February 28, 2008

A Couple of White Chaps Sitting Around Talking

The last week has been hell - solid feeding extravaganzas, using new teats so that it's not so much a bottle feeding as it's a controlled drowning, more laundry than I could have contemplated (all of it stained orange) and many tears, most of them from me.

One week on and the babies are now happily drinking from the bottles and (usually) ok with taking different solids in a rainbow of flavors and colors (I lie. Almost everything is orange. I haven't figured out why that is yet.)

And at a weigh-in this afternoon we found out that the last week of hell hasn't all been for nothing - the babies both gained a noticeable amount of weight, and both of them shot back on the percentile graph and although they're still tiny and underweight, we are lingering back in the 2nd percentile now as opposed to not being on the chart at all.

Rock. The. Fuck. On.

I'm delighted with them, honestly. I know it seems ridiculous, but we like to celebrate the little things. This, my friends, will be a champagne event.

Just imagine what it will be like the first time they bring home an "A" on their report card.

And so, to share my delight, I give you yet another video of them.

I thought maybe you were interested in the peaceful quiet morning times we have.

Enjoy the chat, hiccups, and giggles.

I know I do.

-H.

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February 27, 2008

Mission Accomplished

Melissa and Jeff are still here, and will be until Saturday. Since Melissa's discovered MSN IM with practically everyone under the age of 16 (and the noise of each and every one of them logging in is going to send me round the bend) and Jeff has discovered Civilization IV, computer time for Angus and myself is bordering on nil. So posting is a bit scant and, when it happens, a bit light on the scrolling for a change.

Their visit is going well, actually (hope I don't jinx it here). They're in pretty good spirits, only one argument between anyone (it was between Jeff and myself, actually, and I stood firm and we came out the other side just fine and still friends). They both like their brother and sister and Jeff in particular is a real sweetie. He adores his baby sister, and Melissa naturally has gravitated towards her infant brother. They both claim it's because they hope that "the babies don't go wrong, like their older siblings have". Whatever the reason, it's lovely to see.

Yesterday we hit the garden hard, armed with help as we were with two teens. We've raped and pillaged the garden, ripping out the designs the former professional gardener had. We're grassing over everything, which may be boring but it will be far more manageable. We had a massive bonfire to take down trees, shrubs, and the former rose arbor that we had (that had to come down, it was rotten). This is Jeff taking down the rosebushes, and Melissa and Angus and the babies are standing by to saw the arbor down*.


the burning


Also in the picture is what looks like a massive ring of dirt around our ancient apple tree. It was a raised garden about one foot deep around the tree, filled with ferns and spiky things and who the fuck knows what. Last weekend I eradicated it, and did a victory dance after. It too will be grassed over and turned into more garden space.

Melissa discovered that the pebble dash on the garage (which we are keeping) was very loose. It didn't take long for me to have a go at it, because the brick underneath the pebble dash will look good once it has some roses growing up the side. We're kicking ourselves for not trying to do this sooner.

I'm not so much into construction as I'm into destruction, and once I dug in I didn't let go.


Destrcutive Helen


Especially once Angus gave me an electric chisel.


Going for it


What you can't see here is:

- Me going and putting safety goggles on
- Me braving a ladder
- Me swearing a blue streak when some of the render fell on my foot.


But hey, I made serious progress.


Done


We made dampers in the smoldering ashes, which all 4 of us ate with a heaving helping of blackcurrant jam. It took all day but at last the entire garden is done, and ready for the onslaught of Spring.

And we had a good day doing it, too.


Smoke gets in our eyes


-H.

*of course the babies didn't saw the arbor down. They loaded the rendering into the wheelbarrow instead**.

**kidding. Don't call for the blue car or anything like that. They napped in the safety of their nursery.

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February 26, 2008

Dear Mr. Brown

Dear Gordon Brown,

It was with great sadness and, frankly, annoyance that I read about your latest idea to try to stop the influx of what can only be described as the scourage of society - the immigrant. You have plans to change immigration laws for anyone outside of the European Economic Area. While many pundits and legalese types debate these changes with regards to "non-whites" or, as my xenophobic stepmother-in-law might put it "those people", the truth is you catch a great deal of "whites" or, as I'm led to read between the lines, "people who we're not targetting but are caught in the net anyway".

Like myself.

I came to your country 4 years ago under a Highly Skilled Migrant visa, which I qualified for and paid for myself. From the day I stepped foot out of Heathrow I have been working, without cessation. I have been working on projects that contribute to British society and British businesses.

I pay taxes. In fact, I pay the highest amount of taxes as set forth in your country's finances. I pay as much in tax as the average millinonaire should do, only I'm not a millionaire and they're more clever than I am and have ways of hiding their money from you. I pay council tax, to the tune of £200 a month, for which I occasionally get my bins emptied (although not at Christmastime, when my binmen cannot be bothered). I pay utilities and car/home/health insurance. I pay car tax to use your roads and a TV license to watch your BBC. I have a UK driving license. I pay a fortune to take your public transportation to get to other parts of the country, for which I am rewarded with tardy and overcrowded trains. I own a house here, or at least the bank does and I thoughtfully remember to pay them every month. I got to pay a ransom in stamp duty to buy said house, as well. I have a British partner and two half-British children who have British passports.

I moan about the weather. I eat my sprouts with my sunday roast. On Boxing Day I get my walking shoes on and go for a walk like the rest of the country. I avoid conversation on the tube like everyone else and can order a pint with a joke back to the barkeep. I know not to book a chimney sweep during wedding season and I have learned the difference between an A-level and an O-level. I watch Last Night at the Proms and can even sing God Save the Queen, even if I know it as My Country Tis of Thee. Heck, I even recycle.

I wonder, then, why it would be necessary to prove I am "integrated into British society". Apparently, the above aren't enough to prove it. I already learned how difficult it was to prove I speak English, I can't wait to go through that one again (you are reading this letter in Farsi, Mr. Brown. Congratulations, I had no idea you were so adept.) I now need to look into enjoying charity work and being involved in my local community. I'm very excited about both options, especially as the full-time working mother of soon-to-be 5 month old twins means I have bags of spare time.

You already moved the goal posts on me once. Previously I only had to be here 4 years to get indefinite leave to remain or citizenship. Now it's 5 years, a horrendous increase in price, citizenship tests and proof required that I'm "an active citizen" - for both indefinite leave to remain and citizenship! There is nothing to be gained by not trying for citizenship now, and a huge investment of time and money (I can't seem to find consistent info, but I think £1000 is a little steep, personally). And speaking of cost, apparently now the price is higher for immigrants with children. My twins and I thank you from the bottom of our wallets.

It's funny - I get the impression that you don't want me here, Mr. Brown. I'm not sure what I did wrong, on the whole I think I contribute to society here, and further I actually genuinely love living here. If this is a concern about me or people like me "taking advantage of services reserved for British subjects", then let me assure you, I have not nor will I be on unemployment. Not only because I will seek active employment immediately should I lose my job, but because according to my visa I have no recourse to public funds so I don't use them.

More and more I feel unwanted and, frankly, despicable if the government arguments are to be believed. I hear Women's Hour on BBC 4 - Women's Hour, the bastien of calm and level-headedness! - talking about "British values". The disgraceful and disgusting BNP shove leaflets through my door describing how vile immigrants are to society as a whole. I'm often tempted to tell them that just because I am white doesn't mean I don't represent that which they loathe.

It's apparently what you loathe, too, Mr. Brown. I want to seek British citizenship over indefinite leave to remain so that I too can have the same citizenship as my children, and the three of us will be dual citizens of America and Britain. I want to seek British citizenship so that every three years I don't have to perform like a poodle to get another visa. I want to seek British citizenship so that when I pay my taxes and walk my dog in National Trust lands and ride the public transport infrastructure I'll feel like I have a right to be there, and that I can represent these things to the best of my ability.

Like many others, I would like to be a British citizen.

Britain just doesn't want us, apparently.

I'll show myself out, and I'll wipe the doorknob as I go, so not to leave any smudges from my grubby immigrant hands.

Sincerely,
Helen Adelaide

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February 23, 2008

A Letter To My Son

To my little boy,

Two days ago you had shots (ouch) and a weigh-in (oooh, you're nekkid!) and we got the bad news that the unhappiness you've had over solid foods has been for nothing.

You should know, as I hold your prawn-like body when you curl into me, that there is nothing I wouldn't do for you. You should know, as you look at the lights and stare at the sky and take in this new world of yours, that there are no ways you could be any more perfect to me. You should know, when I make munching noises and try to eat your hand, that there are no words to describe how very much I love you.

You had a rough beginning, my little man. You were tiny at birth, and squished into the cradle of my pelvis your cranium suffered some misshaping. You were badly jaundiced. You were forcefed. But you surprised everyone and decided you were done with the nasogastric tube, and you pulled it out yourself when you were 4 weeks premature.

Your quiet determination amazed me.

Once you started eating you were a whole different baby. Quiet, easy, happy, charming. Everyone loved you, everyone wanted to hold you. You and I drifted apart a bit, as I was the one responsible for handling your collicky sister. You became a jewel in your father's eyes, and you became someone I was desperate to get to know.

Now your sister is better and you and I have been getting to know each other. You amaze me daily with your tiny sweetness. You are calm and gentle. You observe. I think you will be a kind person.

I watched a TV program about a boys' choir, and I imagined you at age 10 or 13 or 15 just like those boys, and I found myself looking forward to that as much as I look forward to tomorrow, to 3 years old, to any minute I get to be with you.

You fell off the percentile charts and I worried so much about you I couldn't breathe. Were you unhappy? Were you ill? Would it be ok? You are so, so small - heavier than your sister but you look much more slight - and I worry about the big wide world and the toll it's taking on you.

This morning you ate your squash without protest.

And late last night your father, blowing raspberries on the bottom of your petite wrinkly foot, made you laugh long and loud.

It was the first time you've laughed.

In that moment, when I heard that magical sound, all my fears were chased away. Everything will be all right.

To hell with the doctors, we're throwing the chart out the window. I will catch you if you fall. You are a gift. We can do this, baby. We can do this. I will touch your sweet face and laugh at your silly smiles and I will hold your hand as we cross every proverbial street.

I love you right up to the moon and back, my little boy.

Love,
Mommy

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February 22, 2008

So, In Summary Then...

This morning, feeling pretty stressed, depressed and panicky, I went to the grocery store by myself, while the babies snoozed on the beanbag and Angus' worked from the study.

As I drove - and despite being nearly killed by a Waitrose driver who felt (rightly so) that his giant truck could take out my little Toyota and thus he could do what he wanted - I tried to sift the things in my mind.

The visit to the nursery went really well. The babies' carer was there and we met her and she spent some time with the babies while we filled out a sheaf of paperwork. Her name is Alice, a name that was on Nora's shortlist of names before she was born. Alice was quiet, shy, but very, very sweet. There are two whole rooms dedicated to the under 1's, and the babies in there were smiley, happy, and exploring as every part of the room has something "baby relevant" in it. At 5 months old, Nick and Nora will be the youngest babies in there and the only twins, something which made quite a splash.

I have no doubt that the babies will be fine. They might even flourish, as the nusery has massive quantities of stimulating toys and activities. They might not even notice I'm not there.

But I'll notice they're not around.

As my hands scanned shelves for various things we did and didn't need in the grocery store, I thought about yesterday's visit with the health visitor.

The babies got their last injections and another weigh-in. In the past week we've been feeding the babies solids, aka "Dear Jesus, Let the Screaming End". The good news is they both love pears. The bad news is they hate everything else. Further bad news - if I thought I was doing a lot of laundry before, it has nothing on the sheer quantity I'm doing now. We also swapped teats on them, so that now they don't drink a bottle so much as it's a controlled drowning. This in an effort to get them to up the amount of food they're taking. We know that we're not adding that many calories per se, but we were hoping that the solids (which we never serve in bottles) on top of their usual bottle schedule (only with more formula than before) meant that the sheer quantity of food would help the situation.

All that work, and the babies haven't improved. In fact, yesterday Nick dropped off the lowest percentile graph, officially entering what I call No Man's Land. They weigh as much as the average 9 week old baby, even though they're heading towards 21 weeks (17 weeks gestationally). Whichever way you cut it, they're tiny. Tiny but long, as Nick is heading into 3 month clothes based on his length alone. They are growing - these suits were worn for their last time yesterday, as the babies are getting too long for them. And they are gaining weight, just paltry amounts.

The health visitor even shook her head and wondered aloud what we could do.

When you stump the health professional you know you're in it.

I worry that people will think I don't feed them enough or that I'm a bad mother. I know neither is the case, the babies are happy, healthy, alert and curious. They eat what they want. I just can't get them to gain weight, we're heading towards 5 months old and they are under 11 pounds (5 kilos). They tell you in IVF land that mulitples have problems - you face illness, pre-eclampsia (which I had), premature birth (which I had), and physical and developmental problems. The babies are weeks behind developmentally but I'm not too worried about that, apparently by the age of 1 they'll be caught up. But physically we're way behind, and I worry their small size means their exposure to illness will be that much harder.

There is a sale on baby clothes in the shop. I add some 3-6 months clothes into my cart, unsure when the hell they'll actually fit into them. They look enormous. I tell myself it doesn't matter, they'll get there when they get there and if they're small now, we'll just put the clothes away until they're ready. Nick and Nora are healthy. They're fine. At some point they'll grow like a weed.

Yesterday too was the anniversary of the day I found out I was pregnant. I can't believe it was a year ago. It feels like longer. I still have that pregnancy test and I always will. But it was all just a little too much to be thinking about, you know? x+y+z = total meltdown of Helen's already overloaded circuits.

I throw a load of sugary kids' yogurts in the cart. Melissa and Jeff arrive on Sunday for a week stay. I'm both looking forward to it and not looking forward to it - the arguments, the laughter, the hecticness, the Kanye Fucking West playing at top level, the games, the bonding, the noise. It'll be good to see them and upsetting to have the routine rocked, because I feel a little fragile just now. They're back again just after Easter then for a while Angus will have to go see them - when the renovation is ongoing there just won't be room for all of us in our then-2 bedroom house. I will miss them then, I know.

I realize it's heading on for time to feed the babies again, and so I make myself hustle in the shop.

I feel blue and I don't know why.

I feel stressed and I don't know why.

I have no right to complain, I know, and I'm sorry - I have a good guy in the other room, one who found a website that monitors the electricity consumption in the country and now excitedly keeps me updated - "Scotland is awake! Look at their consumption, it's at about 7,000 mega-kilowatts!" (or something like that). I have two incredible and gorgeous babies (I think they're beautiful anyway. I know it's subjective. I'll tell you your cat/dog/horse/kids are cute if you just nod your head here and don't tell me my kids are poster children for plastic surgery.) I have my health (meh), I have a job (double meh), I have a good home (with shitty heating, so pardon me while I go light a fire now). You're maybe bored of reading about my infants. Certainly you're bored about reading how much formula they drink, and I'd understand that. You probably want to smack me much like the Waitrose driver. After reading this post I want to smack myself, actually. Sorry about this.

I try to talk myself out of the blues - Big deal that they're too small! They're happy! They're healthy! They love pears! They're not bleeding from various orifices! Soon they'll be solving complex calculus equations during potty training sessions! Ignore people's worries about their size and just enjoy them! It nearly works, but when other people worry - especially health professionals who, you know, know things - I catch on to it like the bubonic plague.

I'll shut the fuck up now, and promise some non-baby posts next week.


-H.

PS-many thanks to my anonymous benefactor (there was no sender information with the sweet note included from Amazon). This spectacular book arrived yesterday and cheered me up. I can't wait to read it to the babies, thank you very much!

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February 21, 2008

Fairy Tales Can Come True

One year ago today, a second pink line showed up.


Hi. I'm Pregnant.


Right now, upstairs, my son and my daughter are sucking their thumbs, fast asleep.

Fairy tales can come true*.


-H.


*And if it's what you're looking for, I hope it can happen to you.

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February 20, 2008

I'm going to live to be 103! I play safe for you and me, cause I'm no fool!

Last night we watched a special on how to live life into your 100's. It was a bit of an eye opener, especially for someone like me who once swore she'd never make it to 30 (and I nearly didn't, but hey - we all fuck up our expectations from time to time).

My family isn't great in the longevity department. I have two grandparents still around who are in their 70's, but generally speaking we tend to punch out in our late 60's. I'm sure a part of that has to do with tough lives, for some reason my maternal side of the family always seemed to get the real short end of the stick, including Great Depression living, wars, diseases, hard lives farming, and my great-grandpa worked his years in a tire factory leading to a lifetime of black lung. Real upbeat shit, really.

My father's side survives longer - we have my cantankerous and thoroughly mental Japanese grandma who will likely keep trucking into her 90's, driving everyone around her crazy with her juvenile and egotistical behavior. She's got a lot of chutzpah, that woman - she knows she's selfish and doesn't apologize for it. It makes you want to simultaneously applaud her and throttle her.

My stepmother's family is the one really going strong - her mother Nobu (who is in her late 60's) is very healthy and active, and my stepmother's family in Osaka includes her grandmother who is nearly 100. It's true, she's not doing well - she suffers from Alzheimers and when Nobu last visited her, she thought Nobu was a cigarette - but other than her mental deterioration she's physically in top form.

Angus' family live forever. They just keep going and going and going. He lost one grandfather in his prime to TB just after the war but the rest of his grandparents lived well into the 90's, his mother's father passing away just a few years ago at 100. He received his telegram from the Queen (which is tradition here if you see your 100th birthday) and then pretty much decided it was time to die. So he did. Angus' parents are very healthy and active in their mid-70's and show no sign of slowing down.

So conceivably, even though I'm 12 years his junior and women live longer than men, it's likely that he'll outlive me. If he gets his high blood pressure under control, that is. I've signed him up for the world's most thorough physical in March, including running on a treadmill while wired up to various devices and that whole "lubing up the two middle fingers" part, as he's never had a complete physical and I think it's important his health is checked. Plus seeing as I have to be over-gooed every three years maybe it's time he learns what too much lube feels like (or maybe that's one area where you can't overlube).

This programme we watched showed that Okinawans have the healthiest and longest lives, so maybe there's a gene in me somewhere that does have a connection to my Asian roots and I'll be tooling along gardening when I'm 106. But considering the fact that I'm both whiter than white and that I hate gardening, it seems unlikely. I have few Asian characteristics, apart from the round Asian face, an epicanthic fold, and the inability to drink very much without getting riotously drunk. Basically, I got the crap genes. Beyond that I'm built - and look - like a Russian peasant.

Living to 100 was once an amazing feat but happens with more and more regularity these days. How do I feel about living a long, long time? Frankly, I'm not sure. I fear losing my faculties (both physical and mental) as I wouldn't want to be a burden on any family member. And I wonder about quality of life. I'm not saying people in their 100's suffer from a lack of quality, but I'm not sure I could handle seeing my partner, my friends, my family, even potentially my children die before me. In my mind the older ones should go first, which seems to be a very "let's push grandma in front of the train" point of view, but maybe I'm a traditionalist there.

The programme summarized how to live longer by saying that the one key in most cultures to living to 100 is to eat no meat whatsoever, to undereat the daily recommended caloric intake of 2000 calories, to have complete and implicit faith in a deity, to never smoke, never drink, and to exercise every day. Follow these severe patterns to a T and you've got a great chance of hitting 100.

Angus looked at me. "I'll go earlier, thank you."

I didn't miss a bit. "Me too," I replied.

-H.

PS-our nursery initiation session is this afternoon. It's all I can really think about.

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February 19, 2008

Construction

I don't like talking about money, money makes me stress out badly, money reminds me of heated arguments. Money may make the world go round, but is also funds the divorce lawyers. I've mentioned a few times that as of March we're under serious belt-tightening, and the two largest reasons for that are nursery and the extension.

Growing up, my family didn't have much money. Like nearly everyone I know we lived paycheck to paycheck, and that continued for much of my adult life. Unlike my sister, my family didn't pay for my education or living so when I finished with a BA and half of my Master's (lesson learned - don't stop school, because you'll never go back) I was heavily in debt. I had the debt from my first marriage, debt of student loans, and the huge credit card debt I'd amassed just trying to get through school. I think I was somewhere in the region of $30,000 or so. Once I started working I hit a new low in income - Sallie Mae wanted their money back and each month $5.00 would literally make or break my budget.

It was hell.

As I kept working ferociously I kept getting promoted. Just before I left the States I had reached a point where I was earning good money and making a lovely living, but I was still mired deeply in debt. Debt, man. It keeps you awake at night.

When I moved to Sweden my ex-husband and I managed to pay off every last penny I owed thanks to two good real estate investments, and for this reason when we split up I signed over my portion of the house and all of the equity to him, as I felt it was fair. I was debt-free. Broke and with nothing to my name but a few Swedish pensions that won't be worth much in thirty years, but debt free.

Angus and I lived in rented homes for several years here, so I chucked half of my salary into savings. When we bought our house it was partly thanks to him selling one of their two homes, the home he got in the divorce. We have a house with a mortgage (and will have that mortgage for a long time, even though we pay more than the interest payments in order to cut into the capital) and a savings account to try to address the renovation.

Said renovation is to start in March.

We honestly can't wait much longer - Melissa and Jeff are feeling very uncomfortable and insecure about the fact that Melissa's room is also the guest room and Jeff, well he got usurped by the babies and now sleeps on the fold-out sofa in the study. It's important to be sensitive to their needs and ensure they feel like part of the family, an extension will give them their own rooms and the babies a room for them to share (which I support). We have no storage space anywhere. The antiquated heating is failing, and worse the ancient boiler has started to give up its will to live, right in the coldest week of weather we've had yet. Angus has only just managed to keep it going, but we're all in layers of clothes and the fireplace burns merrily in the afternoons and evenings. The windows, which are original and from the 1910s, are single pane and bleed energy out of the house. The kitchen, which we've always hated and always planned to replace, is falling apart.

We can't move, as the housing prices are soaring right now, and as I've said here we got this house for a steal. This house is also in a quiet, safe neighborhood in the middle of nowhere, a neighborhood where people look out for each other and always wave. The backyard is enormous, fully fenced in, and completely private. It's a perfect house to raise kids in...once changes are made.

In short, the time has come to renovate.

The sum of money for the renovation is staggering, and this is after we've pared it down to the bare essentials. Our savings will be gone in one fell swoop, not to mention that one bathroom and the new kitchen aren't budgeted for in the extension agreements and will be coming out of our own pockets, pockets already tight from nursery. It feels scary to fly without a net while parenting little ones. And it's a lot to think about, especially as Angus, the babies and I will continue living in the house during the renovations, which promises to suck on levels previously unseen. Both builders have assured us they'll use boards and tarps to protect the house as much as possible so that we'll be safe, but the bottom line is the babies and Angus and I will be living in two rooms of the house and I'll be thanking the lovely anonymous benefactor who sent us the playpen from my wishlist on a daily basis. Everything - apart from our daily living needs and the babies' things - is going into storage, as every room is being hit and a good chunk of the roof is coming off, too.

We're down to two builders to choose from, both of them accredited and checked out. One we call Captain America as he loves American Idol, one we call The Cowboy as he's a real go-to guy. We like them both but haven't chosen yet, which is ok as they won't start until mid-March anyway.

I'm looking forward to the other side of the building, to see what this house will be like, this house which we will live in for a long time. It's scary, though. It's a huge and very necessary change, but scary. I feel like everything is happening at once, at a pace I feel overwhelmed by. So if I get slightly more scatter-brained for a while, you'll know why.

Good thing I'm on medication.

-H.

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February 18, 2008

Thrown Into the Deep End

Angus and I and two slightly grumpy babies turned up at the swimming pool at the local council Leisure Centre on Friday morning. We were packed to the gills with anything and everything we thought we might need, and we were both wearing our swimsuits under our clothes.

My suit was chafing horribly because as I had slipped it on in our bathroom I realized that my triangular pubic patch had been a little, shall we say, unattended. It's not like it was insane, Robin Hood and Little John weren't going to burst out of the forest or anything, but it definitely needed some attention. I had gotten a waxing shortly before the babies were born, and although trimming was had in the meantime the hedge, it was looking a little uneven if you know what I mean. So I lathered up, addressed the situation with my Lady Bic, and sighed when I realized I had that telltale spray of razorburn.

Oh well. Better razorburn than Tarzan and Cheetah having a picnic on my thighs.

We go to the reception desk. I try not to itch my beaver. I am holding Nora who is dressed not unlike Maggie Simpson in her snowsuit, looking like a starfish.

"Have you booked?" asked the receptionist.

"No, but I have cash," I say, pulling out a crumpled ten from my jeans. I left my wallet at home, figuring that two babies and two adults wouldn't cost more than ten quid.

"You haven't booked?" she asked me, looking at me incredulously.

"Um, no," I reply.

"Really?"

"Really." What's with the booking? What, do they need commitment, DNA, or a post-coital cuddle?

"All the other mothers in the course have booked in," the receptionist says, indicating a glass door through which some mothers have already absconded. I peer through the door and see the teaching pool, with mothers bouncing babies wearing those orange inflatable arm thingys that always make me feel like kids have day-glo marshmallows strapped to their biceps.

"I didn't know we had to book."

"It's a course, you have to book into the course," I am reprimanded. So all of the good, nurturing, attentive mummies have booked! It's a course! They booked the course! Naughty, negligent mummies haven't booked! Negligent mummies just turn up and throw a nasty tenner on the counter!

"Can I book in the course?" I ask wearily.

"It's full."

"Of course it is." I'm so glad I'm going to have ingrown pubes for this.

"But you can try to book into the next course, which starts in April, although the Mums already in the course have first right of refusal."

Great. It's an aquababy cartel.

We sigh and leave. When I ring the center today they tell me that I can try to get in to the April course if I show up on their doorstep by 6:30 am on March 29, and even then I may not get a place.

Maybe our kids will be into bike riding, instead of swimming.


**************************


Statia and April have recently posted photos of their bookshelves for their kids. This is a point of contention for me, not because they have books and bookshelves, but because I really don't. My babies, they're lacking. When the babies were coming you'd have thought that since reading is and always has been so important to me I'd get off my ass and do something about it. But the truth is, it kinda' slipped my mind. I got some books from Statia and Donna, but now I wonder where we go from here.

When I was a kid we had hundreds and hundreds of books. I can't even fathom how many books we had, we had everything. I used to be a voracious reader, and a lot of my books lasted many years, and then went to my sister. I had it all - all the Dr. Seuss, mass quantities of Little Golden Books, books for older children like the Amelia Bedelias and Mrs. Piggle-Wiggles...you name it. I was there.

I suppose I always thought I would get my hands on that stock someday, but it's obviously not to be. I have only two of the books from my childhood, which are cheesy but I love them still. And maybe I'm approaching this wrong, but I want to integrate their book collections with books I loved as a kid as well as books that are of their generation - I typically think children's books tend to be timeless, and I love looking at their books and feeling that we might be connected, my culture and this culture.

Now that the babie are aware and awake more, they're getting into sitting on our laps as we read to them. They love this one from Statia, and Nora in particular can sit still for telling after telling of this book that Elizabeth sent. So I've been scouring the internet for used copies of books that I used to love and that I think they might love, because a) used copies are cheaper and b) I think there's something lovely and romantic about holding copies of books that were held and loved by other babies. Also, see a) again.

The problem I'm having is there aren't a lot of my childhood favorites over here, for obvious reasons. Dr. Seuss is difficult to come by over here, Silverstein is here but expensive, and my mind is going on other titles. I just can't think of any. I have some of the usuals - a few Eric Carle, I'll Love You Forever, Guess How Much I Love You, Runaway Bunny (that one is also very popular) and Knuffle Bunny. I've ordered some Boynton, Numeroff and Dr. Seuss books as well as this one I loved as a kid, but beyond that, what am I missing?

Help is needed. I've got a list going, if you can help me think of what else are "must haves" for babies to read, I'd really appreciate it - for books from either side of the pond, actually, not just from the States. I simply can't think of what books I might be missing. My brain, she is broken.

-H.

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February 15, 2008

Eat to Live and Live to Eat

The health visitor came, she saw, and she conquered.

Or something like that.

Both of my peewee babies continue their downward slide down the percentiles - they're gaining weight but not nearly enough weight. As Nick is about to head out of the 0.4 percentile into No Man's Land, something had to be done. The babies are healthy and alert, you can't see their ribs and they're not starving, but they're not thriving either. Nora, especially, is a struggle to feed and both babies have been stuck drinking the same amounts for months now, refusing to go up.

So the health visitor suggested we start with solids, and we resigned ourselves to it. Angus was ready to give them solids ages ago, while I've been holding out hoping they'll at least be graduating from university before I had to admit it was solids time, or barring that I was hoping to get to 6 months old. She also warned us that one or both babies might not like the food as the texture is too new.

The health visitor, she knows her stuff.

It's been 3 days of solids now, and they're doing much better. Nora actually likes the stuff, and Nick? Well at least he's stopped gagging. Once a day they get very, very milky rice cereal mixed with banana, which we wash down with regular gulps from their bottles. Do I like doing this? No. Do I think it's important for their health? Yes.

We're hopeful they start to put on weight now, because it's desperately needed. If things don't improve we're looking at a referral to the doctor, because they should be gaining weight better than they are.

We videoed the first two feedings, which I present here for a very short time.

Yes, that is me being a parrot - Roooock! Polly want a cracker! Rooooock! He doesn't like it! Roooooock! I don't think he likes it! I'm an idiot and that's all I know how to say!

And yes, that is us laughing in the background because we're very mean and cruel parents who laugh at the expressions our children - and our son in particular - make.


If you think they hated us then, just wait - their first swim class is in an hour. Talk about hatred, baby.

-H.

PS - the YouTube link wasn't working earlier, so I pulled and re-loaded the clip so it should be ok now.

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February 14, 2008

Crustaceans, As Promised

On Tuesday the babies and I decided to go to the shop to buy the ingredients to make Statia's Lobsta Bisque for Angus' Valentine's Day dinner. Lobster isn't easy to come by, and I thought the bisque, served with some crusty bread and far too much alcohol, would be popular. So after the morning feed, the babies and I loaded up into the car and headed to Tesco's.

Once there, the three of us were delighted to see that the lobster, she was sold out. I managed to buy a few random things we needed-formula, a cot gallery for Nick and a swimsuit for Nora (the four of us are going to baby swim classes tomorrow. Knowing the babies' love of showers and baths, I've no doubt we'll be pretty unpopular.) There were no boy swimsuits apart from a teeny tiny Speedo, which was a step too far for me - grown men should not wear speedos, let alone infant boys.

While shopping, we got the requisite amount of "Oooooooh, twins!" comments, including one woman who may have been about 90 and wouldn't let go of Nick's foot, leading me to wonder what kind of assault charges I may get hit with and if the press would have an issue with me mowing down an old lady.

As the lobster was what we needed but hadn't gotten, the babies and I drove to Sainsbury's. I was taking a chance here, because it is as Erica once commented - with twin babies you can run an errand, but there can be only one (ha). More than one and you're looking at a meltdown.

I had to chance it.

We went to Sainsbury's, the babies very awake and bordering on being pissy.

Hurtling around the shop I saw a sale on one of my favorite Sauvignon Blancs. I grabbed 6 bottles (you get a 5% discount if you buy 6, so, you know, it makes sense and all). The bottles clinging alcoholically in the trolley, we kept moving.

Nick started to squirm. I managed to find him some swim trunks in size 3-6 months, which luckily has a drawstring as otherwise he's going to have to tuck those fuckers up under his armpits. Great - my kid, the aquatic Elmer Fudd. The swim nappies even were way too big, the tiniest size fits a baby roughly twice his weight. Giant swim trunks it's going to have to be.

A woman stopped me as I hurtled towards the freezer section. "Hi, I'm with Sainsbury's energy supplier, and we'd like to talk to you about your energy uses. Do you know who supplies your home's energy?"

Yes. "No, my husband does it," I shouted over my shoulder, at once stabbing feminism in the mooncup in order to escape a shouty baby scene.

Passing the feminine products aisle, I stop. I see a box of brightly wrapped, interesting looking condoms including some with "heightened sensitivity for her pleasure" and "added touch lubrication for greater feeling". I think about it - contraception isn't an issue with us, but isn't it a bit naughty? Isn't it....lighthearted? I pick up the party pack of condoms and wing it into the cart, next to the 6 bottles of wine and the tiny swim trunks.

Final stop - the freezer section. Nick is beginning to squirm. Nora is sucking on the side of her coat. I'm running very low on time. I spot a shelf full of frozen lobsters.

Score!

Winging one into the cart, we hurtle towards the check-out.

The cashier - an older Scotsman - rings us up, looking at things as they go past his scanner.

Beep! The swim trunks, which are definitely too large.

Beep! The bottles of wine. The guy doesn't even ask for ID, I'm not sure if I should be pleased or depressed. The bottles make a clanging sound as they roll down the belt, sounding decidedly needy and making me want to exclaim loudly that I won't be finishing all of these in one night, thank you, it'll take me at least two nights since the demise of my favorite bendy straw.

Beep! Go the party pack of condoms. The cashier looks at them. He looks at me. He looks at the twins, now fussing angrily in the cart. I can read his mind. Shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted, are we lady? he thinks. Maybe investing in some premium latex would've suited you a year ago, instead of now? I feel defiantly embarrassed. This better be a good fucking Valentine's Day.

Beep! BOOOOOOP! goes the lobster. The guy scans it again. He looks at the screen. Something is amiss.

"I'm going to have to call the manager," he says sadly.

Over lobster? "OK," I say, trying to manage my increasingly nuclear children.

The manager comes over. He scans the lobster. He reads the screen.

He turns to me. "I'm sorry madam, I cannot sell you this lobster."

Fuck.

What? "I'm sorry?" I counter. I see spit up on the front of my T-shirt. Oh, and on the cuff of my jacket, too. Nice. "Why not?"

"When scanned it says 'item not for sale', I'm afraid," he replies.

It's the spit up. I look lower class.

"I came here specifically for the lobster," I say tiredly.

"I'm very sorry, we can sell you everything else you need." He points to my other goods. He sees the condom party platter. His eyebrows go up. Can we all just get past the rubbers, I silently plead.

"But you can't sell me the lobster?" I beg. It's because of the condoms. I shouldn't have included prophylactics in my selection, it's pointed to me being not worthy of lobster. People buying lobster don't buy other products that include the words "for her pleasure".

"Sorry, madame, no."

I consider grabbing the crustacean and running. I could outrun them, even with the babies. I picture me opening the cardboard box and letting the lobster out, making the sign for "free" to the lobster and looking like Helen Hunt from that monkey movie I used to watch as the lobster escaped into the sunset.

Of course, the only problem was that:

1) there is no sea around us.
2) the lobster was already cooked.
3) and frozen like a seafoodsicle.

"I think the lobster's been recalled," says the cashier.

"Well maybe removing the entire shelf of them in the frozen section is a good place to start," I say frostily, much like the lobster the manager is carrying away from us.

Nick explodes.

I pay and head to the car, where we drive home with swimsuits, a whole lotta wine, and more condoms than I know what to do with.

Happy Valentine's Day.

-H.

PS-Angus also got this print from me, as I think it sums up our history.

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February 13, 2008

Of Course

I had another post lined up this morning that was more upbeat (it involves lobsters! Lobsters! And what's not funny about crustaceans?) but then I had to call the nursery* to arrange a "settling in" date for the twins to go and meet the staff, their own personal carer (it's the law here that for infants you must have one adult per two infants, so they'll get their own), go through routines, and just get to know things and now I'm beside myself all over again and I have a big lump in my throat which I'm going to blame on a cold instead of the other obvious choice because I have a full-on day today and I will not break, I will not I tell you, especially as the really nice health visitor is due here any minute and she'll definitely suggest upping my doses if she shows up and I'm reinacting Knots Landing level of drama.

It's also causing me to create massive run-on sentences, apparently.

Phone calls can do that.

-H.

* Of course I had to pick a nursery that has the same name as a gardening nursery in the same town, and of course I rang the gardening nursery instead of the child nursery only to learn, after speaking to three people and no small amount of confusion and stupidity on my part, that as I have twin babies instead of twin rhododendrums I was likely looking for the other nursery in town**.

** Hey, another run-on sentence. Who saw that coming?

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February 11, 2008

The Daily Grind

I haven't been sleeping so well - the medication is supposed to be fixing that, but it's not! It's not I say!

*shakes fist angrily at pharmaceutical gods*

I still battle with anxiety, which now is coming through loud and clear in my dreams. Because sleep isn't fraught enough, I guess. The other night I dreamt that Angus had convinced me to leave the babies home alone for 12 hours so we could attend a folk music festival where he would practice his folk guitaring and I would sing along.

Yeah, there's so many things wrong with that sentence that I'm not sure where to begin.

I think that one is related to a great big huge millstone around me neck, though. I was dreaming about panic in leaving the babies. I felt out of control, held to a wall. And I guess that's the case, as in exactly three weeks I have to return to work as my maternity leave ends.

We are a two income family. That's the way it has always been, that's the way it will always be. We are not wealthy but we get by, and part of getting by has been the fact that both of us work. We can't move to a cheaper house as we got this one at a bargain price and we need rooms for all the children, the two who live with us and the two who are a huge part of Angus' heart. We can't trade our cars in for cheaper ones, as one of them is a company car and the other one is a 1997 piece of shit with 165,000 miles on it and more dents than Evil Knievel's favorite bike. Last month the horn fell off on it. It doesn't get any more real than that car, but at least it runs and thus we'll keep it for now.

If anyone feels their fingers itching to lecture me about having the babies in day care, that I should stay home, that I shouldn't leave them to the mercy of "someone else raising them", then see this post as a refresher.

I'm not happy about returning to work, I would love to stay home with them, but it doesn't work that way in our household no matter how much we fiddle with the numbers. I'd appreciate it if no one suggests that there are ways for us to make it work, because unless you're me or my accountant, then you don't know my situation. Considering the fact that I don't have an accountant, unless you're me you don't know how many times I've been through the numbers. It just doesn't work. Even crunching the very scary numbers that day care will mean - for twins, we're looking at paying almost £2000 a month, which is more than our mortgage payment - I have to go back to work. And once I'm back to work, with the day care and the extension coming we're going to be living life lean for a very long time to come.

I accept this. I'm a grown-up. I can't just move in with my parents and expect them to pick up the slack, I have responsibilities and obligations, ones that are important to me to meet. No one will be raising my children but Angus and I. In March the babies will go to day care 3 days a week, moving up to 4 days a week after that. I have structured my work week in agreement with my boss, so that I can be home with them at least one day a week.

I used to scoff at women who didn't return to work. I used to get angry at working moms who would scuttle out of the office at the stroke of 4 pm while I labored on into the evening. I used to use every sanctimonious trick in the book to belittle those who held family over work. And now I'm one of those women, and I owe an apology to every single working mom and stay at home mom that I ever crossed.

Being at a stay at home mom is without a doubt harder than my day job ever was, even at its worst. It's also one million times more rewarding, as I get more out of a smile and a good day with Nick and Nora than I ever did in saying I delivered a project on time and under budget. I would love to stay home with them until they patter off to school in 2012, but unless some great-uncle I never knew I had passes away and leaves me a fortune or unless some philanthropist swings by and pays off our mortgage, that's not possible.

I'm sure the babies will be great - the nursery they are attending has outstanding ratings from Ofstead. They'll be just fine, it's me that will go to pieces. And we do feel they should go to nursery instead of a nanny or au pair as we work from home most of the time and if the babies are home then I know I will absolutely interfere with whomever is watching them. I think it's only natural.

I've been having email dialogues with K who returned to work after the birth of her gorgeous son (hi K!) She's one of the few who know how torn up I am about this. She gave me some advice recently, which was to "Stop whatever needed to give kisses". So I've been doing that, and trying to soak up as much time with my babies as possible before I go back to work, so if I've been a bit quiet then maybe you know why.

I know this post is coming across a bit bitchy and angry, I'm not sure how to rectify that. I'm defensive, but a part of that is I feel bad. I'm not looking forward to a barrage of "Of course you should stay at home with your children, you horrible mother you!" that will pop up in the comments and emails and which will make me want to come through the computer and beat people with that folk guitar from my nightmare.


-H.

UPDATED-apparently comments are broken. Hopefully, they unbreak soon.

UPDATED AGAIN - comments back up and running.

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February 08, 2008

Bacon

On Wednesday I went to have my pap smear, done every three years here. The clock ran out, the legs had to be spread, the waddle (aka "hey that's an awful lot of lubricant you had to use there, did you expect I'd be as chafing as sandpaper?") to the tissues would be done.

In the past I'd take a bit of extra time and attention getting ready for these things. I mean, if they're going to be sizing up the woman bits you want them to look reasonable. But through the last several years of doctors, midwives, medical students, and Jesus, who knows, maybe the NHS tea lady who thoughtfully came round the ward with the caffeine four times a day, I am no longer remotely bashful. All you have to do is shine a flashlight in my direction and I'll spread them.

I head to the office while the babies snooze in their cribs, Angus working from home in the study. I sign in, wait, and pick up a 4 year old National Geographic. It has something to do with penguins. Or maybe it was global warming. Or penguins causing global warming, who knows. When my name is called I head into the room.

I walk in and am greeted by a nurse bearing the title "Sister", which never fails to make me giggle because I am nothing if not hopeless and occasionally immature. She greets me with pleasantries - how are you, lovely weather today, aren't parking fees a nightmare - and then starts to collect my data for the computer.

"Do you have any children?"

"Yes, two."

"Ages?"

"Four months old."

"Both of them?"

"Yes, they're twins."

"Oh how lovely. Have they moved out of the house yet?"

Um...uh...I look at her. "They've been looking around but prime real estate is so costly in this part of England. They may wait to move out until they're 5 or 6 months old instead, see what happens with the interest rates."

The nurse stares at me, then shakes her head. "Sorry, yes, of course they're infants. I have twin sons, they're 30 and still living at home."

Oh, so we were just projecting there.

"Have you had an internal exam before?"

I'm almost 34. I've had one hundred thousand people looking up my hootch this past year, including getting fingered by no less than a dozen people with latex glove foreplay. I'm more familiar with the structure of my uterus on a grainy ultrasound TV than I am the back of my elbow. I think I'll be ok here. "Yes," I answer with a smile.

"Planning on having any more children?" she asks, filling out the last of the paperwork.

Planning? Nope. Not planning. "No, no more babies."

"Shame," she says idly.

It is, actually.

They say that after you're pregnant, your body has a way of forgetting what pregnancy was like. I always blew the notion off, forget how pregnancy was, please, but there's something to it actually. I know I had a hell of a time, I remember that I had restless leg syndrome, I know I spent many a night screaming on the toilet as my bladder and kidney hung out, shredded, and I have seen video of me sitting on the couch panting like a dog as Nora bounced around by my lungs and diaphragm. I know how hard it was, and yet I have to sit there and think about it to remember it.

I absolutely hated pregnancy and I know that, I remember that. The part that I did love was finally meeting the inhabitants bouncing around in me, holding them and sniffing their heads and watching them grow. That part, it has been brilliant.

The truth is I have slightly changed position. I would love more children. I would love to add to the flock, but knowing that the path from here to there is fraught with IVF, knowing that my body doesn't do pregnancy well (it remains to be seen if I've done lasting damage to the bladder and kidneys), knowing that Angus absolutely positively doesn't want more (and I really don't blame him there-he's about to be 46 and has 4 children. Any more kids and he'll be a statistic) means that my brood, it ends here. From every single angle - financial, physical (hello kidneys? Razor blade peeing, anyone?), emotional, and time - we're all done.

And I accept that.

My kids were born in the Chinese Year of the Golden Boar, which some say happens every 60 years or 600 years. I say 600 years (don't wreck this for me, m'kay?) This is supposed to be a lucky year and children born during that time are meant to be good fortune. I haven't yet won the lottery, but I imagine if I keep reminding Nick and Nora they'll get right on that because what good are kids if they can't arrive in a lucky year and help you win the lottery? Sheesh. Always wanting something for nothing.

I'm not superstitious and I don't know how much I subscribe to astrology, although if I have a newspaper I will check mine out. But the Year of the Golden Boar (or Golden Pig, depending on where you read it) always felt like a sign to me. It was meant to be. Now the clock has rolled over to Year of the Rat, and with the passing of the Chinese New Year it's as though I'm putting things behind me. It's time to look ahead, while trying to celebrate the anniversaries as they happen.

When my exam is finished I slip and slide my way to the car (no one is that dry they need that much KY, lady. No one. If you have to shake the canister three times and then go for three long squirts of goo, you've just overdone it.) and head home to my little Golden Piglets.

-H.


PS-I had a long interview with a reporter from the Houston Chronicle for an article they're doing. Hopefully, something comes of it. I'll keep you posted.

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February 06, 2008

Triumph

Dear Pond,

Fuck you.

I win.


I fought the pond and the...wait...well I won, actually, so that song won't work here.


-H.

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February 05, 2008

Happy Birthday

For those unfamiliar with it, a round of IVF (called a protocol) generally works thus (and this is the easy version, I don't do the technical side of it):

1 - You are put into a state of menopause using a nasal spray (a few times a day) or injections (one a day) administered in the stomach or upper thigh. You want to keep your body from ovulating, have a period and strip the uterus back to the hardwood floors, and ensure your lining gets very thin. This part is called down-regulating, and it also allows the RE (reproductive endocrinologist) to be in control of your body and cycle so that you can be manipulated based on the many blood tests and ultrasounds they do.

2 - Once your lining is nice and thin and the ovaries are "quiet", you then throttle back the other direction and take a new drug once a day, also an injection, designed to kick the shit out of your ovaries. This part is called stims, for stimulation of the ovaries. You start producing eggs (called follicles as the eggs are contained in fluid-filled sacs). You keep taking the menopause-like down-regulating drug, but just enough to keep from ovulating, because if you do that it's party over for the cycle. You want a good number of eggs, my clinic believed this was anywhere from 6-20.

3 - Once you have lots of nice follicles that are nice and big (around 19-20mm), you take a final shot, called a trigger shot, and you stop taking the other two injections. This is a hormone like hcg, which is the hormone you produce when you're pregnant. This shot is designed to get the follicles ready to ovulate and is time bombed, as once you take it you have 24 hours before your body releases the follicles, only the doctors come in with big needles (and nice dreamy anesthetic) before that, and take out the follicles.

4 - At this point, you start taking progesterone (in the States it's usually a painful injection, in the UK it's usually a messy vaginal suppository) to get your body ready and get your uterus ready to take on new potential passengers. The clinic introduces the eggs and the sperm in a round petri dish, which is the norm if you're not doing something called ICSI, where they inject one perfectly formed sperm into one egg. Inside the petri dish your eggs and a dollop of sperm (if you've sacrificed enough virgins) become embryos.

5 - My clinic transfers embryos after 2 days into the nice comfy uterus-some clinics go 3 days or even 5 days, when the embryo was become something called a blastocyst, which is what embryos become before they are supposed to implant in the uterine wall.

6 - Thus starteth the dreaded two week wait, or 2ww, during which time you wait and see if the embryos will take or not, and by take it means implant in the uterine wall and keep dividing and growing more cells. A pregnancy test or blood test after two weeks will provide the answer, provided you haven't already lost your mind during the process.

Throughout the last IVF round I had, I was worried. My body wasn't responding well, I was donating half of my eggs to another woman but concerned I wouldn't even have enough to donate, and my mind was all over the place. I was so stressed about the donation, worried about the other woman, worried about her cycle, her thoughts. I was scanned a million times I think, throughout all of my IVF cycles I saw my insides so many times that I know more about how my uterus looks than how my elbow looks.

I had egg retrieval and got only 8 eggs, 4 of which went to another woman (who did not succeed with my eggs, unfortunately). Of my 4 I was allocated only 2 were mature. The 2 mature eggs were matched with Angus' sperm in a petri dish.

When they were presented to us two days later, the situation wasn't good. At two days old I had two Grade 2 3-celled embryos. Grade 1 is the top-notch, textbook, "looky-here we'll have good odds of getting a baby" quality. Grade 2 is "not bad, but not great". 3-celled was also not great, I would've hoped for at least a 5-cell or even a 4-cell.

The RE advised us to put both embryos back, as twins were unlikely, but they hoped for the best regarding my embryos and they did get pregnancies from embryos like mine.

We'd brought the camera with us for a change, and Angus got a snap of the embryos on the TV screen just before they were loaded up into a catheter and put back in me. Despite our numerous IVF attempts, this was the only time I've ever gotten a photo of the embryos before they went back in. The embryos were dividing just as they were about to go back in, so my 3-cell grade 2s became 4-cell grade 2s.


On board


This was two days after they went in, removed the eggs, and married them up in a petri dish.

That happened a year ago today.

One year ago today, right about lunchtime, our children were created.

I am overwhelmed, awed, humbled, and emotional. I can't get my head around it all, it's all honestly too much for me to handle, I feel like a wreck. I cannot believe such a crappy cycle and such "meh" quality embryos would turn out like it has. I cannot believe the sheer, unmitigated joy our 3-cellers bring to my life.

I cannot believe that three cells turned into billions of cells.

And it all began one year ago today.

-H.

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February 04, 2008

90 Seconds

IVF is hard.

Spiritually, logistically, emotionally, physically, financially.

They never tell you that when you get through a cycle successfully, you'll be on your own. You spend so much energy hoping and wishing and begging various deities to make it work that when it does you don't know up from down, left from right. You know so much more about the human condition that every worry is that much more profound, that much more serious. You know about implantation rates, how long until a heartbeat should appear on-screen, and hoping and praying that the bleeding you have is indeed a much-Googled subchorionic hematoma and not a miscarriage. You envy women that have lovebites and hangovers from their success at pregnancy, as what you have are bruised stomachs and thighs and more people peeping into your crotch than a three ring circus.

And throughout it all - the medications, the clinic visits, the ultrasounds, the statistics - you constantly feel as though you are 90 seconds from disaster.

90 seconds.

It could all be over just like that.

You spend your entire pregnancy on pins and needles being that much more aware of everything that's going on, not because your pregnancy is more special or dear than any other woman's, but because the stakes are higher, if your pregnancy ends it will be that much harder to try again. A loss is a loss, be it a natural pregnancy or one at the end of a catheter, and the pain is just as terrific in either case. It's just harder to try again if you can't go the conventional route, something you are constantly cognizant of.

Pregnancy itself may turn out to be spectacularly hard. I never expected the hospitalizations, the kidneys going on strike, the pre-eclampsia, the premature births, Nick's short stay in Special Care. You don't see these things coming and you're aware, so very aware, that the 90 seconds still exist even when you can count the wrinkles on their foreheads.

When you do get a baby or two in a little to-go container from the hospital, you feel that much more anxious. You have one (or two). How in the world can you make sure they know how crazy you are about them, how so goddamn grateful you are for them that it takes your heart and squeezes it into little bits before mashing them together and throwing it back into your chest? How do ensure that they grow up feeling secure and loved every minute of every day, so that they don't turn out to be like you? How can you possibly ever pay back the debt you owe to the universe for letting your 90 seconds turn out ok?

I've been diagnosed with post-natal depression, although mine comes in grape-and-anxiety flavor. I'm not depressed, as I've been down that road before and I know what it feels like, and this current state doesn't feel like that. I'm not going to be a statistic on TV and I pose no danger to myself or my little ones. What I am, instead, is deeply anxious and worry more than my usually neurotic self worries. I can't stop thinking, which for someone who already over-analyzes it means I feel like I may soon blow a fuse. The anxiety has been affecting my ability to sleep and that's where I have to draw the line. This week and month we hit a lot of milestones and anniversaries, all of which are far too much for me to handle right now, so this blog may have a distinct baby/IVF flavor about it for a short while, sorry. I feel ferociously raw.

Blogland has had a number of shocking and terrible losses the past week. I do still read IVF blogs when I can, but I don't comment as about the last thing most women need is a link back to a blog where a woman has hit the equivalent of the baby lotto. But it feels as though the IVF gods have woken up from their deep slumber and realized how many successes there have been recently. Oh shit, they must've thought. We need to take some of these back. Early miscarriages, stillbirths, pre-term labor, losses of singletons and multiples, it's been horrible on a scale I haven't seen before. I'm not going to link to some of these women as again, the last thing they need is a link from a site with IVF twins, but one woman's loss in particular has made me grieve something fierce for her. It's not about me, it's about her, I just can't recall the last time something kept me awake at night, thinking about how she is, how she will handle this. I hurt for her.

90 seconds.

We all have 90 seconds.

I took 90 seconds yesterday to watch my infants sleeping while they held each others' hands.

Maybe if you have a spare 90 seconds today if you could go hug your kids, or your cat, or your friend, and think about the women who are so brave and strong and have lost so grievously, and maybe the gods will be appeased for just a little while.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:23 AM | Comments (24) | Add Comment
Post contains 872 words, total size 5 kb.

February 01, 2008

One Pill Makes it Smaller

Citalopram.

I needed help.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 05:08 PM | Comments (40) | Add Comment
Post contains 15 words, total size 1 kb.

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