Boob Status and Other Fun Topics!

As it stands now, I've become a pumper. Yes, I've nursed the babies, separately, when I've felt like it, but it's really just to make me feel good. They're not sticking around to get the full feed, and honestly, I am tired of the battle. I don't want to battle with my babies and continue the negative vibe I feel when trying to breastfeed them, when there are other ways to get the job done.

So when I'm feeling like I need some 'us' bonding time (or there is screaming that has no end in sight), I'll give up the boob. But otherwise, I'm hooked up to my juicer before or after each daytime feeding and at least twice during the night. And it's okay. I feel so much more confident about how much my babes are eating, and I find comfort in a measurement of ounces, as opposed to minutes.

I've increased their formula feeds from the mandated two for overnight to three, either replacing the breastmilk evening feed or the wee hours of the morning feed. My thought in doing this is that (1) I'm still not making enough milk - more on this later and (2) perhaps heavier formula on their bellies might encourage longer sleep cycles at night.

In regards to (2) above, it's a big N-O. These babes do not sleep more than two hours in the nighttime. I've done all the recommended things to help them sort night from day, and NOTHING WORKS. My mom keeps reminding me to be patient, that although they are more than three months old, their adjusted age is just over one month. And who expects a one-month-old to sleep through the night? Well, a new friend with a three week old cringes with shame whenever I speak of the long, long nights, as her little dumpling has been sleeping seven or so nighttime hours since the very beginning. It can't last, I have to believe. Sleep deprivation is a topic for another time. Another night when I find myself at the laptop at 3 a.m.

I finished my 10-day prescription of Reglan, and I think it had a minimal effect. I'm going to call the doctor tomorrow, and ask for one more refill. I'm not sure how much good it will do, production-wise, but I need the encouragement to keep going with the breastfeeding/pumping.

I'm really, really loosing steam. The devil on my shoulder whispers Formula is so easy. It doesn't double my feeding time like pumping does. And it's good for them, right? What's the harm?

The angel on the other shoulder reminds me why I started breastfeeding in the first place. It's the healthiest thing for your babies. They had a rough start...why wouldn't you want to do this for them? You're not working...what else do you really have to do but take care of these babies in the best way possible? Stick through the challenge.

I'm currently telling myself that I need to stick it out to their four months. Which, incidentally, coincides with my pump rental, which expires the second of each month. I haven't bought a pump, as I can't decide what I'm gong to do. I'm hoping that I'll get to four months, and convince myself to go to five. But for now, I'm just going to work towards that one goal.

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I've heard my fair share of horrible getting pregnant/infertility as*vice during the past few years. Just relax ... go on vacation ... start the adoption process ... stand on your head... then you'll get pregnant.

And now I can't help but share a few pearls of wisdom I've received during the challenges of this past month:

Why don't we put some maple syrup on your nipple? That should get the baby to latch on.

Your poor daughter is just screaming so loud ... wouldn't the doctor write you a prescription for some phenobarbitol? We used to put it in your father's bottle to calm him down.

My doctor told me that I was too anxious, too nervous. And that my anxiety and nervousness would be transferred to the baby through my breastmilk. That's why I couldn't breastfeed.

Okay, so they're all from older people, but still! Come on!

G-Orgeous, If I Do Say So Myself

I was this close (hold thumb and index finger right next to each other) to posting a pic of my gorgeous babies, but I am entirely too paranoid about "outing" myself and my little ones. No one in my "real life" knows about this blog, and I'd like to keep it that way.

So I show you today just part of my little ones. I admire these hands daily and love the way strong, miniature fingers clasp
onto mine as if there is nothing else out there in the world of any more importance.

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A big, huge congratulations to Alex on the exciting and sudden arrival of Alejandra. G-orgeous, too!

He May Be Your Husband ...

...but he doesn't know everything.

So, if your husband, who has many, many years of cooler-packing experience, assures you that you can absolutly keep your hard-earned breastmilk frozen in a well-packed cooler over the course of three days, don't believe him.

Because he is wrong.

And when he thinks it's not a big deal that you arrive home after your weekend away to unpack the extra breastmilk that you didn't end up needing, only to find it totally thawed, you have my permission to thwap him over the head with whatever blunt object is closest. Hard.

Boob News, Part 2

Ugggg. I'm so freakin' frustrated.

Yesterday I did a pumping 'yield,' in which, beginning at the midnight feeding I fed them bottled breast milk, and pumped. I did this all day, for six feedings (they regularly get 1 bottle of breast milk, and two feedings of formula overnight).

MyBoy drank a total of 28 3/4 oz and MyGirl ate 26 1/2 oz.

And I pumped 26 ounces.

It doesn't take an advanced degree to do this math. I make enough milk to feed one baby, not two. I know that pumping doesn't produce quite as much as nursing does, but when you've got one week sucker, I bet it all evens out.

My conversation with the nurse practitioner/lactation consultant was uninspiring, to say the least. I was hoping for some "You can do this!" kind of encouragement, but none came through. She pretty much said that they were right on track for the amount they were needing to eat, but yep, it appears that I'm not making much milk. And what would I like to do, I ask.

I told her that I want this to work, I want to stick it out for at least another month. So she told me to go ahead and call my OB for a prescription for Reglan, and to basically cross my fingers.

So, I'll start the Reglan tonight, and see if it helps produce more milk, which I hope will in turn help the babies feed more regularly and continuously, thereby helping them to sleep more than one hour at a time. Or am I asking too much?

I'm going to think about my other option:

• Pump exclusively and bottle feed both. It's hard work, I know, but I'm so uneasy not knowing if they are getting enough nourishment.
• Pumping just for MyGirl, and continuing to nurse MyBoy.
• Keep going with this will-they-or-won't -they-eat nursing thing, and supplement with bottles when necessary.
• Quit altogether and go to formula.

I'm so lost, I really don't know what to do, and I know there is no magic answer. A lot of this is a control thing with me ... I felt like breastfeeding is the one part of this conception/pregnancy/birth/childraising that I can control. And I'm learning that I can't.

My Life, The New & Improved Version

Seven a.m. was a wonderful wake-up time yesterday, considering it's been mostly 5:30 or 6:00 in the past. A nice, relaxed feeding ended with a bit of crying, but not too awfully much. Into the carseats they went, I put on my shorts and t-shirt, and out came the Snap N Go.

I load up my cell phone, a few dollars, a granola bar and a yogurt drink. We've taken to heading about ten blocks down to the market, where I pick up a cup of coffee and a bottle of water. On the way to the market, I pass a cute, independent coffee shop/internet cafe, which I would prefer to pop into, but the steps leading up to the one narrow, heavy wood door preclude my entrance with a double stroller. A few blocks later, I peek into the under-construction Starbuc*s, and delightfully notice that the entrance has one wide, pull out door with no stairs and a slight ramp up into the shop.

While I'm all about supporting the local businesses, having been a local retail business owner myself, I do love me some Starbuc*s, and look forward to parking myself in there on Wednesday mornings when our city free weekly is published. It always makes for interesting reading over a decaf skim latte.

My walking route has changed drastically since the pre-babies days. I choose streets carefully, based on whether they have the ramps down the sidewalks, as opposed to straight curb-into-street. Otherwise, each block intersection requires a slick move where I run around to the front of my stroller, pick it up and plop the front wheels in the street, return to the back, push it across the street, and repeat the move to get it back up onto the sidewalk.

I also choose streets based on the condition of the sidewalk. Many of the streets in our Victorian-era neighborhood are brick, and have shifted much over the years. Those streets are out. Some blocks and streets have concrete sidewalks that have shifted so much due to tree roots that they are almost impossible with a stroller. Unless you have a rugged-wheeled jogger, which I do not, since I don't jog and make no pretentiousness that I do!!

We probably went around two miles this morning. As we began, just before 8:00 a.m., the neighborhood was quiet. We passed dog walkers, a few older women running, and lots of construction workers getting their days started. As we neared home, we encountered more business people and leisurely walkers. Buses and sirens filled the main street where we live, and the noise increased. We pulled up to the house, gathered the unread newspapers that have been piling up on the porch, and sat for a few, savoring the emerging morning.

This is my life. It's different, but good different.

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While I'm on the subject, let me address the stroller issue. It's a hot topic among moms-to-be and moms. A stroller becomes such a personal choice... everyone has an opinion and a preference. For some, it's a functional, necessary item; to others, it's an in-your-face status symbol.

Since before I was pregnant, I've always despised the double-wide strollers, mostly because I would see mothers struggle endlessly trying to maneuver them into my boutique. I harrumphed as I was stuck behind them on a crowded street, deeming the parent driving a selfish space-taker-upper (not outloud of course).

So when I discovered I had twins coming, I knew that the double-wide just wouldn't work for me. Plus, I wanted a stroller that would take carseats, and would last us once the kids got bigger. After much research and comparison, I decided on this one:

Excited about the many fun things it does, I ordered it and it didn't arrive till well after the babies were here, which was fine since they were still in the hospital. We've used it a few times, with the seats in full recline mode. It's a monster ... it has a freaking steering wheel for god's sake!!

In addition, a friend offered up her sister's Snap N Go Double, which has proven quite handy. I keep it in the back of my car, and use it a lot for out-and-about trips.

A few weeks ago, Peg Perego called to ask, oh-so-innocently, if we'd been having any trouble with our big stroller. Noooooooo... I replied...Might I be expecting some?? Apparently there is an issue with the front wheels. Ummm, they keep falling off. Nice.

We opted to return the stroller to Peg Perego so that they could replace the wheels with the new ones they are currently fabricating. And in the meantime, for our troubles, they sent us this one as a fill-in.

I, who said I'd never drive a double-wide stroller, have quite enjoyed it on the few outings we've taken. The babes are still a bit small for it, and are much more combo in their carseats, but I can see how it will be handy. But I promise, I swear, that I will be a responsible driver, never hogging more than my share of the sidewalk, never knocking over store displays, and never making it a hindrance to others. But wow, it is kind of fun. You didn't hear it from me.

A friend with twins once warned me that I would become a stoller connoisseur. I thought, no...I'll just have my one handy-dandy tandem that'll get me around just fine. Look at me now, it's like I've hit the stroller jackpot! The babies are just three months, and I am three strollers into it. Truth be told, I'm contemplating the addition of a single umbrella stroller (small and cheap!), so that I can sling/Bjorn one baby and push the other, which would be so much easier for shopping, etc. Hmmm.....

Boob News

I knew that breastfeeding was not going to be easy. I knew that breastfeeding twins would be even more difficult. But I had no idea how hard, and how limiting it is on your life. But I'm trying, and really want to make it work. I don't have any expectations that I'll be nursing toddlers by any means, but I'd like to make it to six months.

I started nursing the twins when they were about three weeks (I'll have to check the diary/log I kept in the NICU). The neonatologists weren't very interested in me nursing them, as they were more concerned with tracking the babies' intake by bottle. They didn't discourage it for the future, and meetings with the lactation consultants helped me to keep motivated with the monotonous pumping. But the NICU nurses, oh those sneaky nurses, were so encouraging.

We started doing kangaroo care at about two (?) weeks, and around three weeks, one of the nurses said, "While you're back there, why don't you just give it a try. We won't tell." So that's how we started, and progressed over the next few weeks to one or two scheduled breastfeeds, per baby, per day.

Each was challenging, as the babies had to learn the complicated routine of breathe, suck, swallow, and do this continuously. I vacillated back and forth on a daily basis about who was getting the hang of it best. One day I'd be convinced the MyGirl was the nursing champ, and the next day, she'd have forgotten how, and MyBoy would be sucking away. I never got to nurse them together in the NICU, and I wish it's something I'd insisted on.

But we got the hang of it when they came home at 5 1/2 weeks. I started feeding them separately, but soon after realized the time saving benefits of tandem nursing, so jumped right into that. I was overwhelmed, but knowing that I had two formula feedings per day gave me just enough respite to keep going. I continued pumping, usually five to eight times a day, including two times at night.

MyBoy does a very college-boy-like move, where he opens his mouth and shakes it back and forth in front of my boobs. If he could, he'd make a noise like "Bwwwwhhhhhhwwwhhhh!!" He's always been what they call a "vigorous" feeder, and I've been able to depend on him to get the job done.

MyGirl, on the other hand, is more timid? She was slow to gain weight, and so with the help of the nurse practitioner/lactation consultant at the pediatrian's office, we've been trying to decipher what her problem is. We've come up with the following answers. Of course, it's all a crapshoot, as she can't talk to tell us what's wrong:

• Acid Reflux - She cries often during and after her feedings, and is a prodigious spitter-upper. She's been on Zanta*c for the past few weeks, and it's been no better. Today we have a new course of treatment ...
• Inability to deal with strong letdown - My left side produces twice as much as my right, and it seemed, for a while, that she was overwhelmed by the strong flow from the left side. But she figured it out, and seems to cope fine. Except ...
• Quitting after 7-10 minutes - From this clue, we think perhaps she likes the strong letdown, and doesn't want to deal with the work required to get the rest of the milk out.

We've been supplementing her with a 2 oz bottle after two feeds a day, and juggling the two babies nursing, post-nursing bottles, and pumping. And in the past two weeks or so, I feel my supply diminishing. My pumpings are less, and both babies are eating less vigorously.

At our doctor's appointment today, MyBoy weighed in at 8 lb 14 oz, which is great! MyGirl tipped the scales at 7 lb 8 oz, which is just okay, not keeping up with the 1/2 to 1 oz. per day gain that they want to see.

The nurse practitioner/lactation consultant we've been working with doesn't seem too concerned, but I just know that something isn't right. So here's the plan for now:

• Tomorrow I will do all bottle feedings, and pump at the same times in order to determine my true yield, and if it's keeping up with the babies needs. I suspect it is not.
• I will call the nurse practitioner/lactation consultant Wednesday with the results. We discussed a prescription for Reglan, which has the side effect of increased production. If she thinks it's needed, I can ask my OB for a prescription. I may do it anyway.
• I've been drinking the MothersMilk tea, which is supposed to promote milk production. I don't notice a difference, but I'll keep at it.
• I bought a bottle of fenugreek (an herbal supplement, also supposed to increase production) today, and will give it a go.

Grrrrrrrr... this is so freaking frustrating. I'm ready to throw in the towel, but I just don't feel like I've given it quite enough effort.

Sushi, Clementines, and Baby Brainwashing

Oh it's been crazy. My nights are full of crying (theirs and mine) and despair that it will never "get better," and my days are a completely different universe, full of sweet babies, outings, and unending optimism. To sum it up, we're still trying to get MyGirl to nurse with some gusto, but she is gaining weight, despite my every-three-hour frustrations and pleadings ... We've been to baby and mom yoga, which was really fun and can't wait to go back ... I've actually scheduled a babysitter (first time non-grandparent sitter) for this Saturday and am sooooo nervous ... Overall, all is well.

I've had so many thoughts running through my mind this past week ... here's the roundup:

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Sometimes My Boy sounds like a goat. Sometimes he sounds like a screaming baby. But when the wails get to a level unrecognizable by the human ear, the sound/word his noises most resemble is "UNAGI!!!!!"

Uuuuuuuuuuuunnnaaagiiiiiiiiii!! Just try it. Say it outloud. Say it with force. Yep, that's the noise my baby makes. "UNAGI, Mommy!! Unagi!!!"

Let alone that Unagi is Japanese eel, and I'm not really a sushi fan. But UNAGI is the battle cry of My Boy.

And when times get tough, and he's screeching away with tears rolling down his cheeks, alternately tearing on my last nerve and endearing him to me forever, I look down at his gorgeous mouth and bright blue eyes and whisper softly, "Unagi, baby. That's right. Unagi."

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I like to sing. IÂ’m fairly certain that IÂ’m not so stellar, but I enjoy it nonetheless. So IÂ’ve enjoyed singing to the babes, some nursery rhymes, some hymns, some radio songs, sometimes ridiculous stuff I make up. When I sought out the lyrics to lullabys I thought I knew, I was so freaking surprised when I came across this. I thought it was a sweet little ditty, but not so. I'm feeling a bit creepy singing it!

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So many onsies, so many cute sayings. What you come to realize is that those sweet phrases are not there to tell the rest of the world how cute and wonderful your baby is.

They're printed there so that when your baby or babies are screaming, puking and pooping all over you and all you want to do is throw your head back and scream, you'll look down at them and say,

"You know what, you really are Cute as a Button. "

"Yes, I really do Love You Love You Love You."

"True, when you spit up all over my freshly changed shirt, you are Kissable."

"Oh sweet baby, I know that you don't mean to drive me to destruction. I Love Mommy, too. Thank you."

What makes 21 hours a day of wakefulness totally worth it

My Girl's foray into the bathtub today resulted in virtually the same result as her brother's attempt earlier in the week. Poop in the pool. Just as we were getting all sudzed up, the explosion totally spoiled the water, and therefore, the very calming bath I was praying for.

I whip her out and pour fresh water all over her, quickly wrapping her up in a clean diaper and towel. I was so disappointed that the bath was cut short ... I was hoping it would calm her into lala land. And then I saw it .. the baby massage oil. Just a small bottle, part of a gift set given to us by a friend. And I thought "What girl doesn't like a good rubdown to ease off into sleepytime?" I know that everytime I get a massage I wake up refreshed in pile of my own drool.

Wow. She loooooooved it. I mean Big Time-all the milk you can drink-fresh diaper-cuddled on-daddy's-chest-kind of loved it. I started rubbing her belly, and then down her arms, down her legs, the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet. My personal favorite massage move is having my toes rubbed and squeezed, so I gave her a go at it, and she proved to be a momma's girl .

Her eyes kind of opened wide, surprised at such good sensations so soon after such angry ones. She wiggled round, but not in a fussy manner, in more of an "Oooh yea, right...there" manner. She smiled real smiles (I'm convinced it wasn't the gassy smile I'm accustomed to) and her glossy pink skin moved smoothly under my fingers and hands.

How nice to give her something that has such obviously pleasurable results. That was the reminder I needed as to why this is all worth it.

Baksheesh

Bargaining is a part of everyday life. We do it at work, whether negotiating a contract or convincing co-workers to pick the Chinese restaurant over the sandwich stand for lunch. It happens at home – bribing your kids to pick up their clothes with threats of grounding, or going back and forth with your husband about which couch really would look better in the living room.

I reached a new low in bargaining with my husband today. Sexual bribery for childcare. If you don’t want to read about the world of post-baby sex, turn back now.

Let’s set the scene … it’s a lovely Monday morning at my home. Luckily, J works from home, so when an emergency or other calamity occurs, he’s just a scream away. I’ve fed the babies, and have given My Girl a nice calming bath that she really enjoyed. One clean baby down, one to go. I’m undressing My Boy, and have just cleaned his bum and put away the dirty diaper. Last time I bathed him, he pooped in the tub, so this time, I took preventative action: a good talking to.

As we walked to the tub, ready to go and full of sudsy water, I asked My Boy if he would kindly refrain from pooping in the pool, that we’d already had such a nice morning, and let’s keep it that way. We sit down on the toilet, just next to the tub, with My Boy on my lap as we prepare to dive in. And then it happens.

He did obey my instructions and decided to go ahead and get the poop done before bathing. So he pooped in my lap.

I shriek in horror, at the drippy, seedy mess that’s all over my blue sweatpants and slowly leaking towards my clean bathroom floor. Luckily, J is just one room over, and he comes to my rescue and takes the little pipsqueak from me, so I can get myself out of the nasty pants.

Which brings me to the beginning of my shameful saga. I can’t bear to put off the bath, being that the water is ready and My Boy is most definelety in need of some additional cleansing. So I just pull off my pants, wash my hands, and run down the hall to pop them in the washer. I go ahead and give My Boy a rubdown, making sure to clean the poop out of the creases where it has embedded itself. I wrap him up in his sweet blue hooded towel, and take him out to visit Daddy.

While I’m overwhelmed by the absolute sweetness of this newly clean little being, Daddy is clearly fascinated by half-naked Mommy, freshly splashed with water and poop.

It’s obvious where his mind is, and he makes it known to me. To which I quickly reply, without even thinking about it, “Fine. But only, only if you’ll take them so I can take a shower afterwards.”

And it was a great shower. I took my time. Then I did my makeup (when's the last time that happened?), blew my hair dry, picked out clothes. Took my sweet time, I did.

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What’s the worst thing you’ve ever bargained for with sex? C’mon, you know you've done it, too..

A Beautiful Place

I bet most of us have a place, whether real or imagined, we go when dealing with the tough times of infertility and loss. A place where you do your hard thinking, your praying, your crying, your begging, your deal making. Maybe it's a window seat in your house. Maybe it's the office, with the door closed. On a long walk, alone with your thoughts.

I did, and do, a lot of mine in church. When we're supposed to be saying the confession, when the lectors are reading the prayers of the people, right after taking communion. These are the times I would take to ask "why?" "why me?" and "why not me?"

Equally as much time was spent angushing in the bookstore. I was lead there for information, for the latest and greatest book on pregnancy, infertility, IVF, that didn't already grace my overflowing bookshelves. I'd stand there and stare at the stacks of books, zoned off into my own world, trying to figure it all out. Ditto for the baby store. I'd go and wander the aisles aimlessly, subjecting myself to the intentional hurt of just being there.

This sounds like a beautiful place, a place I might have gone. A place I might have spent time alone with my thoughts. A place for the hopeful and the hopeless, equally.

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Wednesday and yesterday were just bad days, period. Frustration with a baby that doesn't want to nurse, a husband who seems no problem with just "popping in a bottle," and an overwhelming sense of being trapped in a life I didn't quite expect.

While it was completly honest and true, I hope that my last post wasn't full of ungratefulness and whining. It's just the way it is ... I hate that I have these feelings, but they are mine, and they are real.

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Today, on the other hand, has been a great day. Nursing is a little bit better. I'm looking forward to a doctor's appointment/lactation consultation on Monday and getting some instruction and advice. We've taken walks for the past two days, which has been great, I actually ate breakfast today, and my oldest and dearest friend came to see the babies for the first time today. She was a visitor who brought with her no pressure and expectations, butt did bring two very cute baby outfits, lots of happy thoughts and news, and the ability to let me take a 30 minute catnap.

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Another happy thought: My babies are so gaseous that they fart themselves awake. And it scares them. They awake with a start, like "What just happened?" And I find it hilarious. Unfortunately, they probably find it terrifying. Hee hee hee.

IVF Guilt

I hadn't heard it coined as such before, but I was just reading yet another book about twins, and the author referred to the IVF guilt that she felt. And in actuality, that is exactly what a lot of it boils down to.

Sleep deprived, frustrated with breastfeeding gone awry, and sadly surprised at the lack of time left for myself, I sometimes feel angry at my babies. I'm angry, perhaps, just at the situation. I'm angry that I am so wholey consumed by their eating, breathing and pooping for 23 hours a day. I shouldn't be surprised, everyone with twins said how completly overwhelming it is. But I thought mine would be different, that I would handle them better.

And I stop to think, who am I to complain? I asked for this. More than that, I toiled, I paid (with both my heart and my checkbook), I asked, I begged, I prayed, I hired intervention, I subverted nature, to have these children. Who the hell am I to complain that this is hard? Poor me. But I still complain, both aloud and in my head. Over and over. And I'm waiting for the good times.

Who the hell am I to complain? Who the hell am I to complain? I have to repeat this over and over in my head and remind myself. I am so lucky.

I am still hung up on such anger over so many issues, and I don't even know that I can get over them. Past them, hopefully.

I continually obsess about all the things that have gone wrong (not my way), when I need to affect the "poor me" act, either to my husband, family, or to myself.

I didn't get to conceive my children the way I wanted. No romatic night, no accidental Oops. But lucky me, I did get pregnant on the first IVF.

I didn't get to enjoy my pregnancy the way I wanted. I loved being pregnant, and I resent the hell out of the fact that I missed out on nine weeks of it, and that the last month was spent in and out of the hospital at on my back. But didn't I enjoy the time I was pregnant? Didn't I embrace it as best I could?

I didn't get to give birth how I wanted. I knew a vaginal birth was a longshot, but the sudden shock of the very quick labor and birth surprised me. It's just been recently that I've been dealing with the emotional aftershocks of the c-section. I really, really wanted that experience, something to "bond" me with the world of "motherhood," a shared experience. Just as I regret having a few too many glasses of champagne at my wedding and having some splotchy memories, I regret agreeing to take the narcotic shots to "take the edge off." My memory of the labor and birth are fuzzy. But on the flip side, I did get to labor through to 10 cm...I did get part of the experience.

I didn't get the "baby-coming-home" experience I hoped for, complete with cute outfits, smiling faces, and my mother waiting at home to pamper me and bring the babies to me in bed for feedings and cuddlings. I got five weeks straight of daily sojurns to the NICU, chatting with nurses instead of friends and family, hours logged in the hospital's lactation room. I got an uncomfortable chair between my two babies isolettes, where I crocheted caps and wrote thank you letters. I got to hold syringes full of formula above their heads as it dripped through their noses into their underdeveloped bellies. I got hands through isolette holes, only allowed to cup their heads and bottoms. I got very occasional visits from family, because I didn't want to leave my babies' sides and didn't want to share them with anyone. But lucky me, they did come home. They are healthy. Their paid their dues, just as I paid mine.

So who the hell am I to complain? I still feel like I deserve that right to complain, but I feel like shit about it. I need to get over, get past, get moving.

I am so lucky. I am so fortunate. I have two babies depending on me for everything that sustains them. Everything.

Who would have thought?

Baby Handcock?

The arrival of the babies' Social Security cards leaves me with an odd question.

Instructions on the card tell the designee to sign immediatly and put away in a safe place. The safe place is no problem, but the signature part is a quandry.

Do I wrap their miniature fingers around a pen and shakily assist them in signing, so that upon entry into school I can assure them that they did sign them with their own authentic signature? or do I sign their names now to make the cards "secure"? or leave them blank for the kids to sign when they're older?

If I have a Social Security card, I don't have a clue where it is so who knows if it's signed. Hmmmm??

How it All Went Down (PART 2)

We’re sitting in an exam room at the pediatric ophthalmologist a few weeks back. A nurse is filling out information on a computerized form, asking us questions with her back to us. I feel a tinge, then a dampness, then look to the front of my, thankfully black, tee shirt, to see that I’m just leaking away. Still answering questions, I reach into my bag and extricate two tissues. I stuff them surreptitiously into my bra, praying that the nurse doesn’t turn around. At which point J asks me, quite loudly, “Kind of takes you back to your high school days, doesn’t it?”

Thank goodness the nurse doesn’t turn around, and I give him a big old wallop across the chest.

My sense of humor has returned in some capacity, so I guess I’m ready to finish up the Very Important Birth Story, Part Deux.

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… I remember asking the doctor to tell me what she was doing as she went along (something I’d read in a childbirth book). She laughed a bit, and said she’d try. That was the last lighthearted moment I remember. Apparently, she began the incision, because I did feel a twinge. I spoke up, slightly alarmed, recalling the recent tale of a good friend (also an L&D nurse) whose C-section “wore off” and she was left with sensation on half of her body. The anesthesiologist jumped right on it, and upped my meds, and the pain went away.

So they’re working away, planning to pull My Boy out. All seems to be going as it would, and things get tense. I’m really in LaLa land, feeling good, kind of floaty. There are two distinct moments I recall about My Boy’s birth. First (and in no particular order):

All of a sudden, J is no longer to my right. I realize that they nurses have instructed him to sit down on the floor and take deep breaths. He has gone pale and begun to look ill, and the nurses are concerned he is going to pass out. And given what is going on, I realize later, there is no one to take care of him should he fall over. He later tells me that this was the most scared he has ever been. He was overwhelmed by the amount of blood, the urgency of the situation, and feared that I would die, that our son would die. His concerns were probably slightly more than necessary, but I’ve never seen such a display of vulnerability as I did when he later told me about this. In the OR, he told me that “it’s so much different than the Discovery Channel.” He sat on the floor for a bit, and got himself together before I knew what was going on.

Before they can pull My Boy out, his left arm pops up and out. It is grossly bruised, a solid purple mass. They don’t know that this affects just his arm, and fears that his whole body is purple.

I hear my doctor’s strong, confident voice in a tone unfamiliar to me. I hear panic, and I hear fear. She says, “Get another surgeon. Now.” She repeats it. “There are no other surgeons on right now,” one of the nurses or neonatologists replies. She needs another set of hands.

I come to find out later, My Boy was at +2 station, meaning he was way far down in the birth canal, quite eager to head out. His head had formed such suction, that my doctor couldn’t break it to pull him out. Her hands are quite small, which was good in this situation, as they could fit around his head, were getting cramped and tired and unable to move. She told me the next day, that her arms and wrists were quite sore.

We don’t know the cause of the bruised (and I mean from fingertip to shoulder) arm – perhaps it was stuck inside at a funny angle. He had some additional bruising on his head and around his ankles, which we did figure out later were from the actual delivery.

No additional surgeon is necessary, as he finally gives way and they are able to yank him out. I realize later that my incision extends and good three inches on the right side, in a kind of jagged pattern. This is from an additional cut they had to make in order to get him out. My doctor commented on it, in an “oops” sort of way at my 6-week appointment, but I realize it was necessary to get him out with speed.

I never saw him, as they whisked him away to the team of neonatologist, respiratory therapist and NICU nurses. Honestly, I was so unaware of the situation, I don’t remember being very concerned. Perhaps concerned in an “it’ll all work out” kind of way.

My Girl had a less traumatic, but interesting birth. Apparently the uterus clamps down quickly after the first child is taken out, not realizing that there is another to be born. In the current mode of tension, they want to take no chances. So they pull her out, full in her amniotic sac. They just plop it right on top of me and splice it open. She emerges beautifully pink and clean. No mess, no fuss. J got a picture, albeit quite fuzzy, of her sac sitting on top of me, and he said that it was kind of transparent, that you could see her inside before they broke it.

I don’t know any of this has happened, the circumstances of her birth, but she is quickly wrapped up, and brought up to my right side. The nurse holds her right at my face, as I gaze at her in amazement. I kiss her and I stare at her for what seems like hours. But then I think, “Okay, enough is enough. I can’t touch or hold her, take her away and let’s get this show on the road.” I cringe as I look back, realizing that I wasn’t particularly concerned about My Boy. I was so out of it, and I hate that.

At this point, J has headed to the back of the OR to go watch over the babies. My Boy is having breathing problems, and is put on the ventilator. My Girl is a-okay, just a little pink mass of love. I smelled burning. I tell no one in particular that it smells like the dentists office. The doctor replies “You really don’t want to know what that smell is … don’t ask.” It was cauterizing. Ugg. As she finishes up, my doctor comes to the right side of the table. I remember that she was covered in blood. She tries to talk to me, and I can’t concentration, because I am fixated on the blood that covers her hands and gown. I tell her as much, and I think she is put off. I ask if my babies are going to die, and I remember so clearly that no one answered me. Did I even ask the question?

I’m taken back to my labor & delivery room to recover. J goes with the babies to the NICU, and takes lots and lots of pictures … I’m so grateful that he did that, because it helped me piece the whole morning together. He returns and we make a list of names – we’d pretty much decided on the first names, but chose the names of our two oldest siblings as the babies middle names.

Soon it’s time to transfer me to my postpartum room, and on the way, they pull my stretcher into the NICU. I am a mess, all tears and worries. I see my gorgeous son, so bruised and traumatized. He has a huge ventilator coming out of his mouth, his head askew to one side under the weight of it. The number of tubes and wires overwhelms me, although I realize later that there aren’t that many. My girl is pert and pink in her isolette, also with a requisite number of tubes and wires, but no ventilator.

*****************************************

The children, my children, are fine. As far as premature babies go, they are quite healthy. And I realize this as I look at many of the other NICU babies. All of their medical problems can pretty much be attributed to their 9-week prematurity. Over the course of their five weeks in the NICU, they spent almost two weeks under the biliruben lights to treat jaundice. My Boy’s jaundice was much worse that hers, and required more time and more lights. It was so frustrating, as their faces were covered with masks, and we couldn’t remove them from the isolettes more than once a day, in order to ensure that they received enough light treatment.

He was on the ventilator for a few days, and then on supplemental oxygen for a few days more, but his breathing was quickly under control. Eventually, his purple arm faded and he was able to move it around, and there is no lasting damage as we can tell. They dealt with some gastrointestinal issues, apnea, bradycardia, temperature control and weight gain issues.

Those five weeks were alternately the longest, and the shortest, of my life. I spent every single day there, usually from 9 until mid afternoon, and back in the evening. For weeks, I couldn’t hold them more than once or twice a day, but I sat by their isolettes, just because I had to be there. I crocheted some hats, I read them stories, I sat and stared. And every two to three hours, I trudged down the hall to the lactation room to pump milk that would eventually be fed through nasogastro tubes, and later through doll-sized bottles.

*********************************

My babies are home, and life goes on. I hope to catch up, retroactively, on this blog, and fill in some of the gaps and memories from the past eight weeks while recording the activities and thoughts that now make up our very different life. This has been my only journal of the struggle to conceive, of my interrupted pregnancy, and I hope to continue with the stories of the lives of My Boy and My Girl.

How it All Went Down (PART 1)

It was totally unexpected, but deep down inside, I think I knew, but was in denial. Throughout the entire process. I wasn't ready to have babies. Certainly not at 31 weeks. Thirty-five, yes, 31, hell no.

It was a regular Thursday. I was having another thrilling day, hanging out on the living room couch. On one of my morning trips to the bathroom, I noticed a little bit of wetness in my underpants. Not big - maybe the size of a stick of gum. I called the doctor and left a message with her nurse. When I spoke with her, I explained that I wasn't sure if my water was leaking, or if I just did a little pee in my pants. She thought it must be pee, and to watch and call her if I noticed it again. To be safe, I changed my undies, and kept an eye on the situation. And it happened again. Same amount. Same drill. Left message, returned call. Nurse reported that she'd spoken to my doctor, and thought it nothing by leaking urine. As I look back now, I realize that my back was a little achy, but why would that be a worry? I'd just had a doctor's appointment, and while my cervix was a little shorter, it wasn't dilated, and of course, I'd had the negative fetal fibronectin test. So of course, I wasn't in labor.

Early in the evening, my sister-in-law and nephew came to drop off dinner and visit for a bit. They left around 7:30, and no later than 15 or 20 minutes later, it happened. I shifted position on the couch, and all of a sudden, had a nice warm feeling inside. Kind of indescribable, but I guess I knew enough to head to the bathroom.

I pulled down my pants, and woosh! My pants were soaked, there was dripping into the toilet. I was despondent and devastated that this was happening. In between sobs, curses, and desperation, I called for J., and for the telephone. This time, a call to the answering service, and a return call from my doctor. I am so thankful that she was the one on call that evening ... I have been quite worried that she wouldn't be the one to see me through the end of this pregnancy. I didn't realize quite how important it was to me.

With the calm demeanor that only an experienced OB/GYN can muster, she talked me out of my toilet-top hysteria, and told me to get myself together and over to Labor & Delivery. She said that they'd keep an eye on me, but wouldn't check my cervix just yet, since every physical check is simply an opportunity to introduce more infection. It is also quite common, she said, to be able to keep a patient with broken membranes in the hospital for up to a week. However, if I was to deliver, she confirmed that I would have to have a C-Section, since Little Girl (baby B) was still breech. So, planning for another week of bedrest, I packed some comfy clothing and books. I'm a pro now, I think.

Just like they taught us in childbirth class, J. races up to the nursery and tears open the package of newborn diapers, bringing me a few to put inside my pants for the trip to the hospital. They were right - it works!

The ride to the hospital is now fuzzy in my mind, but I think it was full of tears and anguish. J was an ever-calming presence, but I wasn't really open to his "it's all going to be okay" attitude.

They checked me into L&D, set me up with all the paperwork, and a sweet young nurse, a newlywed "who just got a puppy!!!" !! !! I'm not totally sure she knew what she was doing. But she was real sweet. I remember asking if I should continue taking the Niphedipine that I'd been on 4x a day to help prevent premature labor. Oh yes, they assured me...we're just checking things out right now. Are you having pain, they ask? Oh no, I assure them ...these are the same kinds of contractions that I've been having for at least a month. I never feel them. I insist that J take a photo of my belly ... documenting the rest of this pregnancy.

The babies heartbeats are strong and tracking well. My contractions are visible on the monitor at the same levels they were on my previous hospital stays and doctors visits. But honestly, they don't hurt. I insist that I don't need any pain meds. This is normal. Besides, I'm not having any babies tonight.

J. hung out in the bedside chair. I thanked the nurse profusely for not requiring a catheter, and was pleased when she brought me the bedside toilet. Strangely enough, I remember wondering if it would be inappropriate to turn on some Thursday night TV. After all, I'm not having any babies tonight.

Hours go by ... I can't honestly be sure of the timeframe from this point forward, but I imagine it's about midnight or so. My lower belly and lower back are cramping, similar to really bad period cramps. I'm doing a little bit of whimpering and such. A repeated offer from the nurse for some narcotics (I can't remember the exact name of the drug) is met with my positive response. I'll just try it to "take the edge off." Off of what, I'm not sure. Noone has insinuated that I am having babies tonight. As far as I'm concerned, this is just par for the course, and it will slow down. When asked to rate my pain on a scale of 1-10, I classify my cramping as a 4, maybe. I haven't seen a doctor, so this must be no big deal. I'm not having any babies tonight. Maybe next week.

Oh, the warm and happy feeling when those drug run through the IV and make contact with the bloodstream. I giggle and report that I'm having a happy little buzz ... it's a two-martini evening. Just for a bit, I'm happy and content. I watch the monitors and the contractions rise and fall, and I'm not concerned.

Up until this point, I was certain that, once in labor, I did not want to take any of the narcotics during labor. I knew that I was up for an epidural, once reaching the recommended 4 to 5 cm dilation. But in this instance, I didn't mind taking the narcotics, because I wasn't planning to have any babies. This was just a false start. So I vigorously rejected the repeated offers of epidural, since it didn't apply to my situation.

By this point, J. is dozing in his chair, and I'm clutching the side of the bed, attempting to breathe. On the nurse's next visit, I ask for another shot. Yea, it didn't work much.

Continued clutching, moaning, writhing. J still asleep, and I moan a bit louder to try and wake him up. But I am still IN DENIAL that this is actually happening. I'm not sure how this has happened, how I'm ignoring all of the obvious signs. I took the classes, I read the books. I'm prepared. But I completely fail to recognize that I'm in labor. What the hell? Still, I'd not had my cervix checked, so I didn't know if I was dilated or not. I think, perhaps, that if I'd had a number to associate with my pain, it might have snapped me into the reality.

The nurse checks in again, asks me to rate my pain, and I'm sure I give her a higher number. She and the others decide that it's time to check my cervix, and surprise! I'm 10 cm dilated. Can you believe it? I never planned to go that far without an epidural, and I'm shocked that I did.

Blurring, rushing, more people in the room, and J. is most definitely awake. I remember urgent voices instructing the nurse to call my doctor, to get her to the hospital ASAP. I ask if I'm having the babies now, and am told yep, that's what's happening. I happily accept the epidural, and it seems like the anesthesiologist is there in a snap. They did the epidural right there in the L&D room, and I found it odd, since they are usually done in the OR. I started out leaning over on to the Newlywed Nurse's shoulder, but when J. looked confused and lost in the rush, she asked him to replace her, and he held me steady. It was so hard to hold still during the contractions, but the anesthesiologist was patient, and J was strong.

J wasn't given scrubs to wear into the OR, but was presented with a white, one-piece zip up space suit. By that point, I guess the epidural kicked in, because I remember laughing at him, and insisting that I needed to take a picture of him. I think we sat together and said a prayer. But I'm not sure. I hope we did.

Somehow, I made it to the OR. It was full of people, and I wasn't surprised by that. There was a team for each baby, a team for me, the anesthesiologist, and a few other nurses. I think it was all women, except for the anesthesiologist, and they asked him for his help to pick me up and transfer me to the operating table. I asked where J was, deathly afraid that they were going to barr him from the OR at the last minute. Why, I have no earthly idea. He showed up soon, and I asked the doctor to please let me know what she was doing.

She told me to expect some tugging and pressure, and that she was going ahead to make the incision. ...

I Am

It's a rainy day outside, but my heart is full and bright, my optimism overflowing, and my thankfulness abundant.

I spent most of the day with my gorgeous babies, and am overwhelmed by the progress they are making. They are still quite small, and have yet to regain their birth weight, but it seems as though most major hurdles are passed. They are breathing on their own, they are both off the biliruben lights, and she is feeding voraciously while he is trying to catch up.

I am feeling more confident about my place as "mother," among all of the very qualified nurses and doctors. These are my babies, and I am their mother.

"Hello, sweetheart. It's mommy. I'm here to take care of you, and I love you so much. I am so proud of you, and of all the work you're doing. I'm your mommy."

I say this to assure them of my presence. I say this to assure myself of my new role in this world. I am your mommy.

It's Amazing

Friday, April 28 in the early morning hours, we met our little boy and girl. They are spectacular and amazing, gorgeous in every detail, in every possible way.

I'll get back with more details later, but here are the basics:

Born at 31 weeks
Baby Boy: 5:02 a.m. * 3 lb, 14 oz
Baby Girl: 5:03 a.m. * 3 lb, 3 oz

There was definetly some trauma involved, but both are muddling through nicely. Looks like they'll be in the NICU for a month or more ... we'll see.

I look at them, so tiny in their plastic bubbles, and can't imagine that they were actually inside me. And that, technically, they still should be inside me. I'm torn between wishing it hadn't happened, but delighted that it did, and that my impatient self was given the opportunity to meet my babies even sooner.

I'm amazed.

Ramblings from the Couch

Who knew that a Sunday, at home on bedrest (and therefore no different than any other day of the week) could be so exciting? And it's only 3:45!

After a sleepless night, I woke up as J was getting ready for church. I slid my way over the the bathtub, finished reading Operating Instructions - for the second time, and slithered my way into some clothes. I've taken to doing any primping (rudimentary makeup and hair arrangement, i.e. ponytail) sitting on my bathroom floor mat, with makeup mirror propped on the tub surround. This way, I'm technically not fully upright, although not totally reclined. Is that cheating?

I moved my way over to the upstairs office, excited to await the arrival of the computer repair guy who was to fix the networking problem that has plagued my laptop for months now. I've had to use J's and it's been more than inconvenient for him.

In the interim, J's sister, her husband, 3-year old son, and brand new baby (one month today!) came for a visit and thoroughly entertained me for the next hour with stories from last night's cocktail party, general gossip, and lots of baby stories and advice. She feeds the baby with such ease and confidence, I often wonder how in the hell I'm going to do that with two. My little nephew made me a wonderful painting, complete with handprints and indecipherable messes. Love it. They oohed and ahhed over the newly painted (one coat last Friday, the next on Monday!) nursery, and got me excited to get that going.

So yes! Fully regaled in "Geek" attire, the guy from a certain service that promotes themselves with the geeked out image, arrived, and managed to diagnose my silly problem in a matter of minutes and fix me right up. Slightly embarrassing, and a wonderful per-hour rate for them, but relief at just having it done. At this point, I'm learning that outsourcing is the quickest and most efficient way to get things done when physically incapable of doing them yourself, and verbally incapable of explaining them to your husband.

A good friend and his girlfriend are coming over for pizza and Sunday night TV tonight, which I'm looking forward to. And tomorrow ... an exciting day for sure!

The painters are coming to finish up the baby room and get to work on some other areas (repairing damage from a huge storm two years ago ... we thought it easier to just live with bubbly, peeling walls, but no more!). My mom is coming to take me to my 1:00 doctor's appointment. She's never seen an ultrasounds, so I'm excited she'll get that opportunity, but I'm sure she'll recoil in horror at the coochie cam wand, which I'm sure I'll be lucky enough to experience again. I'm crossing my fingers for an uneventful (read: elongating or static cervix) visit, and a good report from my doctor.

However, just to plan for the unhappy, I am going to take a small bag with us, containing any essentials that would be needed should I be instructed to head on over to Labor & Delivery like last time. Strangely and superstitiously, I feel like if I plan for the negative outcome, I'll surely receive good news. But if I'm counting on good news, I'll be tragically caught off guard by the bad news that will inevitably present itself. Murphy's law, right?

A Change of Scenery

I floated in the warm tub, free of wires, tubes, monitors, and other encumbrances. Feeling weightless, feeling tired, but also energetic. Thankfully, still pregnant and healthy. Thankfully at home.

What a wild few weeks it’s been. Two weeks ago Friday, I guess that makes it April 7th, I show up for a regular doctors visit. Just a stop at the lab for my glucose monitoring and a quick ultrasound to check on the babies and on my cervix, which at all previous visits had been declared “Perfect!” “Award-winning” and “Just like we like to see them.” I was ready to add my perfectly formed and withstanding cervix to the list of accomplishments on my resume. Lest we not get ahead of ourselves.

The perinatologist who monitors my ultrasounds thought something awry, that my formerly strong and elongated cervix was starting to show some wear and tear, in the form of effacement, not dilation. The formerly 4 cm long cervix was starting to shrink, inching (or centemetering?) down to 3. Not so great at 29 weeks. Being the lovely, proactive woman that she is, she orders a fetal fibronectin test, to be performed on Monday. The jist of this test is that it detects secretions that indicate if you are in danger of going into labor in the next two weeks.

We have a lovely, carefree weekend, with no thoughts of any misdoings occurring in my body. We babysit nieces and nephews on Friday night and enjoy a dinner with J’s sister and husband. I drive to my hometown for a lovely baby shower on Saturday, and enjoy a leisurely pizza with the family that evening. I spend Sunday ripping through all of my thank-you notes and eagerly organizing the fifteen-zillion baby washcloths that I’ve received. (Really … I should have the cleanest damn babies this side of the Mississippi).

Late Monday morning, I arrive at the doctors office with the plan to take the test, and skip on over to get a bagel sandwich for lunch and perhaps a gratuitous stop at Target for nothing in particular. I meet with another doctor in the practice, as mine is out of town (for the first time in the 10 years I’ve been seeing her, I think!) She performs the fetal fibronectin (results to arrive in two days or so), and checks my cervix manually. Completely unhappy with what she finds, she sends me over to ultrasound yet again, for another wanding. A quick coochie cam from the technician, and I’m sent back to Dr. Fill-In. When they send me to her office, as opposed to an exam room, I know I’m done. I hear her distinct European accent on the phone in the hallway, asking Labor and Delivery to find a room for me please, as we’ll be right over. Smiling on her way into the office, she asks if I’ve overheard, and suggests we walk over together, as she has another patient to check on.

Apparently, Le Cervix is not behaving AT ALL. Not dilating, thank goodness, but not behaving.

Labor and delivery is a scary place when you’re not prepared for it. And at 29 weeks, I’m not sure who is ever completely prepared for it. “But I’m supposed to go over to the bagel shop and get lunch,” I announce to everyone who enters my room. “I’m not supposed to be here!” Quite obviously. Duh.

Hooked up to three monitors, one for each baby and one for contractions, J. arrives, much to my relief. I see that I’m contracting every three minutes, which is a surprise to me, since I don’t feel squat. My belly has always been pretty hard, which we attributed to me being not a particularly large person carrying twins. Oh no, these are contractions.

Honestly, the next two days are a bit of a blur. I know that they involved large doses of magnesium sulfate, hot flashes and wooziness, insertion of IVs and catheters, steroid shots in my ass, antibiotics drained through my IV, J’s fascination with following the contractions on the monitor, pills every few hours, and finally, a kind nurse noticing that I was still in one of those L&D beds and switching me out to a regular, more comfy hospital bed.

Apparently, the drugs did their job, and on Wednesday, I was sent over to the ante partum unit, where women go to wait and wait and wait to deliver their babies, with the directive that I was likely to be incarcerated for a minimum of four weeks.

It is hard to describe the despair and lack of control that overtook me. I have total faith that they babies will be okay. I don’t know why I feel this way, but I know – I just know – that they will be born healthy and be well taken care of.

The despair has been of the selfish variety. For myself. For J. For what we’re missing out on. I think that I’ve tempered this despair and refocused my priorities, but the shock of it all was pretty overwhelming. I think I’ll talk about this a bit later … it gets me down to even think about it.

I’ve gone on and on quite enough for now, so let me wrap it up. A wanding on the 13th showed that my cervix was stretching back out a bit (who knew it could reverse itself!?), and with my pleadings and confirmations that J., who works from home, could take care of me quite well at home, my doctor (who was finally back in town!) agreed to reassess the situation on Monday. Easter in the hospital was just fine … a pizza and a basket full of goodies was quite a treat!, and on Monday, she agreed that I could take my show on the road – just long enough to get me home.

My days are spent on the living room couch, avoiding my new obsession with the Food Network and attempting to read all the books that I know I should enjoy, what with all this time on my hands. I consume copious amounts of water, all in an effort to keep contractions at bay, yet find that I still have to get up almost every hour to let it out.

Life is okay. I am so lucky. I have good friends, a wonderful husband, and this second chance to keep these babies inside for a few weeks longer.

I'm baaaaaaaaaack! Kind of.

Wow, I've been gone a long time. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I'd written, and I'm remiss that I have no totally thrilling and exciting news to share.

We're in the final week of closing up/transitioning our business, as I'd written about earlier. It's hard work, thrilling yet kind of heartbreaking at the same time.

Anyhow, that's my excuse for my absence, and I'm still in the throws of it through early next week. I'll be back to a psudo-normal schedule by next Thursday, and hope to update a bit about a crazy, scary car accident experience, thoughts about closing the business/not working, our babies, other babies, secret infertility (should I pry?), all kinds of good stuff. Do check back.

If I Could, I Would

"Ladies and Gentlemen! We politely request that you please check your seat assignments. It appears that passengers A & B have been mistakenly seated directly over the water tank. The turbulence and bouncing are causing extreme discomfort for the pilot. Please check your seat assignments and move seats as warranted."

I am so tired of peeing.

Up until now, the one daily task that I've always dreaded and wished that I could outsource has been blowdrying my hair. I find it boring, tedious, and never creating the desired result. Realizing that this is chronologically and financially irresponsible, I've made the task a better experience (albeit slower) by reading a good book or magazine as I dry.

I would gladly pass the baton to a more qualified and patient individual, if I could find someone to pee for me. My mother suggested that Depends could really come in handy, a notion I rejected before it was even out of her mouth. So the question is, like blowdrying, how do I make the experience more enjoyable? Reading is out, as the actual act of peeing takes only seconds, and if I'm into a good book, I'll just sit there reading until the next time I have to go. Crochet? Too messy. Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Not that I'm complaining. Really.

* * *

On the positive front, J is really stepping up to the plate and helping me get things organized around the house and such. He spent all Saturday installing shelves in the disaster-that-is-technically-a-mudroom, so that all our cleaning supplies and such are off the floor and such. And he must have enjoyed it so much, that the next day, he tackled the same task in the garage. God bless him.

Need, want, whatever!

Do you ever have the overwhelming urge to just buy something?

It doesn't matter what it is, where it is, you just need to go shopping? The siren song of Target is hard to resist, and as I was driving home from the fabric store, I heard the calling.

With a mile to go, I thought, "hmmm...what do I need?" Surely, there must be something I could pick up, something I've run out of and cannot live with out. Deodorant? Nope. Greeting cards? No need. Laundry detergent? I have plenty. Well, I would sure like a Snickers bar.

And that was enough justification to get my car into the righthand turn lane and into the shopping center. And as I wandered the aisles, decorated with red bullseyes and bright displays, I was largely unsatisfied. Looking was fun, but it wasn't thrilling as I'd hoped. Nothing jumped out at me. Nothing screamed "Take me home with you!" Cheap maternity clothes (a pink cardigan sweater and a chocolate brown skirt) ultimately won out, and a garden magazine and the justified Snickers bar made their way onto the conveyer belt, but total satisfaction? I never found it.

Mixed Feelings ...

but ultimatly happy.

Girl ends bad marriage. Girl meets wonderful young man 10+ years her junior. Boy and girl court, date, move in. Delight and happiness abound, friends rejoice for good fortune and true love. Boy and girl plan to marry, but first plan to start "trying," expecting, as responsible folks might, that it could take awhile due to her age. Surprise! First try! Boy and girl announce upcoming wedding. Boy and girl announce upcoming baby. Friends and family delighted, as they were already tuned-in on the plan. What prosperity, what luck!

Infertile friend thrilled and tearful at prospect of lifelong and perfect love for girl, who has been through a very bad five years. Infertile friend can't help but be jealous at the romanticism of it all, and wonders if she'd been so "responsible" in her planning and thoughts, if she might've had a romantic time of it.

Infertile friend has dream about visiting her RE to plan ahead for the "next one," and was greeted with hugs, kisses, and open arms full of congratulations. Ironic since the man barely cracked a smile at the positive beta test and ultrasound almost six months ago.

I am *so* not a joiner ...

It is with cautious trepidation that I tiptoe down the path into motherhood. In trying to find a transition between business-owner-career-woman I am and at-home-mother-of-two I will become, I found myself in a place I'd never thought I'd be.

A Mothers of Multiples group meeting. Support meeting!! Snacks!! Followed by a program -- board games!!

A newish acquaintance offered me a ride and an introduction to the group, which I had heard from another twin mom described as "the worst sorority meeting you can imagine." I gratefully accepted the invitation, as I knew I'd never manage to show up on my own. Other friends and acquaintances passed along information from friends who had said it was a great group to get involved with, so I had some positive validation.

All in all, it was a good experience (although we both, very gratefully, ditched out before the game-night began). There was a group of about 8 expectant mothers, with a really nice group leader. When talk turned to a bitch session about husbands (not from me, of course. J is perfect :-)), she got the discussion back on track and tried to turn it into a positive discussion.

Ahhh... the infertile in me never sleeps. I am amazed, although I shouldn't be at this point, at the amount of misinformation about infertility that is out there. One woman commented, with the utmost authority, that most multiples that are the result of IF treatment and IVF are identical. Didn't you know?

Oh no, I interjected. Let me explain the basics about how identical twins are usually formed (one egg splits to make two babies.) And then let me explain how fraternal twins are typically created (multiple eggs are fertilized and implant). I'm aware of the complex variables that go into my simple explanation, but just wanted to put the basic facts out there for this crazy-ass woman. I'm living IVF proof, I exclaim, thereby immediately outing myself as an infertile among a group of fertile ladies with nurseries full of children already at home.

I wanted everyone to know that this wasn't easy. I was the only one in the group who was having her first child/ren. I needed for them to know. The hostile infertile rears her ugly head.

To which the group leader transitions into a discussion about how, in this group, you're free from the nagging questions about how your children were conceived. It doesn't matter. Yes, in reality, it doesn't matter. But in my world, it does. Not totally sure why, but it really matters.

I had a strange thrill last week, when at a cocktail party, a friend/acquaintance asked me quietly who my specialist was. Knowing totally what she meant, I told her all about my RE, what I liked and didn't like, about his partner, the nurses, etcetera. I didn't need to ask the how, why, what of her situation. She quietly volunteered that infertility wasn't a surprise to her and her new husband. They knew they would be interviewing REs and just wanted some scoop before her upcoming consultation. And while I hate it that she's found herself in this undesirable situation, I was quietly delighted that she confided in me for information.

Back to my current transitional world ... I did enjoy the meeting. There were a lot of people who are "like me" and even more who seem to reside in a totally different world (although we all live in the greater metropolitan area of a not-huge city). I can see where the benefits of this group might lie, and know that I can be a total joiner, a drop-in kind of person, or I can just show up for the semi-annual yard sale. Whatever works. If I can figure out what that is, exactly.

* * * * *

If you've hung around long enough to read this far, I thank you for persisting. As a reward, I will pass along the news at which I hinted in my last post:

This One has a penis and That One has a Vee-Jay-Jay, as Dr. Bailey from Gr*y's Anat*my would say.

And I am thrilled. Duh.

Deep thoughts & Big Decisions

Many thanks for your thoughts and comments a few months ago about the home vs. work dilemma.

Identity has always been an issue for me. Not in a particularly negative way, as in "I need to find myself," or "I just don't know who I am" kinds of crises, but in applying loose labels to myself.

In high school, identity went according to which crowd you hung with and in which sports you participated. Identity at my small, liberal arts college, was largely determined by your Greek affiliation and your academic major. All of those loose labels were ones I picked, and enjoyed. Never did I feel mislabeled, just comfortably ensconced in my crowd, my world.

Along with great friendship, love, and opportunity, marriage brought about the biggest identity crisis I'd experienced thus far. Who was I? Would I just become known as"J's wife"? I legally dropped my last name to take his, and this was scary to me. My mom was quick to point out, and it is a truth I've held dear to my heart ever since, that my maiden name always belongs to me, and just because I don't sign it on my checks, it is who I am. It always will be. J had thoughts of moving back to the town where he grew up, and the mention of it sent me into a tailspin, as he is part of a large, well-known family in a very small town. I knew I would simply become "J Smith's new wife" without a moment's investigation into who I really was and what made me interesting.

Luckily, it never came to that, as I am determined live my life in some semblance of a metropolitan area. And now, six years after marriage, I'm quite confident of who I am, in relationship to my husband. I haven't ever felt slighted, or identified as simply "the wife of ... "

But for the past ten years, my identity has been very much wrapped up in what I do professionally. I think it's a hazard of our culture, at least here in the mid-Atlantic area. The first thing out of people's mouths at any social occasion around here is "Nice to meet you, SusieQ. What do you do?" And it's so easy to spit out your job, rank, title, affiliation, whatever, and bam! You're identified.

What to do when the professional identification is gone?

Just before the new year, I made the decision that I want to stay home with the babies and give full-time motherhood a chance. For many, many reasons, but mostly acknowledging that this may be my only pregnancy/children and I really don't want to miss out on a single moment. It may be the only moment.

So. Having confidently made my decision, I presented it to my business partner, and told her I would do whatever necessary to support her in her decision about what to do with the business. I think she was surprised, and thought I would try to stick it out with some sort of a part-time presence.

We have made the plans, and are in the final month or so of our fabulous business creation. We will transition it into a business that she can run on her own, and that suits her skills and interests. I find that each day I alternate between sadness that we are closing this wonderful entity, anticipated loneliness for the people I have so enjoyed, and pure elation that the responsiblity will no longer drag me down, and awaken me at night.

Don't get me wrong, I am a fairly interesting person. I have interests, hobbies, friends, etc. I have no doubt I can carve out a new spot for myself in this big world and smallish community. But that takes time, and I'm worried about the meantime, the transition time. Who will I be in the interim? Who will I become? Mother - yes. Wife - still. Volunteer extraordinerre? Artist? Advocate? Sloth? Regular person?

* * * * *

I'm now at 22 weeks, and all is good. We've had our fetal scan, and both babies look great. They both have appropriate private parts, which is a delightful relief. Stay tuned for news about This One and That One.

Join the Bandwagon

I'll admit it, I totally dig Despera*e Housewiv*s ... it's part of the Sunday night decompression routine, which begins with a pineapple and ham pizza, consists of guilty pleasure tv shows, culminating in Gr*y's Anat*my, and sometimes later, some of my own snugglin' and lovin'. Sunday nights are grrrrrrreat, as Tony the Tiger might say.

Last night, I began Sunday Night Ritual with a plate of pizza nearby and laptop on my legs, catching up on some much-needed blog reading. I read a post at Fertility Now about the additional crappy storylines about infertility on prime time shows. So true, so true, I thought .

I attentively tune in to DH, and BIG SURPRISE! Gabriella and Carlos want to have a baby. But, according to her doctor, "that big fall" she took earlier has rendered her INFERTILE! Must be some tumble she took! And to make it even saucier, her crazy-ass mom shows up offering to be the gestational surrogate for their child. But add a background of sexual abuse, mother-issues, aversion to adoption, and all the expected drama. But alas! By the end of the show, it's all wrapped up with a nice, tight bow. Carlos is totally cool with adoption, Gabrielle is thrilled that she won't have to "mess up her body," and I'm sure by the end of the season, they'll oh-so-realistically have a brand new baby in their home!

Gross Pregnancy Detail

Bellies change. I get it. Obviously, this is because a baby (or in this case, two babies) are taking up all the room that was previously occupied by internal organs and partially digested pizza. I'm thrilled about what's going on in the inside. It's what's happening on the outside that grosses me out.

1. My belly has a pulse. I can lie in bed, shirt pulled up, and watch my belly throb. It's not babies kicking or moving, it's just blood circulating. Lots of it. Making my belly move on it's own.

2. Have you ever taken a dip in the pool or bathtub and looked down at your body, noticing that any visible hairs hold tiny bubbles on them? On a recent dip in the tub, I submerged myself in the delicious warmth, and looked down, only to see tons of bubbles all over my stomach. Everywhere! Upon further investigation, outside of the tub, I see that yes, I have fur. Pale, light fur, but fur nonetheless. Uggh.

3. And the piece de resistance ... I need to buy some stock in Band-Aid. Because I think I'm going to be purchasing them by the boatload, in order to cover the nasty, herniated sphincter that my belly button has become. I can't stand to look at it. It hasn't popped out yet, which I hear will happen, but it's previously cavernous depths are shrinking daily, and if pressed in just the right way, it looks like Jack might just pop right out of his box.

* * * * *

On the other, more positive and delightful, hand, the beings in the belly are doing way cool things. I find myself wanting to be slothful and lazy, to lie around on the couch, just so I can be still and feel the belly (averting my eyes from the orifice formerly known as Belly Button), waiting to feel a gurgle, a bump, a hard spot, or an overt jab. It is happening more and more frequently, and I'm obsessed. All I want to do is wait for it.

What's up with that?

I come home from work yesterday, only to find my dear, sweet husband (formerly macho-man sports-loving husband) enthralled by the Olympic Curling match that is currently on television?

WTF? Why would a man who loves the speed of skating, the manly crunch of human bodies in football, the intense skill and inherent danger of mogul skiing, be enthralled with curling?

As I tried to engage him in our everyday repartee - "how was your day?" "What exciting things happened at work?" - I was caught in a non-stop lesson on the intricacies of block shots, stones, brooms, and tee scores. I tried, I promise I tried, to find the lesson interesting, and perhaps discover some nugget of curiosity that could prompt me to ask a question or feign interest. But alas, none. My mind was a blank.

I thought it all over when I came downstairs to breakfast. We watched the morning news, as usual, and during a commercial, someone thought it good to switch over to the other channel carrying Olympic coverage. To which the response was an overindulged "Oh yea! Curling is on!"

Oh, Turin/Turino/Torinoa, what monster have you created?

My Infertility Bookshelf

Information is a salve. It soothes, it eases, it heals, even if only temporarily.

Dr. Google has been a boon to those dealing with medical issues, and in my own personal experiences, infertility. But books, I still love those. What's better than cuddling up with a first-person tale of woe to make you feel certain that there is hope for your situation? The laptop doesn't do so well propped up on the ledge of the tub (believe you me, I have tried), but a medical tome can pass the time while attempting to simultaneously relax and determine how the hell you're going to manage to conceive a child under the duress of ill-functioning internal organs.

So to you, I present my personal infertility library. These books hold a revered spot in my bedroom. They are not on my regular, downstairs bookshelves, as I never achieved the confidence to discuss it all as cocktail party conversation with folks who might be perusing my bookshelves. And the bedroom just seems right. Since the babies were not to be made as per the ususal method (i.e., in the bedroom), the proximity seems somehow appropriate. Contemplative reading is best done in bed or bath.

Note to the right of the books, the very large husband-stole-from-a-wedding-receiption-back-in-his-college-days-extra-large-goblet full of all the spare change. Very necessary when embarking on IF treatment with minimal insurance coverage.

A Few Good Eggs ... I liked this one a lot. Straight-out woman's perspective. Not too much total depth, but a good primer in easy going language.

Love and Infertility ... While not totally my style, I was glad to find a book that talked directly about how infertility affects your relationship with your husband/partner.

Girlfriend to Girlfriend: A Fertility Companion

Unsung Lullabies: Understanding and Coping with Infertility

Inconceivable: A Woman's Triumph over Despair and Statistics ... Wow. This woman's story is awe-inspiring in many ways. I didn't necessarily take the same paths she did, but she did inspire me to keep at it.

The Baby Trail ... Okay, it's chick lit. But it's entertaining, a story I could somewhat relate to, and kept me occupied when the last thing I wanted to do was dwell on my most recently failed IUI.

Conception Chronicles: The Uncensored Truth about Sex, Love and Marriage when You're Trying to Get Pregnant ... Cool format, very "chatty with the girlfriends" and good basic info.

Conquering Infertility ... The author is somewhat of a mind-body infertility guru. After reading this book, my only consolation to my infertility woes was that if they continued, I was going to get myself up to Boston for one of her workshops.

In Vitro Fertilization: The A.R.T.* of Making Babies ... Such a clever, clever title. Gag. The edition I read had some pretty outdated information, and I found it condescending and annoying in general. Perhaps a newer edition?

The Infertility Survival Handbook ... I loved this book. It reassured me, and gave me some coping techniques, along with information for which I was starving.

Knocked up: Confessions of a Hip Mother-to-Be ... Another chick-lit guilty pleasure to give me hope. Although I did keep the front title hidden while reading in public.

Not on the shelf, but another goodie:

The Couple's Guide to In Vitro Fertilization: Everything You Need to Know to Maximize Your Chances of Success ... The only one I found that even attempted to speak to the man in the relationship. Not that he read it anyway.

Any other nominees? Favorites? Most despised? Ones you would like to read? Books you wish someone would write?

It just doesn't seem right

While I do believe in a woman's right to have a child, whether she is single, married, black, white, yellow, purple, tall, short, skinny, round, young or old, I can't help the fact that I am bothered by this.

I don't argue with this woman's desire. I do argue with any doctor who would perform IVF on a 67 year old woman.