One and done?

In the past I'd always believed that I would become a mother to multiple children. I grew up in a large family...the youngest of 5 girls in a blended family, so it seemed natural that I would birth my own gaggle of kiddos in due time.

After marrying my husband and his two kids from his previous marriage those plans changed somewhat. Not because I didn't want multiple kids or that he wasn't willing to father more kids per se - he definitely felt his "boys" were up to the task. But we would have three total if I birthed just one - three kids to finance, support, love, and hopefully/prayerfully usher into successful adulthood. Three is plenty. Three is a lot. Three is the reason that a lot of parents stop at two.

So the question of quality vs. quantity left us feeling pretty certain that we would adopt the "one and done" philosophy for my uterus. One pregnancy. One kid. No mas. And let's face it, after the first few weeks of morning sickness with my first pregnancy, I wasn't exactly eager to be a frequent flyer on that airline, thank you very much.

Even though I previously thought I'd be mom to many kiddos, never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would be a mom to multiples. So to learn in my first ultrasound that I was expecting twins was quite a shock - one I'm a bit ashamed to say I didn't take too well.

To my credit, I didn't have the benefit of warming up to the idea of pregnancy for several weeks before my first ultrasound. I was sent straight upstairs to the u/s techs immediately following the emergence of positive pregnancy lines on that first urine test. My doctor was trying to rule out an ectopic pregnancy based on symptoms I'd reported.

When you're happily married and of a responsible age (does 30 count?), the expectation is that the pink plus sign is the start of many momentous celebrations - dinners with baby peas and baby limas to announce your bundle to your spouse, bottles of champagne that you can't drink being popped by the grandparents-to-be, baby showers and paint-the-nursery parties. Rattles are supposed to shake and tears of joy are supposed to overflow.

But I had no tears of joy. Just tears. Overwhelming sobs with ragged breathing and snot running down my face might be a more accurate description.

I was devastated.

I had closed my brain off to the possibility of being a biological mom and to have that door flung wide open by not just one baby, but two completely overwhelmed me to the point of breakdown.

What was I going to do with two babies at once? Where would they sleep? Where would they go while I went to work? I can't afford daycare for two! That's another mortgage payment!!! How would I breastfeed them? Change them? Heck, how many diapers a month do TWO bums go through? Where do you put two babies in the grocery cart while you shop? Sleep? Ever? Yeah, right. Bye, bye one and done. And those were just my fears assuming that I was able to successfully carry two healthy babies and birth them. What about all the stuff that comes before?

It's enough pressure to worry about caring for one human inside you - eating right, exercising (when you can lift your head from the toilet), prenatal care, yada yada yada. But two of 'em?! The stakes were definitely higher, but they felt like more than just twice as high. Already a high risk pregnancy candidate, I just entered a new level of high risk...like going from national security threat level yellow to level orange. The risks of premature delivery, complications, fetal health issues are significantly higher with multiples. Add to that the fact that it appears that these two share a placenta - meaning they're eating off the same kitchen, but more than likely pushing and shoving at the refrigerator door. They're not necessarily getting an equal share of nutrients. It was all very daunting.

I felt defeated before I'd really broken from the start line and gotten started running.

And speaking of running, while laying there in stirrups with vaginal u/s in progress being told "Look! There's your baby! Ahhhh.....and here's baby B!", I had never wanted to run more. Talk about a bad time to be caught with your pants down. Literally. My brain knew I couldn't run, but my knees didn't know it - they shook so badly that my poor u/s tech had to steady them. Good thing she had a probe stuck in me and her hands on my knees, or I might have been a feature on the evening news for having run down 15th street naked from the waist down.

After handing me a bunch of kleenex, my nurse offered to call my husband to come pick me up. I declined. She offered to call and pay for a cab. I graciously declined. She jokingly offered me a shot of liquor. If it weren't Crown Royal (bleck!) I probably would accepted as I grabbed the bottle and ran. Instead I took only a follow up appointment card and stash of prenatal vitamins as I thanked the staff and headed home.

The weather outside was beautiful. Blue skies. Sunny with bits of clouds scattered here and there. It was a gorgeous fall day - my favorite days of the year. Nevertheless, I drove home in a fog.

What was I going to say to my husband? How would he react? How was I going to do any of this?

I prayed. And prayed some more. Someone - not me - drove that car home. Someone - not me - opened the car door. Someone - not me - put my feet on the ground and placed them one in front of the other until I landed at my door.

And someone - not me - blessed me with the most fantastic human to share my life with. He greeted me at the door with a smile. When he asked how the appointment went, I hesitated to respond, but eventually found the words:

"You, dear sir, need a drink. Make that a double - one shot for each baby we have on the way."

I bawled. And he laughed. And hugged me. And said he loved me. And said everything was going to be okay and that somehow we would figure it all out.

He gave me the courage to put on and wear these shoes that God has given me.

I'm not going to lie - they're tight and wearing some serious blisters on my feet. But I'm going to wear them with a smile on my face from now on. I know they'll get more comfortable with each day that I break them in.

Thar she blows!

I would have back handed Captain Ahab or Ishmael had either of them really uttered those words at me. But for some reason, "Thar she blows!" is the line I find shouting in my head each time I catch a sideways glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I look like a whale.

No flippers thank goodness, but I stay sweaty and wet looking. My face is breaking out in what look like barnacles, I'm so pale I'm almost glowing, and I would swear I gaining an extra layer of blubber. Not to mention the fact that this "bump" is more like a hump that popped up overnight. Not too far from Melville's description of the elusive Moby Dick, huh?

And the bump keeps growing! Don't get me wrong. I'm NOT complaining because I know this means (in theory) that the 2 people inside of me are also growing and I'm very grateful for that.

I'm just so confused! How is this happening already? I'm throwing up at least twice a day. I've gained a total of 3 lbs. And the 2 kiddos inside me are no bigger than the size of limes and don't weigh even that! So where is this newfound mass generating from? I'm not even 14 weeks along. Yeesh.

While I don't make a habit of complaining about my size out loud to others (except my husband when he rubs my belly), I am incredibly self-concious of this orb in front of me. For now, others don't seem to notice the resemblance between me and aquatic creatures - that or they're just kind enough not to mention it. I have had a few random belly rubbers (ps...not sure how I feel about that just yet), but at least no one's chasing me around with a harpoon.

Thank goodness! Don't think I could run (or swim) fast enough to get away.

The one percenters!

The baddest of the bad call themselves "the 1%" - or the one percenters. It's a group of bikers, including such groups as the Hells Angels, Banditos, or the Outlaws to name a few. But no matter their name, they share in common a reputation for rough riding and law breaking, which is how their nickname came to be.

In defense of the motorcycle community at large following the outbreaks of several melees between motorcycle clubs, or MC's, for short, the American Motorcyclist Association, issued the following statement:

"99% of bikers are law-abiding citizens, but there's that one percent who are nothing more than outlaws...."

The ONLY reason that I know this is because my husband is an avid two-wheeler. He lives and breathes motorcycles. I sometimes fully believe that motor oil, rather than blood, pulses through the man's veins. It's not just that he knows how to change oil, readjust clutch cables or install any part that J&P Cycles advertises....the man knows the culture, as well - even if he doesn't live it in his seemingly "white collar" life by comparison. And there is a separate culture for motorcyclists, make no mistake. If you've ever watched Sons of Anarchy then you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you ever meet a MC member, not to mention a 1%'er (because they are not one and the same necessarily) then you'll understand. MC stands for something that goes way beyond the ingredients of an oil change and a frat party.

In another life, given the opportunity, I'm sure the hubs would be a "one percenter". Not because he's an outlaw, but because he shares a lot in common with what some MC's stand for - he's a loyal guy, always up for a good time, and loves to ride fast and hard. He'd be speeding through the Black Hills of South Dakota with his braided goatee flying in the wind and fingers full of skull rings, complete with a leave-at-work job for greasy hands, and an "ol' lady" at home keeping cold suds in the fridge. 

But in this life, as it turns out, he's just become a different type of one percenter - and so have I - only I won't be wearing a "Property of _____" patch on a vest. Members of this one percent club say it's pretty cool - adventurous and extreme for sure. Elite even, by some standards. And it's not horribly common. There are no cool hats or leather vests with 3 rocker patches like the Hells Angels, Outlaws, or the very handsome Sons of Anarchy (hellloooooo Jax Teller!), though. Gray hair and the relief of knowing you survived are probably the only souvenirs to be gained through membership.

I'm dubbing this our very own one percent club because I found myself asking "What are the odds?" while staring at the sky in hopes that God would offer a response. But when I didn't get one after repeated questioning I decided to do some research on my own. Turns out members of this club are the 1 out of every 89 - or 1.123596% of the population of people becoming parents.

We've just conceived twins. Naturally.

Au naturale. No meds. No in vitro. No acupuncture - Ha! We couldn't afford those things even if we were interested. No crazy kama sutra positions or fertility exercises or consultation of the Chinese calendar. Not even the first drop of Robitussin.

We did it all on our own. My lazy ovaries and misshapen uterus and his "super sperm" have outdone themselves.

So not only do I have to get the man a cape to signify the superiority of his sperm, but now I've got to make him his own one percenter vest. I'm thinking instead of a skull and cross bones I'll have a teddy bear and crossed rattles, though.

With his goatee braided and combat boots on, surely he can toughen up the look.

Stirring up dust

Just when you think things are settled, the wind often blows and stirs up dust again. 

That's just what happened to me.

After 9 months of still not conceiving, I'd finally gotten to a mental place where I was completely comfortable with the idea of not being a mom. So comfortable in fact, that I had applied for admission to my specialist program at the University of Alabama. I was working a 2nd job on the weekends (still am). I was dreaming of trips to Italy. I was even encouraging my husband to consider a vasectomy so that we wouldn't have to worry with the "what ifs", such as "Do I really need to drink this 3rd glass of wine? What if I'm pregnant?" I just became tired of feeling in limbo all the time, so I made a decision. No motherhood. Not for me.

I realize that 9 months is no time by most standards. In fact, most aren't considered to have issues with fertility until after a full year of trying to conceive without success. But I was working on a serious timeline, albeit self-imposed. I needed to conceive within a certain window, or not at all. And that window was closing.

It's not that I'd stopped wanting to be a mom. I'd just come to accept what seemed like my reality - I might not get to be a mom in the traditional sense. And let's face it, I've had the pleasure (not really) of dealing with lots of natural moms who quite frankly suck at it and some of whom hate it altogether. So I figured I could "mother" in other ways and probably be more successful. I've got 2 step kids who already have a mom. They don't need another, but who couldn't use another responsible adult who loves you? I've got 2 dogs that are my heart. Who would feed them and rub their bellies if not for me? Okay, my husband probably would. But speaking of my husband, who would nurture him? He's got a mom and doesn't need another, as he is so apt to tell me, but that never stops him from asking for a back scratch, favor, help cleaning, yada yada yada...some of the things that children ask of their mothers. And then there are the 450 kiddos at my school. They're enough to keep me busy for a lifetime - well, at least for the next 25 years and 92 days until I retire.

That's right. I counted.

But then something happened.

My cycle didn't show up.

Having some familiar symptoms like moodiness, pain, and skin breakouts, I didn't have the slightest belief that I was pregnant. In fact, I was certain that I was not. I had taken a pregnancy test just 2 days before "Aunt Flo" was scheduled to arrive out of concern for a medication that I was about to begin taking - Bactrim....another one of those irritating "what ifs". I had an abcess that required immediate treatment, and some small voice in my head told me I should make sure I wasn't pregnant before I took it. But with a negative test result I proceeded with confidence that I wasn't "pickling" anything.

Two weeks later the abcess was gone, but so was any sign of a period.

After a great deal of prodding from my husband, I went to the doctor. And peed in a cup - and peed on my hand....again...surprise, surprise, I know. I'm horrible at aiming into those stupid little cups.

What I had no preparation for was the crazy surprise that stupid little cup held.