Ten weeks down and minus a brief puking spell this weekend, I feel amazing. My strength is coming back and with it the motivation to pull this off and prove that FUCK YES we can do this. I'm elated even with the stress on new financial goals, space... Hal and I have already decided on two full names, one boy, one girl and will wait until we know the sex(es) before we come up with another boy or girl name we love as much as the two we've agreed on hands-down.
I go in for my second OB appointment on Thursday. Every two weeks I'll be checked, status quo for
high-risk multiples pregnancies. And yes, I know. I'm aware of all of the risks and worst case scenarios but I'm keeping focused, as I do, on the happy. I keep reminding myself of my aunt's healthy pregnancy with her identical boys and my great-grandmother's surprise triplets she gave birth to only a few weeks prior to their due date. All healthy and flourishing today as twenty-somethings backpacking through South America, eighty-somethings living boldly.
Even in my weakest state, I feel incredibly strong. Stronger than I have maybe ever. I got in a fight the other day with a man who cut in front of me at the T Mobile store. He was a misogynistic asshole and I went off at his face, I did. Possessed by the same force I felt weeks ago as I raged against the orange thief. All those years of "girls kick ass" stickers on my middle school binder and I finally believe it in myself.
When I was pregnant with Archer I felt reborn. And Fable, even in utero, has always been my happy place. And now these babes, (twinch-worms, as they will be deemed this week), are my muscle. Even in sickness, I feel superhuman. Craving fish and eggs like some kind of bodybuilder. (And yes. I'm gorging myself on fish. Because vegetarian I am during normal body months but with womb mates in my person, I am Pregnavore.)
From what I can tell thus far, these babes are my biceps left and right. Finally an excuse to flex for the mirror, roll up my sleeves.