So here we are again. Monday update central, and I can't help but think that holy shit, there aren't that many weeks left. I'll be thirty-weeks pregnant this weekend and then, six weeks more? Eight weeks? I don't know. "I don't know" feels like the theme of my life right now. Which is kind of the theme of my life always but now, more than usual.
As of last week's appointment, babies are measuring over 3 lbs each, which means they're still growing rapidly ahead of schedule. I'm well into my third-trimester now and amazingly, feeling much better than I did weeks ago. Maybe I'm just so used to feeling huge and uncomfortable that I stopped noticing last week. The pressure seems to have disappeared and I'm only half the bitch I was three days ago. Or maybe I'm just in no hurry to give birth (at all) so I've psyched myself into enjoying these last few weeks.
Whatever it is and no matter how ready I am in terms of gear and nursery, I'm scared out of my mind for the babies to actually ARRIVE. And even though I know they're here, spiritually and yes, even physically, they're a lot easier to take care of when they're in my body. Which is very much a wonderland at the moment, Mr. Mayer.
This dress (I tried to find it to link but Anthropologie no longer carries it. Bummer!) is one of the few maxi dresses that still wears well this huge. I wore it here at fourteen-weeks pregnant and although the fit was... different, I'm pretty impressed with its ability to still fit me well as a non-maternity garment. Jersey, you are the fab...ric.
fifteen weeks ago...
The great thing about being pregnant in the summer (and there is ONLY one great thing) is wardrobe. I don't know how anyone wears pants this late in a pregnancy. The panels are so irritating to me and tightness of denim-on-thighs when sitting down is torturous. I invested in designer maternity jeans my last two pregnancies and am realizing now how dumb that was because discomfort central. If I have one materni-wardrobe tip to offer it's this: splurge on a couple cozy dresses, leave the jeans. (Motherhood Maternity makes a great cheap maternity legging that are actually really comfortable, even still. I have them in black and gray.)
On Friday, before meeting my girlfriend for what seems to have become our weekly lunch, I hit up the MAC (cosmetics) store with a satchel full of empty eyeshadow canisters to recycle in exchange for a new lipstick.
I'm not a huge lipstick person so when the time comes to recycle makeup canisters I'm always at a loss as to which lipstick to pick. Last time I went with RED. Because, if you're going to buy a free lipstick, you might as well do something dramatic. Especially when embarking on a once-every-blue-moon-Vegas-girl-trip. Which is exactly what I thought on Friday whilst scanning the vast mountain of lipstick shades, prowling for something DRAMATIC! Something that says, FUCK SUBTLETY! COLOR ME BAD! Not that I'm going anywhere anytime soon, but that was precisely the reason I needed the hottest pink lipstick MAC carried.
Just as I was getting ready to smear "I'm-Passioned" across my lower lip, one of the MAC girls came scurrying over to me.
"It's okay! I sterilized the lipstick!"
Except that wasn't why she was running at me horrified.
"Your shirt!" she scream-whispered. "Look at your shirt!"
I looked at my shirt. Apparently on my quest to find the most obnoxiously slutty lipstick in the store, I leaned into a dozen or so shades of red. I hadn't noticed, of course, but there they were - a rainbow of red across my massive abdomen.
"Oh, honey! I'll fix it! You poor, poor thing!"
Except I didn't really care because this is what happens when you're pregnant - you bump into shit and spill things and look a mess 99% of the time.
But MAC girl was concerned. She would not let me leave the store until she "fixed me right up".
She scurried off and returned with a huge container of wipes and (I kid you not) started WIPING ME DOWN. Scrubbing the shit out of my shirt, stomach, etc.
"Does this tickle? Is this ticklish?"
Meanwhile, Mario Lopez' EXTRA segment must have just finished shooting because suddenly every Grove-attending tourist flooded into the MAC store, right in the middle of my hot-pink-lipstick-a-thon, MAC-girl-rubbing-me-down-with-wipes-in-the-doorway moment.
It was then that I noticed my sweat circles. I had put on a long sleeved (gray = bad call) shirt earlier that morning because it was one of the only shirts that fit me and also because it wasn't terribly hot. Yet.
Now, I'm a sweater, I will not lie. I sweat like a man. I get it from my dad. Thanks, Larry. But THIS? Was otherworldly. The sweat-marks started at my inner-elbows and stretched three inches below my bra strap.
So there I was with arms up, sweat-circles-a-full-on tourist attraction with sexy MAC chick on her knees scrubbing me down with baby wipes and me in hot pink lipstick on a Thursday afternoon. Hi, how's it going.
"You can stop now," I finally said. "It's just a little lipstick."
But she couldn't stop. She was on a mission!
Finally, after much insistence, she pulled away, revealing a soaking wet-from-wipes-shirt-still-stained-with-lipstick.
"Much better!" she said.
You guys, it was so much worse...
I thanked her for all her help and fled the MAC store immediately, but not before cashing in on my free lipstick.
My next item of business: tending to my pits in the Nordstrom bathroom, which of course, had a line fourteen people long, making my sweat circles that much worse. And by the time I got into the bathroom I had to pee so bad I forgot why I was there in the first place - to shove toilet paper in my pits to absorb some of the madness.
By the time I finally saw my friend, I was wearing hot pink lipstick, a gray shirt still wet from wipes, covered with seven shades of smeared-red and armpit stains down to my waist.
And of course, because she's my friend, her first words were, "Honey. You look amazing."
Bethany Winters, marry me.
As far as must-have gadgetry, I've just added a new item to the list. It's called the "multiples carrier" and apparently it doubles as a floatation device. As well as being all kinds of sassy it's also the portrait of comfort. I'm only jealous I'm not carrying triplets because the tri-model is MAJOR. Very torture device chic.
This week was pretty solid. Besides waking up one night choking on my own bile and coming very close to dying, I felt amazing. Besides the hot flashes, sweating through every item of clothes I put on, even with the AC cranked and the ceiling fans on full blast, I've been ROCKING this twenty-ninth week like it's my job.
We got a new baby pool (which is the size of my entire house) and spent most of the weekend inside of it. I took a two hour nap in that sucker and it was the best (and only nap) I've taken this entire pregnancy, which is apparently very bad. One is supposed to be napping full time whilst pregnant with twins. Uh... on what planet is that even possible?
Not this one.
Speaking of planetary objects:
The car seats arrived on Friday and I promptly burst into tears out of complete and total fear. You would have too, had you just opened the gate for the mail man, at the end of one of those days. I promptly hyperventilated. Opened the car seat boxes, hyperventilated again and then locked the things outside for the rest of the afternoon.
Later that night, while at the movies with my sister, Hal put together the Double-Snap-n-Go, which had been in its box for several days in the hallway, taunting us with its huge overwhelmingness. Together we snapped in the car seats, looked at each other and just laughed. And laughed. And laughed like this was the funniest thing that ever happened. And in a way it kind of is.
The three of us spent the remainder of the evening in the nursery, staring at the stroller and the car seat(s) and the crib(s) and the room and my belly, cracking highly inappropriate jokes to keep from taking any of it too seriously... Hal on the carpet in his sweat pants and Rachel on the ottoman and me rocking back and forth, all of us blinking at each other under recessed lighting, trying to imagine the noise that would soon replace the quiet.
Every week, it becomes increasingly more real and yet, in a way, not at all. No matter how many times I double up on sleep-sacks or bump against a row of lipstick or feel the girls kick in unison, it still feels like this is all a dream. I keep waiting for someone to say, "psyche! April fools!" but this is happening. There are two babies in there, growing daily, invisible strangers who are just as oblivious as I am as to what's about to go down.
I know nothing of what to expect as I'm expecting, a strange feeling when this is my third pregnancy. It certainly doesn't feel like I know what I'm doing. On the contrary. I feel like I'm trying to study for an exam in a foreign language. Come on Bec! You've taken this test before.
Yes, but not in Mandarin!
Not that anyone ever has the answers. Not that I ever will, even when I do (eventually) learn the language. Still, waiting is hard. Especially when you're in no real hurry to leave the waiting room.
In the meantime, even my body looks like a question mark.