The Waiting Game

I handed in my keys, in a big blubbering cry fest mess, last Thursday just in time to zip off to my 87 hundredth doctor appointment.  That night sparked a breaking-in of at home motherhood with as much feverish cleaning as my lumbering over sized belly can handle.

Most recent pic. Another daring choice of stripes.

Today, I'm at 33 weeks and 4 days.  Average gestation for twins is 35 weeks. And while the end of a singleton pregnancy and a twin pregnancy are just alike in equal parts exciting and exhausting for all the anticipation, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say the hours of waiting feels just a tad different when you're carrying two babies.  Because when you measure 40 weeks at 33 weeks and you have the potential to grow at an exponential rate each day thereafter, you're a little freaked out and so are your stretched to a whole new level of max ribs.

However, as much fun as it might be to have you believe I'm busy here driving up a complain storm about things such as my tailbone screaming like it's about to break off and my need to rest between even the lowest common denominator of activities (Read: I got winded from putting on make-up this morning), I'm really fine.  And that's only because I'm on this high of gratitude that's sweeping me right through to the end of this pregnancy, should that be tomorrow or ten days from now.

He's recently taken to the egg.

I'm grateful the twins have stayed put this long.  I'm grateful that I was able to have the closure of finishing the school year (and in good health).  I'm grateful for every single minute I have with Thomas to read to him, play with him, and laugh with him--because we need a good stock of bonding and happy times before mommy goes fatigue numb and resorts to "uh huhs" and "what?s" for primary conversational pieces. I'm grateful for that insatiable drive to nest which is some kind of domestic euphoric drug inaccessible for production and distribution (shucks!), only available for us carrying a load out front.  There's a certain kind of magic in the desire to pack a bag or reorganize a fridge with all the critical calculation and focus as that of a bomb detonation and yet the gentle fondness of a mother caressing her child's face for the first time.  Good times.

Memory. Or should I say, The Game I'm Better Than Mommy At

I am past the point of taking it "day by day".  It's more of an hour by hour vigilance to divvy up my efforts in three equal parts: cleaning, distraction, and sleeping.  I've scheduled bits of busy into my calendar so there isn't enough of a lull in my life to make me want to toss myself on a bed and say stupid stuff like "THESE BABIES ARE NEVER GOING TO GET HERE!".  Maybe in between luncheons, play dates, and doctor appointments, I'll just happen upon a need to say, "Well, my goodness.  These babies have decided to arrive. I hardly noticed it was time!" Bahaha. Yeah. Totally like that.

My look of disgust? Who knows. Let's hope it doesn't stick.