Category — Announcements

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.

We got one of these bad boys yesterday:

Because I got one of these bad boys a few weeks ago:

This time, we weren’t trying (though as my friend says, if you’re not using protection and aren’t taking it in the bum, you ARE trying), but it happened and we’re thrilled.

When I found out I was expecting this time, all sorts of things ran through my head: How will I tell Chris? How will we tell our parents? Is it too soon? Will be be able to make it? Do we have enough love for another child?

What am I going to call my blog?!?

Telling Chris was fun. He was at work, so I stuck a hot dog bun in the oven and waited. When he got home, I asked him oh-so casually to take a look at the oven door because it seemed to have come off its track again.

He went to the kitchen and opened the oven door with no problem.

“Babe, it’s working fine for me,” he called.

“What? Really? How’d you do that?” I asked.

Still opening and closing the door, he says, “Yeah, it’s fine.” Pause. “But there’s a hot dog bun in the oven. Is that supposed to be there?”

I strolled into the kitchen and said, “Oh, I thought maybe you’d want brats for dinner so I put a bun in the oven for you.” I couldn’t help but smile. Surely he got it.

“Brats? No, I . . . Is this some kind of joke? Is this a treasure hunt? Are there hot dog buns hidden all over the house or something?”

Thinking I was playing a prank on him, he started to laugh. I, on the other hand, was shocked that he still had no clue what was going on. So I went to the freezer and pulled out a carton of ice cream. Then I opened the fridge and got out a jar of pickles.

Chris was still clueless as I plunged a spoon into the ice cream. “What are you doing? Pickles and . . .

“ARE YOU PREGNANT?!?!!!?????”

It would appear so, my dear. It would appear so.

I hadn’t planned on telling people so early, let alone The Whole Internet and all 9 of my readers, but one thing led to another and here we are.

The basics:

• I’m about 7 weeks along
• I have my first ultrasound on Friday. I anticipate it being JUST ONE.
• Terrible all-day nausea. Getting quite a bit of relief from a combination of ginger, B vitamins and Sea Bands.
• Getting tested early for gestational diabetes, since I had it with the girls. DAMMIT. I’ve been eating bagels, ice cream and bread for the past week in anticipation of failing it miserably.
• Estimated due date for now is Dec. 20

We’re thrilled. We’re excited. We’re happy. We’ve named him Squiggy for now, and he sounds just like the character on Laverne & Shirley. We love him.

I have lost many people in my life. My wonderful grandparents on both sides of the family. My step-father. Beloved pets.

But I’ve never lost a friend. I’ve never had a friend die.

Die. Dead. How can a friend. Be dead?

The words don’t make sense in the same sentence. Because people who die are gravely sick, or old, or addicted to dangerous drugs, or reckless and irresponsible. There’s an explanation for the death. There’s a moment or a choice or a lifestyle or an illness that you can point to and say, “Oh, he died of a heart attack,” or “She died from cancer.”

A dear friend died in a motorcycle accident yesterday. His sister contacted me through Facebook to break the news and we spoke on the phone shortly afterwards.

The news was so shocking, so abrupt, that I thought it was a joke.

The finality of death, the eternity of it, the forever-ness of it, has always been the most painful thing to understand. But at least there’s always been a cause.

This time, though, I’m at a complete loss. He’s still here. I can still hear his voice. I can still hear his motorcycle pull up to the house. I can still hear his uproarious laughter bouncing off the walls.

There’s his spot on our couch. He swam in our pool and ate Chinese food with us. We all got fired from our jobs together. We all started our own company together. We exchanged secrets.

Our cats peed on his motorcycle helmet and we bought him a new one. He clogged our toilet and, while piss-water flooded the bathroom, he calmly asked, “Errr….you got some towels or something?” He formed a band with my husband. He didn’t flinch when Chris burned a rack of ribs on Memorial Day.

He took me on my first (only) motorcycle ride. He gave me binoculars for my birthday. He took me to Chili’s when I was pregnant. He came to my baby shower.

His hair turned gray. He laughed louder. He got smarter and sharper. He was finally going to buy a couch for his apartment.

And then he died.

Dammit, Troy. God dammit. We miss you.

Two of a Kind is currently holding a contest to win a Twin Indie Bumbleride stroller. Oh drool drool drool!! What I wouldn’t give to win this sucker. Look at the colors. Look at the features! And be sure to check out Two of a Kind’s blog while you’re clicking!

Wow, I got a blog award from fellow twin mom over at The Best Things Come in Twos! Thanks! Here it is.

So here’s what we do now:

1) Accept the award, post it on your blog together with the name of the person who has granted the award, and his or her blog link.

2) Pass the award to 15 other blogs that you’ve newly discovered. Remember to contact the bloggers to let them know they have been chosen for this award.

Here are my selections, in no particular order:

Mommy Melee – Funny, smart and I actually know her in real life (yes, you may touch me). Read her, it’s a must.

Empty Uterus – Because I love reading her real life story about twins, infertility and a surprise pregnancy.

The Kat Cave – Scary smart, another editor-nursing-twin mom.

Me + Three – Another real life mama with a totally adorable daughter.

Not-so-zen Mama – Smart, down to earth, funny. Nuff said.

Project Baby – An old pal from grad school and her very smart little man, Arlo.

No, I’m not expecting twins again.

I’m talking about teeth. Both girls officially have two bottom front teeth at the same time. Althea had a rough time. Elise sprouted hers without so much as a cough. I’m so excited, I keep checking to see if they’re still there every chance I get.

Thankfully, my nipples have been spared. So far.

Congratulations, girls! Welcome to the world of oral hygiene.

. . . come solid poops.

I saw Althea doing “the shit face”: lips puckered outward, the rims of the eyes bright red, eyebrows highlighted with pushing out the latest intestinal concoction. I promptly took her to the changing pad and was shocked at what I saw — so shocked that I called to Chris to come take a look at Althea’s accomplishment.

It was a pea-green, semi-solid poop the consistency of instant mashed potatoes.

Chris frowned — not out of disappointment, but out of sadness. For this marked a major milestone in our babies’ development: Not only was the poop turning solid, but before long, it would smell, too.

Luckily, it’s still tinged with the regular yeasty-sweet smell of a breastfed baby’s poop. But considering we tried carrots today (which they LOVED), we might be in for a completely different diaper experience by Friday.

Your Daddy and I love you more than anything in this world.

After one week of staying at home with the babies, I feel, in (mostly) no particular order . . .

Guilt. I think this has been my overarching emotion this week, creeping up unexpectedly throughout the day. The first couple of days were the worst. I cleaned, did laundry, made mental to-do lists, over-played with the girls, searched for jobs.

After just two days, I broke down to Chris about my feelings of guilt. I felt — no, feel – horrible about not bringing in money. It makes me feel useless and guilty, like I’m not contributing in any significant or tangible way to the house. And frankly, when it comes down to it, I’m not. Is it great that I get to stay home? Uh, YES. Is it helpful? In a practical sense, not really. Without income, there’s no house to come home to.

Fear. Maybe paralyzing terror is more like it. I just realized that there are only a couple more paychecks coming in during the next month, and then we’re kaput on my end. Scary.

Separately, there’s the very physical fear of being home alone and vulnerable. What would I do if someone busted down the door — and I was nursing? What would happen if I took the girls out on a walk and some maniac attacked us at the lonely end of the park? What if we went out to run errands and I got in a car accident?

Loneliness. Toward the end of the week, I really just started feeling lonely. The girls are wonderful and amazing and beautiful, but having that many one-sided conversations with two infants can start to weigh on a body. I can see how so many women just become insulated in their homes. You feel lonely, you start to get paranoid, so you stay inside with the doors locked and chained. Plus, the thought of getting presentable for the public and packing up two babies just seems overwhelming.

Disbelief. I can’t believe I’m actually a stay-at-home mom. It feels like maternity leave again, except a lot harder.

Also, and honestly, I can’t even believe I feel this way at all. All of these conflicting emotions. The almost-painful love and tenderness I feel toward my babies. I never liked kids, really. And now I feel this way? To the point of quitting my job? I just can’t believe it.

Gratitude. Toward my husband, who is eternally supportive and optimistic. Thank you. I remind myself constantly of the women who would love more than anything to be able to stay home with their babies.

Toward my mom, whose feedback has been nothing short of amazing.

Relief. I have these horrible flashbacks of the look on Elise’s face when I left them that one day at daycare — that look on that innocent, wide-eyed face. “Ama, where are you going?” I left her there in that too-small swing with those indifferent strangers. My eyes were blinded with tears. My heart broke — no, ripped, burned and withered. That look. Good god, I’ll never forget that look on her face. If only to never see that unknowing look again, I would live under a bridge if I had to.

Finally. Finally. I don’t have to worry about who is taking care of my babies and how.

I’ve been writing and rewriting and editing and deleting this post over and over in my mind. It’s kinda sorta big news, I guess, at the same time that it’s not really news. It happened several days ago but I just haven’t had the time or the words to say it.

So I figured I’d just go about it the way I go about most things in my life: with blinders on, eyes wide open, not sure about the future but ready to tackle the now. 

I quit my job.

Yes, in this economy. With twin infants. Severely upside down in a mortgage. I consciously quit my job.

Why? Because of these.

It came down to this: We simply couldn’t afford childcare for two infants that I felt safe and happy with. One infant? Totally could have done it. No problem. With money enough for Burger King, even with me only working part time.

Two infants? Not a chance.

I exhausted all avenues I could think of for in-home and out-of-home care. I did find a daycare I really liked that had a part-time program we could afford, but that schedule didn’t fly with my employer. So I had to quit. Partly my decision, partly forced.

It’s the less-than-adorable reality of having twins.

The decision feels so . . . severe. I keep wondering if I cut off my nose to spite my face type thing. (Though I have a perfectly lovely nose. The rest of the face? Debatable.) I keep telling myself, You could have settled. I could have settled for that hell-hole of a daycare I took them to, where they didn’t even ask the girls’ names, let alone what to do with them. I could have kept the nanny that smoked and talked about avoiding a DUI with a child in the car when she planned to go out partying. I could have put them in a place that cost more than I earned and gotten a second and third job to bring in $50 a week after the cost of childcare. Surely, I could have done something else. 

Right?

But here’s the deal. Not that anyone really does, but . . . I absolutely, 100%, without a regret in the world refuse to knowingly settle for less than the best childcare for my kids. These girls can’t speak. They can’t tell me if something is going wrong. They can’t defend themselves. They eat their hands for entertainment. I know the feeling of crying for help and being ignored, and there’s no way I’d ever ever ever put them somewhere less than wonderful out of convenience.

Sure, I made an extreme decision. It wasn’t an easy one. It may not have been the smartest one. But it was the right one. Chris totally supports me. (I hear the fear deep in your voice, babe. I promise I’ll work my hardest. Thank you.) 

So?

So. It’s the world of stay/work-at-home mom-dom for me. I hope to remember to shower regularly, wear shirts without spit-up on them and occasionally wear a bra. I might vacuum when the dog hair begins collecting into tumbleweeds. I will make my husband lunch. I will likely gain back all 7 measly pounds I’ve managed to lose in 8 weeks by stuffing my face with too much sugar-free candy (because hey, it’s sugar free). I will join a mommy group.

I will compete with other out-of-work writers and editors for low-paying jobs. I will cook up horribly misled money-making schemes to keep us afloat. I will worry about how to afford food and clothes and gas. I will hope and pray and hope and pray and hope and pray that my husband doesn’t lose his job.

I will play with my babies. I will see them learn to crawl. I will see them learn to walk. I will hear them say “mama” for the first time. They will outgrow their infant tub in the kitchen sink and I will bathe them in the big-girl bathtub in the bathroom. We will read books. We will watch television, which may or may not include children’s programming, but will definitely include over-acted telenovelas and afternoon talk shows.  

I will hopefully keep my sense of humor about it all, because hey, these two sure have.