A twins parenting (?) blog

(And one day.)

My twin skin has pretty much filled out, so I finally feel okay about taking a bare-belly shot.

Until I took this photo, I didn’t think I looked or felt any smaller than I did when I was carrying the girls, but comparing the belly pics of the same week, there’s definitely a difference.

Speaking of skin and bellies, though, I understand something about pregnancy that didn’t quite gel for me before: Just because you got stretch marks with one pregnancy doesn’t mean you’re done. I knew I was getting new stretch marks, but I didn’t know know, you know? I’m thinking the weakened skin must be actually just as, or maybe more, prone to getting more stretch marks the second time around. Oh, I just LOVE being a woman sometimes!

Anyhow, I’m feeling physically good. No aches or pains to speak of. I feel the baby a ton these days. Light kicks have turned into decently strong jabs. I can feel definite limbs — the sharpness of a heel or elbow as my little girl turns over in her watery home. I think I’m starting to feel hiccups too. From her, not me.

Whenever I remember that I’m  pregnant and get twenty seconds to think about it, I actually get a little excited for the baby. Sure, I have natural worries about how she’ll fit in, what she’ll be like, how she’ll sleep and eat and so on. But I’m starting to have some faith that everything will work out fine, or as fine as it can, and I just need to focus on enjoying this pregnancy and the final months I have left with just Elise and Althea.

That said, the pregnancy is dragging. A blessing right now that we’re about to move (more on the house nonsense later), but generally pretty lame. The first time around was full of novelty. This time, I just want to get to the end.

Other general stats: I’m up almost nine pounds now. After my next OB appointment, I’ll have to do the glucose tolerance test, which I plan to pass this time because having gestational diabetes last time sucked. Interestingly, unlike the last pregnancy, I don’t smell weird or have any other manifestations of excessive hormones. I also don’t have much of a linea nigra this time, either. My stomach muscles, which never came back together after the twins, are split about three inches apart now and it’s pretty uncomfortable to sneeze or cough because it feels like my uterus is going to burst through my skin.

Meanwhile, my boobs and skin look pretty amazing so . . . hey. I’ll take it.

I have this thing with my mouth.

No, not herpes. And get your mind out of the gutter. Jesus.

I’m a chewer. A chomper. I destroy pens, chomp endlessly on ice cubes, chew gum. I smoked for 15 years.

Point is, I release stress by chomping on things — including food. Sadly, I’m not one of those people that gets all sick to my stomach, loses my appetite and upchucks when I get stressed. Oh no, I run straight for the fridge. I think I’m the only bride that got fat before my wedding.

Right now, I’m experiencing some epic stress. We got the final approval papers from the bank on our short sale. The buyer has already put money into escrow. We have a closing date.

But…

But it’s all still pending the home inspection, which happens tomorrow at 9:30 a.m. Until we’re assured that the buyer still wants the place once he gets written proof of all the things wrong with the house, we can’t put down a deposit on a rental house.

NOT that we’ve had any luck finding anything we can afford that we would actually live in. We’ve looked at probably eight houses and so far, we’ve seen some crack dens and a couple of shoe boxes.

Basically, I have no fucking clue what’s going to happen with our house or where we’re going to live and it is driving. me. MAD.

Will we have to put the house back on the market? Foreclose? Will we end up moving when I’m gigantically pregnant? Will we be forced to move into a shitbox because we can’t find some place safe that also includes an intact roof and floor?

I don’t know.

So yeah. Stress. Want to eat. A lot. Can’t sleep. Going insane. Praying to a little plastic statue of St. Joseph that I buried upside down in my backyard.

This is not a rational person speaking here.

Luckily, there’s banana bread and M&Ms and Heath ice cream.

I don’t know about you, but nothing puts me in a more festive mood than making some hot, thick bean soup in the middle of August in Florida.

I’ve been saving this recipe for a Spanish-style bean soup for a while. The craving finally hit and I made it, using Spanish chorizo instead of andouille sausage. But that’s beside the point.

The point is this:

I’ve never used great northern beans as called for in the recipe. Neither have I ever worked with kale, a collard-like green, leafy vegetable.

Turns out that these items are pretty potent. The soup was delicious. Deee-li-shus. But I’m estimating that, between the kale and beans, there were approximately 18 grams of fiber per spoonful of my soup.

We ate the soup on Sunday evening. Within a couple of hours, it hit us. A little cheek lift here. A walking rat-a-tat-tat fart there. A poof of wind on the way to the kitchen.

Soon, these innocent gastrointestinal gusts started getting more dangerous. Throughout the night, Chris and I lifted the bed sheets — and not in a kinky sort of way, either.

Monday morning, Chris emerged from his daily visit to the throne, complaining of some minor intestinal upset. Specifically, his insides had liquefied and he was concerned that he would die of dehydration or an evaporated bowel.

Lucky for me, I have a stronger stomach. Gas, yes. Pee shits, no. Monday afternoon, I dared to have a bowl of the tasty soup for lunch. Again, within an hour or so, I was doing the one-cheek salute to expel the increasingly toxic fumes.

The problem wasn’t the farting in itself. Around here, we enjoy, announce and even celebrate our gas. It was the intensity, the frequency and the duration of the gaseous episodes that ended up posing an issue.

Eight hours after consuming my bean soup for lunch, I was still farting like a geriatric. Even Elise and Althea were noticing, imitating a farting sound every time Chris or I would pass gas. At one point, I went to the bathroom and Althea pointed at the bathroom door and said, “Ama! PPBBBLBLLLBBBP!”

I knew things were out of control when I let a silent-but-deadly one fly and saw the cat lift his head, take a sniff and — I shit you not — move to the other couch.

If you’ve ever owned a cat, you know that it takes a lot for a sleeping cat to get up and move from a comfortable couch.

Monday night, I decided to freeze the remainder of the soup. Tasty as the soup was, Chris’ tender stomach and my sulfuric intestinal juices couldn’t handle any more.

We chuckled at the whole experience — haha, crazy pregnancy cravings; haha fiber soup; haha our colons are gone.

At about 6 o’clock this morning, I wasn’t laughing anymore. There was no mirth or merriment when Chris threw back the sheets, jumped out of bed and screamed “AWWWWWWWWW SHIT!”

I flailed awake in a panic. “What?? What the fuck is going on?”

“God damn that bean soup! I just shit the bed!”

“…….Are you serious?”

“I dreamt I was taking a shit and I shit the bed. Mark your calendar. I’m 36 years old and I just . . . Oh JESUS CHRIST!” he screamed, holding his butt cheeks together as he ran off to the bathroom.

From behind the closed bathroom door, sitting on the toilet, shitting his brains out at 6 a.m.: “GOD DAMN THAT BEAN SOUP!!”

Hey! It’s been a long while since I last half-assedly participated in ControverSunday (Tuesday). This week’s topic is interesting to me because it’s one of those things that I didn’t realize was an issue in mommy circles until I became a mother myself. It’s the type of thing that you will never see addressed in a parenting book.

First, some business to take care of:

So, licensed merchandise is all that stuff that has, like, Disney characters and stuff on it. If you’re hyper aware — or really, even marginally aware — you notice just how much crap is licensed these days.

I can debate that it’s one thing when a grown adult buys a Metallica T-shirt or a Florida Gators (CHOMP CHOMP!) cooler. We adults generally have the power of choice and the advantage of age and the social/cultural awareness that comes along with it.

But when you start talking about kids’ items, you run into some issues, right? How appropriate is it that an otherwise unremarkable plastic sippy cup is decorated with Tinkerbell or Lightning McQueen? Or that Pampers diapers are decorated with Sesame Street characters (and Huggies with Winnie the Pooh, and Luvs with Blue’s Clues)? That nutritionally helpful vitamins are in the shape of Wilma and Barney?

Several controversial issues at work here:

• Babies or little kids don’t have a choice, let alone the cultural insight and objectivity, to critically review their interests in popular culture and the contexts within which those artifacts were created and disseminated
• Licensing can be viewed as a part of a means to create early, perpetual and loyal consumers
• Parents are the ultimate peddlers of this merchandise, etc.

When I somewhat randomly got involved in a crunchy mom circle online, I started becoming aware of previously non-problematic (to me) issues such as licensed children’s merchandise. And then I was all “I will only buy plain wooden toys made in America!” and “I will only cloth diaper, except when I don’t and when I don’t, I will only buy off-brand, non-licensed disposable diapers!” and “There will be no TV in this house until the girls are old enough to read through my grad school books and make critically conscious choices about what they consume!”

But then I really wanted to get the girls one of those cute little foam fold-out couches for toddlers. And I realized that, unless I wanted to spend an exorbitant amount of money on an organic-cover, non-licensed, made in the U.S.A. toddler couch, I was stuck with a polyester-and-foam, completely flammable and probably laden with lead Backyardigans couch that I bought with a 20% off coupon from Babies R Us.

In my defense, I had no idea what the Backyardigans was (were? is it/are they a collective noun or a plural noun or whatever?)

Elise also recently went through a phase where her favorite thing in the world was Snow White. SUCK ON THAT, MOM.

My feelings now are less rigid. The girls are going to be exposed to all sorts of nonsense throughout their lives that will make me want to stab my eyes out or cry or fear for their lives. While I don’t work to accelerate that exposure, I’m not as fearful of it either. Yet.

Besides, we have tickets to see Yo Gabba Gabba! Live in October and nothing’s going to stop me and Chris the girls from seeing our their favorite show.

Don’t worry — the kids bought their own tickets with their college savings.

This pregnancy is posing a lot of issues for me — issues I didn’t have or feel with the twins, so this is all a bit scary. To explain:

When I found out we were having twins back in April 2008, I felt like we’d been somehow “chosen.” Silly, I know. But I saw it as a gift, a great responsibility with which I’d been entrusted. I took it as my sole duty to nurture and grow those babies to the best of my ability.

Despite having battled serious body issues throughout my life, I felt little trepidation about the weight I purposely gained. It was all temporary, I thought. When the stretch marks appeared, I took them in stride. When I explored my post-partum body, I accepted its changes for what they were and promised myself I’d do the best I could to improve it.

At 16 months post-partum, all was beginning to feel fine and well. I was back in the gym, just a few pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight. I’d finally pulled out my “skinny” clothes, even fitting into some of them. I had weaned the girls from breastfeeding so I could get back on Lamictal, a medication for bi-polar disorder that I’d had a ton of success with.

I finally felt like I was getting my body and life back.

In the back of my mind, I was dreaming of the surgery that would re-join my stomach muscles. In an even further recess of my mind, I thought maybe, just maybe, we shouldn’t have more kids. Our girls were perfect and awesome. Why mess it up?

And then . . . Well, I got pregnant again. I really, really wasn’t ready for it. It’s not that I didn’t or don’t want or love the baby. It’s that it wasn’t planned and really caught me off guard.

So this time around, I’m having body issues. 21 weeks into the pregnancy and I’ve gained about five pounds. This is nothing compared to the twenty-ish I’d gained by this point with the twins, but every ounce of this new weight is filled with panic and self-loathing.

That nagging bitch of a voice in my head questions, Five pounds so far — so what does that mean for the rest of the pregnancy? How on earth am I going to keep my weight gain below 25 pounds? 20 pounds? 15? I don’t want to puff up, I don’t want a fat face, I don’t want melting thighs and a monster ass.

The bitch goes on. My stomach . . . Ugh, my god, my stomach. The silvery-white stretch marks circling the center of my abdomen, scarring the folds of loose skin left from my last pregnancy, are turning faintly purple. The weakened skin is going to give out. Again. And stretch even more. Again.

I panic. I self-pity. I don’t understand. I thought I paid my dues with my first pregnancy. I sacrificed and worked hard and did everything right. I let my body do what it wanted and needed. I grew two full-sized, healthy babies, delivered them vaginally, nursed them for almost a year and a half, stayed home with them to raise them in the best environment I could give.

And this is what I get? Anxiety about weight gain, depression, stress and more stretch marks?

I realize all of this is unhealthy thinking. Frankly, it’s shameful and embarrassing to feel any of this at all. It’s so superficial, so shallow, so silly.

I’m supposed to be jolly and maternal. I’m supposed to give motherly smiles to strangers. I’m supposed to be glowing, goddammit.

But that nagging voice, that belittling bitch that tells me how worthless and disgusting I am, is seeping in.

I thought I was too fucking old for this shit. I know better than this.

These are just feelings. They are temporary. I love this baby, her little punches and kicks, the weight of her growing body, the thought of her in our lives. I will grow her and adore her and do a good job with her, too.

But these damned feelings…

So I tell my little girl I’m sorry and I love you and This has nothing to do with you.

My only defense right now is not thinking about it too much. It hurts — hurts to feel it, hurts to admit I feel it.

I promise I’ll try to be sarcastic and funny again soon. Right now, I’m just working through this the best I can.

I’ve been back in therapy for about a month now. Every time I get to a new therapist’s office, I find myself in a different life stage. In each of those stages, I’m pretty certain I know everything. I’ve finally figured myself out. I’ve got it all under a microscope and I don’t need any silly armchair psychology.

I really like my new Therapista. She’s from San Francisco, and her liberal upbringing is evident in her long, barely tamed gray hair, makeup-less face and quirky clothes. I like that she respects my personality by not delivering platitudes.

The problem, then, with Therapista is that she’s smart. And, despite her slightly crunchy demeanor, I don’t think she’s going to let me get away with shit.

Last week, I divulged some intimate, problematic feelings I’m having about this pregnancy. I rambled on about being ashamed at feeling less-than cosmically thrilled, terrified at the changes in my body, scared about how the new baby will fit into our lives when things are so difficult as it is.

Therapista reassured me that these moments will pass. I will fall in love with my new daughter just like I did with the girls.

“Sure, but how do I deal with these feelings in the meantime? What’s the mantra I tell myself to get through this right now?” I whined.

She tilted her chin slightly downward so her eyes gazed up at me. With a tiny shake of the head, she replied, “The mantra you tell yourself is that these are just feelings.”

Uh? Just feelings? JUST feelings? Just feelings?? Um, excuse me lady, but in case you haven’t been reading Cosmo for the past 25 years, FEELINGS are the most important thing in this world! We are shackled to our feelings! Our feelings are our destiny! They define our past, shape our present and inform our future! We must acknowledge, belabor, journal, share, celebrate, reward, punish, revel in, and carry around our feelings like so much emotional baggage!

… Oh wait. Um. I think… Hm. Maybe you’re on to something there. Maybe some feelings do require examination while others are just buzzing flies that will eventually run out of steam and drop dead on the kitchen counter, where we can sweep them onto the back cover of said Cosmo and unceremoniously dump them into the trash bin.

It’s a totally foreign and even uncomfortable concept if you’re as inured to pop psychology as I am. But, looked at another way, this new little mantra takes away the weight, the burden of some feelings. It makes them a lot less scary. Not every emotion is definitive. Not every emotion has to mean that you’re an evil person, that you need fixing, that you’ve got deep-seated psychological issues that are bound to destroy you and the lives of those you love.

Some feelings are just feelings and they’ll go away when you’re done feeling them, or when you get a good night’s sleep, or when you eat some chocolate or have a good cry.

So, while it turns out I still don’t know everything, I think this time on the couch might actually be productive and eventful for my life.

Just a feeling.

Kids running barefoot outside in the rain…

wearing only diapers…

and feeding them forkfuls of dinner as they go tearing by…

That’s not redneck, is it?

I hesitate to write this post because it implicates me as a terrible mom, but it’s important enough that I have to share.

We bathe the girls in one tub of water. When Chris isn’t home to help, I’ll take one child out of the tub and plop her on the counter to put on her lotion and brush her teeth while the other child plays in the tub. Then I put the dry baby on the ground and extract baby #2 from the tub, letting the water drain while I do lotion and teeth for her.

Tonight, I had Elise on the counter while Althea was in the tub. The bathroom is fairly small, so the tub is no more than two feet from the sink. Elise was being stubborn about brushing teeth, so I was really absorbed in the task.

I don’t know what happened, but Althea was suddenly coughing up water, struggling to gasp for breath while sputtering and choking  in the water.

She was submerged under the water. I don’t know how much time had elapsed. Maybe it was only for a second. Maybe it was three seconds. There were only three inches of water in the tub. Maybe she couldn’t really have drowned. Maybe she could have. But she was clearly choking on water that she’d inhaled while I was two feet away from her.

I WAS TWO FEET AWAY FROM HER. In the same room. Alive and conscious and sober and able to pay close attention to her, but I wasn’t.

I snatched her up and held her body close while her lungs struggled to expel water and inhale oxygen. I let my mind go there — her life, my life, flashing before me in an instant, overwhelmed with fear and gratitude that the unthinkable hadn’t happened. God and Christ and every other deity existed in that moment because my child was alive.

I don’t know if I’m overreacting, but what happened was fucking terrifying enough for me to have learned a horrible lesson:

The instant bath time is over, DRAIN THE TUB.

Do NOT assume that being in the same room means you’re paying attention.

I thought I was ultra cautious with the girls around water. I’ve never even left them unattended for four seconds to run into their room for a washcloth. I’m just too paranoid.

So what the fuck happened tonight???

People, you CANNOT be too careful around water when children are involved. In my mind, my 20-month-old girls are big and strong and smart enough to extract themselves from a couple of inches of water. Apparently not. Don’t fall into that same trap!

I think I’m looking legitimately pregnant and not just chubby around the middle.

This pregnancy is so different. I’m still pretty mobile and strong. I’ve only gained two pounds so far. I can sleep comfortably on my back, I don’t pass out from blood sugar drops and I’m finding myself in decent spirits most days.

Come to think of it, stretches of time go by without me thinking much about the pregnancy.

And then … I feel something. A flutter. A tiny flick of a limb. The roundness of a little body growing inside of me. And I remember, happily and gratefully, that I am carrying our third child — a beautiful little girl who is going to make her own unique place in our growing family.

***

We got a cash offer on our house last week. Therapy is going well. My mom is coming tonight for a two-week visit and I can’t wait to show off my wonderful daughters to their Amama.

Life’s not so bad today. I think I’ll go out and spend some time with my three favorite girls in the world.

I could have sworn. SWORN. That I was carrying boy bits in me.

So when Chris and I opened the envelope containing The Ultrasound Photo that would reveal our third child’s gender, I fully, 100% expected to see only three letters.

Instead . . . Well, you can probably see where I’m going with this.

I won’t deny it. I cried. I cried and cried. I was disappointed. Shocked. I wanted a boy. I felt nothing but boy. I really had my hopes up.

As “insurance,” we had the tech take a photo of the baby’s bits and put it in an envelope for us to open later. We joked that we didn’t want to cry in front of everyone if it was a girl.

And when the tech told us that, in case we would later wonder, he was 100% sure of what he saw, I thought YES!!! It’s definitely a boy because he saw the undeniable.

As the tears streamed uncontrollably down my face when I saw the word “GIRL!!!!” I was simultaneously filled with shame and pain. Yes, I was disappointed. But the idea that overwhelmed me was that I could be at all disappointed in this tiny little baby, this innocent little girl who is completely welcome and wanted and loved.

I thought of my perfect daughters and how much they’ve improved our lives, of how endlessly I love them, of how the last thing I feel in them is disappointment or shame. So I was embarrassed and mad at myself for feeling what I felt.

I know, I know. As a mother, I’m not supposed to feel these things. And even if I do, I’m certainly not supposed to admit them. But the deal is, it’s over. I was disappointed. I’m still kind of in mourning.

But I love my daughter. Like Chris said, the sadness is in the idea that it’s not a boy, not that she is a girl.

So. On the bright side:

• We are experienced parents of girls.
• We don’t have to buy anything new for a while.
• Surely with three girls, we’ll get some grandkids out of them somewhere.
• She’ll have two awesome older sisters who will dress her in silly costumes and carry her around like a baby doll. Or a rag doll. Or a football.
• Who says we’re done, anyhow?

(Okay, that last one was a bit premature. I AM NOT THINKING OF #4.)

I think at this point, I’m mostly dreading the reactions from the general public. I’ve gotten enough negative BS about having twins — I can only imagine the shit we’ll hear about having three girls. “Blah blah blah three prom dresses,” “Yadda yadda three weddings,” “Yap yap yap you’re really in for it.”

Ugh. Like we haven’t already thought of that? Like we can do anything to change it?

“Girl” is not a four-letter word, even when multiplied by three. (Because that would be 12. Right? I took math. YES I PASSED.) There are plenty of four-letter words that aren’t bad — words such as good, luck and love.

Also, ulna.

Here are the rest of the photos of our darling doll of a daughter. We’re pretty happy now that it’s sinking in. Her profile looks a lot like the girls’.

Besides, if she’s half as wonderful as her sisters, we’re set.