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.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, March 22, 2013
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!?
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!?
Friday, March 15, 2013
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!
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!
Friday, March 1, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Kangaroo care
I've talked about some of the perks I can foresee to having twins (despite so many scary possibilities...especially the plans the hubs has to teach them how to trick people into thinking they are the opposite twin), but this is perhaps one of the most exciting:
http://www.cnn.com/video/?hpt=hp_c2#/video/us/2013/02/22/ra-pkg-sylvester-power-of-touch.hln
http://www.cnn.com/video/?hpt=hp_c2#/video/us/2013/02/22/ra-pkg-sylvester-power-of-touch.hln
Monday, February 25, 2013
How low can you go?
I have not yet fulfilled all of the stereotypes of pregnant women. I haven't sent the hubs out on midnight runs for food...or any other time of day for that matter. I've not blown a gasket and cursed anyone out. I've not burst into tears at random and been unable to talk off of the ledge.
But I have reached some serious lows.
I've broken some rules of etiquette that are not really spoken aloud, but instead understood. Some basic social mores have been disregarded.
For instance, I've recently begun reducing the amount of dishes/utensils I use to eat. I'm not eating with my fingers (yet), but I've eliminated the need for a bowl in a couple of scenarios.
Canned fruit......Insert fork. Enjoy.
But I have reached some serious lows.
I've broken some rules of etiquette that are not really spoken aloud, but instead understood. Some basic social mores have been disregarded.
For instance, I've recently begun reducing the amount of dishes/utensils I use to eat. I'm not eating with my fingers (yet), but I've eliminated the need for a bowl in a couple of scenarios.
Canned fruit......Insert fork. Enjoy.
Or cereal.....who needs a bowl and spoon? When you're at the tail end of a box of cereal, remove the bag, pour 1/2 a mouthful of cereal into your gullet straight from the bag, chase with a small bit of milk, chew, swallow and voila! Breakfast of champions (and lazy bachelors I hear)!
Want a good bit of something, but feel greedy saying the exact amount out loud? Just waddle to the cashier/waitress, rub your belly a little and watch as your vague and seemingly benign request for "several of/a handful of/extra" turns into a delivery of excess. Check out what McDonald's did to my decaf coffee when I asked for extra cream and sugar!
That was an exciting morning, to say the least :)
Also inspired by McDonald's, I've discovered that pouring your fries straight into the bag makes it so much easier to eat without spilling as you drive down the road.
Lately, my dignity has taken a serious nose dive. Where I previously wouldn't be so willing to burp out loud, it seems difficult to contain at times...even slipping out while I speak. It was embarassing at first, but I've grown accustomed to it, and it seems the hubs and my coworkers have, as well. They don't even react when I burp midsentence and continue on with my thought without skipping a beat.
In the past, I would have taken a moment's pause to consider my audience and surroundings before scratching, but now, not so much. If it itches, I scratch it.
My threshold for embarassment has certainly changed, too. In a past life, I wouldn't be caught dead blowing my nose in public. But that happens all the time now - because my nose runs all the dadgum time! I've also taken to sticking tampons up my nose to stop nosebleeds....even sporting them (without the strings, of course) at work or while driving down the road.
Nice walrus look, huh?
It looks crazy, I know. But they work! They're super absorbent!
Though I've claimed to not have any bizarre cravings, it can't be said that I've not tried some gross/weird things that I wouldn't have considered otherwise. In my defense, these aren't things that I dreamed of or craved ahead of time...I merely stumbled upon them and seized the opportunity, so to speak.
I can now recommend fritos with whipped cream. During Christmas dinner my corn chips got doused with whipped cream when my dessert toppled over onto them. Rather than looking at them in disgust, I figured "Meh.....why not?"
Turns out, they're pretty tasty!
I can also confirm that the floating clumps of yellow in the top of the chicken noodle can are quite delicious. While I was sick, I opted for a home remedy in addition to gargling warm salt water - chicken soup. As I opened the can of Campbell's, I noticed the little bits of liquid gold and surprisingly wasn't repulsed by them as I would have been in the past. Instead, I was intrigued.
Turns out, those fatty floaters are pretty tasty, too.
I have not resorted to sucking the jelly off the top of vienna sausages yet.
But come to think of it, that sounds pretty appealing, too.
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