My Dear Watson

Well, that totally sucked.

The move, that is.

But I’m sure you already knew that.  You were just too nice to say anything.

You commented a cheery, "good luck with the move!" instead of:  "Good luck with the move, SUCKA!!"

Or, "congrats on the new place, I hope all goes well," instead of:  "Welcome to the 7th circle of HELL you poor bastard…HA HA HA."

The packing and the bending and the dropping of each and every object that touched my fingers got real old, real fast.

If you came anywhere near the new house anytime over the last two weeks, you would have heard a constant refrain of FRICK and GODDAMN IT, which was me, dropping something and wishing I had one of those old lady grabbers I could use instead of trying to contort my body over and around my big belly to try and reach said object on the floor.

And the dirt, OY.  We had an eco-friendly cleaning team come in the day before we moved and I now know that ‘green, eco-friendly’ cleaning is code for ‘we clean with WATER you moron and sit around all day and charge you hippy yuppies an arm and a leg and don’t do a GODDAMN thing.’

By the time I had to use the bathroom and put the dishes away in the kitchen cabinets I was prepared to use freaking Napalm, without rubber gloves, just to try my best to get something clean.

And the fleas.

The previous owners were, apparently, not the neatest or most hygienic folks on the block as many of our new neighbors have shared with us.  They had two large dogs and it seems they were infested with fleas (the dogs, not the owners, although now that I think about it that’s a distinct possibility too…) because although there was an entire month between them moving out and us moving in when the little bastards had no host body to feed off, they were alive and well when we got here, just waiting for poor Bosco who’s never had fleas before.

We had to change his name to Fleabite McGee.  He wasn’t impressed.

After a flea dip (I tried to make him feel better about the whole deal by singing a constant refrain of They said I had to get a flea dip, but I said NO NO NO to the tune of Amy Winehouse’s hit song "Rehab" but he didn’t get the humor) he finally started to feel better as we tried to battle the fleas he had so kindly brought into the house and firmly ensconced in our couches and rugs.

I have been a crying, whining, complaining mess since we got here.

I know once we get settled I’ll be happy we have a house with a small yard and we’re not in a tiny condo with ten-thousand stairs, but I had no idea how hard this transition would be.

I’m not good with change, or chaos, or disorganization in general. So moving while six months pregnant was not the best idea we’ve ever had, but things are getting better.

(And I know, I know!  Someone ill-equipped to confront change, chaos or disorganization is in for a RUDE awakening with TWO babies on the way…)

But we finally got the bathrooms somewhat clean, and the kitchen is better, and the fleas are failing in their evil attempt to take over the entire house.

In other news, I’m still feeling okay.  I really have no complaints in that area.  I have these episodes a few times a week where my blood pressure plummets and I feel shaky and faint and like I can’t catch my breath.  I imagine it’s quite similar to getting the vapors.  And although I would love to fan myself while sighing heavily (making my new cleavage — crushed into a red velvet corset — heave with the melodrama) and recuse myself to the bed chamber, waiting for a handsome man-servant to rush in with smelling salts to revive me, I’m usually at work and instead have to slink off into the lounge and lie down for a few minutes until it passes.

It’s a pain in the ass, but nothing serious. I am exhausted, but have no other major health issues or complaints and for that, I am supremely grateful.

I have some issues with swelling, especially when the temperature reached 100 degrees.  I looked like the evil spawn of Fat Bastard and Jiminy Glick.

I had another growth scan two weeks ago and everything looks good.  I am due for another one-hour glucose test sometime this week.  My dr. now wants to see me every two weeks instead of every month.

It’s getting closer and still, I can’t believe it.  I am 27 weeks, two days today.

I was getting the nursery (OMG, what am I saying?!?  A nursery? An actual room for BABIES?!?) ready last weekend and I just burst into tears.  I am in total and utter shock that I am pregnant, that I am having twins, that soon there will be two little beings sleeping on the organic mattress my Mother bought us.  I washed all the sheets and after line-drying them out in the sun, actually IRONED them.  (Hello!  The 1950s called. They want their Stepford Wife back.) I am practicing my Mom martyr act now, by exclaiming to the babies how they better be grateful, dammit, because I loathe ironing and have never, EVER considered ironing a sheet in my life. So they better appreciate it.

Good God, could this post be any more random?  I apologize for that.  We went from dirt and fleas to complaining and crying to getting the vapors to decorating the babies’ room.

I will try to get my head out of my ass at some point and try my best to put a coherent post together sometime soon. And maybe I’ll post some photos. But please don’t view them soon after eating, unless you’re sure you can stomach the image of a Fat Bastard/Jiminy Glick Unholy Union.

I have so much to tell you, only I can’t seem to remember a damn thing these days.

Wait, what was I saying? 

OH YEAH.

I can’t remember what I keep forgetting to write.

WHA??

I am like an early-onset Alzheimer’s patient.  During every-day conversations, I routinely forget common words, which drives my sister crazy.

"You can go to that juice place, " I told her last week when she was up here visiting.  "You know, that place with the juice and those…other things?  The juicy juice things…"

"SMOOTHIES!" She yelled.

"YES! Thank you, smoothies!"

"You know, Mom is so damn vulnerable that she believes all that — no wait! Not vuln–"

"–GULLIBLE!  GULLIBLE!!!" She screamed into the phone.

"YES! Thank you, gullible."

This even happens to me at work.  Several times a day, embarrassingly  enough.  "Can you submit a…uh…um, a summary thing of what you want funding for??" I say, ending each sentence in a question, clearly not getting my point across.

"A proposal?"  They will ask.

"YES!  Thank you, a proposal!" I say, relieved they have figured out what I’m trying to say.

I walk into a store with a mental note of what I need, only to have it totally forgotten in the time it takes me to walk  waddle from the car to the door.

And I drop things.  Actually, I drop about 99% of everything I try to hold: large or small, heavy or light, doesn’t seem to matter.

Since we’re packing to move, this has become quite a problem.  Especially because the whole bending over thing is not easy. I do that very unflattering, squatting thing that makes it look like I’m trying to lay a large egg.  Or like I’m taking a — well, you get the idea. It’s not pretty.

So my whole day consists of picking something up or grabbing something, dropping it on the floor, and yelling FRICK before deciding how badly I need it. Sometimes I wait and see how many things I can drop near other things and then just do one squatting maneuver to save myself some trouble.

It’s bad, that’s all I can say.

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So our booby class last weekend was quite fun, but there’s nothing like a three-hour lesson on breastfeeding to bring out the 13 year old boy in all of us.

When we walked into the room where the class was held, it had several couches around for the couples to sit on.  Each couch had a doll on it.  A totally CREEPY doll.  A doll that did this disconcerting thing where when you tilted her down, her eyes closed but when you propped her back up her glassy, murderous eyes would POP open and scare the shit out of you. So needless to say, I did this to BeBop on and off all day and cracked myself up.

At one point the ladies had to put on some lipstick (which was SO not my color, thankyouverymuch) and then, sort of, how do I say this?? 

Try to latch on to a balloon filled with water.

Try to suckle the balloon, if you will…

And NO, I’m not kidding.

The idea was to try latching on with our mouths in different positions to get a better idea of what the baby’s mouth should look like when he latches on…is this making any sense at all?!? (Probably not.)

Anyhoo, it was pretty funny. 

Later, each woman had to hold the freaky-eyed zombie doll in a nursing position and learn how to guide our boobs into their mouths with our nipples pointed up and…I better just stop while I’m behind, huh??

I’m not sure I’m any better prepared to nurse, and yet I did learn a lot of things in the class so who knows?

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I know there are a million other things I wanted to add, but of course I can’t remember any of them.

Something about my Mom calling my poor sister seven frillion times a day about the formaldehyde that’s apparently contaminating all of her son’s baby clothes and how she needs to either wash everything in vinegar or buy him an entirely new, totally organic wardrobe or he’ll grow a second head or something, but I can’t think of the details.

So I’ll sign off for now, asking for your good wishes as we move on Sunday into the new house.  Once I get my lap top set up from there I’ll post again and catch up with your blogs.

You how sometimes good ideas are actually not good at all?

Like, say for example, you were going to be put to death during the French Revolution and you thought it would be a good idea to stop by the guillotine a few days early and get a little looksy at what was in store in for you?

Well, that’s how I felt this week when I attended the local parents of multiples meeting on a lunch break.

Three new moms stumbled in, each with a twin stroller so large it looked like they were pushing a mobile home. I am not kidding.  Baby #1 reached the doorway approximately three minutes before his or her sister or brother and Mom entered the room about five minutes after that.

Just watching them finagle garbage-can sized diaper bags and detach the babies from the car seats that were attached to the aforementioned boat on wheels sent me into a panic attack.

And then? 

And then they proceeded to talk about how sleep deprived they were, how they were ALL on anti-depressants, how hard breast feeding is, how one twin always wakes the other one up so NO ONE EVER, EVER gets any sleep and on and on…

One woman admitted to me that she attended exactly one of these meetings prior to giving birth, because it terrified her so much.

I tried to be social and ask a few questions, but I swear my heart was racing and I suddenly HAD to get out of there.  I think I looked much like a deer caught in the headlights. (A very large deer with a huge protruding belly, but a creature practically frozen in fear, certain a painful death was imminent, nonetheless.)

I mean, it’s not like I think having twins will be easy.  I guess I just don’t want to be confronted with the stark realities yet.  Let me revel in denial a little longer, won’t you please?

After spending a total of three days with my sister after her baby was born, all my Mom can say is, "I don’t know HOW you’re going to do it" or "What will you do WITH TWO?!?" or the ever-helpful, "One is hard enough!!"

Needless to say, these remarks do not make me feel better.

My plan is to prepare as much as I can and then stumble through like a million other first-time moms of twins.

I ask you: Is this a good plan?  Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves and get back to me.

I am currently living in my own little world, possibly not at all tied to reality, which often works well for me.  Through my IVF cycle, I paid no attention whatsoever to statistics or probabilities based on this or that. I just assumed it would work and felt I would deal with any other outcome once it materialized. 

I am sort of blindly following a similar path through pregnancy.

I am assuming I am not a high-risk pregnancy, even though I’m old as the hills (OH!  Excuse me doctor, of advanced maternal age and you can kiss my advanced maternal ASS over that delightful term!); I am assuming I can push these babies out through my va-jay-jay and avoid a c-section; I am assuming I will be able to breast feed at least part of the time. I am also assuming I won’t have a nervous breakdown once I am faced with the realities of having two babies.

Some or all of these assumptions may prove to be very false, but I won’t know for a few more months.  I’m just stumbling along as if I can prepare to some extent and the rest BeBop and I will have to figure out as we go along.

To that end, BeBop and I are attending our first baby classes this weekend.

Saturday will consist of three hours centered around breast feeding.  I have to give myself props for even inviting the husband along, after he spent an entire hour in Babies R Us cracking himself up with crude jokes about the Breast Friend breast feeding pillow device ("I’ll be your breast friend…snort snort…" could be heard throughout the aisles I’m sure),

I’m sure it will be one of the breast things we did to prepare, filled with good information and nice mammeries that we’ll cherish for years to come. I just hope it isn’t too nippy in the room, because I hate to be cold.  And I really hope BeBop can hold it together and isn’t a total boob. He usually tries to milk these types of situations for all they’re worth!

Okay. I’ll stop now.

One of the (many) annoying things about this blog is that I don’t write anything for weeks and then come up with a War and Peace-length post that must take you hours to slog through. And for that I am sorry.

(Not sorry enough to get my ass in gear to post more often, but still sorry.)

So in case you had ANY doubts, I am OLD.

OLD OLD OLD, and our recent vacation down to southern California confirmed this sad fact.

On the drive down to Los Angeles, the combination of sitting in the car for hours on end and the oppressive heat was like a Perfect Storm of Water Retention and giant, elephantitus like cankles soon emerged.

I mean, my feet were huge. My ankles HUGER.  It was beyond gross.

We had to attend a wedding that evening, and so I waddled around the beautiful garden setting with what looked like flotation devices strapped to my legs.  And what confirmed the ‘old’ diagnosis was that I combined this look with FLATS.  BALLET FLATS.  At a semi-formal wedding. 

Not a good look.

I’ve never been a Stiletto kind of girl, but still…FLATS??  At a semi-formal evening wedding?  Good grief Charlie Brown.  It was hideous.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, for some reason it occurred to me that half the male guests were parading around in ugly Hawaiian-print type short-sleeved shirts.

Not that I was in any position to judge others with my granny get up, but of course I did.  "I don’t think it would KILL them to put on a goddamn blazer," I snarled to BeBop just before the ceremony started.

I had become my grandmother…who was all critical and judgmental and swollen-ankley at the end of her life. I am my grandma in the final months of her loooong life. 

Delightful.

Other ways I was a complete disaster at the wedding?

During the receiving line (which I hoped thought had died away with the Dollar Dance), a friend of the bride who I had never met said to me, "Oh! Did you bring your kids?"

"Errrrrr, uh…um.  Yeah."  I said, sort of awkwardly patting my belly.  "I pretty much take them wherever I go…" I added oddly.

I don’t know why her question threw me.  I guess all that fluid collecting in my lower extremities made my brain malfunction or something.

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Also, I seem to have become somewhat of a prude.

On the long drive down, I was thinking of your helpful advice after my last post, regarding the trimming of the hedges quandary.

"You have a beard trimmer, right?" I asked BeBop out of nowhere. 

"Yep."

"Well, would you ever use it to trim my pubes, since I can’t see what’s happening down there?"

"Sure," he said quickly.

Wow, I thought, that was easy.

[Brief pause]

"As long as you’ll shave my balls…." he added.

"Ewwwwwwwwwww" was pretty much all I could say in response.

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Overall, the trip was great, once we got to my sister’s.  And my cankles deflated slightly.

I met my adorable nephew Asher for the first time and we just hung out, ate, watched TV, sat by the pool and pretty much did nothing for three glorious days.

My sister organized a small shower/baby blessing for me at a candle-making place in Laguna Beach. 

I know!  How LA!  It was too fun.

The owner led us in a brief ceremony where each of the guests held a bead and said a blessing over it for me and the babies, and then the beads for the baby girl were placed on a necklace and the boy’s beads on a Native American wisdom stick. These are to be placed in the babies’ room.

Then, each of the girls took a candle and wrote her name and number on a small card that was attached.  Everyone took her candle and passed it to the guest on her right. When I go into labor, I am to call my sister who will call the friend on her card, and she’ll call the next friend and so on, so there’s this whole group of women who are sending me good energy while I’m having the babies!  Cool, huh?

And I know, could I be a more typical Californian??

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After a brief stop in San Diego to visit good friends BeBop and I made our way to Ojai, east of Santa Barbara, for our pre-babies alone time together.

Can I name drop for a moment and tell you that I had my nails done mere FEET (no pun intended) from Jess.ica Al.ba?

OMG, people.  She is gorgeous.

There were only the two of us in this little room, and since I was getting a pedicure I was facing her.  She was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, which struck me as a little odd. So of course I kept looking at her, trying to figure out who the hell she was.

She was so strikingly beautiful I knew she was a movie star, but honestly I didn’t recognize her at first because she’s even skinnier in person. (The little bitch.)

But the staff were fawning all over her and making arrangements for transportation back to her villa, so I knew she was some kind of a VIP.  But I am telling you, she was just beyond strikingly pretty.  I had all I could do to refrain from licking, softly brushing my hand against gawking at her creamy, cafe au lait complexion.

The two days there went by far too quickly, and soon enough we were back on the road and the ankles were swelling all over again.

And  then I was back at work and we closed on our house and my in-laws came to town for another shower at my Mom’s and my cousin came to town with his wife and new baby who’s the same age as Asher and I threw my sister a make-up shower for the one we canceled when she went on bed rest in April and we’re madly scheduling the repairs that are needed at the house before we move in two weeks and I’m trying to pack and we have two baby classes this weekend and all of a sudden, out of nowhere it seems, I’m 23 weeks along.

23 weeks and Baby A is kicking like mad, but little Baby B (the girl) is usually pretty quiet so I’m freaking out about that but trying to stay calm.

Trying being the operative word here…

And all that is why I have been a terrible blogger and I’ve fallen so far behind on your blogs, and I am trying my best this week to get a grip at work and not have daily panic attacks and read up on the latest with all of you.

(Trying being the operative word here too.)

Tuesday the follow up appointment went well.  Great, even. It was totally and completely the exact opposite of our visit last week.

In short, the pediatric cardiologist did see the focus, but said there was only one, it was tiny, they are common and basically not to worry about it at all.  He told the ultrasound tech not to even note it in the file because it was so small.

I cannot tell you the level of relief I felt after that appointment. And the difference between the two visits was like night and day.  The doctors this week were warm and friendly, even chatty. 

When the first doctor began the ultrasounding, I wasn’t exactly sure if he was the specialist or not.

"Are you the cardiologist?" I asked.

"No, I’m the janitor," he said.  "They let me come up here on Tuesdays just for fun."

A sarcastic and FUNNY physician??  What the?  Now THAT’S my kind of doctor!

Last week was like taking the train to Dicktown and then realizing, man, Dicktown really blows.

Tuesday felt like getting back on the train and going in the exact opposite direction to Doctor-In-Golf-Shirt Ville, which is nice and warm and comforting.  And I liked it there.

I did have a mild panic attack driving to the appointment, so thrown by my last experience and on my own since BeBop was at work.  But as I left, I felt such a lead weight lifted off my chest.

I can say I felt relieved, relaxed and, dare I say it, happy.  (At least I think that’s what it was.)

Can I include an awkward segue here?  Can I bring up something totally unrelated to the above?  I can?  Why thank you!  You’re the best!

So my belly has grown to epic proportions by now.  And while in the shower, it pretty much eclipses the nether regions.  You know…the va-jay-jay area and its accompanying foliage.

When trimming the hedges now, it’s like a Lewis and Clark expedition with a razor.  I am venturing into totally uncharted territory and just sort of…trying to recall where the bikini line once was so that I don’t veer off course and rupture an artery or something.

So here are my questions for you:  1) Do I have to resort to the torture that is a professional bikini wax, which I gave up years ago once BeBop and I were firmly ensconced in a relationship because, I thought, really — what’s the point? or 2) is the overgrown hedge sort of like those giant trucks with signs on the side that say ‘if you can’t see my side mirror I can’t see you,’ meaning, if I can’t see the fur is it a safe bet that others cannot see it either, or am I totally crazy?  Okay, don’t answer that.  Just the other parts.

We’re off tomorrow for a road trip down to Los Angeles so I can attend a good friend’s wedding, finally meet my little nephew for the first time and spend a relaxing couple of days at a spa for a mini Baby Moon trip. With the move coming up, this will likely be the only pre-babies vacation we take, so I plan on enjoying myself.

To everyone who’s seen a BFP recently I am so beyond happy for you, and I’m trying madly to keep up with and comment on your blogs.  To those of you still waiting, I’m still hoping.

Have a great week everyone, catch ya on the flip side. 

You know it’s hard out here for a pimp pregnant gal…

But thanks in large part to all of you, I’m feeling better. I did have a minor breakdown after the appointment, followed by much crying, self-pitying and overall carrying on, but I feel better now.

I think both of the twins are fine.  I am not worried enough to do the amnio.  I’m going into the heart scan next week with a Hail Mary, let’s see a miracle and have that annoying ICEF GONE attitude.  And if that doesn’t happen, I’ll see what that doctor says. If he or she manages to scare the crap out of me – again – maybe I’ll change my mind and decide that I am so nervous, an amnio might provide some much-needed reassurance.

Unless, of course, it doesn’t…and then I’m RUHLLY screwed.

But one step at a time.

BeBop has had it with both Drs. Unintelligible.  I think I’ve just been poked and prodded by so many different docs over the last five years, I don’t expect a lot in terms of bedside manner. He was distraught by their lack of concern or comfort.

"Maybe they’ve seen that ICEF a million times in their careers," he said.  "Or maybe they’ve seen it a million times THAT DAY, but that was scary and horrible for us and they were total assholes." 

He was grateful Dr. Viola! came out to give us further explanation and share that "Zee Dr. Irish/Scottish Brogue probableee suggested zee amnio because he has to, uh….cover his ass," but BeBop was totally offended that Dr. I/SB didn’t talk to us himself after confirming the presence of the spot.  He barely offered up any information, other than the dreaded ‘soft marker’ phrase, before leaving the room.

So BeBop would like me to find another office should we continue to do the monthly ultrasounds, and so I’ve asked my regular Ob Gyn for a different recommendation.  And I also asked him if he agrees that I should be getting these monthly scans.  (I haven’t heard back yet.)  He has just listened with the doppler and when he hears the two heartbeats, it’s buh-bye sucka, see ya in one month.

I’m such a frickin’ whiner.  I used to WANT the frequent ultrasounds. I complained incessantly about how with Dr. Z I was monitored so closely through the cycle I knew exactly what was going on.  And the same was true for all of the clomid and the clomid/IUI cycles too. But now, once pregnant and back with a regular doctor, I don’t get the same level of monitoring. 

When someone asks me, "how are the babies are doing?" I usually stare, open-mouthed like a recently caught trout and practically scream, "I DON’T KNOW what’s going on in there!!  I HAVE NO IDEA!" And they stare back at me and regret asking in the first place and slowly back away in case I started wielding sharp objects at them.

Last weekend a particularly annoying friend of my Mother’s asked me, "Are you excited?"  I guess she posed this question because she could sense my unease.  My anxiety.  I wanted to say, "NO, you asswipe.  NOT AT ALL.  After five long barren and depressing years, countless medical procedures, spending close to $30 grand, finally doing IVF and now being pregnant with boy girl twins…NO I’m not excited AT ALLLLL." But I think I just gave her the trout stare and mumbled something about how yes, we are very excited.

At the last check with my Ob Gyn, I was almost sad I ‘just’ got to hear the heartbeats and didn’t get to see the babies on the ultrasound screen.  But after this latest little jaunt to Anxiety Town, I’m not sure that the extra monitoring will give me more peace of mind. If they keep finding all of these potential issues, it has the chance of turning me into an even BIGGER freak and overall nervous wreck.

So I just have to evaluate what’s going to work for me.  Will the monthly scans help me relax and believe that everything is fine, or will they keep coming up with these soft markers for one thing or another and I’ll be a total basket case for the next four months? 

Chances are I WILL be a basket case, the question is, I guess: to what degree?

Thank you to everyone who commented, to those of you who have been through this and shared your stories with me and those of you who wished me and the babies the best, and to everyone keeping us in your thoughts and prayers.

It helps, let me tell you, it REALLY helps.  I sent BeBop many of your comments so he could see that others have gone through something very similar and that so many awesome people are out there sending us good thoughts.

And there is some good news around these parts:  We bought a house!  And if all goes well, we close on August 10th and move at the end of the month.  Yay!  The babies will get their own room that isn’t also BeBop’s office filled with his computer equipment, monster-sized speakers and a glow-in-the-dark 60s style poster of Silver Surfer comic book artwork that I bought him, never thinking the monstrosity would end up in my home. Bosco will finally have a yard.  Yay!  And yes, BeBop is still lobbying for the outdoor litter box Zen garden (Boo!) and at this point I’ll probably let him do whatever he wants out there.

Gotta pick your battles, people, gotta pick your battles.