel it. And I do feel it, generally, in two distinct places: upper left or lower right. My little yin yang twins.

We took them to their first rock and roll concert the other night, incidentally: Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, at Great Woods (aka the Tweeter Center. Dumb) courtesy of last-minute free tickets from a dear friend. It was an excellent show, thanks especially to the presence of Young. They pulled no punches, politically: it was an outright anti-war, anti-Bush spectacle. I'm glad to have exposed my progeny to this at an early age. And to give them the opportunity to keep on rockin' in the free world. Or in the uterus. Whatever. They also got their first taste, I fear, of the wacky weed -- it was wafting around in the air, as you might expect, hard to avoid. Oh well. I hope they had a nice little trip. Mama tries to stay chill about this kind of thing.

The Subaru Forester, by the way, has arrived, and I have to say, it's a pretty sweet ride. However, I had a moment yesterday where I had to laugh at myself: me, pregnant, loading groceries into the back of a late-model Subaru Forester. (With my parents' Sunday River ski resort parking sticker still on it! Eeek!!) I think it's time to slap on the "Anarchy" ribbon magnet that my dear friend Viva Las Vegas gave me, lest my husband and I be mistaken for, you know, normal people.

Two more days until our next ultrasound, where we will hopefully find out the genders. Any bets? Stay tuned...

Love your mother

2006-08-16T16:28:00.000-04:00

(Two posts in one day – I know; hold me back.)

In 1989 – the year that the endangered earth was Time Magazine’s “Planet of the Year” -- a friend and I co-founded an environmental club at our high school called Earth Action which, I’m proud to say, still exists to this day.

We set up a paper recycling program, did fundraisers to save the rainforest, picked up trash, wrote to congressional representatives and engaged in all manner of other idealistic, tree-hugging efforts. (The highlight for me was attending the Youth Environmental Forum in Washington DC, and getting to meet Khrystyne Haje from the cast of ABC's “Head of the Class.”)

For three and a half years, I worked my ass off to save the earth. And now…what has become of me?

Tomorrow, we will become a two-car family. But really, not just a two car family; a one car, one small SUV family. The horror! My parents, are giving us their old – well, not so old, actually -- Subaru Forester to use indefinitely, as their contribution to the twin cause, God bless ‘em.

The Forester is described sometimes as a small SUV, sometimes as a “Utility Wagon” whatever that means. I prefer the latter of course. Because I am one of these pansy-ass, knee-jerk liberals who thinks that SUVs are worse than (similarly gas-guzzling) wagons or minivans just because of the sheer obnoxiousness of their presence.

For the past five years, we’ve gotten by with only one very small, very crappy car. During A’s frequent trips out of town, I’ve done just fine between public transportation, bumming rides, ZipCar, the legs that God gave me, and the occasional cab.

But the thought of one tiny car, two infants, and two parents with very different schedules, is a bit daunting. I would hate to be marooned at home when A. is out of town. And if we wanted to go visit the grandparents, for example, there’s no way we could fit two babies and all their gear plus the two of us and all our crap into a Honda Civic. And when I am seven or eight months pregnant, I’m guessing I won’t be wanting to walk 15 minutes to and from the T each day, or take the T at all, for that matter…

(Meanwhile, somewhere in sub-Saharan Africa, a pregnant woman is walking five miles in flip-flops with a baby strapped to her back and another in her arms to get them vaccinated at the clinic which is only open once every three months, assuming civil war hasn’t broken out.)

So, sigh, yes, we are about to become a two-car family. Our nice, sustainable, one-car-in-the-city existence snuffed out by our greedy desire to procreate. I’m sorry, endangered earth. As compensation, I will endeavor to reduce, reuse, and recycle more, buy organic produce whenever it isn’t prohibitively expensive, and use only cloth diapers.

Wait – back up a minute. Cloth diapers? With TWINS? What am I, some kind of masochist?

Yeah, so, that’s the other way I’m going to contribute to the demise of our planet: disposable diapers. At least for the first few months. I always wanted to use cloth; I really did. But the thought of doing it with two newborns seems like craziness. I’ve read that newborns go through 10-12 cloth diapers a day in the first few months. Multiply that by two, please. Even if we got a diaper service to cover the laundry aspect, it seems like all we’d be doing (in addition to feedings, burpings, etc.) is changing diapers.

I really would like to try to switch to cloth after the first few months if we can, but it’s just so hard to know how difficult or easy it will be. Bihari, I know you did the cloth thing -- did you do it right from the get-go? Do you think you could have handled it with two infants? Oy. Dilemmas, dilemmas.

(Meanwhile, the pregnant African woman walking to the clinic has passed out due to malnutrition and malaria and is about to be run over by a drunken American eco-tourist in a Subaru Forester.)

The Black Heart of the Boppy

2006-08-16T09:45:00.000-04:00

You know you've got pregnancy on the brain when you're in the Davis Square T station looking down at the poetry carved into the bricks, and read "Poppy" as "Boppy."

And then, when you're sitting on the T, you glance over at the newspaper your neighbor is reading and see a story about a fashion designer named "Vena Cava" and think: Hey look -- a story about the artery I'm not supposed to compress by sleeping on my back. I should read that. (The artery is the Vena Cavae, actually. But pretty darn close.)

Jiffy Pop

2006-08-11T15:09:00.000-04:00

I think I'm starting to feel these sea monkeys move. Yesterday at the end of my yoga class, while I was lying blissfully in shavasana, my belly felt like a pan of Jiffy Pop in progress.

Some of it was definitely my own pulse/heartbeat. But there were other little random pops and bubbles here and there. Yoga babies! It happened again last night at the movies (Little Miss Sunshine -- I highly recommend): pip pop blip, on the lower right side. And again last night as I was lying in bed, up toward the left. Blip! Plip! Like a tiny little finger lightly, lightly prodding. Or a bubble rising up and popping against my abdominal wall.

And, believe it or not, I'm actually getting a few little snap-crackle-n-pops right now as I write. It's subtle, but it's there. Can any ladies out there who've been pregnant before confirm or deny that this is what the first quickening feels like? Even if this isn't it, I'm pretending it is, and it's totally blissing me out.

Add to this the fact that it's 75 degrees and sunny and breezy, and we've finally cleared most of the construction mess from our house, and we're are about to paint the nursery, and I made my novel word quota of 1000 words yesterday and it's looking like I'll do it again today, AND I'm actually going to have ample time to write tomorrow and Sunday, too, and -- well, you could say I'm in a good mood.

OK -- back to the book.

Pregnant Lady at 16 weeks

2006-08-04T10:03:00.000-04:00

The belly has grown quite impressively in the last two weeks, no? At least, it feels that way to me. This time, you'll see I opted for the artsy black and white version. It makes it easier to discern my fish-white belly from the wall behind me. And makes the whole enterprise seem somehow more momentous and less blatantly solipsistic.

Several people have told me that I'm starting look like a "pregnant lady" -- in those words. I always get a kick out of the word "lady." It makes me think of the women at my church when I was growing up, with their clip-on earrings and pocketbooks and high heels. I enjoy using the phrase "pregnant lady" to apply to myself, too. As in, "Move away from the pizza, pregnant lady coming through." Or (to my husband) "Have you ever seen such a hot, sexy pregnant lady as I in your life?"

Despite an incredibly frustrating and stressful past week at work, and the fact that I've had way too little time to write (I'm never going to finish this damned novel), this pregnant lady is feeling pretty good, physically and psychologically. Oh, sure, there are the little twin growth spurts, where I am suddenly overcome with exhaustion. And this fucking heat doesn't help matters any, although I don't think I'm any more uncomfortable than I would be if I weren't pregnant. (I hate, hate, HATE heat and humidity.) And the nighttime leg cramps continue, which isn't much fun.

On the upside, I'm getting more used to sleeping on my side: last week I broke down and shelled out $50 for a Snoogle. And I'm so glad I did. It's a body pillow with C-curves up top and bottom that you can find all kinds of ways to grip, clamp, straddle and mangle in your sleep. It does present a bit of a barrier between me and the husband for cuddling purposes, but who wants to cuddle when it's 95 degrees out and your air conditioner is a lemon? Not this pregnant lady.

Speaking of the husband, he woke up yesterday morning and had a revelation: our math has been wrong. All along, we've been saying that we have a 1 in 3 chance of having boy-girl twins, since there are three possible options: gg, bb, bg. But that's not quite right. In fact, there are FOUR options: gg, bb, bg AND gb. (Remember those old Mendelian graphs from high school biology?) He confirmed this with a little online research, and it's true. We have a 50% chance of having a boy and a girl. Of course, there was only about a 20% chance (or less, given that I only had 2 mature follicles at the time of our IUI) that we'd end up with twins, and we nailed that one. So, I wouldn't be entirely shocked if, in fact, we're having a hermaphrodite and a baby lemur.

One last thing: movement. Any day now, I should start to be able to feel it, which is very exciting. Sometimes, lying in bed at night, I feel a little flutter or blip or bubble down there, and I wonder if maybe it's the bambinos. But it could also just be air or gas or stuff gushing around. Some friends of ours gave us a wonderful gift -- a baby listener. You put on headphones and put this microphone to your belly and listen. But it's a bit early to use it, so all I've been able to hear so far are the roarings of my own body: heartbeat, digestion, god knows what else. Something like the sound of a dog yawning. Another sound rather like a toilet flushing. Is this the miraculous music of gestating life? Why not.

Strange symptoms I have known

2006-07-28T10:26:00.000-04:00

Pregnancy is weird. You never know what it's gonna do next. I feel like I'm entering a new phase of symptoms, some good, some not so good, some just bizarre:

1. I feel like I'm bursting at the seams. This has been a week of rapid twins / Jane growth, I think. My belly feels and looks decidedly bigger, and it feels bigger, if that makes sense. In fact, the past couple of days, I've been a bit uncomfortable at times. It's almost like my insides are straining against my outsides. You know how it feels when you stick your stomach out as far as it can go, pretending to be fat or pregnant or god knows why we do these things, but we've all done it, right? It feels like that, all the time, except I'm not sticking it out. I hope this isn't a bad thing.

2. It's harder to get comfy in bed. Sleeping, I mean. I could physically sleep on my stomach, but have a feeling it's not a good idea. On my side tends to hurt my hips after awhile, even with a pillow between my knees, and on my back is the best (isn't there some point at which I'm not supposed to do that anymore?) but it's just hard to feel totally comfortable. I woke up this morning with my lower back hurting.

3. The heebie jeebies. Now this is a bizarre one. Ever double up on Sudafed doses by accident? Or drink way too much coffee? You feel like little bugs are crawling around inside your limbs and you can't stay still. This was happening to me the other night as I was trying to fall asleep and I had to come downstairs and do a frantic series of reps with my 3-lb dumbells to make it go away. I'm not sure why I thought this would help, but it actually did, a little. I have no idea what causes this kind of thing, or if it's even pregnancy related. Maybe it's the heroin withdrawal.

4. Charlie horses. Left calf. Middle of the night. Motherfucker.

5. Decreased appetite. This is surprising to me, but I don't feel the constant need to fill myself with food as I did during the first trimester, when eating felt like a full-time job. I'm still eating more / more frequently than normal, but am not constantly, simultaneously ravenous and queasy the way I often was in the first few months. Hmmm...it's been 45 minutes since I ate breakfast. Writing this is making me hungry. Never mind.

6. Unintentional hotness. Forgive me if I toot my own horn for a bit here, but I look good. Maybe this is the famous pregnancy glow. Or maybe it's just not having a pasty-white-rainy-New England-spring complexion anymore. In any case, my tits look the best they ever have (I'm a C cup! I'm a C cup!)and I feel like I'm getting more honks from Masshole men in cars on my walks home from the T after work. More turned heads. But that could just be people trying to figure out whether I'm pregnant or just fat. Or some hallucinogenic effect of the extra estrogen in my system.

So, there you have it. Meanwhile, the twins are approximately 4-1/2 inches long and apparently turning into fuzzy little lanugo peaches. Awww.

Thank you, by the way, for all your suggested responses to the rude twin questions. Now, my husband thinks I'm being paranoid, and that the do-twins-run-in-your-family question, in particular, is innocent. (But it's who says it, and how they say it, I argued.) But he came up with the most excellent hypothetical response I've heard yet, which I intend to try out on the first wacko stranger who asks me how I ended up with twins:

"It was Jesus."

Would you like to know my bra size, too?

2006-07-25T19:07:00.000-04:00

I'm getting to the point where I brace myself just a little bit every time I tell someone that I'm pregnant with twins. Although about 2/3 of people say something polite or enthusiastic or otherwise innocuous, the other 1/3 either indirectly or directly ask whether or not this is the result of fertility treatments.

Now, obviously, I'm not shy about sharing the fact that we got help getting pregnant -- Exhibit A., this blog. The difference is, I'm volunteering the information. You're not (inappropriately) asking. If a good friend asks, I'll gladly tell them that these are fertility drug twins, though chances are, if they're a truly good friend, they already know. But when acquaintances and people I'm not close with (certain work colleagues, for example) ask, I have to stop myself from saying, Pardon me, but were you raised by wolves? Did these wolves teach you that it is OK to ask a woman you don't know well intimate questions about her reproductive health? And, wow, talking wolves?

I've encountered three basic variations of the question so far:

1. "Do twins run in your family?" Maybe I'm being paranoid, but it always feels like a loaded question to me. They're hoping that if the answer is no, I'll elaborate further. No, I probably won't.

2. "How did that happen?" Umm....do you want a biology lesson, or do you want me to tell you that I was using fertility drugs? Right, thought so. Hey, why don't you tell me what prescription drugs you've taken?

3. "Was it on purpose?" This is the most absurd and offensive of all, and I've actually gotten it twice. I know there are people in the world who really really really want twins, who hope for them when they're doing fertility drugs and/or transfer multiple embryos when they do IVF in an attempt to get them. But to my knowledge, no naturally fertile woman subjects herself to unnecessary fertility treatments in an attempt to get pregnant with twins, and I can't imagine that any doctor would allow it. I'm not quite sure why this particular question bugs me so much -- maybe just because it's the closest thing to simply asking outright, "Were you on fertility drugs?" but it's asked in such a wicked retahded manner that I resent it even more.

Once I become more visibly pregnant, I'm sure strangers will ask these questions, too. I suppose I could come up with some zingers to retort with, or perhaps be prepared to give them a more mature and measured, "That's a rather personal question." But isn't that in effect the same as just saying yes, fertility drugs?

I don't know. Maybe I just shouldn't tell people that it's twins. Unless, of course, they ask when I'm due and I tell them and they say (inappropriately) "but you're already so HUGE!!" At which point I'll simply be forced to reply, "Well, it's because I took fertility drugs on purpose."

14 weeks: a self-portrait

2006-07-21T13:52:00.000-04:00

I never thought I'd do this, but inquiring minds apparently want to know. So here it is, belly shot #1. Me and the dynamic duo at 14 weeks.

Also, let me just say this: heartburn sucks! I woke up in the middle of the night with what I'm pretty sure was a nasty case of it. (Weird -- wouldn't you think it would happen right after eating?) I felt like I was either going to puke or implode. Fortunately, I did neither. Just downed some Tums and propped myself up on 72 pillows and eventually fell back asleep. Ugh.

Liminality

2006-07-20T18:02:00.000-04:00

So, the other night I went to a meeting of a local mothers of twins club. There were twin moms at all stages – with newborns, toddlers, etc. and one other woman at exactly the same stage of her pregnancy as me. Man oh man. When I first got there, I felt like an exchange student on her first day of school in a foreign country. (I imagine that, outside, my car was feeling the same way: my poor little 10-year-old Honda Civic with its anti-Bush bumper sticker, surrounded by late model SUVs and station wagons and mini-vans.)

I thought: What am I doing here? I want to go home! Back home to my husband, my books, my Season 1 of Lost on Netflix, my cat –- my easy, self-absorbed existence. I am not one of these people! I am not a Mom. I never want to be a Mom. I mean, I want to be a mother to my children. But not…you know. A Mom. Any way I can swing that?

And it wasn't as if there was anything wrong with these women. (Or any of my friends who have children, for that matter.) They were perfectly nice, smart, accomplished, normal people. I think it was just being in this situation, there for the sole purpose of talking about motherhood (of twins, specifically), and hearing stories of C-sections and sleepless nights and how to choose a nanny (yeah, right)….oy. It kinda made me want to go out to a seedy bar, put some Led Zeppelin on the jukebox, slam a few beers, smoke a cigarette, and flirt with the bartender.

It is indeed strange, standing at the edge of this precipice, so full of joy and anticipation and yet so acutely aware that my life is about to change completely, irrevocably. Not that I don't want it to. I am absolutely thrilled to be having children. And yet…and yet. It's been such a nice, sweet young adulthood. Ten-plus years of work, study, socializing, traveling, figuring out what I want to do and who I am and generally enjoying an obscene amount of freedom.

And then there's my husband—he and I have been together a very long time. It's always been just the two of us, and it's been wonderful. Of course, we've always dreamed about having a family. It was always there in our future. But I will certainly miss our us-ness.

On the flip side, I wouldn't want all of it to go on indefinitely. There has been many a time in the past couple of years when it's felt like something was missing. Someone. Wait…isn't this a song from Annie?

Well, enough. There is a season, turn, turn, turn, etc. etc. I'm just glad pregnancy lasts as long as it does. I need this limbo time.

In fact, at the moment, I'm enjoying it quite a bit. I have a little more energy now, my appetite is improved, and all of a sudden, I actually look a little pregnant. With my clothes on, I mean. And those clothes are almost all of the maternity variety now, especially the pants. Today I bought a maternity/nursing bra at Target and HALLELUJAH it feels good. I scored a few more hand-me-downs from friends, and also gave in and bought a few tops to wear to work.

It's harder than you might think to find work-appropriate maternity clothes when you work in a semi-casual office, as I do. The "professional" stuff is too stuffy (and expensive) but the casual stuff is either sloppy or slutty-looking. (Kevin Federline is not the father of my twins, as far as I know, therefore I will not be wearing a hot pink babydoll top and short shorts, thanks very much.)

I'm also starting to get excited about fixing up the nursery (currently wall to wall with junk), and all that nesting jazz. I've been told that twin mamas are well advised to get a jump on this stuff in the second trimester, before they become the approximate size and weight of an orca whale. So, in the next few weeks, A. and I will start sorting and painting. My parents, at the end of the summer, will bring down the crib – the same one my brother and I both slept in. It's exciting. It's nuts. It's the most alive I've felt in a long time.

I will end this lengthy post with a word of friendly advice: when someone tells you that they are pregnant with twins, the proper response is never, ever, ever the one uttered today by an acquaintance I encountered at the drug store: "Oh, no!"

Of cornflakes and youth

2006-07-17T15:22:00.000-04:00

Had my second prenatal appointment today (not counting the ERA ultrasound last week).

The first part was a visit with a nutritionist. It was fine, but let me just say this: nobody likes a super-skinny nutritionist. I swear, I could have encircled this woman’s upper arms with my thumb and middle finger. It’s not like she looked sickly or anything. But she sure was slight. A’s theory (he was along with me today) was that nutritionists probably get into their line of work for the same reasons that neurotic fuck-ups become therapists and shy people become comedians and Monica Geller on 'Friends' became a chef.

Anyway, I’m a fairly healthy eater in general, so no big surprises at this appointment, except that according to my blood work from last time, my iron levels are pretty low, so I’m going to have to take a supplement and try to add more iron-rich foods. Did you know that taking your prenatal vitamin with juice helps your body better absorb the iron in it? And that eating meat or beans in a tomato-based sauce is also a good iron-absorption strategy? Neither did I.

I had to give the nutritionist a run-down of a typical “day in the life” eating-wise, from which she was somehow able to calculate how many calories and grams of protein, calcium, fat, etc. I’m getting on a daily basis. I found it to be a slightly disingenuous exercise. First of all, when you’re sitting across from a woman with triceps the size of Bic pens who is also a nutritionist, you want to be on your best behavior. Not that I was dishonest, exactly, but God knows there are days when I eat leftover pizza and Fig Newtons for lunch (yesterday), not a mixed salad with grilled chicken and a piece of whole grain baguette (today). You can guess which one I used as an example of a “typical” lunch.

I also find the whole portion sizes thing questionable. She had little rubber models of food I had to look at and compare to my usual serving sizes. How many servings of this 3 inch disc of rubber cornflakes plopped into a bowl? Umm…I have no idea. It’s the wrong sized bowl, and I don’t eat cornflakes. Grape Nuts take up less room, Frosted Mini-Wheats take up more. And then there are the times I don’t get the milk to cereal ratio right, and add more cereal at the end. So…2? 4? 14?

Bottom line, I’m doing just fine. Just need a little more iron, and a slightly upped caloric intake as I shift into the goal of gaining 1.5 lbs a week. The belly still looks more of the beer variety than the pregnant, but any day now…

As for the visits with the nurse / doc – they were fine, uneventful. Both babies’ heartbeats were in the 150s, nice and healthy and steady. Go wondertwins! I continue to like the doc, and the husband likes him, too. He listens well, gives straight answers, doesn’t condescend. All good. Next visit is in 5 weeks (August 21) at which time we will get a big, bad, thorough ultrasound, and will find out the babies’ genders. Wahoo! I should report, in the meantime, that the age-old dangling-ring-on-a-string test, performed this weekend with friends, predicted a boy and a girl, though its accuracy with twins may be questionable. I gotta say, though, whether you believe the whole thing or not, it's a pretty nifty trick. We put a ring in front of the bellies of men and non-pregnant women, and it did not budge, whereas in front of my abdomen, the things swung like crazy. Chi, man. It's all about the chi.

I’ll end with a little demographic observation: At 32, I don’t consider myself an exceptionally young first-time mother. But it seems to me that more than half of the women I see in the waiting room at the obstetrics office are older than me by at least a few years. (I should note that it’s also interesting to see the huge cross-section of race, ethnicity and class you get in there – having babies is just so damned universal.) Maybe it’s a skewed sample, because it’s an urban area, with more highly educated / career-minded women who wait longer? Or maybe they’re having their second or third children, and are actually younger than I think they are, and they just look, well, tired? Or maybe I am just so incredibly youthful-looking and well-preserved that my age radar is mis-calibrated? Your theories are welcome, especially if they confirm the latter explanation.

Them thar's babies!

2006-07-14T14:24:00.000-04:00

I can't even express how amazing today's ultrasound was. Did you know that there were two small HUMAN BEINGS living inside me? I mean, I suspected -- what with the bulging belly and fatigue and all. But holy crap: today, we saw two little people on the screen. With faces and fingers and toes and spines and brains and little beating hearts.

And they were moving like crazy! Especially twin A -- the one closer to my cervix, who'll likely be born first. He was arching his back and kicking and waving his hands house-party style over his head. And, yes, at one point sucking on his thumb. Twin B was a little calmer than her hyperactive sibling, but also did a little turning and waving and hand munching. You see how, already, I've assigned them genders based completely on stereotypes -- the squirmy little boy, the well-behaved little girl. Terribly unprogressive of me.

Both twins were exactly the same size, on target for a due date of Jan. 14, if they were singletons. That's 4 days earlier than my calculated due date when I thought I only had one baby, so, they're already overachieving! (Not that 4 days ahead is such a big deal, but they're MY children, so I'm allowed to be overly proud of their achievements, non?)

Also happy to report that their nuchial folds are normal, so the risk of Down Syndrome looks very low. They also have good nasal bones, which is apparently another (positive) indicator. I had blood drawn for additional tests, and we'll get those results next week, which are more definitive, but I'm not too worried.

I'm smitten.

L8R, trimester 1

2006-07-12T16:37:00.000-04:00

Today/tomorrow (depending on how you want to count things) I complete my 13th week of pregnancy, which I believe means I’m now officially into the second trimester. I think some people put it at the end of the 14th week, but those people are communists.

A brief status report:

Energy level: better than it has been in previous weeks, but I’m not exactly staying up for Letterman.

Bladder: Under constant assault. Especially as I am trying to fall asleep at night, when it mysteriously starts filling up every 5 minutes.

Abdomen: Like that of a boozy sorority girl (the kind who wears midriff shirts and shouldn't), and then some. It seems to grow during the day, starting in the morning as an almost cute pooch, and looking all-out pregnant by nighttime. None of my pants button closed anymore, though they thankfully still fit in the ass and thighs. I’ve told a few friends at work now that I’m pregnant (haven’t made the official announce to my superiors yet) and they say they hadn't noticed that I'd gained any weight. But then, they haven’t seen me naked.

Breasts: the approximate size and density of ripe $1.69 grocery store mangoes. Beginning to feel a bit constrained in my bra. Will refrain from describing other changes for the sake of modesty. And because I know my friend Brian sometimes reads this, and it would make him blush. (Hi Brian!)

Veins: increasingly visible on torso and legs. Chest looks rather like cracked porcelain.

Mood: generally stable. Pictures of babies / actual babies may cause surges of weepiness.

Headaches: yes, unfortunately, every couple of days.

Gastrointestinal system: Frequent hiccups and small ladylike belches. Constant toggling between constipation and its opposite, unsuccessfully regulated by consumption of / abstention from dried apricots. Occasional vague aches and discomfort.

Appetite: excellent in the morning, good mid-day, not great in the evening, but improving. The mere thought of meat doesn’t make me as nauseated* as it did for a while there. (*note my proper use of ‘nauseated’ as opposed to ‘nauseous’)

Psyche: Good. Very good. I’m out of the danger zone, right? (Unless you’re a communist.) Although I’ve had a feeling all along that everything’s going to be OK. Call it naivte or wishful thinking or self-delusion, but even in the first couple of weeks, when I was having heinous, worrisome cramps, I had a feeling everything was OK in there; that these little guys were gonna hang on.

And I do believe that one or both of them is a guy. (Ha! That sounds funny, to refer to a boy baby as a “guy” – visions of dirty tube socks, chin stubble, beer…. ) Again, I have no rational reason to think this, and it may very well be wishful thinking. I have always wanted a boy, for some reason. A boy and a girl would be fabulous, but barring that, I think I’d prefer two boys. I’m not supposed to say this, am I? I’m supposed to say “whatever they are I’ll be thrilled.” And, of course, I will be. If they’re both girls, I won’t believe I ever wanted anything but.

The funny thing about this gender prediction thing, is that my husband believes me. He thinks that if I “sense” what they are, there must be some truth to it. Anyway, hopefully in about a month, we’ll be able to find out. (No, we don’t want to be surprised. Two at once is surprise a’plenty for us, thanks very much.)

They are starting to feel more real to me. That is, the fact that in six months or less, we’ll have two infants, God willing, is starting to feel more real. However, I still don’t quite feel like those infants are connected to the biological phenomenon occurring inside my uterus, if that makes sense. Therefore, I am really looking forward to seeing them (please let it be them, plural!) via ultrasound on Friday, hearing their heartbeats on Monday, and starting to feel them move in a few weeks. I confess, I occasionally prod my abdomen as I lie in bed at night, hoping one of them will kick me in annoyance, but they haven’t yet. Instead they just stand on my bladder until I get up and pee for the 8th time in an hour. Mischievous little monkeys. I can’t wait to meet them.

On the other hand, there are moments when I am terrified; when I think my God, what have I gotten myself into? Like when I read accounts of the first weeks of twin motherhood like this and this. At least, unlike these women, I will have my husband around to help full time, not just at night. But still. I fear the emotional drain, the worry, the sleeplessness. (I am someone who needs a lot of sleep, and not just while pregnant.) I fear, most of all, that it will be hard to bond with both babies at once. I anticipate moments of extreme jealousy of my friends with singletons. Not that that one newborn isn’t hard, too, but, come on. TWO, people!!

And at the same time, I’ve gotten almost completely used to the idea of having two babies. In fact, it’s hard to imagine it any other way. It seems almost lonely. You say “I’m having twins” enough times and, by golly, you start to believe it.

Expect an update on Friday or thereabouts, after the early genetic testing scan, (Ultrasound and bloodwork) which I'm oddly un-nervous about. Is it possible for pregnancy to cause unnatural feelings of calm and optimism? Must be that little-known hormone, Pollyannastrogen.

Them Sunday Blues

2006-07-09T19:40:00.000-04:00

Sunday nights find me at my most brooding (and cranky). It's been this way ever since around fifth grade. I get gloomy, pensive, nostalgic, nervous, vaguely guilty for not having made more of my weekend -- which could mean either wishing I'd done less or wishing I'd done more. Even times when I am extremely content with work or school or whatever else awaits me on Monday morning, Sunday night remains a challenge. Oh, for those Sunday nights of yore -- when, at 3, 4, 5 years old, I was allowed to stay up late (until 8:30?) to watch The Muppet Show if I got into my pajamas and brushed my teeth before hand. There was no angst then. Only Crystal Gale and John Denver, singing with hand puppets.

Anyway, what am I brooding about on this particular Sunday night? Primarily the fact that I miss Vermont, or more specifically, my state of mind whilst there.

Not that I wanted to stay longer, exactly. I was ready to come home -- I really was. I missed my husband, my home, my bed. I was worn out from so much writing and tired of so many days, so similar.

But, damn, was it good to be in a place (mentally and physically) of such pure purpose. Nothing to do but write. And write I did: 70 pages of novel in the span of 12 days. That is an unheard of level of productivity for me. Sure, I met some great people, had some good talks about craft and process in writing and visual art alike. But the real gift was the total lack of distraction. The glorious boredom of getting up every day and doing the same damned thing. The most exquisite torture you can imagine.

At home, my mind is infinitely more cluttered. Here, there is yardwork, there is internet, there are bills, there are friends, there are stacks of unread magazines, there are dust bunnies under the bed, there is Zoolander on the Comedy Channel while I eat dinner. There are always, always other things I could be doing. And I lack the willpower not to do them. I strain to focus. I fidget and fuss and waste time.

My residency, by contrast, in retrospect, feels like a meditation.

I really want to finish a draft before the babies are born. That is my goal, but I don't know if I can do it. It's so easy to make excuses, so easy to get off track. Like this: an offer came via email on Friday afternoon for a freelance job from an agency I do occasional projects for. It would be good, easy money (read: 2 cribs, a double stroller and a few months insurance on the second car we're going to have to buy) but it would be above and beyond my normal part-time job. In other words, it would cut into my writing time. I told myself I wasn't going to take on any extra projects between now and January. But...but....writing copy is so much easier (and more profitable) than writing a novel, dammit!

If I were still in Vermont, I think I would say no, absolutely not. I am a fiction writer -- and a pregnant one at that! Get thee behind me, freelance! But I'm home now, where everything's much more muddled.

Back to work tomorrow morning. Everyone's going to ask how my "vacation" was. Pbbbt.

The belly

2006-07-08T12:06:00.000-04:00

A few of you have requested belly shots, and I promise that at some point down the line, I shall deliver. (Ha!)

The thing is, right now, my belly just looks, quite frankly, gross. I have gained about 8 pounds all told now, and I basically just look like I've got a pot belly. Not exactly a pregnant one. (Except for the more visible veins.) I have never weighed this much in my life, with the possible exception of when I came back from my semester abroad in Cameroon in '95, having subsisted on manioc, fried plantains, french bread and beer for three and a half months. Not that I'm complaining, mind you -- it's all for the sea monkeys' benefit. And my doctor will be thrilled. AND, I seem to so far not be gaining anywhere besides my midsection. Still have those hardcore toned Madonna arms. (Yeah, right.)

Anyway, given this "blossoming" I'm finding it tough to get into my normal pants, so I broke down today and went to Target and got a couple of pairs of maternity pants: a cute pair of cropped tan ones and some skort-y black gauchos (Culottes? Who knows), both of which are wearable now and will probably last me through 6 months. I could have probably just done a size up in normal clothes, but since I'm just gonna keep on growing, that seems silly.

I got a couple of tops, too, but here's the funny thing: when I wear actual maternity tops, I look pregnant. I guess it's just something about the cut of them, that empire waist thing. All of a sudden it is unmistakeable.

Only a week more of being coy about all this -- baggy clothes at work, etc. I have an ultrasound for early genetic testing next Friday, and assuming all is well, two passengers are still on board, we'll spread the news far and wide after that.

I promise a more astute and enlightening post soon. Right now I'm adjusting to life post-writing-residency, and a house full of Brazilian construction workers. Who probably just think I'm fat, not pregnant.

(Re)productivity

2006-06-30T12:55:00.000-04:00

Anyone out there working on a novel or similarly long and intimidating creative undertaking, take heed! I have discovered the formula for productivity:

1. Get pregnant, preferably with more than one baby.
2. Go to an artist and writers' colony in rural Vermont for two weeks
3. Add frequent rainshowers and thunderstorms

Presto! You will crank out at least 1500 words a day, for lack of anything else to do, acutely aware of the fact that in several months your time (and, likely, inclination) to write is going to vanish completely and indefinitely.

Honestly, I can't say enough for this thing I'm doing right now--getting away from work, home, wireless access, books about pregnancy, having to cook and go to the grocery store, and other vicious time sucks--to do nothing but write. Granted, it still takes some willpower to keep pounding out the words. And the daily routine does get a bit monotonous. But overall -- hallelujah. It's been a long time since I felt this much like a "real writer." And for the first time in years, I'm actually even letting myself dream (silly girl) about how nice it would be to write full time. Maybe, someday. Sigh.

Somebody here asked me the other night if I ever talk to the babies. (I'm being fairly open with folks here about the fact that I'm pregnant. Why not.) And that night as I was lying in bed I actually cried, thinking, my god, I'm a terrible mother-in-waiting! I don't have conversations with my gestating children! The fact is, they still just don't feel real to me. I don't have a pregnant belly (just what looks like a beer belly) and I can't feel them moving. I can't imagine what they will look like or become. I just don't connect them with *babies* or *children* yet. They're only about two inches long, their skin is transparent, and their genitals haven't fully developed. Should I be able to think of them as my babies? Do I suffer from a horrible lack of imagination? And if I did talk to them, what could I say besides, "Well--um. Hey there, sea monkeys. I hope you're OK in there. Can I get you anything? Another protein bar? Another nap?"

Of course, the woman who asked me if I talked to them is kind of loopy. There are lots of loopy people up here. It's great. And there are some less loopy ones as well, like the woman with a 2 year old back home who told me that she didn't really feel pregnant -- in the psychological, there-is-a-human-being-inside-me sense -- until she was 7 months along. I'm hoping for 5 months.

In the meantime, I am sincerely enjoying these incredibly selfish two weeks, sea monkeys in tow, but unobtrusive for the most part. Yesterday and the day before, I was pretty nauseated, which sucked; my fault for taking my prenatal vitamin too early, on an empty stomach. But today, appetite is back in full swing. Selective, but hearty. I try to get a little belly rubbing in every day, often at night before bed, when I tend to look and feel "bulgiest." Here's hoping the wondertwins feel the love, even if they can't hear it.

171 pages, 11 weeks, and counting.

Pregnancy Dreams

2006-06-23T09:47:00.000-04:00

I know that other people's dreams are rarely entertaining, but indulge me. (This is a blog, after all.)

I dreamt I was looking after a friend's baby boy -- an adorable 18-week old named Buster, who was very smiley and, like your average 18 week old infant, liked to sing little songs. (?)

Anyway, I took him outside for a walk, holding him in my arms. I had to put him down for a second to open a large, heavy, ornate wooden door. (Because we were suddenly on my college campus, you see.)

The second I put him down, he was off like a shot, running away out of sight on all fours, and I suddenly remembered: he was half monkey.

Fortunately, my father-in-law was there to run after him and catch him, though he was a little peeved that I'd forgotten about the half monkey thing.

This dream is, of course, transparently simple to interpret. It's all about my relationship with my mother.

The twin thing

2006-06-21T14:51:00.000-04:00

Of course, we knew twins (or more) were a possibility when we started the whole fertility drug adventure. But I was convinced that it wouldn't happen to us.

I make it sound like it's some kind of booby prize -- and of course it's not. Lots of people pray they'll have twins. And now that I've gotten used to the idea, I'm extremely happy to be having them, for a number of reasons. But I must admit that initially, my reaction wasn't "Wow! Cool!" -- which seems to be the reaction of most people when we tell them we're having twins.

Actually, I take that back. When we first saw those two little dots on the ultrasound screen at 6 weeks, my very very first, un-vocalized, gut reaction actually was something along the lines of "wow, cool." But it was quickly followed by a feeling of disappointment. I wanted one baby. Two eventually, yes, but not both at once. I wanted to lavish all my attention and love on one little being, not have to juggle two. How would I give them both my undivided attention? What if I accidentally loved one more than the other?

Next came panic: how are we going to afford this? Are our careers / social life / sex life over? Will I ever write again? This was followed by the more physical fears: can my (rather petite) body handle this? Will I be OK? Will they be healthy?

(I should admit that at some point, maybe a day or two later, the catty little devil on my left shoulder snickered and told me I'd never wear a string bikini again. The angel on the right was quick to remind her that I never had anyway, so stop being such a petty bitch.)

I'd just never imagined us being Twin Parents. Something about it seems so -- I don't know -- suburban. Trendy. Yuppie-ish. Qualities I like to think don't apply to us. (See Jane conveniently ignore the fact that she has a job in advertising, lives outside a major metropolitan area, and just bought a house). I think it also has something to do with a vestigial prejudice against the whole fertility treatment thing, and the association of multiples with it.

It wasn't that long ago that I thought if we weren't able to have a biological child, we should just accept that fact, take it as a sign, and adopt. The idea of fertility treatments seemed selfish to me somehow; entitled and unnatural and consumerized; the province of priveleged, career-crazed people who wanted it all and waited too long to start trying for a family, assuming they could, in essence, "buy" a baby with a little Clomid and maybe a round or two of IVF if it came to that.

Of course, I was quickly cured of my high-and-mightiness when it became clear that getting pregnant wasn't going to be easy for US. And I realized just how many couples, of all ages and walks of life, struggle with it. All of a sudden, I understood why infertility is such a painful and frustrating thing. Adopt? Hell no! I want MY OWN child! Teenage meth addicts manage to get pregnant. Why not healthy, responsible, 31-year-old me?? Overpopulation? Screw overpopulation! My children and I will be dead by the time things get really bad anyway!

We didn't have to spend much on our treatments as they were covered by insurance, but I'm pretty sure I would have begged, borrowed, or turned tricks for extra cash if they hadn't been. I have no shame or regret whatsoever about the fact that we "got help" getting pregnant. And I don't begrudge anyone for a minute their decision to do the same. I guess there is just some part of me that fears that when people see our twosome their first thought will be: Fertility Drugs. And maybe they'll be thinking the kind of uncharitable thoughts I might have just a few years ago. Assholes.

I promise not all of my posts will be this long.

Let me just end with this: on my way back to work from lunch today, I felt an odd little twinge in the right side of my abdomen. And, even though it's too early to feel any fetal movement, I smiled and touched my belly and thought, "Hey, little monkey on the right, you OK in there? You dancing? Or is your brother/sister pushing you around?"

That felt really cool.

"I want you to gain a lot of weight"

2006-06-19T13:13:00.000-04:00

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.

An experiment

2006-06-14T11:02:00.000-04:00

Greetings, non-existent readers.

I created this blog over a year ago as a place to post allegedly humorous writing by myself and some of my (much funnier) friends, but lost steam, had another project to focus on, and let the idea die. Now, I'm considering a new, more conventional iteration of this blog -- one in which I actually post my own personal musings / news / etc.. The triggering occasion for this is the fact that I'm pregnant -- 9 weeks today, with twins -- and have a number of far-flung friends that I think (and maybe I delude myself) wouldn't mind hearing updates on how things are proceeding, seeing pictures of me when I get as big as a house, etc.

But I'm not entirely sure I can go through with it. The thing is, the idea of this kind of blog feels awfully self-indulgent to me. I mean, seriously, who CARES about me, my opinions, my burgeoning uterus?? This is why I've never been very good at writing memoir-esque non-fiction in general: re-reading it is akin to hearing my own voice played back on a tape recorder. Ugh.

On the other hand, I have no problem at all blabbing incessantly about my life to friends in emails. So, I'm going to try to think of this blog (if it survives beyond this inaugural post) as just that: a big group email to my friends. And anyone else who happens to drop by.

I should also note that I don't find other people's blogs self-indulgent in the least. I've loved reading my good friend MWDB's account of her pregnancy. And I adore Bihari's musings on writng, motherhood, the medical profession, and life in general. While my husband and I were trying (unsuccessfully) to conceive, it was a great comfort to read blogs like this one by women struggling with infertility.

So, I really don't have a problem with the whole blog thang as it were. Just a mild case of self-loathing. But maybe this will prove to be an effective cure. So, I'm just going to quietly, secretly start posting, and maybe if I find that I like it, and actually feel compelled to do it, I'll continue. Like I said, it's something of an experiment.

Oh, and if anyone who knows me who didn't know I was pregnant has happened to stumble here (though I can't imagine how or why you would...) well, I guess the cat's out of the bag. Do me a favor: pretend you didn't see this, and keep it quiet for a few more weeks, K? Thank you!

More soon....maybe.