Finding Bigfoot

I'm now 26 weeks. I'm measuring at least 33 weeks based on a singleton pregnancy. 

In the moments when I'm first still after moving, I feel like I've just finished running a marathon.

Trust me. I've run nowhere. Not even after the ice cream truck. But a pushpop sure sounds tasty right about now!

My doctor has ix-nayed exercise in effort to preserve my cervix and keep the youngins' on the inside as long as possible. I told myself I'd at least do the preggo yoga DVD that the hubs bought me - surely it could help with my flexibility and strength without overexerting me, right? But I haven't. In truth, I haven't done a thing. Nada. Zilch.

Climbing into bed takes me a couple minutes to hike my leg, strategically place it and pull my body weight onto the mattress. Lying down and getting the sheet and comforter to actually cover my growing surface area is an act that has to resemble that of hamsters digging frantically in the corner of their cage to find safety and comfort beneath the bedding. Rolling out of bed literally requires a barrel roll and prayer that I land on my feet on the floor and not on one of my snoozing dogs. Sitting up from a reclined position is completely out of the question - my core muscles are stretched and feel completely destroyed already. Sitting down on the toilet to pee 10+ times each night occupies a good hour of my time that I would prefer to be sleeping. Then I spend at least twice that amount of time trying to recover my breath and resting heart rate in order to fall back asleep. Getting up from the toilet is a serious chore in which I stretch my arms out in front of me to brace my fall should my new front hump's center of gravity finally force me over the edge. Public restrooms are a personal challenge as I race to cover the toilet in paper so that I can sit - dangling and relying on balance and strength in my quads is risky business.

Just had a thought! Think I could actually sleep on the toilet??? That would cut out a lot of travel time, and possibly eliminate the cramps I get in my hips from sleeping on my side. Apparently no other position is acceptable to the two hooligans in my belly - stomach is not an option and back seems to incite an internal soccer game against my ribcage.

I was able to sleep on the toilet as a toddler during potty training. Why not now?

I'm exhausted after walking from my car to my office - it might be 100 yards total. I'm out of breath when I get my clothes on. And I'm sweating after I get my shoes on my feet. Which reminds me......with all of these changes coming on so rapidly, it goes without saying that my routines and figure are not what they once were.

What is perhaps most disturbing at this moment is the fact that I have discovered Bigfoot.

And it's a chick. A pregnant one.

She lives in Salem, Alabama.

She's not (quite) as furry as the Sasquatch drawings we've seen over the years, but give it a few weeks. The fur is still developing.

She's not haunting the woods despite what most believe - that would be too much exertion for her. She dwells in a modest 4BR/2BA brick home.

It's true that Bigfoot is a scavenger...eating any and everything she can get her hands on. But she shows a preference to fruit - not so much sticks and leaves. Never say never though.

If you haven't guessed already, I am Bigfoot.

My feet stay swollen and they are huge! It is incredibly uncomfortable for a gal like me who can't even stand feeling the toe seam in my socks. Wiggling my toes is impossible because they stay squished in my shoes most of the day - they look like vienna sausages shoved in the little tin can. They are fat and squished no matter what time of day it is, but especially in the evening - regardless of the amount of time I spend standing or sitting or walking. Getting socks and shoes off is the equivalent of peeling a wet bathing suit off skin, and often requires the hubs' assistance. I no longer have ankles - in their place are the bottoms of my calves (or cankles), complete with bright blue veins and a few new purple busted blood vessels. Oh joy.

My sisters have all warned me that a change in shoe size is to be expected along with a change in my pant size. And boy if they're not right!

So far I'm all belly and all feet. I've not seen enlarging in other areas yet. Hopefully I didn't jinx myself by saying that aloud.

As uncomfortable as the big feet are, I'm thankful they're not furry, too. No offense meant to Hobbits.

Seems the fur is sticking to my abdomen and chin for now.

If I can't get a circus side show act for resembling Bigfoot, perhaps they'll consider me for the part of the bearded lady!?

Itty bitty titty baby committee

I nicknamed Baby A "titty baby" weeks ago when I noticed a pattern in her kicks each time I drank milk or ate anything with dairy. I assume this means she likes milk, but I guess it could easily mean the opposite, as well.

After last week's ultrasound it seems she deserves a revised nickname though.

A little over 4 weeks ago, ultrasound results showed a difference in the twins' sizes for the first time. Baby A weighed 1 lb., while Baby B weighed 2 oz. more. Seems like such an insignificant amount to me, but I guess when you're that small, every little bit counts.

At our last scan 2 weeks ago, titty baby had only gained 2 oz, while sugar baby gained 4 since their previous measures.

So, until further weight gain (which will prayerfully arrive soon), titty baby will be known as "itty bitty titty baby".

And her doctor, ultrasound tech, dad and I are now officially part of the itty bitty titty baby committee - not that sugar baby doesn't need a committee of troops, too. It's just that she seems to be taking care of herself just fine. In fact, it seems she has always been the stubborn one of the two. She's consistently been more difficult to get steady heart strips and pictures of from day 1. Sugar baby has been known to turn her head, roll over, kick or do anything to prevent multiple techs on multiple occasions from being able to certainly identify her gender - even going so far as to shove her hands between her legs during the last attempt to check out her netherparts. She has also been the one who is consistently in a breech position and the one who wakes me up in the middle of the night, with sensations of hunger immediately following. I can only imagine that our more compliant titty baby has been all too willing to share with her more stubborn sister.

However, now it seems she's sharing too much. Because they share a placenta there is the risk that their share of nutrients is not going to be equal. They are what is called monochorionic diamniotic twins - they present with one placenta, but are swimming in two separate amniotic sacs. Based on the little bit of research I've done their share of nutrients is determined largely by where their cords "plug into" the placenta, which is a location completely selected at random. The risk arises when one's share of the chorion is larger than the other and more nutrients and blood flow are shuffled to one. There is also the risk of Twin-to-Twin Transfusion Syndrome (TTTS) - when vessels between the cords create a highway between the two fetuses that allows for the transfusion of blood from one to another. Here's some a link to more info:

http://fetus.ucsfmedicalcenter.org/twin/

For now, our plan of action is to monitor both babies and compare their measurements on a weekly basis, complete biophysical profiles - they've done one already and both got an A+. Should itty bitty titty baby not make the gains that are expected in the next 2 weeks, the doc will consider a referral to a perinatologist.

I have no idea exactly what that means, but am choosing not to find out unless/until I have to. No need to worry about something else unless absolutely necessary.

I'm worried enough about whether or not my own weight loss has contributed to this dilemma in some way. After being ill with flu and/or strep throat combined with high temps for a week, I noticed that I'd lost more than 5 lbs.

Amazing how quickly your worries change! I was previously worried about gaining too much throughout my pregnancy and within moments my fears changed to worry of losing too much weight. Yeesh.

Until we know more, I'm drinking more water, being more diligent about my vitamins, trying to completely eliminate caffeine (they say 2 cups a day is fine, but any more than that is linked to lower birth weight according to some research), trying to make time in the work day to eat snacks more regularly, and praying itty bitty titty baby will start packing on the pounds.

As much as I don't want to look like a heifer, I want nothing more than to have 2 healthy little girls come out with some chubby cheeks and fat thighs.

Bring on the twinkies!

Food waits for no man

Each day, my expiration time inched closer and closer to daylight hours (or maybe spring was just getting closer). And each evening, my feeding hours inched closer and closer together. Though I've always been an early dinner eater, preferring to eat "supper" (as the southern folk say) no later than 6:00 pm in my less fertile days, my dinner time was pushing the boundaries of knocking on the door of a restaurant before it opened to host early bird specials.

Because my husband's work schedule is sporadic and involves day and night shifts, our dinner routine was no routine at all. This didn't help my feeding pattern whatsoever.

Compound this with the fact that each day after coming home from work, my fatigue level was increasing and my pajama hour decreasing, and we had a recipe for crappy, thrown together meals like tacos + evening news + bedtime prayers then snooze. Not so delicious, and probably not nutritious. It certainly wasn't adventurous.

I actually was once known to plan meals with themes ahead of time - spaghetti and meatballs with red vino and Sinatra playing in the background. The only thing missing was the fat dude smoking a cigar being handn fed in a corner booth. But dessert always included an episode or two of The Sopranos. We've done mexican nights with fresh salsa made from our garden vegetables. The hubs and I have always enjoyed cooking together, especially when a new recipe was involved. But those days seemed like a memory.

After several evenings of cramping my husband's dinner time style by forcing early hours on him and/or less-than-gourmet fare, I felt like a negligent wife. My guilt was increasing as quickly as my waistline.

So one day after work, I mustered the energy and waddled my way through the Winn-Dixie aisles to purchase the ingredients for a special meal to cook for my patient love. I went home with full grocery bags and big dreams of having a meal prepared and on the table the moment he walked through the door after work....kind of like the golden days just a few short months ago when I wasn't a mothership.

I went home and I cooked a meal that took more than 30 minutes to prepare. I marinaded and chopped and stirred. It smelled divine.

And then I waited.

And waited some more.

With food ready and the dinner table set, I continued to wait (and salivate) as the minutes groaned on the stove's clock and my stomach made noises that shouldn't come from a human.

But I trudged on and waited some more.

Surely, he'd be home soon.

Any minute now, right?!

But soon and any minute turned out to be too long for this big lady.

The smells, the fatigue, the gaping hole in my stomach, plus the four feet pounding my ribs won over my plans of being a good wife. I took just one bite to tie me over, but that one bite turned into an avalanche of swallowing (who has time to chew?) and an empty plate.

I might as well have been asleep from a food coma with my face in my plate, when the hubs arrived home....a whole 45 minutes late. Seems the hospital had gone crazy when he would ordinarily be walking out the door, so on duty he remained.

While he worked and I chowed down, I learned that food waits for no man - no matter how much you love him. At least not when you're 6 months pregnant and WAYYY past your feeding time.