Smoke 'em out!

When our local Dolly Madison plant shut down in the wake of Hostess brand's bankruptcy, it put several twinkie bakers out of work (thankfully it was only temporary and many of them are back in business!). And though I was sad for their unemployment status, I was also a bit jealous because the end to my twinkie baking was a LONG way away. I was still quite pregnant.  

In the last weeks of my pregnancy I was measuring well beyond my actual baking time. It seemed the progesterone shots were working their magic and giving my uterus all kinds of room to stretch and accommodate the growing twinkies because all three of us were doing some serious growing. In fact, at my last ultrasound and OB appointments we were carrying some seriously heavy numbers. I'd put on 40 pounds from the start. The twinks were estimated to weigh over 5 lbs each. And I was measuring a chick 46 weeks into her pregnancy, which makes me sound a bit like an overachiever, but I wasn't even 35 weeks along at the time.

And that's just the last time we actually measured.

In the time between then and the actual d-day (maybe a week??), things continued to expand. I'm ashamed to admit it, but the estimates that folks gave me in the early days of how much I'd gain with twins were dead on. I weighed over 200 lbs. when we arrived at the hospital for their birth....I'd put on exactly 50 pounds, the last 10 of which I knew was nothing but water weight as I swelled to the size of a zeppelin.

This picture was taken only hours before my water broke. Thankfully, our bags were already packed since we were scheduled for a c-section that day anyway! In the picture (I'm clothed, you just can't see it from the front hump covering my shorts) you can see how disfigured my legs were. The swelling was insane....so much so that my skin actually began to tear from it in places. Check out the splits in the skin on top of my ankles!

This picture was also taken the day before I delivered...I'd been sporting those cracks for a couple of weeks before then. But on this day, (despite the risk of infection) I was determined to have a pedicure. The whole of me felt disgusting and uncomfortable so I figured I could at least have decent looking toe nails as they strapped me to the gurney for fileting.

Here are pics of my feet from other occasions before D-day:

Suffice it to say, I was miserable. Every movement hurt....even sitting still. Though I once believed I could actually make it all the way without getting stretch marks, my beliefs were quickly shattered. One day I went to bed after discovering my first TWO stretch marks (I cried myself to sleep over those) and woke up with what seemed like 10 times that many the next morning. And they only got worse from there.

As the swelling set in it's a wonder I didn't have stretch marks elsewhere - like between my toes. My skin was stretched so badly, not just on my stomach, but everywhere. Everything but my hair felt and looked pregnant and my skin groaned from the pressure. My legs constantly felt as though the skin around them would pop....the only pain comparison I can offer is that of a shin splint...only more severe and more constant. I could literally feel my pulse in the tight skin of my calves.

If the tampons up my nose didn't subject me to enough embarassment in earlier days, the old lady compression stockings the hubs would stuff me into surely did the job.

I tried elevating my feet, but that came with its' own set of issues, as well. One, I don't like to sit still when others around me are buzzing with action. Makes me nervous. Makes me feel like I'm gonna miss the bus to some important destination. Two, sitting still wasn't any more comfortable than standing. It just made other parts of me hurt. Like my tail bone. Poor thing still hasn't recovered post-partum.

I kept moving for the most part because despite the aches and pains (I felt them lying down, too) I was at least able to accomplish something...and that lessened the psychological stress for me if not the physical.

Heck, I was still mowing grass (on a riding mower) and washing the car in my bikini not long before the twinks emerged. I do not have pictures of that (aren't you glad?!). No doubt it was scary for witnesses. Too bad. My car needed to be washed before the babies went in it. And I needed a tan. Brown fat is much prettier than white fat.

Each morning I'd wake up (if you can call it that, since I didn't really sleep to begin with), say a prayer of thanks to God for blessing me to see another sunrise, get in the shower, put my shoes on (before any other article of clothing  unless I was planning to go barefoot), and put one foot in front of the other until the day was done. I didn't slow down.

Until I did.

In the last 2 weeks of my pregnancy, my misery reached highs I never knew existed. I was constantly in tears from the discomfort. And though I wasn't ready for the babies to be on the outside, I couldn't take any more of them being on the inside either.  If I had been able to move more easily, my white flag would have been raised.

One morning my prayer actually went like this:

"Dear God, thank you for this day. I don't want to sound ungrateful, but I'm struggling to stay in this skin for another day. I dont want to pray for an early delivery because I know that's not best for the twinkies. But I'm also growing weary. So, if there's any way you could turn me into a chicken and the twinkies into eggs I promise to sit on them 24/7 until we've reached 40 weeks and you can turn me back to myself. I just can't hold them inside anymore. Amen."

He didn't turn me into an actual chicken, but that didn't stop me from acting like one. I stopped short of scratching and pecking at the dirt, but only barely.

I was desparate. They had to get out. Their once cute kicks and bumps were now agonizing. Their fits of hunger and hiccups (which we're still plagued with today and are no less irritating) brought tears to my eyes. Despite my concerns for their well being, I was done. Finito. They had overstayed their welcome. I sent daily eviction notices when I screamed "GET OUT!" to them while holding my belly up. All to no avail.

I'd tried bribing the doctor with a prompt delivery of filet mignon and case of his favorite Mexican beer at the hospital if only he'd go ahead and cut them out.

But he wasn't budging. He wanted me to make the 36 week mark.

So I needed a plan of action.

And Operation Smoke 'Em Out came to be. 

Doing a little research I learned that there are all kinds of remedies for birthin' babies on command.

One is eating spicy food. And so I ate hot wings as often and in as great quantity as my tongue would tolerate. I tried mixing them up with a salad every now and then for some nutrition.

No dice.

I tried pineapple....so much of it in fact that the inside of my mouth was raw and sore from all of the acid.

Nada.

I danced around the house and in the car - some more.

Still nothing happened.

So I tried doing squats. But nothing (or no one) came out. And let's face it, I wasn't able to do many of those anyway. The months of no exercise and weight gain, plus that crazy front hump left me with little stamina and zero balance.

Next was walking. I did that all day at work and the little ladies hadn't made an appearance, so I opted to amp up my speed. It didn't resemble power walking as much as power waddling, but it was the best I could do. I'm pretty sure I looked like Donkey Kong and funny noises followed me, but I did it anyway.

And still nothing.

I drank herbal tea. But that just made me sweat.

I considered a drive to Atlanta where Scalini's eggplant parmigiana is rumored to enduce labor almost instantaneously. But that plan was killed when the doc issued a travel ban. And my typically "outlaw" husband was all of a sudden following all of these crazy rules!!!!

If you're interested in visiting Scalini's yourself, here's the link! They fully believe their dish will help you push a kid out.

http://www.scalinis.com/Bambino.htm

Research shows that castor oil can help, but I steered clear of it after the hubs told me how disgusting it smelled and tasted. He reminded me that I wasn't willing to drink baking soda water for heartburn, so there was no way I would swallow castor oil once its' aroma hit my nostrils. I'm sure he was right (don't tell him though) because on one occasion when I was pulling my hair and screaming "GET OUT!" while pacing the living room like a caged lion, he grabbed the car keys and was heading out the door to the drug store for the rotten stuff. I conveniently remembered the car was low on fuel and told him before he got any further - I'd have hated to be the reason that he was walking on the side of the road, you know?

But there was a moment not long after this incident when my desperation returned and I eyeballed a quart of Castrol 10w40 motor oil in our carport with second thoughts. Fantasies of relief and visions of my feet (It'd been a while since I'd seen them) swirled through my head as I wondered if it had the same effect as castor oil when ingested. Heck, there wasn't even a huge difference in the name....just one little ol' L. Thankfully, I spared us all the trauma when I decided I didn't want to smell like my '65 Mustang when first meeting the twinkies. But it was a close call.

Nipple strimulation is said to lead to uterine contractions and help spur on labor. So if you live in my area you more than likely caught me perusing the aisles of Winn Dixie while groping my boobs. I don't like my boobs and never have - they've always been a nuisance bumping into stuff, hurting my back and drawing unwanted stares from short men who were eye level with them - so trust me, I wasn't touching them for kicks. It was pure function. I was desperate and didn't care who knew it.

But those efforts failed, too.

There was always the option of sex, but that requires a willing participant. Apparently uterine contractions experienced during intercourse help kick things into high gear. But the only kicking I was getting came from the 4 feet in my ribcage. The male's sperm is also said to contain hormones that soften the cervix and prime it for thinning. But the hubs was not interested in helping the cause in this manner - not even when I handed him a turkey baster and asked for a donation. He refused to take one for the team so to speak. Frustrating, yes. But I can also understand. I outweighed him at that point and yelped from pain all the time. I doubt all my lumps and ouch's and previous conversations about bum complications were turn on's for the poor guy. 

Not long after, the doc finally consented to set a date for delivery - May 30th. Even if the twinkies weren't making efforts to move toward the light (and trust me, I'd considered lighting a fire and smoking them out), I was given a serious energy and morale boost with this deadline because my light at the end of the tunnel was getting brighter.

At the time I had no idea just how bright and awesome that light would be. It may have looked like the bright halogen lights of an operating room at the time, but it cast a whole new view - our newborn baby girls.

Today's blog is brought to you by the letter H!

In the last weeks of my pregnancy I was plagued with all manner of discomforts. Though they covered the gamut of symptoms and the whole of my body, they shared one thing in common: they all began with the letter H.

First came the headaches. Unlike any I'd experienced before. I've never had to deal with chronic headaches or migraines like so many preggos do, but these were constant. No tylenol abated them. No caffeine  worked (go ahead and find your whip and give me lashes.....I admit it - I drank caffeine throughout my pregnancy. Shame on me. I did not, however, drink it in excess. We're talking a soda or cup of coffee each day - not a 6 pack of Redbull). Hot showers, neck rubs, dark rooms, cold packs, heat packs, you name it. Nothing worked. I kept a dull ache from the neck up all the time. The only thing that helped was sleep and that was extremely difficult to come by.

Next were the hip cramps. I'm talking make-you-scream-and-come-out-of-nowhere hip cramps. And the kicker was there was no way to stretch them out. Most muscle cramps that came prior to that could be stretched with a little time and patience (and lots of rubbing from the hubs), but these hip cramps were the devil. Since sleeping on my side was the only option and baby B insisted that sleeping on the left side (her sister's side) was the only alternative, my range of movement at night was extremely limited. So I'd wake up from cramps in the left hip and feel paralyzed. I looked like a Heisman trophy in bed when they struck. My joint felt locked from the intense pain and there was no way to rub it out...it always felt like the cramp was in the actual ligaments and tendons of the joint where you couldn't reach them to massage. But I'm no doctor. I have no idea what was actually going on. I just know it hurt like the dickens. Doc suggested taking a few antacids before bedtime to prevent them, but I was already doing that thanks to the next H.  

The heartburn. Oh sweet baby Jesus! I was belching fire. Old wives' tales suggest that heartburn is a sign that your baby(ies) will have a head full of hair. Ultrasound pics in the last few weeks did show little silver lines of fur floating on their scalps - and I was thankful to know I wasn't the only person growing fur. But that little bit of floating fur didn't match up to the whole lot of heartburn I was experiencing.....it didn't add up. I began to worry that this reputed hair might be growing some place other than their heads.....there's a whole lot of furriness and baldness on opposite sides of the DNA helix. Thankfully I didn't birth any Yetis....but there was a time there when I wondered. 

In the past, I'd get heartburn from your typical spicy/acidic foods like a lot of people. But this heartburn seemed to arrive without trigger. Fires require oxygen in order to keep a flamin' and my guess is that breathing oxygen set it into motion. And again NOTHING worked - not sitting upright, not tums, not milk. And trust me, I tried them all in excess. Only after inhaling a whole bottle of tums one evening did I check the back label and notice you're not supposed to consume more than 12 tablets in a 24 hour period. Oops (shame on me again). The only remedy I didn't try despite the hubs suggestions was baking soda mixed with water. Now, I'd eat some crazy stuff during pregnancy, but white powder that isn't some form of sugar or flour was not on the menu - not then and not now. In my mind, baking soda cannot be placed into one of the food groups and therefore is not food and therefore should not be consumed. It deodorizes stuff. You sprinkle it in carpets to get rid of the dog smell for crying out loud! How can you eat it?!

Then again, you're supposed to sprinkle baking soda on kitchen fires to put them out, aren't you?

Maybe he was onto something after all................ 

And then there were the hemmorhoids. That's right. Bum lumps. I said it.  

Never in my get togethers have I ever experienced such and I care not to experience them again. I was in h-e-double hockey sticks. All the time. Sitting, standing, walking, lying down - it didn't matter. Everything made it worse and nothing helped. Hemmorhoids are a common symptom in later pregnancy as the growing fetus and subsequent weight gain put pressure on the bowels. And constipation only furthers the problem. That growing belly does more than make it difficult to shimmy in and out of a bathroom stall, my friend. It tries to make your innards outards, too. No bueno. And the fact that you're in T-rex mode and can't reach or bend or really do anything that requires flexibility made this predicament even more complicated. 

The medication you buy over the counter to treat this little problem says it's for the "mild discomfort" associated with hemmorhoids on the packaging. Ha! Mild discomfort my arse! Pun intended. That's the most discomfort I've ever experienced! I tried every over the counter solution available, soaked in the tub (again, shame on me, right?), and ultimately caved and talked to my nurse about it despite the embarassment. Judging from the pain I was experiencing I was worried I might have an abcess down there. If you've ever had a boil from a staph infection then you know the pain I'm talking about....it is like no other. It is excruciating. This felt a lot like that and I was borderline crazy about it. I would literally pull at my hair and the skin on my face from the pain. The hubs thought I was bonkers no doubt, especially since he was in the dark about it all. I was NOT going to tell him about my new accessories. I'd broken the ice enough to die from hypothermia when I discussed constipation and enemas with him in the past. We'd traveled south one time too many, thank you very much. Not going there again. Though I'm not trying to get knocked up again (despite all of the pleasantries - read sarcasm please), I'm also not trying to cease all relations either, you know what I mean?! If someone reports to you that there's a problem with a roller coaster, are you gonna want to get on and ride it later? Probably not. And I'm not ready to retire my roller coaster - just the cart that carries babies. It can stay off the tracks henceforth and forever more. Turns out I had to tell him what was going on later when I was running around the house screaming like my tail end was on fire (it kinda was). Thankfully, he didn't judge me too harshly, but it did not lessen the embarrasment or the "mild discomfort".

Aside from the pain, I worried about the possibility of infection and the proximity to the twinkies. My mind was getting a little carried away with visions of them getting lumps on themselves as if hemmorhoids are contagious! But overdramatization can happen when you're hormonal, exhausted and grossly uncomfortable. Thankfully, there was no infection....just another something to grin and bear temporarily. Maybe this was some twisted way to even the score for me since it was agreed that I'd deliver via cesarean. I wouldn't be enduring the physical strain of a natural delivery and experiencing an episiotomy, so it's only fair that my behind share in some of the trauma somehow, right?

In the early days of pregnancy I had all kinds of worries related to my bum, like many other moms who just won't say it out loud. I worried about tearing during delivery. I worried about being cut in an episiotomy to prevent said tearing. I worried about pooping on the table while pushing. I worried about having all my parts exposed. I had no idea I needed to be so bum conscious before delivery time arrived. When it was decided that I'd have a c-section, there was a part of me that felt relieved despite the problems associated with an abdominal surgery. I thought for sure that delivering in the OR would leave my hoohah and bum unscathed. Sadly, this was not the case. You're netherparts (all of them) are still exposed and tortured. Turns out nothing is sacred. And I mean nothing. Except maybe your eyelashes. Every other part of you can and will more than likely be harmed in the making of this baby(ies).   

As I rattled off this list of symptoms to my nurse and sounded way too alliterative, I was reminded of Big Bird and his gang. Sesame Street episodes are soon to fill our entertainment time as the twinkies learn their alphabet and numbers, much like they did when I was young. But at the time, I felt like I was getting a sick preview of it. I felt caught in the middle of some nightmarish episode featuring the letter H.

Thankfully, these symptoms have subsided since the twinkies' birth. They seem a faint memory now, just as many moms told me they would. I can remember them if I think hard enough. I know they happened. But they're getting harder to recall. In fact, a friend who just learned she is pregnant was asking me about the progesterone shots I'd taken regularly from weeks 15 - 35 (I think??) and I denied having ever taken shots. She looked at me quizzically for a moment and said "But I thought you said your husband gave you progesterone injections?"

And then it hit me. That had indeed happened. A lot of times. And I hated every one of the them. I'd danced around the bathroom with a side of my underwear pulled down and tears rolling down my cheek begging my husband to spare me the pain, or screaming "don't count down it makes it worse!", or jerking away before he stuck me. It happened and I was there. But for a moment I completely forgot about it all.

Maybe it's the pain associated with these memories that makes them so easy to forget - as if they're repressed in my subconcious.

But I really think it's a feeling of distance. Not so much physical distance since my twins are only 11 weeks old, but psychological distance.

Somehow I feel so separated from the person who experienced all of that stuff. That person wasn't a mom.

And this gal that I am today is, even though it's surreal when I hear myself referred to as "mom". I swear that title is referring to someone other than me.

All those H's and all that pain is nothing compared to the agony I felt when I watched nurses prick my daughters' heels, check their temperature with a rectal thermometer, or listened to screams as I cut a finger when trying to trim fingernails. Their hurt is so much worse to me than all of my hurts ever were.

It is the most bizarre mixture of Heaven and Hell (more H's!).

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Mmmm mmmm (not so) good!

Some people are soup snobs and refuse to eat canned soup because it's just not as good as their granny's homemade such-and-such.

I've never been that gal. I grew up on canned soup.

I seriously considered the name Campbell for one of the twinks at one point. The hubs vetoed it though.

Earlier in my pregnancy I was intrigued by the floating clumps of stuff at the top of the Campbell's soup container....or "liquid gold". It looked tasty.

Okay. Fine. I'll admit it.

It was tasty.

But I recently had reason to put down the bowl of soup and step away from the Campbell's can when I noticed two new symptoms of pregnancy. I feared they were directly linked to my overconsumption of this canned chickeny deliciousness.

1) I was developing chicken skin on the inside of my arms - soft, speckled looking, with raised goose/chicken bumps on it.

2) Something gold in color and thick like broth was coming out of my boobs. It looked like chicken noodle soup!

I thought the Campbell's motto was "mmmm mmmm good!" and I agreed for a long time.

But I recently found myself understanding the truth behind the saying "you can have too much of a (mmmm mmmm) good thing" because I was developing chicken skin on my arms and oozing broth from my boobs.

Turns out the boob liquid is normal. It's called colostrum - and it's the first sign of milk production in your mammary glands and packed with protein and antibodies that newborns benefit greatly from. I'm prayerful that this is also a sign that I'll be able to produce enough milk for both twinks since it's coming in so early. Any free sustenance will be awesome! Plus, the health benefits for the babies can't be beat. Breast milk is unquestionably mmmm mmmm good in function if not in flavor (I will not be finding out for sure despite that it will be my own. I may be brave enough to taste the yellow chicken clumps, but I'm not brave enough for boob juice).

As for the chicken skin on the underside of my arms...who knows? There's no chapter for chicken skin in the What to Expect When You're Expecting table of contents. Trust me, I looked.

I remember seeing similar skin on my grandmother when I was little. I even recall sitting in her lap and playing with it because it was so soft. Maybe it's just a symptom of aging and I'm destined to have it beyond this pregnancy (Oh dear heavens, please say it's not).

Thank goodness it doesn't have feathers in it, though.

I've got enough fur to deal with for now. Feathers would just be too much to handle.

Double stuff

It goes without saying that twins come with a lot of stuff - double stuff to be exact. 2 car seats, 2 high chairs, 2 personalities, and the list keeps going.

I'm hoping to get feedback from other moms of multiples about which items I need to double up on and which are not needed in bulk. For example, do I need 2 bumbos? 2 boppy's? 2 cribs? 2 pack 'n plays?

There are some serious unknowns that come with expecting twins, but then again, I'm a rookie mom. So there are a lot of unknowns for me period.

I have been surprised, however, by needs that have doubled for me that I would not have expected otherwise.

Did you know that you need twice as much toilet paper? Me neither.

I expect to go through twice as many diapers (10 diapers/day X 2 butts X 30 days/month = 600 diapers each month), but never did it enter my mind that I would also require twice the toileting supplies for myself. I go through TP at a breakneck pace because I pee all the time. And what complicates matters more is the bigger I get, the more difficult and frequent the peeing becomes.

And those pee cups they give you at the doctor's office at each visit?! Forget it. I pee'd on my hands in the past when I could see what I was doing.  Now it's like shooting a fully loaded nerf water gun at a moving target while blindfolded. I'm lucky if I get anything in the cup, and I'm guaranteed to drench my hands in the process. I need a cup twice the size of the ones I'm given. I need something that resembles a dog bowl.

Because I'm trying to stay hydrated and ward off early labor, I'm drinking a fair amount of water and going to the bathroom an average of three times an hour - the math works out, too. 2 heads + 1 bladder = 3 bathroom breaks an hour. In a past life (hmmmm...about 29 weeks ago) I was able to make it through an entire work day without hitting the restroom, sometimes without even realizing it. This is certainly not the case anymore. Add to this the fact that I often get cramps in my hamstrings as I sit on the toilet, which requires standing and stretching to relieve, all while my pants are down, of course. This typically leaves me dribbling pee all over the seat, which requires clean up, which requires more TP. Vicious cycle. Suffice to say that me and Charmin are good friends.

Also related to peeing, I'm learning that I need to double my arm length. I struggle now to reach around my side to to do the appropriate "front to back" wiping technique - the growing front hump seriously limits flexibility. And shaving is just as challenging if not moreso. Forget painting my toenails.

I'm reminded of a time in my life many moons ago when I discovered something that seemed unpleasant about a guy I briefly dated. He was a decent guy - employed, not living with his parents, pretty cute, polite, clean house and smelled like he routinely bathed. During a quick stop at his house to pick up socks (we were going bowling) I had to use his bathroom. I didn't know then that it was the beginning of the end of our courtship.

While inspecting his bathroom, I noted an odd contraption sitting atop his sink. It was long and plastic and had a razor inserted into one of its' ends with hand grips at the opposite end. I'd never seen any such thing. Okay I know, I sound like a snoop.....what can I say?! I'm observant. Or nosey. Take your pick.

To my defense, I didn't go rummaging through medicine cabinets or under the sink. It was important then, as it remains today, that I hang out with people that wash their hands and brush their teeth. It's sufficient to see what someone has on their bathroom counter: Soap? Toothbrush? Ample supply of toilet paper ON the dispenser and not sitting on the floor? That implies that you wash your hands, brush your teeth and aren't so lazy that you can't replace the empty roll of TP. That's enough to pass recon level 1 and secure another date or two assuming you're a gentleman. Or at least it was back in the day. Thankfully, that's no longer necessary and I'm married to a pretty hygienic dude, even if he doesn't put the toilet paper on the dispenser like he should though. Grrr.......

Back to the weird doomafloppy on his sink.......

It took me just a few minutes to realize that it was a razor designed to reach those hard-to-reach places. Considering he wasn't a T-Rex and could reach his face to shave and he didn't appear to shave his legs, there could be only one option - he shaved his back!

Yeti alert!!!!!!

I was dunzo.....outta there.

I simply could not go out with Sasquatch.

Very vain I know. And hypocritical of me considering my current furry state. But at the time, I couldn't stomach being with someone coated in back fur. I just couldn't go there. So I didn't go there to his bathroom with the weird doomafloppy or go on another date with him again.

And now I would give anything to be able to have double the arm length so that I could reach my own hard to reach parts and de-fur them. I even considered calling him to ask where he bought his doomafloppy, but decided it'd be a bit rude. My, how the tables have turned!

You'll also need to double your stash of antacids. And keep them handy in all sorts of places - bedside, bathroom, purse, desk drawer, car console to get an adequate start. Trust me, you'll need them.

Next up: get twice as much towel as you once used. Go for the giant sized ones. The increase in surface area makes it difficult to dry off all your netherparts without soaking through a standard size towel.

Bring out the pillows! I find myself surrounded by twice as many as I previously required. I need 2 under my neck, one under my side to support the front hump (which is highly influenced by gravity and strains your back), and one between my knees.

Bra extensions are a must, too.....you're going to need (not twice as much hopefully) some extra inches in your rib cage because your lungs are being seriously compressed along with other internal organs. Anything to increase comfort and oxygen intake is helpful!

You're going to need to operate on 1/2 as much sleep if not less. I consider a good night to be one where I can sleep an hour solid. It's a highly revised version of bliss, especially considering that I was once able to sleep for hours on end without waking. I guess it's nature's way of preparing you for sleepless nights spent nursing, rocking babies and changing diapers.

You're going to need to double the amount of time it takes for you to dress and get ready to leave the house, too. It's exhausting work putting on your panties when you can't see your feet. I recently went an entire day with my underwear on backwards and inside out. I realized something wasn't quite right about the fit almost immediately (surely my arse couldn't have grown so much to induce insane wedgies overnight, right?). But I maintained my stance in those drawers just as they were because it was just too much work to start all over again. Dressing, packing your stuff (your lunchbox needs to be twice as big to accommodate frequent snacks, too), walking to/from your car, driving, etc....it all takes twice as long as it once did. Plan ahead. Give yourself extra time.

And give yourself twice the patience. You're going to hurt. You're going to forget stuff. You're going to grow out of your clothes. You're going to cry for no reason. You're going to feel completely and utterly overwhelmed.

Or at least, this has been my experience.

But I'm really looking forward to experiencing twice the amount of smiles, laughs, and love that are ahead.

That's some good double stuff.    

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.