Oy.

I think I am the largest pregnant woman who ever lived.

I feel like at any moment a camera crew from the Discovery Channel will knock at the door, asking to feature me in a story about The Largest Pregnant Woman Who Ever Lived. 

Which will air between Medical Freaks Of Nature and Surgical Tools That Got Left Behind.

Today = 35 weeks and 4 days.

I went to get the car seats installed, and the only way they fit in the car was one behind the driver and one behind the passenger. Which isn’t a terrible thing, except that the seats have to be pushed up really far and 1) now I can barely fit behind the wheel; 2) God knows what BeBop will do when he’s driving and 3) anyone wishing to sit in the back to watch the babies will have to cram themselves into the middle seat.

And I have a small BMW SUV, not a frickin’ Pinto, so I was somewhat shocked at the logistics of the whole thing.  But at least they were installed by a trained, certified car seat installer expert type person, courtesy of our local California Highway Patrol officers.

And…can I just say…CHP officers are HOTT.  Good Lord.  I walked waddled in and practically fell over, the first officer was like a cuter version of Taye Diggs in a sexy little uniform.  Then a guy strolled in, after disembarking from his motorcycle (thus the tight little pants) looking like a Polo model.  And the guy who installed my seats (and no, sadly, I don’t mean that in a euphemistic, ‘he installed my seats cha cha cha’ kinda way) was tan with blond hair like a Baywatch refugee. 

I was all, like, tee hee, do you guys have an Officer of the Month Calendar or anything? 

Okay, I didn’t really ask that.

The officer didn’t even flinch when he saw the blue stuffed teddy bear buckled into one of the seats, like that was the most normal thing ever.

And why, pray tell, would I have a stuffed animal shoved into one of the car seats?

Because our baby care class instructor told us to, that’s why.

And, according to BeBop, I have an ‘unnatural and very disturbing level of respect for authority figures,’ like our teacher, so when she suggested we practice with a toy I did as told.

I know.  I’m insane.

There was a slight meltdown Chez Watson the other day…we were finishing the babies’ room (and I swear I’ll post some pix soon) and I suddenly freaked out.  Like FREAKED OUT freaked out. I was looking at all these little things, these little square pieces of cloth with little animal heads attached to one corner thinking, what in God’s name is THIS?

I thought my sister had told me they were for the stroller to comfort the kids or something, but I swear I had no idea what to do with them.  And so I started crying

"What’s wrong?" BeBop asked.

"HOW am I going to be a good mother when I don’t know anything about ANYTHING?" I sobbed.

"You’ll be great," he said.  "Really.  You’ll be a great mom, honey, there’s nothing you can’t figure out…"

"JUST BECAUSE I FIGURED OUT HOW TO SET UP THE TIVO DOESN’T MEAN I’LL BE A GOOD MOM!!" I yelled back.

I was just having a moment.

But thankfully, this week is Multiples Week on TLC so I’m spending hours upon hours watching A Baby Story and Bringing Home Baby, so at least I got that goin’ for me.

 

Holy Cervix Check, Batman!  YOWZA.  Why was I not warned of this?

But first things first:  I am good, the babies are good.  I am still pregnant.  35 weeks this Sunday and since my dr. doesn’t want me to go beyond 38 weeks, it’s close, people. 

CLOSE.

And getting closer every day.

Not that I’m starting to freak out or anything..what, me?  Freak out?!?  HAHAHHAHAHAHAHA (insert disturbing, maniacal laugh here that troubles you greatly…)

Now I was going to write a whole post about gratitude.  About how despite my complaining, I’m really and truly unimaginably grateful for how well this pregnancy has gone. And is still going.

But then I thought:  Holy Christ! A post like THAT takes some serious brain power and I just don’t have it in me right now.

And besides, why write something thoughtful — nay, even meaningful — when I can continue talking about my pubic hair?!?

Thanks to the pink Conair lady shaver I bought, my privates are doing much better. It was just in time, too. 

It was like Summer Camp at Crotch Lake up in there, you know?  Shove some Popsicle sticks up there and make some God’s Eyes, kids!  There’s plenty of hair for a dozen or so lanyards, so get to it!

Now, keep in mind that I can’t really contort my body to get a good angle for hair removal, nor can I see what’s happening around those parts. And, the whole new shape of the area (like clothes hanging on a line in your backyard, IsweartoGAWD!) made the shaving rather risky.  I could not ask BeBop to help out.  Unless he awoke one morning with near blindness, I just couldn’t subject him to the horror.  But, I did make sure he was home at the time because I had this fear the electric razor would get caught in the thicket and I’d be stuck…how embarrassing if the Fed Ex guy came by with my next Babies ‘R Us delivery and there I was, limping around the house with a pick electric razor tangled up in the lady jungle?!?

Okay, enough about the womanly bits.  For now.

My last day of work is today, which?  HURRAY!  Working until almost 35 weeks was perhaps not the brightest idea ever, but luckily we’re doing pretty good. I have lots of Braxton Hicks where my giant belly gets as hard as granite, but thanks to the delightful cervical check today, it seems everything is still long and closed and not showing any signs of going into labor anytime soon.

I do want to get everything done soon, though.  So I can try to relax and not have extra stress when The Big Day comes and I’m rushing off to the hospital.  Tops on the list is getting my toes done because once again I’m back to sloth status and I know this will be the last pedicure I get for some time.

We have a couple of things left to do in the babies’ room, and the Pack ‘N Play thing still needs to be set up in our room.  We discovered one of the car seats was defective so we need to exchange it (and by ‘we’ I mean BeBop since errand-running is just beyond me these days).  And I need to pack  my bag and I think that’s about it.

My goal for the next two weeks or so is to relax the best I can, and try in some way to prepare myself for the world turning upside down.  In a good way.

I do have two questions for y’all:

1.  Where in God’s name do I put the two car seats? I have a small SUV, so only the back seat, no third row action.  Do they go side by side and if so, behind the driver or passenger?  Or do they go one each side?  I’m guessing the ski rack is not the best option but beyond that I can use some help…

2.  What else, besides the obvious, should I bring to the hospital?  What did you bring that was a life-saver, what did you wish you had?  Your breast pump, if you had one?  A nursing pillow?  Your bong?

Any suggestions would be much appreciated!

1. Thank you My Sweet Reality and others for suggesting the awesome reckless legs syndrome remedy! Of course you know I (of all people) would LOVE something as crazy as shoving a bar of soap under my sheets. For some odd reason, since I wrote about it I haven’t once had any problems with the crazy legs, but I might just stick a bar of soap under the sheet anyway, because really, why not?!?

2. I was planning on apologizing for my last post, trying to find an adequate excuse for the graphic nature of it and begging your forgiveness for blogging about such things. Such things as the hanging beef jerky comment which probably was not necessary.

BUT!

Over the weekend I had some alarming revelations, it was like a voice from above. If Borat and Dr. 90210 can be considered ‘voices from above’ and in my book they can.

First, I was flipping through the channels and Borat was on cable, so of course I had to catch a few minutes of it. Sadly for me, the part I happened upon was when Borat is talking about his wife, who after three years of marriage just isn’t the SAME. You know. DOWN THERE.

"Her a va-gene hangsa down like a Wizard’s sleeve" was the way he put it.

I almost asphyxiated myself laughing so hard and then I thought, "Wait a frigging minute here — MY vagene is hanging down much like a Wizard’s sleeve" and all of a sudden, it wasn’t so funny.

And then, the very day I was again flipping through the channels I happened upon the reality show Dr. 90210, where Beverly Hills plastic surgeons perform a wide array of procedures on patients willing to talk about the before and after.

And take a little guessy at what the woman was having done…

Some kind of labia lift or labia plasty (and something else to her clitoral hood but I swear I won’t talk about that!). But plastic surgery to improve the appearance of her labia?!? And she’s not even a porn star where that kind of thing might be really important for your earning potential!

Now this one-two punch really floored me and so I’m coming to you with a question: Will my lady parts look at least SOMEWHAT normal after these kids are jettisoned, one way or another. Will my nether regions look anything like they did before I got pregnant or am I doomed? I have to know, I really do. I want to book my labia lift now, since I imagine the waiting list is months long.

3.  32 weeks and 4 days today.  Big as a house.  Big as a BIG house, to be specific. My last scan went well, Jax is just over 4 lbs. and Parker is just under, he was head down but she was breech.  And the NST this week also looked good, but I have to say all of my twin-pregnant friends (IRL and in Blogland) seem to be dropping like flies — everyone is on bed rest and it’s making me a tad nervous, people!

4. And finally, a close friend of our family passed away last weekend.  I wasn’t too sad, personally, because he was like 110 years old (depending on who you asked) and very sick.  But Rest In Peace Whirley Gig Joe, rest in peace. May your crazy dowsing rods show you the most direct route to heaven.

So last Friday I had the perfect day planned: 

"Working from home" entailed a quiet, relaxing breakfast followed by a pedicure* and an hour long foot reflexology appointment.

Sounds blissful, yeah?

Well, the babies had other ideas…apparently they’re already conspiring to make my life miserable, like all good kids, because I was experiencing some odd swelling issues.

I got used to the swelling during the day — remember how I said I was starting to look like the love child of

and

?

I had grown accustomed to the looks of horror on my co-workers’ faces as my feet and hands swelled throughout the day, so much so that by mid-afternoon I would lumber down the hall to the restroom on Frankenstein feet (as the ankles were nonfunctional) and hands the size of baseball gloves.

But at night usually the swelling would go down and by morning I would be much better.  Until last week, when the swelling would increase at night! I woke up feeling (and looking) like the Hindenburg.

I should have known once I called my doctor just to run it by the nurse that she would order me up to the office AS SOON AS POSSIBLE (said with much alarm).  And once I got there, even though my blood pressure was okay and they didn’t detect any proteins in my urine, they still sent me to labor and delivery at the hospital for a nonstress test.

Once I got there, out of breath from the 10 second walk, I took the wrong elevator up to the 3rd floor and had to ask directions to labor and delivery. A kind nurse pointed me in the right direction and then screeched, "CAN YOU MAKE IT?!"

I was sort of taken aback by the question and was mumbling a, "Yes, I’m fine thank y–" when an orderly yelled "I have a wheelchair, do you want me to take you there?!?"

Now I realize they were just doing their jobs and granted, I certainly LOOK nine months pregnant, but people PLEASE.  For the love of Christ, I’m not about to squeeze these kids out at this VERY moment!!

So that testing took about four hours as they had to make sure both babies were on the monitors, and then of course once we were set one would move and they would have to reposition the sensor.

Luckily everything came out okay, but now I have to go every week for follow up NSTs.  Which is okay, I guess at this point the more monitoring the better, to be on the safe side.  But it’s still stressful, to watch the numbers on the screen and listen to the heartbeats and  pray that all is well.

I go in on Monday for another growth scan, Tuesday for the NST and on Wednesday I see my OB, so next week is chock full o’ doctors’ visits.   I’m going to have my doctor write a note recommending I work from home on a more frequent basis starting the week of the 22nd, and also recommending I stop working the first of next month.  I’m not sure how my boss will take that, as he’s expecting me to be here for much of November, but at this point I know it’s what I have to do in order to get these babies to 36 or 37 weeks, which is my goal.

Wish us luck with that one, will ya?

*My need for a pedicure (which I STILL haven’t gotten!) rivals my need for some heavy deforestation in the nether regions.  BeBop even exclaimed how long my toe nails were, going crazy with picturesque references to a sloth and also?  A super hero-type creature who could jump ten feet in the air and slice the neck of her enemy using the aforementioned talons as deadly weapons.  Nice, huh?

And speaking of personal grooming (or lack thereof) may I continue this nonsense for a moment and talk – again – about the girlie parts?  Thanks. 

The untrimmed hedges are driving me CRAZY! I know when I brought this up before, many of you recommended I just leave it alone and go with the flow, so to speak, but I simply cannot take it any longer.

The whole AREA is so unattractive.

I think the the proud new Mommy to the Lemonheads tried to warn me about this, but really, what the hell is up with the changes that occur in the hoo ha region?

GAWD.

And not to be all 1960s burn your bra baby and empower yourself with a MIRROR and take a good look DOWN THERE woman, but I did make the mistake of using a mirror to see what’s going on and I swear, it looks like a meat locker where you’d hang long pieces of beef jerky to dry out.

And the hair growth!  In unfathomable new folds of skin I never had before!  (Is that too graphic? Should I have included a disclaimer here?) I finally ordered one of those lady razor contraptions and when I get it in the mail, I’m gonna fire it up like a motherfreaking weed whacker and GO TO TOWN. 

Really. 

I’m afraid if I don’t the doctor won’t be able to find the babies and they’ll be stuck down there until it’s time to start preschool or they’ll get caught up in the hair like little monkeys trapped in hanging vines. 

And that doesn’t sound like fun at all, does it?

Apparently my cervix is "a mile long," according to my doctor.  He didn’t even feel the need to measure it on Monday after my appointment two weeks ago!

Having a mile-long cervix sounds better than THIS (okay, before you click over, this isn’t the most tasteful YouTube clip evah, and you might not want to play it at work!).

Two weeks ago, I was actually okay surrendering the pants after a few months of clothes-on appointments, because I was anxious to find out how the old hoo-ha was doing.  And so far, so good.

We talked about starting my leave from early, and my doctor said it was basically up to me.  He said he’d write me a note to work at home more often, or recommend that I go on disability and stop working all together.  In a fit of total insanity, I thought I could make it into November, working from home 1-2 days a week.

But then I grew fricking HUGE and just getting to work is exhausting. I honestly look (and feel) like I’m nine months pregnant and should be delivering any day now.

The look of abject horror on people’s faces when, in response to the ‘when are you due’ question, I respond with ‘December 9th’ is just remarkable. They look like I just announced I was planning to give birth to a dozen or so kittens in my closet behind the shoe rack. 

They must expect an answer like, oh any day now, so the December bombshell just rocks their world.  Then I have to launch into a full discussion of how I’m carrying twins and they always come early and blahdy blah blah, because I get so self-conscious about it.

Many people ask if twins run in our families.  This particular question doesn’t bother me too much, but I usually answer with an obnoxious, "No, but THANK GAWD they run in my fertility doctor’s office!"

For some reason (possibly because I’m insane hormonal or exhausted) I say this with just gusto you’d expect a rim shot to sound off in the background and then for me to end with a boisterous "THANK YOU!  I’ll be at the Schenectady HA HA Hacienda all week, please try the veal and don’t forget to tip your wait staff!"  It’s really, really sad. And also?  Not funny. But there you go.

BeBop has been asked dozens of times if the twins are ‘natural.’  He usually just says yes, and leaves it at that.  Being the annoying gal that I am, I told him he should say, "No, they’re made from PLASTIC and actually, we ordered them from China.  Now we’re totally freaked about lead contamination and a recall!" but he would never be so rude.

Sometimes at night I have Restless Leg Syndrome which drives me insane(r).  I want to crawl out of my own skin it’s so annoying.  I usually end up yelling at BeBop to "Puleeze come rub my feet because I have the Reckless Leg Syndrome again!"

He laughs at me and doesn’t believe it’s a real problem. It doesn’t help that I always call it Reckless Leg Syndrome which distracts me for like a minute when I think of my legs drinking too many shots of Goldschläger and then driving home even after their friends tried to stop them…or how my legs might not be putting away enough money in their 401(k) plan.  (It doesn’t take much, people.)

So what else?

It is pretty boring around here.  I don’t feel at all ready, by the way, is that normal?  We have one more baby class, I think the one where they teach you how to feed, water and not drown the babies during their first bath, and maybe how to swaddle them or something.  I hope this class doesn’t include wearing garish lipstick and suckling a water balloon, because once is enough!

We hired a doula, we took our hospital tour, I’ve had all my showers.  I hired a baby nurse who specializes in working with multiples to come for the first two weeks after we get home from the hospital. I’m interviewing pediatricians this week.  The babies’ room is pretty close to being ready, but I have no idea what I still need.  The baby nurse is coming next week to go over everything with me and make suggestions which should be helpful.  We have the car seats and much of the big stuff like the furniture all set.

What else should I be doing?  I need to pack the hospital bag at some point I guess, when does one do that? Anything else that at 30 weeks and three days I should be working on?

As for the names…since I recently shared them with the nice girl who took my order at a local deli, and she means nothing to me and you all mean the world to me, I feel as though I should share.

Jackson and Parker.

The streets we lived on in San Francisco when we first met, fell in lurve and plotted a life together that we hoped would one day include a little boy and a little girl.

And yes, it took us five years of unadulterated HELL to get here, but we’re mighty grateful just the same.

We’re thinking of Francisco (after my grandfather) and Lily (for my MIL) for the middle names.

So Jackson Francisco and Parker Lily: Stay in there long enough to get big and healthy kiddies, but not TOO long since Momma’s about to burst open!

My bunghole is much better, thank you for asking!

I know many of you have been logging on (no pun intended!) to check on me and my hemorrhoids and/or anal fissures and for that, I am eternally grateful.

If it was the ‘roids, the copious amounts of fiber I am taking seem to be helping.  If it was an anal fissure, it’s either the medicated, so humiliating-to-purchase medicated ass wipes that did the trick. That, or the caulking glue I shoved up there with a trowel, who’s to say?

Anyhoosies, moving on…

We took a two-day Hypnobirthing class over the weekend and it was AWESOME!

Totally San Francisco:  in a crazy converted old Victorian in the Mission District, we had to take our shoes off and sit on the floor. (I’m not sure how smart it is to have 10 pregnant ladies sit on the floor all day, but what the hell?) and no meat allowed! (‘Meat not welcome’ said the e-mail information we got before the class.)

There were a few married couples, a single lesbian woman whose sister is going to be her birth companion and then two unmarried, young couples who live together in some kind of mini-commune arrangement and are due within days of each other.  They are planning home births with a birthing tub and everything. (And yes, I imagine they will rinse it out between births but I was too afraid to ask. Far be it for me to judge.)

Everyone (every single person!) in the class brought those metal water bottle things with them and I was the asshole carrying the earth-killing, bisphenol A-leaching plastic water bottle. (But I’ll reuse it! I wanted to scream.)

It was a very cool course all about using self-hypnosis and other relaxation techniques to get through labor. And I know!  What in the H-E-L-L was I doing in a class all about natural child birth?!?  With TWINS on the way??

(You people always ask really good questions.  Really.)

Remember how I told you I’m just pretending I can give birth vaginally and avoid a c-section?  Well, this class was all part of my delusion plan.  My doctor wants me to have an epidural, so that if we need to do an emergency c-section for one or both of the babies I’m ready, and I’m not necessarily opposed to that. I just want to keep my options open, and if I can labor at least for a while without many (or any) interventions, that would be my ideal.

So the funky class was all part of my absurd campaign to pretend I’m not high risk and just mosey along for the next several weeks (!!!) in some kind of altered state where my grasp on reality is tenuous at best.  And it’s worked for me in the past, so who knows?

To be perfectly honest, my dream (if I hadn’t gone through five years of fucking hell trying to get pregnant and I wasn’t older than the hills and I was carrying a singleton) I would have wanted a home birth with a midwife and a birthing tub.  The problem would have been convincing someone to be there with me, because both BeBop and my sister would have been all HELLS NO you fricking FREAK and that would not have been the best situation in the world.

My Mom probably would have been game, but she would have wanted to bring along the dowser and various healing crystals and maybe stick me in a Life Pod or God knows what else.

I watched BeBop carefully when we were seeing a home birth video during the class and I could have predicted how he looked away when the money shot came:  a close up of the woman’s giant lady parts opening for the red, gooey baby that was emerging like something out of a science fiction movie. 

And although he did really well in the class and is very supportive of my birth rantings of a crazy person plan, I told him afterwards I want him to be a waist-up type of husband in the event we get our va-jay-jay birth.

"Don’t look DOWN THERE," I told him when we were walking back to the car after the first day of class.  "Seriously, even if they ask you if you want to see the baby crowning, say NO THANK YOU and DON’T LOOK, okay??"

He seemed fine with this plan.

In other news, I am finally posting some pictures, God help us all.

I briefly considered poaching Faith’s recent belly shots because she looks like a fricking model or something, but then I remembered how 1) most of you have seen my mug on YouTube and HOW could I possibly get so much better looking in the last few months, that seems impossible and 2) most of you read her blog too and like I said, you all are some smarty bears and I don’t think I could get away with a trick like that.

So here you go, proceed with caution:

How will I get out of this chair, you ask?

HAHAHAHAHAHA, I respond gaily, throwing my head back to emphasize my lack of concern.

I won’t.  I’ll spend the remainder of this pregnancy in my friend’s garden, surrounded by presents.  What could possibly be so bad about THAT??

Mmmmmmm…me hungry. 

Me giant Godzilla-like pregnant lady who will devour this cupcake in mere seconds.

MILK.  Bring me MILK you peasants. NOOOOOOWWWWWW!!!!

Beware miscreants. Mini-cupcakes today.  Your cities tomorrow.

And the peice-de-I-can’t-believe-she’s-posting-this-does-she-have-no-shame:

Twenty-nine weeks, people, twenty-nine weeks. How the HELL did this happen??

Oh.  That makes much more sense…

Actually, that whole thing will make much more sense in a minute or two.

But first.

Can I start by saying that I totally freaking cursed myself in my last post by saying I was feeling pretty good and that I wasn’t suffering from too many dreaded pregnancy symptoms?

And THEN I went on to say something stupid about pulling my head out of my ass, remember that?

Well, let’s say for the sake of argument that I really did have my head up my ass, and let’s also say I decided (for what reason I don’t know but just go with me on this for a sec) that I decided to take a looksy around, what do you think I would have seen??

I’ll give you a hint:  It starts with "H" and rhymes with emorrhoid.

Or, even better…an anal fissure.

Yes. You read that correctly. I actually wrote the words ‘anal’ and ‘fissure’ in a sentence.

(And you just read that sentence.  God help you if you recently ingested any food products!)

 

For a few days late last week, I was in hell.  It felt like I was crapping broken glass each time I used the facilities.

During most of the IF treatments I underwent and especially during my IVF cycle I stayed away from all things Google-related, choosing instead to put my fingers into my ears and sing LA LA LA This Will Work Despite The Statistics That Say Otherwise, but of course once I was faced with cornhole issues I sprinted to the computer and typed in ‘natural remedies for hemorrhoids’ and here’s what the oh-so-helpful Internet had to say:

Cranberry Poultice

For relief of hemorrhoids within an hour, here what you can do:

* Blend 3-4 tablespoons of raw cranberries

* Wrap a tablespoon of this blend in some cheesecloth

* Push it up against your anus and keep it there with some tight underwear

* After an hour or so replace it with a new batch of berries and cloth

Apply these berries twice and do it the next day if necessary.

Hmmmmmmm…this sounded a little too similar to a holiday-themed cranberry dip recipe I love, which I was sure I could never enjoy again after shoving a cheesecloth of smashed cranberries up my bunghole, so I moved on to the next suggestion:

In the book Heal.ing Visualiza.tions, the author suggests you close your eyes, breathe out three times and imagine that your hemorrhoids are puckering up like an old purse. Picture them shriveling and disappearing as the walls of the anus become pink and smooth.  He goes on to suggest you practice this imagery for one to two minutes of every waking hour, for up to 21 days, until the hemorrhoids fade.

Hmmmmmm…I thought again.  Imagining my hemorrhoids as an old purse just didn’t appeal to me either for some strange reason.  I mean, old lady purses smell funny and are filled with random objects like unwrapped mints, old, used hankies, and totally outdated pink lipstick and the like.  If he had suggested I envision my rear as a vintage Coach bag, well, then perhaps I could have gotten behind this plan. (BAH DAH BUM.)

I quickly realized I would have to abandon my plan of finding a good natural option and instead head to the local drugstore to purchase some over the counter medicated pads soaked in witch hazel.

And can I just say ahhhhhhhh THE RELIEF.  Thank God for the medicated hemorrhoid pads and I never in a million years thought I’d write a sentence like that.

And I’m also shoving ground flax seeds and prunes down my gullet like there’s no tomorrow and the whole combination seems to be working out for me.

But I did hit rock bottom for a while there. I was totally bummed out. I felt totally anal about finding some relief as soon as possible.  I just wanted to put the whole thing behind me.

Just like you probably feel about this post…