kara

Observations:

1. I recently discovered (unfortunately, while Andy was in the shower) that if I sit on the floor I can’t get up without someone’s help.

2. I stare at my stomach constantly. Seeing the babies move is, yes, amazing and beautiful, but it’s also strange. Take right now, for example. My stomach is a series of hills and valleys, thanks to the pressure of various baby body parts pushing outward. If Sophie were awake, I imagine she would enjoy running a toy car over the hills and valleys—they’re that distinct. Sometimes I can cup what must be a head, back or bottom in the palm of my hand. And often I see something much smaller, a foot, say, skitter across. I can’t help but stare. It’s so very human yet also so very alien to my experience.

3. The door to the small half bath at my parents’ house opens into the bathroom. As such, my dad has had to remove the door. Otherwise, I would be unable to open the door and get into the bathroom without getting stuck. In its place is a spring rod with a blanket attached. I’m still not sure if this is hilarious or humiliating.

4. At times, I think Sophie truly understands there are babies in my stomach. She always asks to see them, which means she wants me to pull up my shirt. And then she puts her head on my stomach and says “Babies! Ahh. Babies!” And then she “talks” to them but in baby language (lots of goo-goos and gaa-gaas). She claims she’s excited for them to come out so they can ride her tricycle and play in her car. And then, other days, she lifts up her shirt and insists I feel the babies in her stomach (I do).

5. I drink lemonade constantly. On our last grocery list I requested five frozen cans of Minute Maid lemonade. I could easily drink a glass pitcher-full a day if I wanted to.

6. I know I’m supposed to have some sort of motherly pride for my stretch marks (what Andy kindly calls my perfect baby marks) but I got lucky with Sophie—I didn’t get a single one. I was hoping to get lucky this time, too. And I don’t care if this sounds vain but I hate them. They’re everywhere. Apparently everyone is right—the pricey “Cocoa Butter Moisturizing Stick” I bought at The Body Shop doesn’t prevent them. (Nor do the various other pricey products I’ve bought in an attempt to slow them down.)

7. Picking out eight names (first and middle, enough to cover boy/boy, boy/girl and girl/girl) is surprisingly difficult.

8. I must remember to be careful about suddenly grabbing my stomach when I feel the babies move—people react.

At my weekly appointment yesterday the doctor confirmed nothing has changed—I’m still a good 2cm dilated and 60-70 percent effaced. My doctor did, however, get a report back from the doctor who reads all my ultrasounds and Baby B has dropped to the 10-25th percentile in weight. So next Friday I go in for a more thorough ultrasound to check Baby B’s growth. Of course I worry about this a little (OK, a lot) but I also think if they were truly concerned, I would have been called in for an ultrasound sooner. Honestly? I’m ready to be done being pregnant. But I’m also thrilled that there’s a very good possibility I’ll make it to 34 weeks—and then some.

Sidebar:

Andy would have been content with two children. Growing up in a family of five, I wanted three (I won). We’re both positive this will be it for us, but who isn’t 33-1/2 weeks into their pregnancy, while in labor or while trying to comfort a screaming newborn at 3am? It’s not until your baby is sleeping through the night and you’re curled up with your loved one, munching popcorn, sipping wine and watching a movie at 9pm on a weekday night that you think, Maybe one more.

Yesterday, as I was waiting for my appointment, a woman and her parents came in, with a 3-week-old newborn. Sophie wanted to see the baby, so I struck up a conversation with the grandparents. Apparently another one of their daughters had had three children thanks to Clomid (all single pregnancies). Because it had been so difficult for her to get pregnant each time, she decided to forgo any form of birth control. And then, at 41, she unexpectedly became pregnant with her fourth. The story was told to me in the form of a cautionary tale.

Later, when talking to Andy about my conversation with the couple, I admitted I, too, was thinking future birth control wouldn’t be necessary. He stopped what he was doing and just stared at me, eyes wide and said, “You’re going on the pill.” I am—we both are—thrilled to be welcoming these two new babies into our lives. But right now, in this very moment, I have to agree—three sounds perfect.

“By far the most common craving of pregnant women is not to be pregnant.” —Phyllis Diller

“Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror or the painter?” —Pablo Picasso

Why is Tucker wearing pink Mardi Gras beads?

Because Sophie wanted him to (he’s such a good dog).

“The great pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool of yourself with him and not only will he not scold you, but he will make a fool of himself too.” —Samuel Butler

In September 2008 I wrote about planting iris bulbs while Sophie happily watched from her swing on the front porch. (You can read that post here.) Last year the irises came up, but didn’t bloom (my mom says this is common). But this year—just look at them! (Both of them.)

“If you’ve never been thrilled to the very edges of your soul by a flower in spring bloom, maybe your soul has never been in bloom.” —Terri Guillemets

Bed rest, at times, has sounded heavenly to me—the luxury of having hours to read books, watch movies, organize photo albums, write letters, work on the children’s book that has been bouncing around my brain for more than a year now, sleep. But bed rest with a 2-year-old doesn’t allow for such luxuries. While it’s prompted a lot more snuggle time, quiet play, books and picnics in bed, morning check-ups with a plastic doctor’s kit and hugs, it’s also proven to be endlessly frustrating.

I’m on modified bed rest, which means I’m allowed to use the bathroom, shower daily and even get food from the kitchen. I go to a group OB/GYN practice and I’m a bit confused as to what my limitations truly are—one doctor has said sitting on the couch is fine, another implied my legs should always be up (I plan to clarify all this at my next appointment Tuesday). But they all agree on one thing: Caring for a 2-year-old is too much.

We’re extremely lucky. Andy’s mom, who works in Phoenix, AZ two weeks out of the month stayed with us during her most recent two work-from-home weeks—while Andy’s dad moved to Baltimore solo because of our situation. And now my mom, recently retired, has taken over, driving from Liberty Twp. (in rush hour) to our house every morning and leaving when Andy gets home from work, usually a little after 6pm. And so many friends have helped out, too—taking Sophie to the park, organizing play dates at our house (and then taking care of everything while I sit and watch), and watching Sophie during the few hours our moms weren’t able to be here. I’ve been sent a care package, treated with phone calls and e-mails, and have eaten several delicious meals cooked for us.

But still, I find myself frustrated. I blame my personality. I like to be in control. I, perhaps wrongly, put too much emphasis on what I accomplish during a given day. And while I know, I truly know, that every day these babies stay put I’m accomplishing something great (greater than anything else I could be doing right now), it’s not as tangible as I’d like—it’s one fuzzy thing crossed off my to-do list instead of the 10 concrete things I believe need done right now. And then, of course, there’s Sophie. She’s adapted quite well, I think. After being extremely clingy the first few days I was home from the hospital—and not leaving my bed—she now spends time playing with Gramma, Nini and friends, she knows to climb up on my lap instead of asking to be lifted, and she brings toys and puzzles and books over to me instead of asking me to come to her. But it still breaks my heart when she says things like “Mommy has to stay in bed” or “Mommy can’t pick me up” or “Mommy can’t take a walk.” Someday, I tell her. Someday soon.

Finally, there’s the ever-lingering knowledge that, within the medical field, there are differing opinions on the effectiveness of bed rest. Last night I read this interesting op-ed in The New York Times by Sarah Bilston titled “Don’t Take This Lying Down.” In it Bilston writes: “Although bed rest continues to be prescribed almost routinely by some doctors for mothers of multiples at 24 to 28 weeks gestation, a study in 2000 conducted by a professor of obstetrics and gynecology at the University of Adelaide in Australia linked hospitalized bed rest to higher rates of preterm delivery in mothers of twins.”

But of course, I’m not a doctor. I will do whatever I’m told and believed necessary to give these babies the best possible future, despite the fact that I can no longer pick up toys, practice yoga, clean the house, drive, do laundry, leave the house for anything other than doctors appointments, throw a ball with Tucker, garden, go on dates with Andy, scoop up Sophie. It’s akin to me giving myself two injections of Lovenox every day—no one knows for sure if that’s what kept me from miscarrying Sophie. But it worked. And because it worked, I’m doing it again. And I wouldn’t dream of not doing it again for that feeling of “what if” if I didn’t do it and something happened.

Looking back, this time spent mothering—living—from the sidelines will seem short, I know. And I’m sure, the first day I’m home alone with two crying newborns and an upset 2-year-old I will long for the moment when I was sitting on the couch, legs propped up on the ottoman, blogging while Andy wrestled with a laughing Sophie on the rug in front of me. But still, it’s difficult not to feel a little blue, especially on Saturdays when everyone seems busy doing things, especially on cloudy Saturdays, and especially on cloudy Saturdays when I realize something petty, such as the fact that I had planned on getting one last haircut before the babies come and now I’ll be a mom with too-big hair that desperately needs colored in many of their newborn pictures.

Today I’m 31 weeks pregnant. That’s good. Next Saturday I’ll be 32 weeks pregnant. That’s better. And if I would just stop looking at the clock I would realize how quickly spring blooms into summer and summer lazes into fall and fall tumbles into lingering winter and upon these babies’ first birthdays I know I’ll think, That wasn’t so bad—and totally, completely, worth it.

Still, for now, I’d rather be on the court than sitting on the sidelines—as would anyone who thoroughly enjoys the game.

“When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.” —Sophia Loren

“Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.” —Rainer Maria Rilke

A complaint about low back pain resulted in me finding out I was 1cm dilated and 50 percent effaced so I was sent to Good Samaritan Hospital for monitoring. The babies’ heartbeats looked great but a resident spotted a couple contractions (which I couldn’t feel) so I was given a shot of Brethine. The contractions stopped, and I was sent home. I had gone to my appointment alone, with Sophie, so for about 30 minutes I learned the art of entertaining a 2-year-old from a hospital bed. Sophie was thrilled with this quick hospital visit. She was given her very own hot pink hospital bracelet, all the graham crackers she could eat, and some well-worn crayons and a Christmas coloring book to color in. She also enjoyed weighing herself over and over again on the digital scale in the room.

The next day I had a follow-up doctor’s appointment. I was between 1cm and 2cm dilated and still 50 percent effaced. The doctor asked if I was feeling any contractions—I wasn’t. I then made the mistake of mentioning that I was 4cm dilated before I felt contractions with Sophie. (I should note, though, that about the time they told me how far dilated I was I really started to feel them.) She asked how early Sophie was born. I said 37 weeks. She tapped her pen on my chart, muttered something that sounded like an apology (I now know why) and said I needed to be admitted to Good Samaritan Hospital’s high-risk OB wing.

Monitoring showed contractions which meant two steroid shots and magnesium sulfate—for four days. I should have known this wasn’t a kind drug when the nurse said she had to stay with me for the first 20 minutes it was administered. When I asked her why she said, “Well, you’re going to feel like you’re on fire and that you’ve peed yourself and your vision will become blurry so you won’t be able to see and you might have trouble breathing.” Unfortunately, that was about right. Thankfully the dose was cut in half after 20 minutes but for four days I felt terribly weak and unbearably hot, my mouth was constantly dry and I couldn’t focus on books, the TV or my computer.

I had a roommate for awhile. I’ll call her J. J was a dancer and singer—her husband, a stunt man. Her story was much more complicated than mine—she was on all sorts of medicine, had had to have surgery, while pregnant, a month prior, and had already spent two weeks in the high-risk OB wing of Good Sam. I began to complain less about the magnesium sulfate after hearing what she had been through. I thought she would be in my room the entire time but in the middle of her second night with me she started crying out in pain from contractions. In my Ambien-induced hazed (apparently all women in Good Sam’s high-risk OB wing get Ambien) I buzzed the nurse and soon later overheard that she was 5cm dilated. She had a beautiful baby boy a couple hours later. I enjoyed having the room back to myself but I also found much comfort in having her a curtain away. Hospital roommates are a tricky thing and I got lucky.

Jill, Andy, Sophie and Doll Baby visited every day. I loved hearing “Mommy!” after a long night alone and I absolutely loved when Sophie would crawl up in bed and snuggle with me—amazingly, for hours. I’m grateful for the kind and patient nurses, and to Mandy, Megan, Christine and Connor for stopping by. Jenna stopped by, too, with flowers for me and a belated birthday present for Sophie—twin Cabbage Patch dolls. (Sophie also was treated to a visit to Sawyer Point, with Christine and Connor, courtesy of Jenna.) I’m thankful for the many e-mails and phone calls, to Jill for giving me a much-needed back rub with good-smelling lotion (it’s amazing how such a small act can mean so much when you’re stuck in a hospital gown feeling anything but pretty) and to Andy for spending many evenings with me while Jill put Sophie to bed.

On the fifth day I was discharged and sent home, on bed rest. I felt significantly better once off the magnesium sulfate, however I managed to develop sciatica, which now makes it quite painful to roll over in bed and walk. But sitting is doable so I suppose in many ways the sciatica forces me to behave myself.

I was 28-1/2 weeks pregnant when admitted to the hospital. Saturday I hit the 30-week mark (which is the day the above picture was taken). Thirty-two weeks is the goal. Of course, 34 and beyond is even better.

I can’t wait to meet these babies. But I’m not ready now. Not yet.

“A hospital bed is a parked taxi with the meter running.” —Groucho Marx

Easter morning didn’t start off so well, even though we really built up the fact that the Easter Bunny had visited the night before. There was a lot of rolling around on the chair and whining—why, we have no idea.

Tucker, however, was quite intrigued with what the Easter Bunny left behind Sophie’s house.

Sophie’s mood greatly improved upon finding her basket full of Aglamesis Bro’s chocolate and a book—In My Meadow.

Gramma gave Sophie a very pretty Easter dress, which Sophie’s great aunt Susan made (check out her Fairy Godmother Originals Etsy shop!). Here Sophie is excitedly waiting by the front door for Nini and Pop Pop to arrive.

Sitting pretty.

I love setting tables—always have. Setting this one was bittersweet. This weekend we put all our formal dining room furniture and fine china in storage, in our basement, to make room for toys, infant swings, a pack-n-play and a downstairs changing table—the chandelier still hangs, and the crystal wine glasses are still in the corner cabinet, so we laughingly call it the formal (although usually terribly messy) playroom.

Dinner!

Sophie must have had too much chocolate that morning. Because after dinner she got sick—all over her beautiful dress. So after a change of clothes (although she insisted the dress shoes stay on) she had some train time with Pop Pop.

Then, we colored eggs!

Next, outside to …

plant Easter flowers from Nini and Pop Pop and …

attempt to play baseball with Paw Paw and Pop Pop.

Finally, back inside to open one last birthday present from Aunt Katy and Uncle Tom—a box full of craft items, which has resulted in a very happy, marker tattooed little girl since she opened it.

A good, good day.

“‘Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees
Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.” —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Saturday before Easter Christine, Connor, Tari, Whitney and Lauren came to my house so we could all walk over to the annual Spring Egg Hunt at Tower Park. (I went last year, too!) Connor gave me birthday presents, including a fish puzzle with a pole and everything, which I love.

Then we played with my house before it was time to go.

Angel, Marty and Zoey walked with us!

I think Mom’s more excited than I am in this picture.

Here’s Connor, sporting his very cool Cincinnati Reds baseball cap …

and Whitney and Lauren.

And here I am, waiting very patiently.

There were lots and lots of eggs.

And boy did those eggs go fast. Mom finally scooped me up, ran me to the middle of the field, grabbed one egg for me and put it in my basket.

I thought I’d get a lot more eggs than that.

On the way home, it was very, very windy. So windy, I had to cover my eyes with my hands. And then I fell asleep. This, apparently, bothered Mom greatly. Something about not taking naps when in my warm bed, music playing, surrounded by quilts and favorite stuffed animals, but then falling asleep while outside in a windstorm. What can I say?

I loved my plastic egg, though, even if I did only get one. And I had fun with my friends.

“I’m youth, I’m joy, I’m a little bird that has broken out of the egg.” —James Matthew Barrie