Tonight I sat with Elliott in the crook of my right arm.
A big colorful book about the rainforest set before us.
As I read the words in a steady cadence,
he started breathing fast.
Looking down at him, I saw that he was studying all the images with a huge smile on his face.
He was excited.
Then,
still making those audible little breathes,
he began to glance over at me with this smile.
This smile like,
Are you getting all this?
Before swiftly turning back to the book.
So as not to miss anything.
The best.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The boys are asleep for the night, or rather, the next three hours.
A superstition warns me not to say this,
but I have to:
It's getting easier.
The days go by fast.
We laugh.
We dance.
We eat.
We sleep.
On the twelfth of every month I pay all my bills online.
There's the occasional doctor's appointment.
But for every other day,
We laugh.
We dance.
We eat.
We sleep.
I'm experiencing the wonder I missed out on when they first arrived.
I bite my lip when I look at them.
They are just so desirable.
The journey to this moment, well, maybe I'll sit down and really write about that one day.
For now, it means such a great deal to me, that we're here.
I know better than to let anything take this from me.
A superstition warns me not to say this,
but I have to:
It's getting easier.
The days go by fast.
We laugh.
We dance.
We eat.
We sleep.
On the twelfth of every month I pay all my bills online.
There's the occasional doctor's appointment.
But for every other day,
We laugh.
We dance.
We eat.
We sleep.
I'm experiencing the wonder I missed out on when they first arrived.
I bite my lip when I look at them.
They are just so desirable.
The journey to this moment, well, maybe I'll sit down and really write about that one day.
For now, it means such a great deal to me, that we're here.
I know better than to let anything take this from me.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Elliott and Reese,
You're just about seven months old.
From a gestational stand-point, more like four months.
This past week, Jesse has been driving to West Hollywood every day for work.
It's been the three of us from morning to night.
I'm sweetly surprised to find that managing you on my own is somehow easier than sharing the responsibility.
When there's no one around to take over, I have to be focused.
The result of which is that we've really been enjoying eachother.
I make faces at you while you lay on the floor,
and in response you smile wide, push your chin into your chest, and arch your back.
Your whole body contorts with glee.
It is the most awesome spectacle I've ever laid eyes on.
I want to curse, like, happy curses.
But you're just babies, so instead I say things like,
You are the babiest baby in the whole world!
and,
Will you marry me?
I'm not sure I'm going to be the kind of mom who remembers the exact day you rolled from your back to your belly,
but I'll never forget the moment I realized
we were having fun.
I love you completely.
Momma
You're just about seven months old.
From a gestational stand-point, more like four months.
This past week, Jesse has been driving to West Hollywood every day for work.
It's been the three of us from morning to night.
I'm sweetly surprised to find that managing you on my own is somehow easier than sharing the responsibility.
When there's no one around to take over, I have to be focused.
The result of which is that we've really been enjoying eachother.
I make faces at you while you lay on the floor,
and in response you smile wide, push your chin into your chest, and arch your back.
Your whole body contorts with glee.
It is the most awesome spectacle I've ever laid eyes on.
I want to curse, like, happy curses.
But you're just babies, so instead I say things like,
You are the babiest baby in the whole world!
and,
Will you marry me?
I'm not sure I'm going to be the kind of mom who remembers the exact day you rolled from your back to your belly,
but I'll never forget the moment I realized
we were having fun.
I love you completely.
Momma
Friday, September 10, 2010
Most of the time, I'm a little too tunnel visioned to think something cohesive. My brain isn't able to transition outside of priorities. In the free moments; I feel my abdomen tense rhythmically.
Like I'm on the mark.
But, it's so important to find a little place in the day, perhaps from 05:40 to 05:45, in which I'm doing something non-reactive. Like, writing this is affirming that I'm not a complete stranger to myself.
I still don't have the opportunity to really expand on anything, or to edit it so that I am the perfect version of myself, but I recently heard somewhere that no one's perfect.
Also, I'll add, that no one is special.
I feel more like one of many; by the day.
It's both painful, and good. And I mean both of those plain words in all their intensity.
It's really painful to be so humbled, to be so little.
It's really good to be purposeful every single day, to be a family.
I feel like I have a soul for the first time in my life.
I never went to visit my Nanny before she died.
I had every opportunity, and I just didn't, because I didn't feel like it.
And today, I started feeling really bad about that.
I have all these people I surrounded myself with for many years.
And now, many of them look at me as though I turned into a different species when I made babies.
And in the beginning that kind of hurt, until I realized that I was never really there for them either.
Being so locked into this experience, is pretty much the antithesis of my previous life.
I find that I'm not only struggling with being a new parent of twins. I'm also struggling with my identity, my new future, and how to maintain some thoughtfulness and quality in the process.
I went to the store to pick up some formula yesterday.
The clerk was this young, hipster guy, and he looked right through me.
I remember he said, "Have a nice day."
I actually looked over my shoulder to see who he was talking to, and realized that was supposed to be for me.
It's been about thirty minutes now.
This felt good.
Hmm... I miss my boys.
Maybe I'll go upstairs and start stomping around outside their door.
Like I'm on the mark.
But, it's so important to find a little place in the day, perhaps from 05:40 to 05:45, in which I'm doing something non-reactive. Like, writing this is affirming that I'm not a complete stranger to myself.
I still don't have the opportunity to really expand on anything, or to edit it so that I am the perfect version of myself, but I recently heard somewhere that no one's perfect.
Also, I'll add, that no one is special.
I feel more like one of many; by the day.
It's both painful, and good. And I mean both of those plain words in all their intensity.
It's really painful to be so humbled, to be so little.
It's really good to be purposeful every single day, to be a family.
I feel like I have a soul for the first time in my life.
I never went to visit my Nanny before she died.
I had every opportunity, and I just didn't, because I didn't feel like it.
And today, I started feeling really bad about that.
I have all these people I surrounded myself with for many years.
And now, many of them look at me as though I turned into a different species when I made babies.
And in the beginning that kind of hurt, until I realized that I was never really there for them either.
Being so locked into this experience, is pretty much the antithesis of my previous life.
I find that I'm not only struggling with being a new parent of twins. I'm also struggling with my identity, my new future, and how to maintain some thoughtfulness and quality in the process.
I went to the store to pick up some formula yesterday.
The clerk was this young, hipster guy, and he looked right through me.
I remember he said, "Have a nice day."
I actually looked over my shoulder to see who he was talking to, and realized that was supposed to be for me.
It's been about thirty minutes now.
This felt good.
Hmm... I miss my boys.
Maybe I'll go upstairs and start stomping around outside their door.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
A. B. and 3.
a. If you have two babies instead of one.
And they're both crying.
Never imagine how much easier things would have been if say, you could have them both but maybe three years apart from eachother.
Don't think about that.
It will get you every time.
b. (This entry was replaced by a crying baby.)
and 3. Alright, alright. I'm coming Reese.
And they're both crying.
Never imagine how much easier things would have been if say, you could have them both but maybe three years apart from eachother.
Don't think about that.
It will get you every time.
b. (This entry was replaced by a crying baby.)
and 3. Alright, alright. I'm coming Reese.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
baby brains
Reese and Elliott.
Reese and Elliott.
Go together like a horse and chariott!
This I tell you Jes-se.
You can't have a Reese without an Elli!
Dear Elli and R-Jo,
These are currently my top five favorite things about you:
1. Sometimes when I put both of you down in the crib; I'll start hearing a baby grunting and squeeking. This will go on for a couple minutes, until there's silence again.
When I come in to check on the two of you, I'll find that the baby on the right has worked his way to the baby on the left. So that one baby's head is snuggled into the other's shoulder.
2. Most mornings I like to take you on walks. You usually fall into a coma as soon as we get moving.
Every once in a while I'll peek in on you and find that you haven't been asleep at all. Instead, you're quietly watching the world go by. Often times your little mouth is pursed as though you'd like a kiss. So I give you one.
3. Reese, I love your smile, because it spreads over your whole face quite suddenly, like a surprise party.
Elliott, I love your smile, because it has such humor in it, you're going to be a very funny person one day.
4. I make prarie women of you during bath time. You are most beautiful with a wash cloth bonnett on your head and suds on your belly.
and 5. When you sleep, you gain about twenty pounds. I like to lay back on the couch and feel the weight of you on my chest. It's like we're both slowly sinking into the center of the earth.
Reese and Elliott.
Go together like a horse and chariott!
This I tell you Jes-se.
You can't have a Reese without an Elli!
Dear Elli and R-Jo,
These are currently my top five favorite things about you:
1. Sometimes when I put both of you down in the crib; I'll start hearing a baby grunting and squeeking. This will go on for a couple minutes, until there's silence again.
When I come in to check on the two of you, I'll find that the baby on the right has worked his way to the baby on the left. So that one baby's head is snuggled into the other's shoulder.
2. Most mornings I like to take you on walks. You usually fall into a coma as soon as we get moving.
Every once in a while I'll peek in on you and find that you haven't been asleep at all. Instead, you're quietly watching the world go by. Often times your little mouth is pursed as though you'd like a kiss. So I give you one.
3. Reese, I love your smile, because it spreads over your whole face quite suddenly, like a surprise party.
Elliott, I love your smile, because it has such humor in it, you're going to be a very funny person one day.
4. I make prarie women of you during bath time. You are most beautiful with a wash cloth bonnett on your head and suds on your belly.
and 5. When you sleep, you gain about twenty pounds. I like to lay back on the couch and feel the weight of you on my chest. It's like we're both slowly sinking into the center of the earth.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Now that we're all home, it's beginning to catch up with me.
Here is life as it will be.
It's been a little over a month.
It's happening just as I thought it might.
I'm doing the dishes at 4a.m.
And these little bursts of weeping come out of my face.
And I'm not even enjoying the release, because I'm too tired.
So it stops just as soon as it began.
What I'm saying is,
I feel like I got shot through a worm hole ten months ago.
Life is all about the stories you tell.
There's never just one story.
And lately, now that I'm no longer in the middle of getting through it, I'm seeing all these versions of my life.
Like little movies projected all over the walls of my apartment.
I don't know which one I'm living anymore.
I mean, I'm living all of them, but which one will I retell?
Today I watched the sky turn lavender and this is what I could hear:
Coffee percolating in the kitchen.
Folk music.
A restless baby.*
Here is life as it will be.
It's been a little over a month.
It's happening just as I thought it might.
I'm doing the dishes at 4a.m.
And these little bursts of weeping come out of my face.
And I'm not even enjoying the release, because I'm too tired.
So it stops just as soon as it began.
What I'm saying is,
I feel like I got shot through a worm hole ten months ago.
Life is all about the stories you tell.
There's never just one story.
And lately, now that I'm no longer in the middle of getting through it, I'm seeing all these versions of my life.
Like little movies projected all over the walls of my apartment.
I don't know which one I'm living anymore.
I mean, I'm living all of them, but which one will I retell?
Today I watched the sky turn lavender and this is what I could hear:
Coffee percolating in the kitchen.
Folk music.
A restless baby.*
Friday, July 2, 2010
I sent Jesse to bed at 9p.m. Usually he takes the night shift and I get up at about 1a.m. to take over until 8ish.
But I got a nap in this morning. And so our brilliant plan to find some structure is foiled.
As I write this, Reese and Elliott are sleeping on a blanket in the middle of the living room floor. During the eight hours of the day that Jesse and I are both awake at the same time, the going's pretty easy. Sometimes when we both want a nap, we pick a baby and separate.
Easy.
But in these shifts when we're solo, it can get pretty hairy. We've found terms to use during our debriefings.
Like melt down.
As in,
"Did you have any melt downs?"
"Yeah. Two. But they didn't last very long."
Another main concern for us would be how many shirts went down in a blaze of projectile vomit, though you never have to ask.
Many a morning I come down stairs to find Jesse in some state of undress. Mostly he's shirtless, but on particularly active nights I've found him down to his undies.
I knew it would be hard.
I even knew it would be this hard.
But I guess the reality of it is... surreal.
Like when I look at Reese and Elliott sternly and say,
"You're just going to have to cry for one minute."
So that I can run upstairs to put a shirt on after hopelessly waiting them out for an hour.
As though I've somehow taken a stand by carving out 30 seconds to put a bra on.
But as I've found in my other life experiences, you adjust.
We appreciate the few moments we have to ourselves, and of course we take plenty of time to marvel at the fruits of our labor.
At the moment I'm playing Hey Jude and appreciating that I have both the energy and the ten minutes to share a little about this place in time.
And that's so restorative.
Also, sometimes when I'm feeding them I move my head from right to left.
I say,
"Where's momma?"
And be it Reese or Elli, I watch them turn their gaze to follow me.
That's so cool.
But I got a nap in this morning. And so our brilliant plan to find some structure is foiled.
As I write this, Reese and Elliott are sleeping on a blanket in the middle of the living room floor. During the eight hours of the day that Jesse and I are both awake at the same time, the going's pretty easy. Sometimes when we both want a nap, we pick a baby and separate.
Easy.
But in these shifts when we're solo, it can get pretty hairy. We've found terms to use during our debriefings.
Like melt down.
As in,
"Did you have any melt downs?"
"Yeah. Two. But they didn't last very long."
Another main concern for us would be how many shirts went down in a blaze of projectile vomit, though you never have to ask.
Many a morning I come down stairs to find Jesse in some state of undress. Mostly he's shirtless, but on particularly active nights I've found him down to his undies.
I knew it would be hard.
I even knew it would be this hard.
But I guess the reality of it is... surreal.
Like when I look at Reese and Elliott sternly and say,
"You're just going to have to cry for one minute."
So that I can run upstairs to put a shirt on after hopelessly waiting them out for an hour.
As though I've somehow taken a stand by carving out 30 seconds to put a bra on.
But as I've found in my other life experiences, you adjust.
We appreciate the few moments we have to ourselves, and of course we take plenty of time to marvel at the fruits of our labor.
At the moment I'm playing Hey Jude and appreciating that I have both the energy and the ten minutes to share a little about this place in time.
And that's so restorative.
Also, sometimes when I'm feeding them I move my head from right to left.
I say,
"Where's momma?"
And be it Reese or Elli, I watch them turn their gaze to follow me.
That's so cool.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
My sister showed me this picture she took with her cellphone a week before Reese and Elliott entered the scene. I was blown away. There aren't very many pictures of me pregnant, and at the time, I had no idea I was this big.
Reese is laying across my lap right now.
Elliott rests in the crib, still in his carrier because I was afraid to wake him.
Jane, Kat and Yarrow came to visit us yesterday. They brought a lovely salad and lots of joy to our day. We shared a little about parenting, and I realized that I haven't done as much thinking about what kind of parent I'm going to be, as I would like to. Later in the evening I looked into attachment parenting. I don't know if I'll follow it rigidly, but I agree with it completely. Looks like Reese wants some attachment right now! xo
Monday, June 7, 2010
Yesterday I sat down with Dr. Patel. I asked,
"Why is Reese being treated for Elliott?"
"Why aren't they home yet?"
"What orders can you put in so that we can all get on the same page?"
I said,
"I want to approach getting these babies discharged the way we approached getting them extubated."
I asked,
"How can Reese be held here for losing less than 20mg over two days, when I know that he isn't even weighed at the same time each day?"
In my head, I said,
"GIVE ME MY FUCKING BABIES NOW! GIVE'EM! NOW!"
...
We all rocked a little more in our hospital grade rocking chairs. I congratulated Elliott for burping on my shoulder.
Dr. Patel told me that he would change their orders and start making moves on his next shift.
I guess that will have to do for now.
I don't have many regrets when I look back on how I've handled this experience, but lately I'm coming to recognize that I'm nearing the end of good behavior.
I want them home now.
I want to start now.
I don't want to wrap their wires in my fist every time I pick them up.
Or pull the curtains around us every time I breastfeed.
I don't want nurses asking me if our house is ready yet.
I want them to mind their own business.
Sigh.
This will all be over soon.
I would apologize for such a venty, dear diary kind of blog, but I happen to know that the people reading this actually care.
That means everything to me.
Thank you.
"Why is Reese being treated for Elliott?"
"Why aren't they home yet?"
"What orders can you put in so that we can all get on the same page?"
I said,
"I want to approach getting these babies discharged the way we approached getting them extubated."
I asked,
"How can Reese be held here for losing less than 20mg over two days, when I know that he isn't even weighed at the same time each day?"
In my head, I said,
"GIVE ME MY FUCKING BABIES NOW! GIVE'EM! NOW!"
...
We all rocked a little more in our hospital grade rocking chairs. I congratulated Elliott for burping on my shoulder.
Dr. Patel told me that he would change their orders and start making moves on his next shift.
I guess that will have to do for now.
I don't have many regrets when I look back on how I've handled this experience, but lately I'm coming to recognize that I'm nearing the end of good behavior.
I want them home now.
I want to start now.
I don't want to wrap their wires in my fist every time I pick them up.
Or pull the curtains around us every time I breastfeed.
I don't want nurses asking me if our house is ready yet.
I want them to mind their own business.
Sigh.
This will all be over soon.
I would apologize for such a venty, dear diary kind of blog, but I happen to know that the people reading this actually care.
That means everything to me.
Thank you.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Our boys will be home in a matter of days.
We've been learning to nurse this past week.
They're doing so well. They're behaving like...babies.
I knew this time would come; that one day they wouldn't be preemies anymore.
But when I look down at Reese, and his eyes are wide open, and he's sucking so vigorously that I wonder if I'll have enough milk...
I just can't believe that we're here.
That future place we've been imagining exists, and we have arrived.
After today's mid-day feeding in the N.I.C.U., Jesse and I drove home for lunch. As we busied ourselves' in the kitchen, I turned to him and asked if he realized this could be the last weekend; before we pick up where we left off.
And maybe on Tuesday we can start that life we'd been anticipating.
I ask him if we can try to forget this ever happened.
Or at least downplay it so well that it becomes tiny in our recollection.
So that one day as soon as five years from now,
we can say,
"That wasn't so bad."
Jesse says, "I bet we could forget, and it will make it a lot easier that Reese and Elliott will have no memory of this."
I can always count on that guy.
Monday, May 10, 2010
It's Mother's Day.
I feel more like a momma than a mother.
Really, more like myself than either.
In honor of me having babies, Jesse rode his bike all through Fullerton, collecting flowers before the sun came up.
I briefly woke when he left.
I can imagine him riding his little brown Huffy circa 1975.
Loading the front basket with the roses that were the prettiest.
The roses that were reachable.
The roses that smelled the best.
When I woke later my bed was empty.
I could hear some light strumming of a guitar downstairs
along with soft voices reciting the morning world news.
I checked my phone.
8a.m.
Time for me to pump.
Milk.
Jesse must have heard me getting out of bed.
He ran up stairs with his presents in tow.
"Happy Mother's Day!"
He set the vases on our nightstand.
I told him that he would get paid thousands of dollars to arrange flowers, if the right person discovered him. But that he would have to move to Manhattan, and wear a bow tie, and he couldn't laugh so loud anymore.
He got suspicious that I was teasing him, but I wasn't.
They were so dimensional.
They flowed from left to right like a great sentence, or like they were being pulled to the right by a tear in the space-time continuum.
Later we walked to Nick's diner for breakfast.
As we passed houses on the street, I noted the familiar roses and wondered if they were the sisters and brothers of the adoptions I had back in my room.
At Nick's we refilled our coffee three times.
We talked about the future.
About us and our boys and how unbelievably great the rest of our lives will be, no matter what.
Afterward we visited Reese and Elliott in the hospital. I discovered they had left Mother's Day cards in their cribs for me. We sat with them for three hours. Jesse's parents came to visit.
It felt almost like home.
In the evening we made pizza and drank soda.
Better than Christmas.
I feel more like a momma than a mother.
Really, more like myself than either.
In honor of me having babies, Jesse rode his bike all through Fullerton, collecting flowers before the sun came up.
I briefly woke when he left.
I can imagine him riding his little brown Huffy circa 1975.
Loading the front basket with the roses that were the prettiest.
The roses that were reachable.
The roses that smelled the best.
When I woke later my bed was empty.
I could hear some light strumming of a guitar downstairs
along with soft voices reciting the morning world news.
I checked my phone.
8a.m.
Time for me to pump.
Milk.
Jesse must have heard me getting out of bed.
He ran up stairs with his presents in tow.
"Happy Mother's Day!"
He set the vases on our nightstand.
I told him that he would get paid thousands of dollars to arrange flowers, if the right person discovered him. But that he would have to move to Manhattan, and wear a bow tie, and he couldn't laugh so loud anymore.
He got suspicious that I was teasing him, but I wasn't.
They were so dimensional.
They flowed from left to right like a great sentence, or like they were being pulled to the right by a tear in the space-time continuum.
Later we walked to Nick's diner for breakfast.
As we passed houses on the street, I noted the familiar roses and wondered if they were the sisters and brothers of the adoptions I had back in my room.
At Nick's we refilled our coffee three times.
We talked about the future.
About us and our boys and how unbelievably great the rest of our lives will be, no matter what.
Afterward we visited Reese and Elliott in the hospital. I discovered they had left Mother's Day cards in their cribs for me. We sat with them for three hours. Jesse's parents came to visit.
It felt almost like home.
In the evening we made pizza and drank soda.
Better than Christmas.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Reese and Elliott,
You're still in the hospital.
It's been seven weeks.
If you ever get a hold of this blog.
And you're reading this on some sort of hologram.
Or a hologram is reading this to you.
I want you to know, that this person you have a bunch of memories about...
Whoever it is that you know me to be...
I'm at the beginning of all that right now.
That as I write this, you are completely perfect.
Though I understand that doesn't last for long.
And I guess I am completely perfect too.
And that wont last long either.
But we're all perfect now.
I love you Elliott.
I love you Reese.
Yours,
Momma
You're still in the hospital.
It's been seven weeks.
If you ever get a hold of this blog.
And you're reading this on some sort of hologram.
Or a hologram is reading this to you.
I want you to know, that this person you have a bunch of memories about...
Whoever it is that you know me to be...
I'm at the beginning of all that right now.
That as I write this, you are completely perfect.
Though I understand that doesn't last for long.
And I guess I am completely perfect too.
And that wont last long either.
But we're all perfect now.
I love you Elliott.
I love you Reese.
Yours,
Momma
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
I know that babies don't make a real life out of a fake one. That the difference between before and after is far more complicated than easy polarities.
I know that I'm no wiser a person, though I'm definitely a more purposeful one. When I look at Reese and Elliott, I don't know what it is I'm feeling. I just know that it's right, and it's big, and it's not just love, and it's not just evolution.
I know, that I'm not a good enough writer or thinker, to encapsulate all that this is. And it means too much to me to do anything less than let it be.
Reese is four pounds now. Elliott trails behind by ten ounces. The nurses ask more frequently if we have everything ready at home yet.
I get the feeling Jesse and I have just hit one of those fast moving pockets of time. In five seconds I will open my eyes and there will be a baby in my hands,
instead of this computer.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
I know that I'm no wiser a person, though I'm definitely a more purposeful one. When I look at Reese and Elliott, I don't know what it is I'm feeling. I just know that it's right, and it's big, and it's not just love, and it's not just evolution.
I know, that I'm not a good enough writer or thinker, to encapsulate all that this is. And it means too much to me to do anything less than let it be.
Reese is four pounds now. Elliott trails behind by ten ounces. The nurses ask more frequently if we have everything ready at home yet.
I get the feeling Jesse and I have just hit one of those fast moving pockets of time. In five seconds I will open my eyes and there will be a baby in my hands,
instead of this computer.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
It's just past midnight. Jesse and I are home from the hospital after holding Reese and Elliott for an hour.
When the nurses motion for us to hand them over, we nod with exaggerated compliance.
We understand. Of course. Time for these two to get some sleep!
We do understand.
But these babies are beginning to grow on us quite a bit.
And I think we're starting to get ideas.
Like sometimes I really want to stick my finger in Elliott's mouth.
Or I've looked over to find Jesse rubbing his chin over Reese's head and practically purring.
We're not necessarily breaking any rules, as much as we're not asking what the rules are anymore.
It's been raining today.
Erik Satie plays in the living room.
Jesse's found some old emails I sent him.
I'm reminded of those nights after a long day of flying. Sitting up with my laptop and listening to the silence until suddenly,
there were thoughts.
When our visit was over, I opened Elliott's little window and said,
"Goodnight little boy. I love you. I'll be back tomorrow morning. I'll miss you."
Then I crossed over to Reese's crib and opened his window. I said,
"Goodnight Reese. You're the best. I love you."
Erik Satie is so sad and pretty, like walking alone at night.
I'm drinking chai tea. The tag at the end of the string has a quote from Abraham Lincoln.
"The goal to succeed is more important than any one thing."
I think I liked another of his quotes better.
"If I were two faced, do you think I'd choose to walk around with this one."
Reese and Elliott are doing good.
This past week has been good.
I made cookies and Jesse cleaned the garage, and we're okay.
I think we're coming around the bend.
When the nurses motion for us to hand them over, we nod with exaggerated compliance.
We understand. Of course. Time for these two to get some sleep!
We do understand.
But these babies are beginning to grow on us quite a bit.
And I think we're starting to get ideas.
Like sometimes I really want to stick my finger in Elliott's mouth.
Or I've looked over to find Jesse rubbing his chin over Reese's head and practically purring.
We're not necessarily breaking any rules, as much as we're not asking what the rules are anymore.
It's been raining today.
Erik Satie plays in the living room.
Jesse's found some old emails I sent him.
I'm reminded of those nights after a long day of flying. Sitting up with my laptop and listening to the silence until suddenly,
there were thoughts.
When our visit was over, I opened Elliott's little window and said,
"Goodnight little boy. I love you. I'll be back tomorrow morning. I'll miss you."
Then I crossed over to Reese's crib and opened his window. I said,
"Goodnight Reese. You're the best. I love you."
Erik Satie is so sad and pretty, like walking alone at night.
I'm drinking chai tea. The tag at the end of the string has a quote from Abraham Lincoln.
"The goal to succeed is more important than any one thing."
I think I liked another of his quotes better.
"If I were two faced, do you think I'd choose to walk around with this one."
Reese and Elliott are doing good.
This past week has been good.
I made cookies and Jesse cleaned the garage, and we're okay.
I think we're coming around the bend.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Tonight the doctor said,
We don't have answers. That's not a fair position for you two to be in, but it's true.
He said,
Nothing is certain.
He said,
There is no crystal ball.
He said,
Don't get ahead of yourself. Do it day by day. Sometimes hour by hour.
All of this, of course, was in response to our repeated attempts at angling for answers. We want them so badly that we kept asking.
Even though we knew better.
Or rather, even though we knew we should know better.
I think we liked him.
We liked the way he didn't smile too much. The way he made eye contact without being charismatic. We liked that he explained things as they are in all their complexity, rather than using metaphors.
He had gained our confidence.
Not that he could fix anything. Not that he could make it better or do anything differently than the next guy. He just seemed to be talking to us, rather than delivering a speech or expressing what kind of doctor he is.
It went a long way.
When our meeting was done, we very appreciatively shook his hand and thanked him; knowing nothing more than we had before speaking with him.
In parting, I said something like, "I feel better. I don't know why, but I do."
Which did not mean that I felt good or happy. I just felt less shitty.
I'm fairly sure Jesse felt something similar.
I'm trying very hard to develop a philosophy that will carry us through this.
Tonights doctor wasn't the first to tell us we shouldn't get ahead of ourselves, but I liked him a little more and so it left a stronger impression.
As I meditate on it now, I really hope I can achieve some level of peace and acceptance of the unknown and I guess, with whatever we eventually do know.
In the meantime, I'm not there yet. Only lasting several minutes before I find myself fighting off a myriad of emotions for events that haven't happened yet.
Today I was reminded of the mantra, "This too shall pass."
I thought,
I don't like that mantra.
Not all things do pass. Somethings last forever.
So I decided to make a better mantra.
And I came up with,
This will not pass.
I wasn't necessarily comforted by my mantra, but I think it's going to give me solutions.
If something isn't going to pass, you have to learn how to make it a part of your life.
Maybe I'm wrong.
I'm still figuring out how to drive this thing.
It's late now, and I'm sure I'm missing an episode of House somewhere in cable land.
Goodnight folks.
We don't have answers. That's not a fair position for you two to be in, but it's true.
He said,
Nothing is certain.
He said,
There is no crystal ball.
He said,
Don't get ahead of yourself. Do it day by day. Sometimes hour by hour.
All of this, of course, was in response to our repeated attempts at angling for answers. We want them so badly that we kept asking.
Even though we knew better.
Or rather, even though we knew we should know better.
I think we liked him.
We liked the way he didn't smile too much. The way he made eye contact without being charismatic. We liked that he explained things as they are in all their complexity, rather than using metaphors.
He had gained our confidence.
Not that he could fix anything. Not that he could make it better or do anything differently than the next guy. He just seemed to be talking to us, rather than delivering a speech or expressing what kind of doctor he is.
It went a long way.
When our meeting was done, we very appreciatively shook his hand and thanked him; knowing nothing more than we had before speaking with him.
In parting, I said something like, "I feel better. I don't know why, but I do."
Which did not mean that I felt good or happy. I just felt less shitty.
I'm fairly sure Jesse felt something similar.
I'm trying very hard to develop a philosophy that will carry us through this.
Tonights doctor wasn't the first to tell us we shouldn't get ahead of ourselves, but I liked him a little more and so it left a stronger impression.
As I meditate on it now, I really hope I can achieve some level of peace and acceptance of the unknown and I guess, with whatever we eventually do know.
In the meantime, I'm not there yet. Only lasting several minutes before I find myself fighting off a myriad of emotions for events that haven't happened yet.
Today I was reminded of the mantra, "This too shall pass."
I thought,
I don't like that mantra.
Not all things do pass. Somethings last forever.
So I decided to make a better mantra.
And I came up with,
This will not pass.
I wasn't necessarily comforted by my mantra, but I think it's going to give me solutions.
If something isn't going to pass, you have to learn how to make it a part of your life.
Maybe I'm wrong.
I'm still figuring out how to drive this thing.
It's late now, and I'm sure I'm missing an episode of House somewhere in cable land.
Goodnight folks.
Monday, April 5, 2010
I'm in the process of finishing my thank you notes. Before I began, I felt a bit overwhelmed by the task. I wondered how I could possibly express my sincerity while listing off inventories of the gifts we received.
I've never written a thank you card before. Looking back, there are many occasions when I should have, and I didn't.
I've avoided most events that would make me feel obligated towards people. The thought of someone doing something for me; made my throat constrict.
The never ending obligation.
But Jesse and I became pregnant.
And when you're having babies, there's not a lot of choice in the matter anymore.
People are going to get involved.
And so, for the first time, maybe in my life, I set foot into this foggy world in which people do nice things for eachother without asking for a receipt.
I wasn't naturally comfortable with it, but I submitted myself.
Several months later I sit down to complete my one and only task.
Thank you cards.
As I conceptualized it before hand, I couldn't figure out how I'd say thank you in such a powerful way that it would some how break even.
I've finished all but a few of them now. Tomorrow the cards will probably go out, and I realize that I didn't settle the score.
Fortunately, I'm pleased to find through the process that thank you cards aren't about math.
I had a genuine desire to meditate on each person and the good thing they'd done for us.
Often I'd drift from writing in an attempt to figure out the parameters of this experience regarding its effect on my life.
Of course, I couldn't. It just go's on exponentially.
At each bend we've encountered, I learn of some new way this has unexpectedly and drastically changed... everything.
In this case, it's the simple lesson that receiving gifts can feel really nice without any need for residual anxiety.
That sometimes people actually want to do something for me, and they're not asking me to enter a contract.
Which is not to say there isn't a contract.
There definately is.
But neither of us oversaw the fine print.
It just happened.
And I'm breathing just fine.
I've never written a thank you card before. Looking back, there are many occasions when I should have, and I didn't.
I've avoided most events that would make me feel obligated towards people. The thought of someone doing something for me; made my throat constrict.
The never ending obligation.
But Jesse and I became pregnant.
And when you're having babies, there's not a lot of choice in the matter anymore.
People are going to get involved.
And so, for the first time, maybe in my life, I set foot into this foggy world in which people do nice things for eachother without asking for a receipt.
I wasn't naturally comfortable with it, but I submitted myself.
Several months later I sit down to complete my one and only task.
Thank you cards.
As I conceptualized it before hand, I couldn't figure out how I'd say thank you in such a powerful way that it would some how break even.
I've finished all but a few of them now. Tomorrow the cards will probably go out, and I realize that I didn't settle the score.
Fortunately, I'm pleased to find through the process that thank you cards aren't about math.
I had a genuine desire to meditate on each person and the good thing they'd done for us.
Often I'd drift from writing in an attempt to figure out the parameters of this experience regarding its effect on my life.
Of course, I couldn't. It just go's on exponentially.
At each bend we've encountered, I learn of some new way this has unexpectedly and drastically changed... everything.
In this case, it's the simple lesson that receiving gifts can feel really nice without any need for residual anxiety.
That sometimes people actually want to do something for me, and they're not asking me to enter a contract.
Which is not to say there isn't a contract.
There definately is.
But neither of us oversaw the fine print.
It just happened.
And I'm breathing just fine.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Jesse's upstairs rinsing off before we head to the hospital.
I took a five hour nap today.
I was trying my old tricks.
I even had Jesse's permission to be completely useless.
But then my phone started ringing, and when I looked at caller i.d., it was the NICU.
They said they needed permission to do something to Reese.
After coming down stairs to explain the situation to Jesse, I called them back.
They need multiple witnesses for my permission over the phone, so one after another...
"This is Emelda, do we have your consent?"
"You have my consent."
"This is Kimberly, do we have your consent?"
"Yes. I consent."
"This is Dr. Han, do we have your consent?"
"Yes."
I'm beginning to think that the only way to cope with a situation of this magnitude, is to fake it.
Today I found myself saying,
Everything is going to be okay.
Somehow, that actually made me feel better.
The doctors have told us to educate ourselves on all the medical terms and procedures we're confronting. When I asked them if we'd be able to do anything with that information, they said, "No... But knowledge is power."
"But then.." I said, "I do want to know what's going on, but knowing doesn't actually help anything, does it?"
They grinned as though I missed the point and were too tired to go over it again with me.
"We don't want you to challenge us. But we want to empower you with knowledge."
Jesse kindly countered that we don't feel empowered. That we feel quite powerless no matter what we know or don't know.
And that's the closest thing to a story I have to tell today.
Jesse's ready to go. He's sitting on the stairs waiting.
I took a five hour nap today.
I was trying my old tricks.
I even had Jesse's permission to be completely useless.
But then my phone started ringing, and when I looked at caller i.d., it was the NICU.
They said they needed permission to do something to Reese.
After coming down stairs to explain the situation to Jesse, I called them back.
They need multiple witnesses for my permission over the phone, so one after another...
"This is Emelda, do we have your consent?"
"You have my consent."
"This is Kimberly, do we have your consent?"
"Yes. I consent."
"This is Dr. Han, do we have your consent?"
"Yes."
I'm beginning to think that the only way to cope with a situation of this magnitude, is to fake it.
Today I found myself saying,
Everything is going to be okay.
Somehow, that actually made me feel better.
The doctors have told us to educate ourselves on all the medical terms and procedures we're confronting. When I asked them if we'd be able to do anything with that information, they said, "No... But knowledge is power."
"But then.." I said, "I do want to know what's going on, but knowing doesn't actually help anything, does it?"
They grinned as though I missed the point and were too tired to go over it again with me.
"We don't want you to challenge us. But we want to empower you with knowledge."
Jesse kindly countered that we don't feel empowered. That we feel quite powerless no matter what we know or don't know.
And that's the closest thing to a story I have to tell today.
Jesse's ready to go. He's sitting on the stairs waiting.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
People
They've given me little dolls to rub my scent on.
A tag wrapped around each neck, explains they were donated by the local Catholic church.
I imagine someone like Nanny sitting around with a bunch of other ladies like Nanny, speaking softly while putting together these simple creatures.
I have two.
One for Elliott and one for Reese.
They're made of printed fabric.
The head is a ball tied off at the neck. The body is the remaining fabric, left to drift like a ghost.
Reese's doll has puppy dogs in strollers.
Elliott's has tractors.
These are the ones I have with me.
There are also two more in their beds right now.
This way we can switch them out, so I can smell them, and they can smell me.
I lay them in my lap with a few pictures taken in the NICU, while I pump breast milk.
As the days go by, the storage bags get fuller.
I count the ounces as though it were some measure of my love; my usefulness. When I'm done pumping, Jesse seals the bags and brings them directly to the nurses.
Tomorrow I get discharged. I go home just one day short of a month after my arrival.
The nurse has told me that getting the staples out wont hurt.
I don't want to go home.
I want to stay here and be on bed rest for eight more weeks, like I'd planned to.
I want to be put in a coma til time has caught up with us, and everything is as I wish it were.
But tomorrow I go home and begin reclaiming a part of my life. I do feel a deep need for some normalcy. I want to cook my own food, set my own schedule, and see people in a normal way, rather than being visited.
The full force of this experience is approaching me. I'm glad it wasn't sooner, as the staples in my belly couldn't withstand that kind of breathing.
They always said that each day I kept the babies in my belly was like three on the outside.
Maybe I needed three days inside myself, before I was ready to receive today.
I am all love.
Most of the time it makes me laugh,
and sometimes it makes me dream about wolves,
and right now it has me a bit oozy.
It's more than I could ever hope for, or dare to have.
With nothing equitable to give in return.
A tag wrapped around each neck, explains they were donated by the local Catholic church.
I imagine someone like Nanny sitting around with a bunch of other ladies like Nanny, speaking softly while putting together these simple creatures.
I have two.
One for Elliott and one for Reese.
They're made of printed fabric.
The head is a ball tied off at the neck. The body is the remaining fabric, left to drift like a ghost.
Reese's doll has puppy dogs in strollers.
Elliott's has tractors.
These are the ones I have with me.
There are also two more in their beds right now.
This way we can switch them out, so I can smell them, and they can smell me.
I lay them in my lap with a few pictures taken in the NICU, while I pump breast milk.
As the days go by, the storage bags get fuller.
I count the ounces as though it were some measure of my love; my usefulness. When I'm done pumping, Jesse seals the bags and brings them directly to the nurses.
Tomorrow I get discharged. I go home just one day short of a month after my arrival.
The nurse has told me that getting the staples out wont hurt.
I don't want to go home.
I want to stay here and be on bed rest for eight more weeks, like I'd planned to.
I want to be put in a coma til time has caught up with us, and everything is as I wish it were.
But tomorrow I go home and begin reclaiming a part of my life. I do feel a deep need for some normalcy. I want to cook my own food, set my own schedule, and see people in a normal way, rather than being visited.
The full force of this experience is approaching me. I'm glad it wasn't sooner, as the staples in my belly couldn't withstand that kind of breathing.
They always said that each day I kept the babies in my belly was like three on the outside.
Maybe I needed three days inside myself, before I was ready to receive today.
I am all love.
Most of the time it makes me laugh,
and sometimes it makes me dream about wolves,
and right now it has me a bit oozy.
It's more than I could ever hope for, or dare to have.
With nothing equitable to give in return.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
It is... Saturday.
Reese and Elliott are behaving so far. Reese taunts me by aiming himself right for the birth canal. Reminding me of a skydiver waiting for the hatch to open. He's quiet most of the time, only kicking enough to let us know he's still on board. Elliott rolls and pushes all day long. I imagine he's telling me jokes in morris code, and I laugh very loud so he can here me.
Yesterday the nurses let us wheel down to the NICU for an informal orientation. In the past few days we've come to accept that things might go faster than we desired. The NICU was far less scary than I had imagined. To our great fortune, a young mom happened to be visiting her twin boys. She let us roll up and talk to her for a few minutes. She couldn't have been more positive and praising of the staff and experience.
Leaving, I wondered if we had been duped.
If this sweet girl we had been speaking with was in fact an animatronic creation on loan from Disneyland.
Regardless, it had worked. I was feeling much better. I was feeling like things might get very difficult, but they wont get tragic.
We're pretty familiar with all the nurses now. An unexpected favorite is Vicky. She has a strong Taiwanese accent. She's brought in movies for me to watch. Jesse refuses to join me for Joy Luck Club. Vicky loves Jesse. She calls him "Brian Pitt". We don't want to correct her.
Friday marked 27 weeks and as much as I didn't understand the women who blog about "making it", I am beginning to catch on. I've gone from completely laid back and mostly dismissive of subtle aches and pains, to a person who repeatedly tracks the development and health statistics of preterm birth.
Otherwise, I'm beginning to come down from the height of my anxiety. It's my nature to believe that bad things wont happen to me. My dreams remain positive, though they've changed. Now I dream that they're completely healthy and able to nurse, but they're premature.
Although everything in my life is centered on this pregnancy, I still have moments when I stop and feel like I'm only just finding out there are babies inside me. In only a few months at best, we'll move on to something so different that we wont have time to look back on the days we spent here.
As of now, it's really unimaginable.
Reese and Elliott are behaving so far. Reese taunts me by aiming himself right for the birth canal. Reminding me of a skydiver waiting for the hatch to open. He's quiet most of the time, only kicking enough to let us know he's still on board. Elliott rolls and pushes all day long. I imagine he's telling me jokes in morris code, and I laugh very loud so he can here me.
Yesterday the nurses let us wheel down to the NICU for an informal orientation. In the past few days we've come to accept that things might go faster than we desired. The NICU was far less scary than I had imagined. To our great fortune, a young mom happened to be visiting her twin boys. She let us roll up and talk to her for a few minutes. She couldn't have been more positive and praising of the staff and experience.
Leaving, I wondered if we had been duped.
If this sweet girl we had been speaking with was in fact an animatronic creation on loan from Disneyland.
Regardless, it had worked. I was feeling much better. I was feeling like things might get very difficult, but they wont get tragic.
We're pretty familiar with all the nurses now. An unexpected favorite is Vicky. She has a strong Taiwanese accent. She's brought in movies for me to watch. Jesse refuses to join me for Joy Luck Club. Vicky loves Jesse. She calls him "Brian Pitt". We don't want to correct her.
Friday marked 27 weeks and as much as I didn't understand the women who blog about "making it", I am beginning to catch on. I've gone from completely laid back and mostly dismissive of subtle aches and pains, to a person who repeatedly tracks the development and health statistics of preterm birth.
Otherwise, I'm beginning to come down from the height of my anxiety. It's my nature to believe that bad things wont happen to me. My dreams remain positive, though they've changed. Now I dream that they're completely healthy and able to nurse, but they're premature.
Although everything in my life is centered on this pregnancy, I still have moments when I stop and feel like I'm only just finding out there are babies inside me. In only a few months at best, we'll move on to something so different that we wont have time to look back on the days we spent here.
As of now, it's really unimaginable.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Last night they finally moved me upstairs to the post-partum unit that I've been hearing about. Jesse took four trips of his own with all my things before I was rolled up in a wheelchair. As the nurse pushed me into the elevator I was smiling ear to ear. I realized that my new home wouldn't be much different from my old one, but I hadn't set foot out of room 316 in a week. The prospect of new kinds of hospital furniture was enough to get me fantasizing.
Upon entering the fifth floor, I was excited about some things and disappointed with others. The nurses behind the nurse station were wearing polo shirts and looked very young. My room was more private, but also about a third the size of my old room. I had also gained an entire wall of window to look out, but Jesse had lost his bed.
Against one wall are two hospital bassinets. This I like very much. I'm facing them from my bed and look at them often.
Trying to imagine a baby in each one.
After Jesse had unpacked all my things, Colleen and Dave came to visit. It was very nice. Jesse and I smiled at each other in approval of our new location.
When the visit was over, Jesse made a bed on the couch and we turned out the lights. We laid in silence facing each other. I said, "I don't like this room."
He said, "Me neither."
At 4a.m., Nurse Karen came in. All the lights came on instantly, and in her most day time voice she told me that it was time to monitor the babies. She then proceeded to audibly argue with the machine she couldn't get to work. Eventually she pulled in another nurse to help her. Jesse and I communicated our murderous rage when ever we made eye contact.
In the nine days since we arrived at St. Jude, I've had a lot of nurses, and a lot of monitoring, and this woman was exceptionally incompetent. She was apparently oblivious to the fact that she had just woken up a pregnant woman who is having enough difficulty sleeping in a hospital. When she did get the monitors on, she didn't even check to see if they were catching anything before saying that she'd be back in twenty minutes and, "Would we like the lights off so we could sleep?"
I told her that she could keep the lights on.
That we weren't going back to sleep.
When she left the room, Jesse and I had to find the right place for the monitors and hold them in place. An hour later Nurse Karen came back, blaming someone else for letting her keep them on so long.
When all was done, that beautiful window next to me started glowing with morning light. It was going on 6a.m.
I managed an hour or two of sleep before waking up to breakfast. I had a nightmare that my blood pressure rose and the nurses weren't letting me have visitors. I dreamed that my belly was very big and my belly button kept distending like a hernia.
Today we have Nurse Nancy. When she went to give me a thermometer, Jesse almost attacked her. I had to do some damage control before she left. When she was gone I asked Jesse, "What was that all about?"
He explained that he just didn't like them interrupting my breakfast. That the nurses down stairs never interrupted my breakfast.
I understood where he was coming from, but asked that he let me do the talking in the future.
I ate what I liked of the breakfast, and Jesse had the rest.
I turned on my side facing the window. I saw a cloud that looked like a baby. I watched it turn into Snoopy and then disappear all together.
Jesse asked me if I wanted a coffee. I turned to my side facing the wall and said no. He asked if I'd like him to close the blinds, and I said no. He sat quietly for a moment, and I told him he should get out and run some errands. He obliged.
At 10:45a.m. I called the nurse to tell her that my medication was due at 10a.m. She said she'd look into it.
Okay, why don't you look into it.
The moral of the story isn't that this place sucks.
It's far from sucking.
If this sort of thing had happened in the first three nights, we wouldn't have given it any thought.
So I guess the moral of the story, is that you never want to stay in a hospital so long that you know when people are screwing up.
Because it will piss you off far more than it probably should.
And last long past your 12 o'clock jello parfait.
Upon entering the fifth floor, I was excited about some things and disappointed with others. The nurses behind the nurse station were wearing polo shirts and looked very young. My room was more private, but also about a third the size of my old room. I had also gained an entire wall of window to look out, but Jesse had lost his bed.
Against one wall are two hospital bassinets. This I like very much. I'm facing them from my bed and look at them often.
Trying to imagine a baby in each one.
After Jesse had unpacked all my things, Colleen and Dave came to visit. It was very nice. Jesse and I smiled at each other in approval of our new location.
When the visit was over, Jesse made a bed on the couch and we turned out the lights. We laid in silence facing each other. I said, "I don't like this room."
He said, "Me neither."
At 4a.m., Nurse Karen came in. All the lights came on instantly, and in her most day time voice she told me that it was time to monitor the babies. She then proceeded to audibly argue with the machine she couldn't get to work. Eventually she pulled in another nurse to help her. Jesse and I communicated our murderous rage when ever we made eye contact.
In the nine days since we arrived at St. Jude, I've had a lot of nurses, and a lot of monitoring, and this woman was exceptionally incompetent. She was apparently oblivious to the fact that she had just woken up a pregnant woman who is having enough difficulty sleeping in a hospital. When she did get the monitors on, she didn't even check to see if they were catching anything before saying that she'd be back in twenty minutes and, "Would we like the lights off so we could sleep?"
I told her that she could keep the lights on.
That we weren't going back to sleep.
When she left the room, Jesse and I had to find the right place for the monitors and hold them in place. An hour later Nurse Karen came back, blaming someone else for letting her keep them on so long.
When all was done, that beautiful window next to me started glowing with morning light. It was going on 6a.m.
I managed an hour or two of sleep before waking up to breakfast. I had a nightmare that my blood pressure rose and the nurses weren't letting me have visitors. I dreamed that my belly was very big and my belly button kept distending like a hernia.
Today we have Nurse Nancy. When she went to give me a thermometer, Jesse almost attacked her. I had to do some damage control before she left. When she was gone I asked Jesse, "What was that all about?"
He explained that he just didn't like them interrupting my breakfast. That the nurses down stairs never interrupted my breakfast.
I understood where he was coming from, but asked that he let me do the talking in the future.
I ate what I liked of the breakfast, and Jesse had the rest.
I turned on my side facing the window. I saw a cloud that looked like a baby. I watched it turn into Snoopy and then disappear all together.
Jesse asked me if I wanted a coffee. I turned to my side facing the wall and said no. He asked if I'd like him to close the blinds, and I said no. He sat quietly for a moment, and I told him he should get out and run some errands. He obliged.
At 10:45a.m. I called the nurse to tell her that my medication was due at 10a.m. She said she'd look into it.
Okay, why don't you look into it.
The moral of the story isn't that this place sucks.
It's far from sucking.
If this sort of thing had happened in the first three nights, we wouldn't have given it any thought.
So I guess the moral of the story, is that you never want to stay in a hospital so long that you know when people are screwing up.
Because it will piss you off far more than it probably should.
And last long past your 12 o'clock jello parfait.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
I asked Josh for pictures of Lola. Well, it was more like a demand than request. He's obliged, and I don't think he knows how much her face does for me.
My recent favorite is attached here.
Lola discovered the art of hair product by means of peanut butter. Her aunt Louanne would be so proud.
Lunch is done. Knitting is done. The health care summit go's on long past schedule.
At around 12p.m. a couple was moved into the bed next to us. We never saw them from behind our dividing curtain, but could pick up on some of the conversation. She believes she's having a boy. Her husband's name is also Jesse...
Now that it's going on 2p.m., they've moved out for a cesarean.
I miss them.
Another doctor drops by to ask us how we're doing. He tells me that I look pretty stable. He says that as soon as they can do an ultrasound they'll be ready to move us up to a more long term room. I guess the new concern is that one of the babies is a bit smaller than the other, even though both are well within healthy weight range for their age. I'm neither concerned about this, nor am I surprised that they've found something new to cause delay. I'm in a hospital. Hospitals are for sick people, and so they are bound to find a way to qualify my being here.
Nancy Pelosi looks exceptionally human-like today.
My recent favorite is attached here.
Lola discovered the art of hair product by means of peanut butter. Her aunt Louanne would be so proud.
Lunch is done. Knitting is done. The health care summit go's on long past schedule.
At around 12p.m. a couple was moved into the bed next to us. We never saw them from behind our dividing curtain, but could pick up on some of the conversation. She believes she's having a boy. Her husband's name is also Jesse...
Now that it's going on 2p.m., they've moved out for a cesarean.
I miss them.
Another doctor drops by to ask us how we're doing. He tells me that I look pretty stable. He says that as soon as they can do an ultrasound they'll be ready to move us up to a more long term room. I guess the new concern is that one of the babies is a bit smaller than the other, even though both are well within healthy weight range for their age. I'm neither concerned about this, nor am I surprised that they've found something new to cause delay. I'm in a hospital. Hospitals are for sick people, and so they are bound to find a way to qualify my being here.
Nancy Pelosi looks exceptionally human-like today.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
24 1/2 weeks
I guess this is day 3, though it's still dark outside. I managed about two hours sleep before waking to the monitor beeping. It does that when the paper runs out.
I feel a bit like static. There's no use in getting upset, but happiness isn't quite the emotion either. Being admitted to the hospital has turned the natural progression of pregnancy into something more like a long business trip. One in which I'll count the days and look forward to meeting my quota. This is hardly something to complain about given the circumstance, but here I am. Unable to sleep. And that really wouldn't bother me if not for the worry I feel that this lack of sleep means to some extent that the babies aren't getting what they need either.
My doctor stopped by around 8p.m. last night to tell Jesse and I everything we'd heard previously through our nurses. He ended the conversation by saying that many women on bedrest experience problems with sleeping and that if I'd like he could prescribe Ambien.
I hadn't mentioned that I was having a hard time sleeping.
We thanked him for the offer but said we'd see how things went in the next few days. In the same manner that one might politely turn down an invitation to the bathroom for a line of coke.
When the doctor left the room I immediately asked Jesse to search "Ambien during pregnancy" on the internet. He said, "There's no way you should take that!" I said, "Of course I know that. I want to see just how Hollywood our doctor is."
The results were about what we expected. Ambien's effects have not been studied in pregnant women. Ambien has been found in umbilical cords, which means that it crosses into the placenta. Babies born with Ambien in their system can experience withdraw symptoms.
But it wouldn't take these warnings for most people to understand it's a bad idea. Just having witnessed people who stay up a little too long after popping an Ambien, is reason enough to surmise that you don't want it anywhere near a developing fetus.
And it's kind of appalling that someone might suggest it to a person who is at high risk of delivering highly vulnerable, premature babies. Point being, we're not huge fans of our doctor, but we keep educated, and so we feel pretty in control.
Jesse sleeps in the bed six feet next to me. Last night he tried cuddling with me in my own bed. It was great therapy, but I guess it was irritating my uterus. Within a few minutes the nurse was in to nicely tell us that Jesse needed to vacate. He got out and we watched my belly on the monitor. Sure enough, the line went from hilly to practically smooth. We gave each other puppy eyes as we acknowledged that Jesse was in fact braking the peace in my uterus. Jesse shuffled along to his bed and passed out shortly after.
He's said that he's sleeping remarkably well here. I feel so lucky that we get to be here at St. Jude. The staff is warm and welcoming with the both of us, and dads are encouraged to be as involved as possible. They purposely chose a room that would have a spare bed for him. The building we're in is only a year old. I'm most impressed with the flat screen t.v.s and the nourishment room outside, where Jesse can charm sodas and snacks from the staff.
We'll most likely move up to the antepartum ward tomorrow afternoon. I believe there will be fewer nurse visits and monitoring. Most importantly we can get to moving in. Some people go as far as hanging posters. I'm opting for a few choice pictures of my niece Lola, my baby icon.
A few entertaining thoughts I had today:
1. I gave up sitting and walking for lent.
2. Between me and my cervix, Jesse has become the Jane of our Brady Bunch. My cervix being Marsha, and I guess that makes me the cute one.
3. Always keep the lady with the speculum happy.
Information for the day:
1. We're all incredibly healthy.
2. We're mostly bored; not scared.
3. Tests say that these babies have a 98% chance of not delivering in the next two weeks. That doesn't surprise me. I think we'll go much longer than that. Not only because I feel that way, but because I've done a lot of my own research on women in my same position.
4. Hospital food isn't all that bad when you have incredibly simple tastes, and I swing both ways in that respect.
I feel a bit like static. There's no use in getting upset, but happiness isn't quite the emotion either. Being admitted to the hospital has turned the natural progression of pregnancy into something more like a long business trip. One in which I'll count the days and look forward to meeting my quota. This is hardly something to complain about given the circumstance, but here I am. Unable to sleep. And that really wouldn't bother me if not for the worry I feel that this lack of sleep means to some extent that the babies aren't getting what they need either.
My doctor stopped by around 8p.m. last night to tell Jesse and I everything we'd heard previously through our nurses. He ended the conversation by saying that many women on bedrest experience problems with sleeping and that if I'd like he could prescribe Ambien.
I hadn't mentioned that I was having a hard time sleeping.
We thanked him for the offer but said we'd see how things went in the next few days. In the same manner that one might politely turn down an invitation to the bathroom for a line of coke.
When the doctor left the room I immediately asked Jesse to search "Ambien during pregnancy" on the internet. He said, "There's no way you should take that!" I said, "Of course I know that. I want to see just how Hollywood our doctor is."
The results were about what we expected. Ambien's effects have not been studied in pregnant women. Ambien has been found in umbilical cords, which means that it crosses into the placenta. Babies born with Ambien in their system can experience withdraw symptoms.
But it wouldn't take these warnings for most people to understand it's a bad idea. Just having witnessed people who stay up a little too long after popping an Ambien, is reason enough to surmise that you don't want it anywhere near a developing fetus.
And it's kind of appalling that someone might suggest it to a person who is at high risk of delivering highly vulnerable, premature babies. Point being, we're not huge fans of our doctor, but we keep educated, and so we feel pretty in control.
Jesse sleeps in the bed six feet next to me. Last night he tried cuddling with me in my own bed. It was great therapy, but I guess it was irritating my uterus. Within a few minutes the nurse was in to nicely tell us that Jesse needed to vacate. He got out and we watched my belly on the monitor. Sure enough, the line went from hilly to practically smooth. We gave each other puppy eyes as we acknowledged that Jesse was in fact braking the peace in my uterus. Jesse shuffled along to his bed and passed out shortly after.
He's said that he's sleeping remarkably well here. I feel so lucky that we get to be here at St. Jude. The staff is warm and welcoming with the both of us, and dads are encouraged to be as involved as possible. They purposely chose a room that would have a spare bed for him. The building we're in is only a year old. I'm most impressed with the flat screen t.v.s and the nourishment room outside, where Jesse can charm sodas and snacks from the staff.
We'll most likely move up to the antepartum ward tomorrow afternoon. I believe there will be fewer nurse visits and monitoring. Most importantly we can get to moving in. Some people go as far as hanging posters. I'm opting for a few choice pictures of my niece Lola, my baby icon.
A few entertaining thoughts I had today:
1. I gave up sitting and walking for lent.
2. Between me and my cervix, Jesse has become the Jane of our Brady Bunch. My cervix being Marsha, and I guess that makes me the cute one.
3. Always keep the lady with the speculum happy.
Information for the day:
1. We're all incredibly healthy.
2. We're mostly bored; not scared.
3. Tests say that these babies have a 98% chance of not delivering in the next two weeks. That doesn't surprise me. I think we'll go much longer than that. Not only because I feel that way, but because I've done a lot of my own research on women in my same position.
4. Hospital food isn't all that bad when you have incredibly simple tastes, and I swing both ways in that respect.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
My lovely lady bump.
In the morning I give myself as much time as I need to find the right outfit. Sometimes that means a pair of yoga pants and a tank top that no longer covers my belly button. Other days, like this one, it means a short and shiny gold dress over leggings.
My inspiration: Courtney Kardashian of the reality show Keeping Up With the Kardashians.
Her style says, Armenian pregnant club girl. I guess that's what I found appropriate when preparing for my sister and mom's visit today. Granted, I'll be laying on the couch with a blanket up to my waist, but a gold dress should never stay in the closet for more than a couple weeks.
More importantly, my body is outgrowing my wardrobe options exponentially. In just a few more weeks I may be forced to wander the house in a pea coat.
Today marks day 13 of my bed rest. It's given me a lot of time to Google absolutely whatever comes to mind, such as:
24 weeks pregnant
bed rest 24 weeks
24 weeks twins
bed rest fitness
bed rest survival
Admittedly, "whatever comes to mind" is pretty much the same thought re-worded.
And of course, there are the belly pictures.
I can't get enough of them.
I'm at least daily looking for new pictures of women pregnant with twins. I recently realized that when I pass a mirror, I'm checking out my belly instead of my face. As obsessed as I am, I have a hard time taking pictures of my own. Maybe my internet searches are at fault for my modesty.
I've seen too many supposedly sweet pictures of pregnant women posed in the nude, in sexy Santa Claus costumes, or laying on their side in black lacy underwear. Apparently, Demi Moore's classic Vanity Fair cover made every woman in America believe it was acceptable to pose with their belly as though it were a prop.
A sexy prop.
And while I believe pregnant women are more than entitled to be sexual, I think it's insulting to say that you're documenting your pregnancy when you take that glamor shot, naked with airbrushed angel wings.
Hmm. I'm hungry again.
My inspiration: Courtney Kardashian of the reality show Keeping Up With the Kardashians.
Her style says, Armenian pregnant club girl. I guess that's what I found appropriate when preparing for my sister and mom's visit today. Granted, I'll be laying on the couch with a blanket up to my waist, but a gold dress should never stay in the closet for more than a couple weeks.
More importantly, my body is outgrowing my wardrobe options exponentially. In just a few more weeks I may be forced to wander the house in a pea coat.
Today marks day 13 of my bed rest. It's given me a lot of time to Google absolutely whatever comes to mind, such as:
24 weeks pregnant
bed rest 24 weeks
24 weeks twins
bed rest fitness
bed rest survival
Admittedly, "whatever comes to mind" is pretty much the same thought re-worded.
And of course, there are the belly pictures.
I can't get enough of them.
I'm at least daily looking for new pictures of women pregnant with twins. I recently realized that when I pass a mirror, I'm checking out my belly instead of my face. As obsessed as I am, I have a hard time taking pictures of my own. Maybe my internet searches are at fault for my modesty.
I've seen too many supposedly sweet pictures of pregnant women posed in the nude, in sexy Santa Claus costumes, or laying on their side in black lacy underwear. Apparently, Demi Moore's classic Vanity Fair cover made every woman in America believe it was acceptable to pose with their belly as though it were a prop.
A sexy prop.
And while I believe pregnant women are more than entitled to be sexual, I think it's insulting to say that you're documenting your pregnancy when you take that glamor shot, naked with airbrushed angel wings.
Hmm. I'm hungry again.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Valentines Couch
Today is Valentine's Day and I love Jesse.
When I woke up this morning he wasn't in bed.
This would normally leave me feeling bereft of my cuddle time.
But not today.
I understood something important was happening.
I could smell bacon in the air.
Out of bed, I passed my pile of stretchy pants and went for the closet.
A place I haven't visited in some time.
Trailing my fingers along the sleeves, I stopped at pink.
A pink dress for Valentine's Day.
Putting it on wasn't as easy as it used to be. I'm pretty sure another week and it wouldn't have been possible.
Around my neck I clasped a heart pendant necklace, and a fuchsia scarf.
From the top of the stairs I said, "Hey Jesse, watcha doin' down there?"
And he replied, "Happy Valentine's Day! I've made you breakfast in bed. Do you want it in bed or down here on the couch."
I opted for the couch. It turns out, breakfast in bed loses a little of its charm when you're also regularly eating lunch and dinner there too.
Downstairs I went straight for the couch and knitted patiently while he finished.
After a few minutes he entered with a grand assortment.
Pancakes smothered in syrup.
Toast topped with egg, avocado, cilantro, and tomato.
Hash browns and black berries and blue berries.
And for some reason I was most impressed that it came with both a short glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee.
This all rested on my new hospital tray, which perhaps, was the best part of it all.
Last night I was eating dinner and remarked that I needed a hospital tray. Jesse jumped up and said, "You do?"
In five seconds he was back from the garage with my early Valentines gift.
I cried.
There's nothing more romantic than someone thinking of your needs before you do.
Today's breakfast was the sweetest Valentine's gift I've ever had, and I also appreciate that feeding me was the best Valentine's gift he could give our baby boys as well.
A few hours later we settle into our routine.
I write this as big band music plays and Jesse cleans up in the kitchen.
My pink dress wrinkling beneath me, but I am determined to wear it through the sunny portion of the day.
I've never given a lot of attention to this holiday, but I think I especially have use for it this year because there's a whole lot of love going around.
Love for this man in my life, for these babies we're growing, for all the new wonderful people that have come into my life through Jesse, and for all my friends and family who are incredibly sweet and supportive with me.
The hormones don't hurt either.
xoxoxo
Happy Valentines Day.
When I woke up this morning he wasn't in bed.
This would normally leave me feeling bereft of my cuddle time.
But not today.
I understood something important was happening.
I could smell bacon in the air.
Out of bed, I passed my pile of stretchy pants and went for the closet.
A place I haven't visited in some time.
Trailing my fingers along the sleeves, I stopped at pink.
A pink dress for Valentine's Day.
Putting it on wasn't as easy as it used to be. I'm pretty sure another week and it wouldn't have been possible.
Around my neck I clasped a heart pendant necklace, and a fuchsia scarf.
From the top of the stairs I said, "Hey Jesse, watcha doin' down there?"
And he replied, "Happy Valentine's Day! I've made you breakfast in bed. Do you want it in bed or down here on the couch."
I opted for the couch. It turns out, breakfast in bed loses a little of its charm when you're also regularly eating lunch and dinner there too.
Downstairs I went straight for the couch and knitted patiently while he finished.
After a few minutes he entered with a grand assortment.
Pancakes smothered in syrup.
Toast topped with egg, avocado, cilantro, and tomato.
Hash browns and black berries and blue berries.
And for some reason I was most impressed that it came with both a short glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee.
This all rested on my new hospital tray, which perhaps, was the best part of it all.
Last night I was eating dinner and remarked that I needed a hospital tray. Jesse jumped up and said, "You do?"
In five seconds he was back from the garage with my early Valentines gift.
I cried.
There's nothing more romantic than someone thinking of your needs before you do.
Today's breakfast was the sweetest Valentine's gift I've ever had, and I also appreciate that feeding me was the best Valentine's gift he could give our baby boys as well.
A few hours later we settle into our routine.
I write this as big band music plays and Jesse cleans up in the kitchen.
My pink dress wrinkling beneath me, but I am determined to wear it through the sunny portion of the day.
I've never given a lot of attention to this holiday, but I think I especially have use for it this year because there's a whole lot of love going around.
Love for this man in my life, for these babies we're growing, for all the new wonderful people that have come into my life through Jesse, and for all my friends and family who are incredibly sweet and supportive with me.
The hormones don't hurt either.
xoxoxo
Happy Valentines Day.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
What I've learned whilst trapped on the couch.
1. My brother also cried while watching the Olympics commercial narrated by Morgan Freeman.
2. Out of sight, out of mind. Such as the kitchen, laundry, and my car which is still sitting in the Long Beach airport's remote parking.
3. When watching HOUSE, you may rely on the fact that
a. It's cushings.
b. It's also edema.
c. It's environmental.
d. The cure will only be found when the patient reveals they've been having
an affair.
4. If you lay on one side long enough, you will get a head ache on that side of your head. For some reason this doesn't apply to sleeping. Maybe I have cushings.
5. Always have a banana within arm's reach.
I'm sure there's more to come. I'll keep you posted.
xo- The girl on the couch.
2. Out of sight, out of mind. Such as the kitchen, laundry, and my car which is still sitting in the Long Beach airport's remote parking.
3. When watching HOUSE, you may rely on the fact that
a. It's cushings.
b. It's also edema.
c. It's environmental.
d. The cure will only be found when the patient reveals they've been having
an affair.
4. If you lay on one side long enough, you will get a head ache on that side of your head. For some reason this doesn't apply to sleeping. Maybe I have cushings.
5. Always have a banana within arm's reach.
I'm sure there's more to come. I'll keep you posted.
xo- The girl on the couch.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Today I begin my first day of "bed rest". Jesse and I were told the news yesterday when we went in for a routine ultrasound. I'm healthy and babies are healthy, but gravity is working a little too quickly. They want me off my feet.
I thought bed rest might be in my future the moment I found out I was having twins, but I didn't expect it to be this soon, and with so little warning.
I expected that by the time I got put on bed rest, I'd feel like laying down. I imagined saran wrap around my belly and a hand rail to help me sit up.
When we got home I reclined on the couch while Jesse made me grilled cheese.
I felt like a fake.
Like a kid trying to get out of school.
Lounging, feeling totally fine, while asking Jesse to get me a refill on my water.
Until hour two came around.
At which point I actually did start to feel achey and painey.
My back started getting wonky and every time I sat up I'd let out a little groan. I suppose I'd been told I was fragile, and my brain was responding accordingly.
By hour four, the novelty was over.
I'd crane my head around just to look at Jesse, like a muzzled puppy. Not really saying "help", just saying "hrumph".
When bed time came around I went up, and turned off the light without ceremony; completely without use for my customary unwinding ritual of reading or television.
Today it drizzles. I kick back on the couch enveloped in my pregnant things. My prenatal vitamins, and calenders, and lists of questions to ask my benefits coordinator.
I wonder if this inactivity will turn me in to Jaba the Hut by the time it's over. I wonder if it would really hurt to do the dishes for ten minutes or take a walk. Most of all, I wonder if I'd even want to do those things had I not been mandated to abstain from them.
On the bright side, I think I'll have Jesse's scarf finished for Valentine's Day, and I can start back up with my Rosetta Stone Italian program.
On the even brighter side, I thought I heard a baby call to me from upstairs while I was on the couch last night.
In three to four months that will be real.
And I wont be bothered with finding meaningless distractions for a long, long time.
I thought bed rest might be in my future the moment I found out I was having twins, but I didn't expect it to be this soon, and with so little warning.
I expected that by the time I got put on bed rest, I'd feel like laying down. I imagined saran wrap around my belly and a hand rail to help me sit up.
When we got home I reclined on the couch while Jesse made me grilled cheese.
I felt like a fake.
Like a kid trying to get out of school.
Lounging, feeling totally fine, while asking Jesse to get me a refill on my water.
Until hour two came around.
At which point I actually did start to feel achey and painey.
My back started getting wonky and every time I sat up I'd let out a little groan. I suppose I'd been told I was fragile, and my brain was responding accordingly.
By hour four, the novelty was over.
I'd crane my head around just to look at Jesse, like a muzzled puppy. Not really saying "help", just saying "hrumph".
When bed time came around I went up, and turned off the light without ceremony; completely without use for my customary unwinding ritual of reading or television.
Today it drizzles. I kick back on the couch enveloped in my pregnant things. My prenatal vitamins, and calenders, and lists of questions to ask my benefits coordinator.
I wonder if this inactivity will turn me in to Jaba the Hut by the time it's over. I wonder if it would really hurt to do the dishes for ten minutes or take a walk. Most of all, I wonder if I'd even want to do those things had I not been mandated to abstain from them.
On the bright side, I think I'll have Jesse's scarf finished for Valentine's Day, and I can start back up with my Rosetta Stone Italian program.
On the even brighter side, I thought I heard a baby call to me from upstairs while I was on the couch last night.
In three to four months that will be real.
And I wont be bothered with finding meaningless distractions for a long, long time.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Last night I dreamed that my body was an oven. The babies were growing in my broiler. I slid them out to check on their progress, and found that they didn't have any amniotic fluid. From there I can only remember that I scrambled to do something for them, but was not really satisfied with the results.
Like so many of my baking projects.
On any given morning I can recall at least four dreams. This is partly due to being pregnant, partly because I'm waking up all night, and partly because I've always been good at remembering my dreams.
Last night I dreamed that I was in the flight deck talking with the captain. The plane began to plummet rapidly. I told the pilot to do something, but he said everything was fine. At the last minute he pulled up and we narrowly averted a hillside. Once we landed I refused to work the next leg of our trip.
I pretended to be asleep when they came to get me and it worked.
They couldn't bare to disturb me when I looked so content.
Then I dreamed of water.
I dream about water in all sorts of scenarios, pretty often.
In this one I sat on a tiny shore as huge waves broke at my feet. What's interesting to me about this one, is that I seemed to be the only one afraid. Many people rode the waves by any means possible. With little pool floaties and body boards.
I've read many things about water dreams. When you're pregnant, it's said that water means you're aware of your amniotic fluid, which would certainly tie in with the earlier dream I had, but I believe it means something different for me. I think it has something to do with why I hate outer space.
When I woke up for the final time, I nudged Jesse and said "Good morning," as is standard procedure. He opened one squinty eye and gave me a sincere "Good morning to you." He nodded to his shoulder, to signal that my head should go there.
I asked him if he had any dreams and he recalled some of them for me.
I could only hold out for a few minutes, before abruptly swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.
My body running downstairs for breakfast as though eating were as urgent as my next breath.
Happy Sunday.
Like so many of my baking projects.
On any given morning I can recall at least four dreams. This is partly due to being pregnant, partly because I'm waking up all night, and partly because I've always been good at remembering my dreams.
Last night I dreamed that I was in the flight deck talking with the captain. The plane began to plummet rapidly. I told the pilot to do something, but he said everything was fine. At the last minute he pulled up and we narrowly averted a hillside. Once we landed I refused to work the next leg of our trip.
I pretended to be asleep when they came to get me and it worked.
They couldn't bare to disturb me when I looked so content.
Then I dreamed of water.
I dream about water in all sorts of scenarios, pretty often.
In this one I sat on a tiny shore as huge waves broke at my feet. What's interesting to me about this one, is that I seemed to be the only one afraid. Many people rode the waves by any means possible. With little pool floaties and body boards.
I've read many things about water dreams. When you're pregnant, it's said that water means you're aware of your amniotic fluid, which would certainly tie in with the earlier dream I had, but I believe it means something different for me. I think it has something to do with why I hate outer space.
When I woke up for the final time, I nudged Jesse and said "Good morning," as is standard procedure. He opened one squinty eye and gave me a sincere "Good morning to you." He nodded to his shoulder, to signal that my head should go there.
I asked him if he had any dreams and he recalled some of them for me.
I could only hold out for a few minutes, before abruptly swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.
My body running downstairs for breakfast as though eating were as urgent as my next breath.
Happy Sunday.
Friday, January 15, 2010
I'm sitting at the kitchen table with a half caffeinated coffee. My laptop in front of me. Bills, hard candy, and left over Christmas cookies spread out on the table top.
A few days ago, we found out that we were having boys, just as we had wanted.
Later that evening Jesse reminded me to write about it. He said,
"I can't wait to see how you'll memorialize it."
I'm in charge of keeping our memories.
But it's been a few days and I've had a hard time letting my mind wander, the way it needs to when I write.
I've been too busy thinking about all the big adult things we'll need to do, like insurance plans, a possible move, taking leave from work, decorating the baby room, etc.
Jesse has been my sounding board for all of it, whether I'm babbling audibly, or emitting it through silent consternation.
I really haven't been alone until today.
He'll be gone through the afternoon at a convention.
I'm thinking this is the right time.
So I stare at my cup of coffee and try to see the forest through the trees...
When I woke up this morning, I noted that it was just me and my belly.
I rolled onto my back so that all my other organs kind of sink down. This way my uterus is perfectly defined.
I laid there for a little while and traced its parameters with my hands. As though I were shaping clay.
Hi.
Hi Baby A.
Hi Baby B.
When you're little, I'll let you use my arms like super highways for your toy cars.
I'll dress you up in overalls and we'll take walks.
You'll ask me lots of questions, and I'll get the honor of being the first to tell you that,
"That's a hummingbird."
and
"That's an apple."
Jesse's scared of the awkward years, but I can't wait.
For the bad hair cuts and faltering steps toward adulthood.
For the moment they make me laugh because they told a really funny joke.
I realize I'm a little drunk off the hormones right now, but I trust my adoration will stick.
When the ultrasound technician casually told us we were having two baby boys, Jesse let out a little "Woop!" and my eyes flooded with tears. He squeezed my hand and we looked at each other as though we had accomplished something. Nodding our heads and smiling.
Clutching the pictures she let us take home, I put my sunglasses on as we took the elevator down. My nose running and my eyes red.
On the way home, we stopped for lunch and made some phone calls. You can never anticipate just how you'll react to big news. In this case, we were a lot more quiet than I had imagined we'd be. We'd been given the go on the rest of our lives.
Answers beget questions.
It's taken me this long to say as much, because of just that.
The unknown is big. And so we crave the facts.
I don't know how many times I've told people that "each baby is 8 ounces."
That I'll be "19 weeks on Friday."
It's as much as I can say so far.
And so I say it, over and over.
I think that lasts a life time.
You recite what little you know.
Like fighting an empire with a toothpick.
Boys.
I'm having two boys.
A few days ago, we found out that we were having boys, just as we had wanted.
Later that evening Jesse reminded me to write about it. He said,
"I can't wait to see how you'll memorialize it."
I'm in charge of keeping our memories.
But it's been a few days and I've had a hard time letting my mind wander, the way it needs to when I write.
I've been too busy thinking about all the big adult things we'll need to do, like insurance plans, a possible move, taking leave from work, decorating the baby room, etc.
Jesse has been my sounding board for all of it, whether I'm babbling audibly, or emitting it through silent consternation.
I really haven't been alone until today.
He'll be gone through the afternoon at a convention.
I'm thinking this is the right time.
So I stare at my cup of coffee and try to see the forest through the trees...
When I woke up this morning, I noted that it was just me and my belly.
I rolled onto my back so that all my other organs kind of sink down. This way my uterus is perfectly defined.
I laid there for a little while and traced its parameters with my hands. As though I were shaping clay.
Hi.
Hi Baby A.
Hi Baby B.
When you're little, I'll let you use my arms like super highways for your toy cars.
I'll dress you up in overalls and we'll take walks.
You'll ask me lots of questions, and I'll get the honor of being the first to tell you that,
"That's a hummingbird."
and
"That's an apple."
Jesse's scared of the awkward years, but I can't wait.
For the bad hair cuts and faltering steps toward adulthood.
For the moment they make me laugh because they told a really funny joke.
I realize I'm a little drunk off the hormones right now, but I trust my adoration will stick.
When the ultrasound technician casually told us we were having two baby boys, Jesse let out a little "Woop!" and my eyes flooded with tears. He squeezed my hand and we looked at each other as though we had accomplished something. Nodding our heads and smiling.
Clutching the pictures she let us take home, I put my sunglasses on as we took the elevator down. My nose running and my eyes red.
On the way home, we stopped for lunch and made some phone calls. You can never anticipate just how you'll react to big news. In this case, we were a lot more quiet than I had imagined we'd be. We'd been given the go on the rest of our lives.
Answers beget questions.
It's taken me this long to say as much, because of just that.
The unknown is big. And so we crave the facts.
I don't know how many times I've told people that "each baby is 8 ounces."
That I'll be "19 weeks on Friday."
It's as much as I can say so far.
And so I say it, over and over.
I think that lasts a life time.
You recite what little you know.
Like fighting an empire with a toothpick.
Boys.
I'm having two boys.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
A lady asked me how "far along I am" while shopping at the grocery store tonight. Being the first time I've been asked this by a stranger, it caught me off guard. I could feel all the blood in my body go to my face and I nearly panicked.
For no reason at all.
It's not that I think it's an inappropriate question. It's actually really sweet that we can all come together as a community and adore pregnant women. But I'm not quite use to the phenomenon yet.
It still feels like the friendly woman putting spinach in her cart had just asked me what size bra I wear.
Of course, I didn't run down the cereal aisle, and we had a nice little conversation. Now that I'm home, I realize I'm still smiling over the incident.
I wish I could go back in time and say, "Hey, thanks! You're the first to ask!"
Because it seems like a right of passage in a way.
For no reason at all.
It's not that I think it's an inappropriate question. It's actually really sweet that we can all come together as a community and adore pregnant women. But I'm not quite use to the phenomenon yet.
It still feels like the friendly woman putting spinach in her cart had just asked me what size bra I wear.
Of course, I didn't run down the cereal aisle, and we had a nice little conversation. Now that I'm home, I realize I'm still smiling over the incident.
I wish I could go back in time and say, "Hey, thanks! You're the first to ask!"
Because it seems like a right of passage in a way.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
As I write this; Jesse is making me scrambled eggs, half caffeinated coffee, and toast. Roy Orbison is singing Candy Man in the living room. My job is to flip the record in a timely manner and comment on how good the kitchen is beginning to smell.
It's sinfully beautiful outside for the second day of January. We plan to take a walk to the library after breakfast. Maybe later we'll catch a movie with the theater tickets we got for Christmas.
Jesse sings along to Sweet Dreams Baby while cracking eggs.
I remember him once telling me that he had fantasized about one day singing his kids to sleep.
I think that's going to work out.
It's sinfully beautiful outside for the second day of January. We plan to take a walk to the library after breakfast. Maybe later we'll catch a movie with the theater tickets we got for Christmas.
Jesse sings along to Sweet Dreams Baby while cracking eggs.
I remember him once telling me that he had fantasized about one day singing his kids to sleep.
I think that's going to work out.
Friday, January 1, 2010
I took a picture of Jesse wearing my maternity pants this morning. As I feared, he said that they were incredibly comfortable. They didn't look too bad either. A split second before posting the picture I decided it might be a good idea to get the okay from him. As it turned out, he didn't care how cute he looked. He didn't want that picture seen by the public. I then asked him why he let me take the picture in the first place. He said that if that's the way I saw it, we'd be facing open season.
So, no picture. I'm sorry.
It would have had a great caption too, like, "Manternity Pants" or something better.
I told him about the caption idea too, but he wouldn't be swayed.
Well, I've been up for all of four hours. Time for a drift into nap time whilst watching the New Years Day Twilight Zone marathon.
So, no picture. I'm sorry.
It would have had a great caption too, like, "Manternity Pants" or something better.
I told him about the caption idea too, but he wouldn't be swayed.
Well, I've been up for all of four hours. Time for a drift into nap time whilst watching the New Years Day Twilight Zone marathon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)