from rational to crazy and back again

I remember the discomforts of pregnancy the first time around. The 3 month long stomach flu/hangover, the emotional roller coaster, the weight gain and stretch marks, the punches and kicks to the cervix aka "lightening crotch"... I could go on for days, but I think you get the point. This time around, it's worse. Double the baby = double the hormones = even more dry heaving, more emotions, weight gain, stretch marks, blah blah blah. And to top if all off, this time there's a little 25 pound person to run around after while playing incubator to two more.

But I've been able to stay positive and chalk it all up to growing big, happy, healthy babies. I'll deal with it all if it means that my boys will grow big and strong and stay put til it's time to come out. Because I love these boys with all of my heart and soul and we haven't even yet been properly introduced. Throughout the contractions, the increasing numbers on the scale, and my ever-growing abdominal circumference, I slap on a happy face because it's all for THEM.

But yesterday I hit a bump. A rather large bump. I was having a rather "large" day. It was HOT outside, which doesn't help (hel-lo Florida summer). Brennan and I made our way to the doctor's office for my OB appointment.

Slap in the Face #1: The Scale. I usually weight myself at home, first thing in the morning, in nothing but my birthday suit. The numbers have been creeping, but I've managed to stay sane. And I know that I will weight more at the doctor's office - fully clothed, at the end of the day, on a different scale. But the number this time hit me ... and not in a good way. Inner dialogue time: "Kel, it's fine. You're pregnant. With twins. You've gained the appropriate amount of weight in your pregnancy so far, and you will continue to gain the appropriate amount, nothing more. Pull yourself together. It's for the boys. OK, I can do this."

On we go to the exam room. Doc comes in, we exchange pleasantries and talk about the pregnancy thus far. Then I heave myself (and Brennan) up onto the exam table. For those of you who don't know, it's standard practice to measure the abdomen during pregnancy. Basically, for a singelton pregnancy, the abdomen should measure the same number (in centimeters) as how many weeks along you are. So, if I had just one baby in my belly, since I'm 24 weeks, my abdomen should measure 24 centimeters.

Slap in the Face #2: The Belly Measure. So, I lay back, the doc pulls out the measuring tape and stretches it down my belly. Here's how it went:

Doc: Well, you're measuring 34 weeks.

(Silence. Blood rushing to my face.)

Me: W ... w... what's the rule for twins?

Doc: Well, there isn't one. We just expect you to be bigger than a singleton.

Me: Um, 10 weeks bigger?

Doc: No you fat ass! Quit gaining so much weight. Put down the doughnuts for the love of God!

Kidding of course. I love my doc. She sweetly reassured me that I'm doing everything right. I read the twin pregnancy book that she recommended and am following the weight gain curve nicely. She also pointed out that I've made up for the lack of weight gain in the first trimester, like she wanted me to, and that I'm headed for the third trimester, when it's just plain harder to put on weight because your stomach is smushed. I said OK, we talked about increasing the frequency of my appointments now that I'm further along, and I headed out the door.

So I'm fine. I feel huge, well, I am huge. But I'm supposed to be. Yeah. Right. I'm supposed to be. It's for the boys.

Fast forward to home. I'm getting dinner ready. My belly is bumping the counter, collecting water near the sink, and I spill flour all over my shirt. Inner dialogue time again: "You remember these days while pregnant with Brennan. It doesn't last long -- Oh, wait. I HAVE THREE MORE MONTHS OF THIS!!!!!!" Enter, lump in throat. Brian walks in the door. I say, "Guess how big my belly is measuring?" He says, "34 weeks".

Begin crying fit. Mascara stains all over hubby's shirt. Random babbling through the sobs "I ... don't ... wanna ... be ... HUGE! Do you realize how big I'm going to get??!?!?!" Kisses and hugs and sweet reassurance from Brian eventually calmed me down. He helped me return to my normal mantra: It's for the boys. Yes. I will be huge and uncomfortable and utterly miserable, as long as my boys stay put until they're big and old enough to come out and come home with me. I might complain to my mom, commiserate with my friends, and cry to my husband. But I'll get through it. And I'll be a better person, and a better mom, because of it.