Captain’s Log, if I was a captain who was in charge of things and didn’t lose her grip on an hourly basis; Pregnancy #300, Day 5,880:
Shaving has ceased.
My ash is still smarting from falling out of a chair last week. Well, I mean, I broke the chair. It was as a hanging chair that broke while I was sitting in it. It’s not my fault. The rope was frayed. I’m so embarrassed. Moving on.
Today I broke my rule of no ice cream until 7:00 p.m. That chocolate-flavored creamy goodness hit my soul before lunchtime and opened my eyes to a whole new way of life. I’m on my sixth round of pregnancy–this time with friggin’ twins–and dang it I just wanted ice cream. It has nothing to do with why a chair was inexplicably broken, and I have no regrets.
It’s safe to say I’ve done this about a thousand times, right? And yet here I am, surprised to be experiencing late pregnancy symptoms such as:
1) Round ligament pain for the very first time. I’m sure this should not come as a surprise since I’m almost grandma-esque in age, but to me it is shocking and appalling and also really really unfair, because Charlie-horses in your giant pregnant underbelly just are unfair.
2) See also: Braxton Hicks contractions in full force just like always.
3) Restless leg syndrome at bedtime in the realest of ways from just half a cup of half-caff at 6:30 a.m. That’s new and also distressing, because I’ve already given up so much coffee.
Week 22 has been full of exciting symptoms but by far the most enjoyable side-effect of pregnancy, I would have to say, is (drumroll):
4) Shortness of breath.
I am out of air. I can’t walk five feet without feeling faint and gasping for breath; hell I can barely stand up without keeling straight over. Walking upstairs? FORGET ABOUT IT. Actually, don’t forget about it because all the kids rooms are upstairs and if I know what good for me, I’ll make the trek to the second floor at least once a day just to make sure no one left, say, (and this is just off the top of my head), an open container of Sunkist sitting out on a window sill for a week providing a swimming pool for ants. I sound like Marilyn Monroe when I talk, if Marilyn Monroe was a chain-smoking asthmatic newborn with a single underdeveloped lung.
Arbor, Lucy, and I take a self-imposed mandatory nap every day at noon; if this crucial break is not had, there is hell to pay for the entirety of my household, right down to the pet yard chicken who dares to take her massive craps on the welcome mat.
I’m not sure how I will be able to survive the next three months, logistically speaking, and everything I read as far as advice to women carrying twins goes a little like this: “Sit and relax with your feet up as much as possible, and don’t concern yourself with getting anyone to school or practice, ever. While your other children tear up the entire house and destroy each other, sleep with a pillow in between your legs and order out for dinner. While your one-year-old daughter jumps off the top of the refrigerator and your son Jackie-Chans actual walls, take a soothing soak in a warm bath. Don’t be afraid to ask for help with laundry for your family with four children who change clothes 80 times a day! Hire a professional cleaner because who really needs to worry about budgeting for groceries to feed six hungry mouths? Don’t forget to wear compression socks!”
It’s all temporary. It’s all temporary.
The babies are awesome. They be growing and thriving and moving and shaking, with perfect measurements and perfect heart rates every time I see them, which is at least once a month. I seriously could wallpaper a room with all their ultrasound photos. I love these guys, and I cannot wait to see them, and it’s an understatement to say that those are understatements.
I cannot. Wait.