…has gone by since the day I had my abdomen cut open and two human beings ripped from my loins, as it were. Couple of little Macduffs, anyway. I can only hope that they’ll one day have a hand in unseating a possibly schizophrenic Scottish king. *sigh*
Halloween is this family’s favorite holiday. Of course it is. Just look at us. I’ve already got two costume ideas:
1) Identical Macduffs. No one needs to know they’re girls. No one can tell unless they’re dressed in pink anyway. And what’s that about? Just because one of them isn’t dressed in pink while the other one is, people just assume that one is a boy. Gender stereotype much? Kidding. But for real…
2) The twins from The Shining. I’ve already warned my friend Danny that I’m going to send them over to stand in front of his house on random days at random times and invite him to “come play with us, Danny. For ever, and ever, and ever.”
I’ve been posting all of the not-so-nice moments of parenthood and I sound like a Whiny McWhinerson. Oooh, speaking of whine which -> wine, I have a bottle in the fridge now that I’ve given up attempting to be Mother Superior and breastfeed twins. I know the social etiquette about drinking before five p.m., but what about drinking before five a.m.?
For the past two nights I’ve gotten these girls down at eight in the evening and they’ve not woken up until three in the morning. I think someone may be coating their bottles with Robitussin. And I love that person. But Thursday night was a bad deal all around. Harper was screaming bloody murder and absolutely refused to be consoled. Neither bottle nor poop cleanup nor dark of night could quiet the noise and I love her, dearly and with all of my wasted heart, but her cries can be mind-numbing and infuriating at the same time when one cannot puzzle out what it is that she wants.
Turns out what she wanted was to poop. Poor thing was constipated all that day, that night, and most of Friday. And let me tell you, after a quick convo with the pediatrician after discovering what can only be described as a poo cork on a Friday afternoon diaper change, the last thing you want is for your child to become constipated. Because what they want you to do before you resort to apple juice or Karo syrup…what they want you to do to your infant daughter with the thermometer and the Vaseline and the warm bath…well, it just seems as though it may border on wildly inappropriate and I really didn’t want to do it. I’m thanking all that’s holy that the warm bath was all we needed, and that the subsequent daily dose of apple juice has realigned the planets and kept Chaos at bay. They say that an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Well, apparently it keeps the rectal thermometer away as well, so I’m now the biggest fan of apples in the history of apple fans, I do declare.
My brother in law has really taken to these girls, and fawns over them and buys them presents as though they are famous socialites or something. The one thing he just doesn’t have the stomach for – bless his heart – is poop. He’s always here helping and playing with them but when he opens a diaper to find that they’ve cooked him a treasure he hands them off to us. Even the talk of poop brings a reflexive grimace to his face. I’ve assured him that having children throws one headlong into a necessary comfort with poop and pee and puke and all of the important “p” words, really. One month ago I would have needed an entire Hazmat scrub-down had I found myself with poop on my finger or puke between my breasts. Now here I am, having had a close encounter of every kind with pretty much every mucousy, smelly, biohazardy bodily fluid an infant girl can produce and standing here to tell the tale.
It’s amazing how comfortable one gets with children – and with all of their byproducts – when one is given the task of keeping one of the little creatures alive. It’s funny…the thought of handling another person’s baby still makes me cringe with discomfort, but I’ve gotten comfortable swinging mine around like those crazy ass mother apes you see on the Discovery channel.
Random note to close on: I’m craving cigarettes and chocolate soft serve ice cream like it’s my job. The ice cream I get. Ice cream is delicious. But I’ve not had a cigarette since day three of my honeymoon. The day I discovered that I was pregnant. The smell of cigarette smoke now turns my stomach. Yet all I can think about right now is rocking on my porch with a Camel Crush. What is wrong with me?
…but it does help me understand where people like Andrea Yates were coming from. In an entirely theoretical way, understand. Not in a practical way. Please don’t let CPS see this.
…that it was possible to love something as intensely as I love these.
Harper Lennon (right)
5:04 pm May 18th, 2012
6 lbs 11 oz
Juniper Cash (left)
5:06 pm May 18th, 2012
6 lbs 13 oz
And this is us 6 days later…
I don’t know how regular my posts will be for the next few weeks as I try to learn how not to kill, maim or otherwise damage my children (or myself). What a long strange trip it’s going to be. Love you, WordPress.
Finally met the doctor who’s supposed to be responsible for the delivery of my twins. He had a golf vacation planned during the week that one woman I know went into labor, but that’s one time and I’m not holding it against him. She still got a fabulous delivery from another doctor in the practice and the delivery was performed according to the plan they had set up, so all in all everything worked out.
He gave me no trouble about the C-section, unlike some of the preachy nurses who wanted to make sure I knew that “God has a way he likes these things done,” whatever the fuck that’s about. Seriously…I’ve got some issues with God’s method as opposed to the knock-her-out-with-the-good-drugs-and-leave-her-vajay-intact method. Just sayin’. If my doctor feels that it’s safe to go surgical with it then I say do it up. And he does feel that it’s safe. He was more than willing to sign on for that as well as the tubal ligation that the super religious nurses seemed to have issues with.
First of all, the way to get me to not do something is not to tell me that God doesn’t want me to do it. Then I’m just going to go do it extra hard, just to be a bitch. I’m sorry, but in my opinion – unless a client has expressed a deep spirituality herself – it’s inappropriate for a medical professional to impose her own religious views on the poor creature. And by “inappropriate” I mean, of course, “absolutely fucking unforgivable and possible grounds for termination from the practice of medicine altogether.”
Furthermore, what is it with everyone pushing women to have more children? I understand that the procedure is permanent (if done properly). That’s, you know, why I fucking want it. I understand that it’s not a decision to make without careful thought and consideration but come on. People are allowed to get married with less heckling from the peanut gallery. Why is it so hard to believe that a woman approaching thirty, who is of sound mind and competent to say the very least might want to close up shop and put the old uterus out to pasture? I mean, the one time it was called to action it wound up spitting out extra parts anyway, so…you know. My husband and I are 50% above plan. We know our limits financially and emotionally. I was emphatically anti having kids before we got serious. When we got serious I looked deep within myself and made the decision that one kid might not usher in the apocalypse. Now we’re having two and I’m just saying let’s quit while we’re ahead.
Oh, but super evangelical nurse practitioner lady is probably the type of woman who would also argue against her right to make decisions about her own reproductive system. I never understood that. Legislating that some woman, at some point in time, might be allowed to have an abortion/tubal ligation/other serious work done on her undercarriage does not mean that every woman is required to do so. Why would anyone with a uterus not want complete control over it? I really, really don’t understand that. No one is strapping you down and making you have a partial birth abortion, ladies. No one is vacuuming your fetus out and doing weird science experiments on it if you don’t sign off on it. So mind your business and let the women who know what they can and cannot handle make those decisions.
Okay. I just got really angry at that nurse practitioner. Let me just say that it was nice to finally talk to someone – someone with a penis, no less – who had no personal interest in forcing me to leave my tubes intact or destroy my love tunnel in the name of Life. I’m giving that dude a mental fist bump right now. Right on, brother.
Also, he hipped me to this dude. He bought a woodcut that the guy did of La Llorona. My OB is fucking harsh. I love it.
Additionally, my sugar was good after only the 1 hour test, so I got to avoid the horrible three-hour test. My blood pressure has gone up but is still well within normal range, so the elephantiasis of my feet and ankles really is just normal swelling – nothing to be done about it. Damn it all. I get another sonogram in two weeks so we’ll get to be very sure that I am, indeed, having two girls in two months (keep your fingers crossed that whatever they are they’re the same sex. The longer we can put off thinking about a separate bedroom for one of them the better). We’ll also get an idea on how much of this weight I’ve gained is baby. I know it’s going to be very little, but still. It would help to know that at least some of it really is their fault and not my poor excuses for emotional food choices. So…good day.