MOTY Award time, yet again

the best time of day is that small window of naptime before the annoying kids next door get home from school. thankfully today it's raining and so the ear piercing screams of Florence (yes, Florence. the BOY who lives next door) will not end naptime prematurely or cause me to slam out the front door and ask him who exactly is murdering him. even though I secretly wish someone would.

oh, that's not even the worst thing I've said (or even thought) this weekend. The highlight film includes such gems as telling Z that I couldn't care less if she ate lunch or starved to death and yesterday's epic fail of me informing C that she is systematically ruining my life. starting in utero.

So, if anyone would like to pass on their mother of the year award statue, I'll be waiting patiently.

The Mommy Wars: Vitriol Edition

This is a post that's been rolling around in my head for a day or so now, so I'm just going to put it out there all stream of consciousness like...

I think I might be some sort of mommy-aberration. Let me explain that a little.

I read. a lot. anything I can get my hands on. newspapers, magazines, books, blogs, cereal boxes. It's got words, i read it. can't help myself. So in my reading travels, I read a lot of mom-blogs. Some are twin mom specific, some are just parenting stuff. and what I want to know is, are they all full of crap, or am I some sort of freak of nature?

I don't want to spend 24/7 with my kids. they get on my nerves. they whine. a lot. the sound of children, especially mine, whining makes me want to get a shotgun and blow my face off. Don't get me wrong. My girls are funny and fun to play with. and when they are not hungry/ tired/ too hot/ too cold/ bored/ not overstimulated... etc they are awesome. But in reality, that is about 20 min in total each day. Ok, maybe I'm exaggerating, maybe it's really like an hour of total time. That means that there are roughly 9 hours of each blessed day that I want to rip my own ears off and eat them.

So, you say, get out more, hire a babysitter, do something for YOU. that sounds awesome. like rock on, dude! but seriously, let me explain what the fall-out from a night out does for me. I won't even touch on the hangover that would invariably occur from the appalling amount of alcohol I would need to consume to begin. I will only talk about having to surgically remove both children from my legs this morning and throw them into the living room, run to the door and slam it in their faces so that I could leave for work this morning. Why, you ask? I'm not entirely sure, but I'll hazard a guess it'd be because I had the audacity to go out after work on Wednesday and not get home in time to tuck them in. So all day yesterday I had C crawling up my leg doing her best to re-implant in my uterus and today they both screamed enough to make themselves choke and gag because I was, gasp, leaving them with the babysitter. The same one they've had since they were 7 months old.

They are going to preschool in the fall. I can only imagine how fantabulistic that's going to be. Not to change the subject entirely, but I also can't seem to fathom the idea of 'playdates' and the guilt some people apparently have about whether or not their preschooler has enough friends. They are 3. How many of you still speak to or even remember your preschool friends? Did you have any friends? are you now a social pariah? We didn't have playdates. I had a sibling. he was 3 1/2 years younger. and a boy. and we played together! I know, the horror! how could my mother have been so cruel? playdates are a way for mom's to get together and let their kids run amok so that you, the mother, have someone to commiserate with and you don't stick your head in the oven when roasting a chicken. Don't get me wrong, that's an important reason to schedule a 'playdate'. But don't for one minute think that your child's future happiness hangs in the balance.

I really think we all need to get over ourselves. I can't stand feeling like their entire future rides on my shoulders. Start those flashcards now, or your kids will be flippin' burgers and living with you at 38. And make sure you get in enough orchestrated, carefully un-constructed 'playdates' so you don't wind up chatting it up with barbara walters about what it's like raising sociopaths. And absolutely never ever lose your cool and scream like the mother f-ing banshee or you'll wind up footing the therapy bill for the attachment disorder that explains your adult-child's inability to form a lasting relationship. Which is really the reason why they are flipping those burgers and living with you at 38. It's all your fault. You didn't love them enough.

Let me clue you in... we ALL have issues. It isn't necessary mom's fault. and it certainly isn't because she served you pancakes for dinner. and burned them. twice.

getting stood up

I'm here at work on a beautiful saturday morning to ostensibly see patients who NEED TO HAVE GENETIC COUNSELING RIGHT!!! NOW!!!.

except my 10am decided to not show up. but I can't leave as I have two more scheduled after her.

I had such a day yesterday with the powers-that-be about scheduling patients and not having enough open appointment slots and not returning phone calls in a timely fashion that I almost told them to shove very very far.

My job is becoming more demanding than my children. And that is saying something.

grumble

I just got off the phone with chase who charged me $10 for overdraft and $1.50 in finance charges when I paid the damn overdraft the next fucking day! What is the point of overdraft protection if I have to pay multiple fees? and I had the money in my savings acct. But will they let me link my savings to my checking? Noooooo. how would they periodically scam money off of me if I had a savings link. I do realize that in the grand scheme of life $11.50 is not the end of the world, but what the fuck do I spend time clipping coupons and reading the goddamn grocery circulars for if I have to pay absurd fees? and also, what good is a text telling you that your account is about to be in overdraft if it comes the day AFTER the mother fucker has posted? Just like the street signs in jersey "You've just missed Exit 4. Nah Nah" Fuck you too!

Don't you wish you had an appointment with me today to discuss your abnormal ultrasound results?


p.s. Clearly I need a drink. or eight. and to NOT wake up to "DOC! WHERE ARE YOU DOC HUDSON?!? WHY ARE YOU UNDER ZOE'S CRIBBY?!?! ZOE!!! ZOE!!! HELP ME FIND DOC!!! OH NO!!!! HOW WILL DOC GET BACK INTO MY CRIBBY?!?! MOMMY AND DADDY!!!! DOC IS UNDER ZOE'S CRIBBY!!!! OH WON'T SOMEONE HELP ME!?!?!?!?!" at 6am. followed by a morning worth of "I'M TIRED! I NEED TO WATCH SOMEFING ON TV!! WHERE IS PINK BLANKET?! I NEED MY CARS TO WATCH ME EAT BREAKFAST! NO!!!! I HATE APPLE JUICE! WHY IS THERE NO ORANGE JUICE?! WHY ARE YOU A TERRIBLE MOMMY WHO DIDN'T BUY ME ORANGE JUICE?! GO TO SHOPRITE AND GET SOME! NOW!!!!" I actually ran out the door when the babysitter showed up. which made Chloe cry. more. as if that were even possible.

Tuesday morning (in numbers)

loads of laundry washed dried and folded - 1
times zoe threw all the socks from said laundry on the floor - 3
wardrobe changes for zoe - 3
people who pooped on the bedroom carpet - 2
times chloe sat on the potty - 8
times chloe peed on the potty - 1
times chloe peed her through her tinkerbell underwear, pants and socks - 1
pairs of tinkerbell underpants left - 0
tantrums thrown by zoe re: lack of tinkerbell underpants - 2
episodes of curious george watched - 3
catboxes cleaned - 1
ungrateful cats - who knows, can't find him
donuts eaten - 1
locksmiths H will need if he comes home at 10pm again - at least 2

Ahh... Friday

I am sitting at my desk after sending a patient off to get her blood drawn when I look down at my right arm and realize I have pancake batter dried to my right forearm. And not just a dribble. A whole damn mess of it.

so professional.


Construction continues at the "house of screaming children" (as I often like to answer the phone. Ala IHOP) They have discovered that my bedroom is not actually connected to the rest of the house by anything other than gravity and good intentions. And they found a mess of papers and odd bits from 1850-ish. Newspapers, school books, a fountain pen and an unfinished letter to a cousin who had come to visit and since returned home.

Things I have learned, but do not surprise me:
1. my house is damn old
2. it should have fallen back into the earth many many years ago
3. the 3-day job is reminding me of that trip on the SS Minnow
4. it's going to cost me... about double the original estimate
4. Z does not like to sleep at Grandma's house
5. I did not pack enough cookies

They now think they will be done painting by next tuesday. next tuesday people. as in 4 more days in the future. Wherein me and the peanuts (and Sam the Man) stay at G-ma's with Michael. Who has no job. and will not. stop. speaking. ever. Yesterday Z told him to "shut up and be quiet!" at least 4 times. Z does not mince words.

C wants nothing more than to pet Buttons the 14 year-old de-clawed cat. Buttons would rather have his back claws extracted. He spends his time alternately hissing and growling at her. Does this deter C? Nope. She stands there and says "Buttons is my friend, he loves me" The girl is afraid of lint on the floor, but a cat showing all his teeth and spitting at her is her friend. who loves her. She has the full on crazy. And trust me, that kind of nutty does not come from the platypus side of the fam. That's for damn skippy.

Now Z on the other hand. She's one of us. We all would like to tell Michael to shut up and be quiet. with a few extra expletives.

Please send wine. and duct tape. or a shovel to bury the evidence.

Terrible One-and-a-halfs?

Is it possible that my precocious little angels have decided to up the ante and enter the "terrible twos" a few months early? This morning as I was trying to leave for work, Z decided that she should wear the string of beads I had on. Woe to you who says NO to Z. She basically yelled "BEADS" for the next 20 or so minutes. So much that C had to get into the act. She didn't even know what she was pissed off about, but it was getting Z attention, so why not.

This continued through the better part of the morning and only paused while Z stuffed eggs in her face and re-started with a vengeance when I dared not share my cereal with her. Never mind that she had already eaten the following:

1 egg w/ spinach
~20 grapes
1/2 banana
1/2 slice of toast w/ cream cheese

Clearly she was starving and needed to eat Kashi G0Lean. For her diet.

And speaking of diets, mine is going crap-tacular. I need to care more about the size of my ass. The other night I was fishing under the radiator for a missing trove of little people when my butt set off the little people farm. More specifically the pig pen. So that it appeared I was oinking. I thought mom and H would fall off the couch laughing.

Send pie. dietetic pie.

SAMtastic

Sam is almost better. He can poop in the litter box. But now I fear he has a head cold. He just sneezed and knocked himself out of the food dish. Funny, but distressing. plus he has eye-snots. And I think he's itching fleas again.

How do i manage to pick 'em? But at least he's cute. Which is a good thing as he is right now sitting on my lap and screaming in my face. if he wakes up a baby he's going to be one sorry ass kitten.

the girls went to sleep tonight at 6:45 due to no afternoon nap and general bitchiness. that's going to bite me in teh ass tomorrow when they get up at 6:45 and I try not to shoot myself in the face. I'll let you know how that goes.

Under Pressure

I'm trying to formulate a post about the pressure to be the perfect mother. I'm not quite sure what I want to say, but it's so unfortunate that I feel a lot of times like I'm not enjoying them as much as I should becuase I feel this pressure to be doing the "right" thing. For example...



Playing:

I friggin' hate eduational toys. There are no educational toys for a 7 month old. they are babies. They want to chew on shit and see stuff that lights up and plays doofy melodies... they don't want to learn french or calculus. they want to chew shit. well, mostly C. Z wants to take over the world.

walkers/exersaucers: toy of satan or fun for twins who chew on everything? In order to eat dinner, or make baby food for the ravenous teething twins, I occaisionally have to stick them some where other than on me. The bouncy seats are no longer cutting it, but the girls still haven't mastered (or don't care to) the art of sitting. So for a few minutes a day they get plopped in a walker or exersaucer. C chews on whatever is in front of her. Z attempts to dismantle hers while moaning her evil plan to her henchmen. I lock the basement door and put a chair in front of it. I don't know why, their little feet barely reach the floor... but I took a header down basement steps at my 1st birthday party, and well, we've seen what that does ;) Anyway, does this make me "worst mother ever"? I hardly think so, but if I read one more dumbass book that equates these toys to burning your child with cigarettes, I may lose it.

Or how about teething rings? Why can't I freeze them? C wants to eat the fridge. Or the cat. If he were frozen. My mother found a teething ring in her fridge that was most likely Ed's if not mine. It's probably made of liquid lead. C loves it. no, that's an understatement. they are eloping next friday.

Television: See above re: walkers. Sometimes we are needing some Noggin' around here. Like this morning when I had to pump and babies did not want to chill on the play mat or read Don Quixote in the original Spanish. So we had a double no no: babies in walkers watching telelvision. Child protective services should have just walked on in and skipped the pleasantries. I mean, what an unfit mother I must be to allow my children to stare blissfully at big-eyed bugs on Miss Spider while I hook myself up to have a rendezvous with Felipe. So. They. Can. Eat.

Food:

Food is one of these areas where I feel like I need to make sure they are getting the right nutrients in the right balances and that more of it gets in then on them. Like if they eat bananas too many days in a row, they will be missing some key ingredient in oh, say, sweet potatoes that will make them Mouth breathers instead of Mensa members. this is absurd. There is no way that my mother could have possibly put this much thought into my food intake. The woman can't remember where she put her cell phone down after hanging it up. (this happened twice today). I'm reasonably intelligent. And look at H. he's pretty damn functional considering the bizarre inedible food product his mother likley served. (I reference the rosh hashana brisket/stewed cauliflower/corn on the cob debaucle of '03)

then there's the organic, free-range, hormone free hoopla. I know for a fact that my mother didn't buy organic vegetables when she made her baby food. Granted, there may have been fewer pesticides, but then again, it was the late 70's, so it was probably worse. People were less concerned or less aware of the crap on their food. I wholly buy into the organic fear mongering. I can't afford gas some weeks, but I am buying organic locally grown apples. At least I've down graded my own dairy from organic to "hormone free". Personally for myself I could give a shit about bovine growth hormone, but I went through puberty early and lord knows I don't need them with boobs at age 7. I have enough problems on my hands with identical twins, at least one of which may be an evil scientist.

The thing is that I feel like we are all driving ourselves crazy. You have to do what works for you and what's best for your life and your family. Do I think it would be better if I didn't have to rely on gadgets to keep my children from screaming so loud the dogs across the street bark? Yes. Is it likely to happen? Um, sure. If I cloned myself and hired a chef and housekeeper. I am doing the best I can with what I've got. I've got two well attached babies who are growing almost perceptively and need attention. We read books, we sing nursery rhymes, we eat two meals a day of organic fruits, vegis, oatmeal and yogurt. They have started taking naps in the crib in the morning and they go to bed every night by 8pm at the latest (we are working this up to 7 as I think they need more sleep and frankly I need less cranky babies at night). But that pressure is still there to measure up to some unatainable goal. I have gotten myself off the hook lately by thinking "maybe that would be possible if I only had one baby..." but I have a feeling there's only so much one woman can do.

Unless you are my mom. Who literally is a super hero. When I was a kid, she brought me roses after a show and signed the card "Super Mom" as a joke. Except it's true. Tonight she came by after work to watch them while I went to the doctor. Then she stayed to help feed them dinner. Then she gave them both baths and while I nursed them to sleep, she put away the bath stuff, did my dishes and cleaned my kitchen. Then she went to play bridge. But she called me from the car to say she couldn't remember who's house the bridge game was at. At least she could find her cell phone.

The Bad Mother Chronicles

I currently have two babies crying in their crib. There's nothing wrong with them other than they are tired and don't want to take a nap. But that's not why I'm a bad mother.

I'm a bad mother today because today is a non-work day, also known as a baby day. I should be spending my time playing with them and teaching them sanscrit or some shit. but I just can't handle the crying today.

C hasn't pooped a decent poop in two days. She can't sleep because she has a bellyache. I'm sure it's too much rice cereal for her. For breakfast this morning they had pears, apples and prunes. Then Z blew her ass off. Every diaper I've changed today has had some sort of poop in it.

So, no, I am not enjoying my baby day. I want to rest for a few minutes that don't involve poop. or crying. or teething. Did I mention C was teething.


p.s. it's 3:30 and I just poked my head in the bedroom. They are both asleep. I knew they needed a nap. Maybe I'm not the worst. mother. ever.

grumble grumble

just used all of morning naptime writing up post in pics of our day yesterday. damn pics won't post. something about needing a photo hosting site. so i uploaded the pics to flickr. but i am not smart and babies are waking up and I don't really know how to link everything. grrrrrrrr

will eventually figure it out. now it's time to get on the hamster wheel of feed the baby burp the baby change the baby rinse repeat.

Naptime...

would be awesome...

anyone got a suggestion on how to make twins nap in their crib? should I even care about this? Or should I be greatful they even sleep? C is in a bouncy seat in the living room. Z is in the crib periodically squeeking. I am stuffing turkey sandwhich and checking email.

I am also working on a photo essay entitled: "This is Our Day" Unfortunately I don't know how to work the timer on the camera, so there's no shot of me trying to wrestle both of them on for tandem nursing... but you can use your imagination on that one.

also, when does the breastfeeding get to be fun and bonding and less like wrestling tiny strong midgets? and also, ouch.

swollen & self-loathing

sorry for the long absence. What can I say? I am a crappy blogger. And also, my internet connection was a little spotty. And I'm feeling sorry for myself. So it's a trifecta of discontent here at Chez Platypus.

Where should I start...I had my u/s last monday and the babies are pretty freakin' big. Baby B (on the right who likes to kick me in the liver) was a little over 4lb . Baby A (on the left who head butts me in the bladder) was harder to get a read on. She was coming up 3lb 9oz. Now, that's not such an accurate measurement as it was almost impossible to get a head circumference. Why is that? Well, perhaps it is because her head is jammed as close to my cervix as is possible. With baby B trying to head butt her out of the way. So if I had to make a guess, I'd say they are both around the 4lb mark.

That gives me 8lbs of baby ramming their little baby skulls into me in some weird race to be first. this does not bode well for my future...

It also doesn't bode well for me feet. sadly my feet are worse. "no", you say, "it cannot be?! They have already defied the logical limits of foot swelling". Well, they hadn't and now they are worse. If I didn't tell you they were feet and they weren't positioned at the ends of my tree stump like legs, you would be hard pressed to identify that anatomical part.

So U/S Monday night and by Tuesday morning I was begging to be seen in the office again to show my feet and plead my case for foot amputation. I had gained 14 lbs since my visit the week before. Let's see that figure again. 14lbs. That's a lot of water folks. But fear not, my OB had some wonderful advice:

Stay off them.

Like I'm here running on the treadmill and doing jumping jacks.

So now I have been confined mostly to bed. Which gets me to the self-loathing portion of today's post. WHY ME??? I'm not good at laying around doing nothing. And my bedroom is small and boring. I have a TV, but TV is boring I can't really watch more than an hour at a time when I'm not all cranky and swollen and being licked by the cat because he knows I don't feel well, but doesn't understand that licking my feet does not make them feel better. Even the internet is boring. I've read every magazine, took parenting and breast-feeding books out of the library and watched almost every movie I can stand.

I guess the good news is that my blood pressure and everything else is normal. I had an NST yesterday. That's a fun little test. I lay down in a recliner and they strap two heart rate monitors for the babies and a third to measure contractions. I am old hat at this. This is what we do on our trial runs to the hospital. But now there's an extra component. I have to push a button every time someone moves. Do you have any idea how many times I pushed the damn button in 45 minutes? I asked the nurse if I could perhaps push the button when I DON'T feel movement. She thinks I'm a loon. They will definitely never hire me to do their genetic counseling.

In an effort to gear up in case the little doll-babies decide to show up early, H spent the whole weekend working like a maniac to set stuff up. He is a saint, seriously. Here's what he accomplised in two days:

• went to babies r us WITH MY MOM and finished off the necessities from the registry
• went car shopping WITH MY MOM
• mowed the lawn and weed whacked the forest growing along the fence in the driveway
• did two loads of baby clothes and two loads of our laundry
• put all of these clothes away
• washed and hung two more loads of baby blankets and our quilt on the line because I didn't want them to go through the drier
• organized baby gear and put it away in either our bedroom, the nursery or the basement, frequently involving 2 flights of stairs with large plastic toys, mattresses etc.
• cooked all of our meals
• ate them in bed with me so I wouldn't be lonely
• did one million loads of dishes
• went to the grocery store and ran other errands including renting me extra movies to supplement my netflix
• and woke up with me every time I started crying that my feet hurt. he would get up, get me cold washcloths to put on them and then put lotion on my poor stretched skin to keep it from stinging and burning. seriously any man who would touch those feet is a prince. or mentally insane. jury's out on that one.

I think that by yesterday he was so happy it was Monday just to get away from me and my whining and list making. Last night he cajoled the financial planner in his office into coming up to the house (from manhattan where this guy lives and works) so that we could talk about life insurance for the two of us and get started on making up wills to have in place before the babies come.

H is awesome.

That's pretty much the news that's fit to print. If anyone wants to see me, they can pull a chair up in the bedroom and marvel at my girth. Otherwise, I'll be here. Gestating. and swelling. At least I have a/c. and my very own H.

Because, H is awesome.

oh, and today he's designing the thank you cards for the shower. so I can write them tomorrow and people will stop complaining about what an ungrateful wretch I am.

Yes, H is totally awesome

Careful Observation

The time stamp on this post is 5:43am. I've been up for a little over an hour. I really don't do either side of 5am all that well, but I'm getting tired of watching the sun rise.

Here's the disclaimer on this post. It'll most likely be graphic and somewhat grouchy. it's 5am and I'm tired of "watching" things.

#1. Watching my feet and ankles swell and deflate. Tired of that. Also tired of none of my shoes fitting and feeling a bit cliched as I shuffle, (not walk... can't actually walk) barefoot, around my house with what feels like water filled socks on.

#2. Watching the clock to count my contractions and try to discern what is an actual contraction vs. baby movement vs. just plain old uterine grouchiness. Basically the entire area of my torso is a battlefield right now.

I feel this bizarre need to quantify both of these rather irritating phenomenon. Perhaps it's a way of distancing myself from the atrocity of becoming a fluid filled sack of muscle spasms. I had a very similar (and equally disturbing to onlookers) reaction to my two most painful quasi-surgical experiences. And since it's still not 6am, I am going to subject you to both of them.

#1. After a lovely church led outing to a local "action" filled amusement "park", I sustained 2nd and 3rd degree abrasion burns to my right leg, left arm and face as well as two torn ligaments in my right ankle. I was 13. They poured liquid bandaid on the burns without cleaning them and sent me home with the advice of "take a bath" when I got there. The next morning, my mother took me to the doctor where they poured hydrogen peroxide on the wounds and used a surgical scrub brush to clear out the gravel and debris. I watched the whole thing and repeatedly pointed out spots that they had missed and should go back over with bubbly foamy peroxide and a plastic scrub brush. The nurses were a little afraid of me.

#2. In college I drove the world's coolest and possibly filthiest Ford Thunderbird, affectionately known as BOB, the luxury vehicle (as he had power window AND door locks). The excessive amount of driving that I did in this car I'm sure led to a very large and very grotesque Pilonidal Cyst. Check that link out. Isn't that disgusting? By the time I got around to having it checked out (the first time) it was roughly the size of a grapefruit. Again in the doctor's office, I had that bad boy lanced while I bit on a washcloth. No, I'm not kidding and no, this did not take place in the old west. They packed the wound with gauze and sent me home to soak in an epsom salt bath and remove the packing. My mom came in the bathroom with me to help get the gauze out of my ass. She was trying to do it slowly so that it would hurt less. I grabbed the side of the tub with one hand and the gauze strip with the other. That bathtub still has fingerprints in the porcelain.

When it happened again a few months later, I went to the emergency room, laid down on a gurney and had an intern stick a needle roughly the gauge of a bendy straw into the same spot to drain off more fluid. This time I had no washcloth. I do, however, have a lovely scar along the base of my spine. In case I'm every horribly disfigured in an accident, but my ass survives the fire.

What's the point? Other than grossing everyone out? I guess it's that I'm not that big a baby. But this shit is killing me. I can't walk. I can't sleep. I can't sit comfortably. I can't even lay down. My feet constantly swell and deflate, but never to the size or shape of actual feet. Plus I have this truly fantastic, low lying pressure as if someone were repeatedly head-butting my cervix. Which kicks off the charming cascade of irregular contractions, trip to hospital, shot of terbutaline, shakes and heart palps, ending nicely in coma.

So if you don't hear from me for a day or two, that's where I am. Either in the hospital or in a coma. don't worry, I already woke up H and asked him to work from home today. He responded by asking me if he needed to put pants on now and then rolled over and turned off the alarm.

Protein Shakes

Protein shake is not a food. It a food supplement. Does anyone else want to call brother Ed and tell him this? I have spent the last few days trying to convince him that he needs to actually consume and chew food if he'd like the lining of his stomach to become one continuous piece again.

Over the weekend he called me up to ask me where your appendix was located as he was convinced he had appendicitis. Turns out he is only consuming protein shakes.

arrrggghhh!!!!

But don't worry, between the protein shakes and the 4 hours a day in the gym, he's really buff. And isn't that what's really important?

No, he's not on a diet. he's just lazy. I'm on the phone with him now and he's making fun of his friend who went on a fruit cleanse fast. How that's different from protein shakes, I'm not sure. I suggested he just go out and buy some ensure, start a competitive shuffleboard league and complete the cycle of life.

By the way, he has a college degree. From a well known university. Does anyone want to give him a job? Perhaps if he had a job he would eat food instead of drinking protein shakes. But probably not.

In unrelated news, it's 11:40 am and I've already eaten a yogurt with peaches and walnuts and a bagel with cream cheese and I'm hungry again.

Brother ed suggested a protein shake.

Blame it on H

I was going to post up a more recent belly shot today. Not that it's all that current. I think it's about 3 weeks old. anyway, digressing... I schlepped myself upstairs to the office as the laptop is kaput and plugged in the firelight all ready to upload some gorgeous shot of me and my hippo belly.

There's no picture.

H swears he moved everything onto the firelight for me to play with. He also lies. I finally got him to confess over the phone. He never took them off his laptop.

phooey.

but at least I was right.

In the meantime, here's a shot of Petey instead:


Petey Does the Dew

Extra Saturday

I would like to formally request an extra Saturday. I feel that I am not granted enough time with my current allotment of one Saturday per week.

This weekend we were incredibly productive. We went to my co-workers house and picked up a whole slew of baby stuff, most notably a port-a-crib, a brand new full size crib mattress, another pack n play, a ton of linens and some toys and a rocking chair (that of course wouldn't fit in my car with all the other stuff.

Then we hit Babies R Us. You may or may not have been aware of this, but there is, in fact, a genuine portal to hell located right next to the breast feeding accessories. This is must be where all of Satan's minions are filling the store from. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I have never seen so many freakin' people shuffling aimlessly through crap they don't need. We had to wait over an hour to get a scanner to start the registry. In the meantime, we walked, no, shuffled, the same route as everyone else in yonkers through the labyrinth of plastic crap. Just as we were done compiling our list of things to put on said registry, they called our names to come back to get a gun. So we walked the whole damn store again, scanning crappola.

After that, we unloaded (ha, I unloaded nothing. I sat upstairs with Petey and we watched H unload) all the stuff out of the car and tried to rearrange the furniture so there would be a path through the room.

Sunday involved way too much laundry and reorganizing the basement in order to empty the upstairs closet. Never got to the closet.

This is why I need an extra day.

Also, apparently babies do not like walking around Babies R US / Hell's Gate as I was up every hour from 2 -6 am on Sunday. Apparently, someone decided to stab me with a hot poker in the ribs. I am assuming it is a hot poker as it is someone who is womb-bound and I can't actually see what they are torturing me with. Where would they get a hot poker? I can only assume was at aforementioned aperture to the underworld. H imagines it to be some sort of bizzarro baby inquisition, complete with Spanish accents.

Rib Stabbing is the new baby past time. It has already replaced Sibling Wrestling as a favorite among the 18-22 week demographic. Rock on!

In an effort to combat the anti-sleeping hex that has been sent my way, I finally broke down and bought one of those absurd body pillows. That's the only thing that allowed me to sleep from 6am to about 9 on Sunday and most of last night. I managed to wad the pillow up enough to force myself semi-upright in bed. This makes rib stabbing much more arduous (but not impossible as I am sitting at my desk in a very upright position and they are managing quite well). It also annoys the crap out of Petey as he is rapidly running out of room in the bed.

According to H, Petey spent a portion of the evening giving me and body pillow dirty looks and snorting in our direction. So, yeah, he's going to handle the babies really well. Can't wait for that.

Too Many Feet...

{parental warning: there are some very very bad words in this post. If you are not accustomed to my propensity for profanity, you may want to skip it. Or at least sit down with a nice cup of tea and your church pastor on speed dial}

Too many feet and hands and heads and butts....

H and I trekked to the end of the block last night and had a level II U/S last night. Everything looked good. We saw 8 chambers in 2 hearts, 6 vessels in 2 umbilical cords, 4 little bean shaped kidneys, 2 little round stomachs, 2 bladders filing and emptying, 20 fingers and 20 toes. But definitely ZERO penises (penii? what's the plural here?)

In essence, everything looked great. It took forever since they decided to wiggle all over the place and wriggle themselves on top of each other. They are basically laying in a big #7 with everyone's feet over on my right side. This might explain the excruciating back pain that's wrapping around that side. On the other hand, that could be from my cantaloupe sized boobs. You think I'm exaggerating? We're on our way to honeydew... I'm sure we'll surpass watermelon by August.

That sounds like a blast right? I mean, every freakin' pregnancy book, magazine, website etc. are all extolling the virtues of bigger boobs. Fuck you people. really. Fuck all you all skinny little boobed people. go to hell. i hate you. and your little boobs. Sorry to anyone's mom who may now be having a seizure due to my lack of restraint on dropping F-bombs, but I'm serious here. This is some seriously painful shit. I know they don't have to be this big.

I am currently awaiting my delivery from Lane Bryant. Mille grazie to F.fanny in advance for her tip that they have a maternity section where us plus-sized pariahs can go to find enough stretchy cloth to cover our monstrous mammaries. They tell me the wonder slings should arrive on Monday so perhaps by Tuesday I will be floating on a cloud of supportive wire-free bliss. I'm not getting my hopes up too high.

I know you all think I am exaggerating just a tad. Not that I have ever been known to hyperbolize for entertainment or levity.... But I actually had to spend Wednesday in bed. In. The. Bed. I could not go to work and sit in my desk chair. As a matter of fact, I had a hard time sitting on my own toilet. It was absurd. And it brings me to my next rant:

Why when I call in sick does it have to involve a separate phone calls to everyone I work with. What the hell? Don't these people work together. I mean, for chrissake, you all have offices within shouting distance. Someone yell out "Jeanne's not coming, her boobs are too big to allow her to stand upright!" So I called the secretary and the other counselor and got a gripey message from the doc saying that if I was going to call out, could I please call him at home. it's only fair that he, as the director of the program, should know who's going to be in and out.

{get ready, here's the last bomb of the day, I promise}

SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS. ALL THE WAY. WHEN YOU THINK YOU ARE DONE, YOU AREN'T. JUST KEEP ON SHOVIN'!

really, don't these people know not to taunt a pregnant lady? Especially one who likes movies where people pummel each other to death and is prone to day-dreams involving torture. You're signing your own painful death warrant.

Now isn't everyone glad the twins are girls? Could you just imagine boys with H's size, my freakish muscle structure and that temperament? Yeah, I know, it would totally rock!

p.s. H thinks they look "sweet" on the ultrasound. I think this is wishful thinking :)

Comparative pregnancy

I work in obstetrics. In the fetal evaluation unit. I see high risk pregnancies all day long. These women are not skipping down the hall whistling a jaunty tune. They are shuffling and puffing their way to the bathroom and back.

So you would think that people who work here would be a little more understanding of pregnancy. This morning I was greeted by the receptionist who asked me how it could be that I was the most miserable pregnant woman ever.

I think that might be an exaggeration. Although I’m sure I look a little on the miserable side. Let’s face it: I’m 35 pounds fatter with most of it being concentrated in the front of my body, I can’t find a bra that fits and holds everyone up leading to recurrent numbness and tingling in my side, I’ve had a cold for the past two weeks, I pee more than 10 times a day (I’ve started counting) and I can’t sleep at night. So yeah, I’m not miss Mary Sunshine. But you know what? I wasn’t a happy girl before I was pregnant. I just don’t do exuberant.

Having said all of that, I’m not saying that I’m sorry I did this. I was the one who wanted to have a baby. I understand that in order to have said baby you need to go through the pregnancy part of it. I’m not sorry or upset that it turns out there are two of them (I’ve gotten over the shock… for the most part…. for now….) I don’t even mind the mild to moderate discomfort that comes along. What I do mind is people telling me how it should be.

Look people, every pregnancy is different. Every person is different. It’s sure as hell different to carry around two babies as opposed to one. I don’t need to hear about your sister, niece, neighbor or even the nurse in L&D who was pregnant with twins, gained 15 lbs and worked until the night before her scheduled c-section. I don’t give a crap!

This is how I am. I am pissy. I’m pissy when the sun is shining and I’m eating ice cream, I’m pissy when it’s sleeting and I have to walk to the post office. I’m a pissy pissy person. I am not going to turn into some hallmark greeting card all due to the magic of gestation. And really, why do you care if I’m having a rip-roarin’ good time over here? Also, when was the last time you were pregnant? If the answer is never or more than 10 years, take one giant step backward and shove it up your ass.

I am now sitting in my office with the door closed. I think it’s the only way to avoid homicide allegations today.