A Story of Small, Squishy People: My Breech Twin Homebirth


This is probably the longest post you’ll ever read on this blog, but I don’t want to cut anything. Feel free to skim.

During my pregnancy and in the few days after, I didn’t really want to share my birth story on a public forum. But I realized that reading stories like this (and these) played a large role in giving me the confidence I needed to make the decisions I made about my boys’ birth. I’d love to be that kind of encouragement to others if I can.

So here is my story, and if it serves to empower even one woman to take charge of her own pregnancy rather than living through it in fear or undergoing countless unnecessary procedures, it was worth getting out of my comfort zone to share. The point of this post is not to defend my decisions. I’ll just say that women should (must!) take the responsibility to educate themselves about what is best for their babies, then make the decisions they feel comfortable with, as I did.

My first pregnancy ended in stillbirth. Two months later, much to our surprise and right in the middle of moving from Guam to New England, my husband and I discovered I was pregnant again. Two months after that, I went in for an ultrasound based on my midwife’s suspicions. Almost immediately we saw two little sacs and two little heads, and everything changed a little.

Twins Ultrasound

I had been planning a home birth from the beginning, and finding out I was expecting twins didn’t change that.

I’m the kind of person who reads everything under the sun on a topic when faced with a decision. I’m also the kind of person who tends to believe that the less we mess with nature and our bodies, the better. I had read the studies and statistics that showed that hospital births weren’t necessarily safer; in fact, that they could be more traumatic for both mothers and their babies. I had read story after story of women who were forced or bullied into completely non-evidence-based procedures that were not only unnecessary, but harmful. 

I already had a foundational conviction that “high risk” by standard obstetrical terms isn’t always risky at all. I believed that twins are a variation of normal and that there is no reason to plan for a C-section at worst or an epidural, operating-room delivery, and early induction at best, both of which are standard protocol for twin delivery in most U.S. hospitals.

When I found out I was expecting twins, I emailed Glenda, my midwife. “How do you feel about delivering twins?” Glenda is amazing. She sent me this video:

She contacted another midwife in the area, introduced me to her assistants, and we put together a team and an action plan. There were no rules, no deadlines or timelines; Glenda was there to support me. “At what point would you feel comfortable delivering them?” I remember asking, thinking that she’d want my twin pregnancy to be as textbook as possible in order to deliver at home. “When would you feel comfortable delivering at home?” she asked.

Many of Glenda’s responses prompted me to do more research and soul-searching of my own. When would I feel comfortable having the babies at home? What if they came early? How would I know when it was time to transfer to the hospital—if that even became necessary? I couldn’t make those decisions at 12, 16, 25, or even 30 weeks. I knew I had to be okay with a hospital transfer if it became necessary. I also knew that my decision shouldn’t be based on an arbitrary number or textbook protocol. According to the textbooks, I should be in a hospital operating room anyway. Because twins. But I had done enough research to know that the textbooks and standard protocols are often wrong, and Lord willing, my pregnancy was going to defy them.

The entire pregnancy was terrifying and beautiful. Despite my determination to enjoy every minute, I convinced myself that something tragic would happen again. I delighted in every wiggle and despaired whenever an hour would go by that I didn’t feel movement.

Around 25 weeks, I was about the same size I had been at 37 weeks the first time around. I was enormously pregnant. Everything hurt. And suddenly I couldn’t imagine feeling normal ever again.

30 Weeks With Twins

Manny put up with colossal mood swings. I wanted to go on a hike, wanted to explore a Renaissance Faire with my husband, wanted to stretch my muscles and have my body back to myself again, but my body wouldn’t let me. I even wanted to go for a jog. I hate running. But I would have paid money to feel like I *could* jog without falling flat on my face (or belly). That’s what every long day and every short week of my twin pregnancy felt like. Lots of sleep, but little real rest.

My blood pressure was high. There were leukocytes in my urine. Blood tests showed elevated white blood cells but nothing else abnormal, and because there were no signs of infection my midwife attributed the unusual numbers to twin pregnancy and told me to take garlic and echinacea, get all the rest I felt like I needed, watch carefully for any new developments, and go on with life. So I did.

So. Many. Braxton-Hicks. Around 30 weeks, I was thoroughly sick of being pregnant, and they became annoying. Every time I stood up, one would wrap around me—not painful, but powerful enough to make me want to stand still long enough for it to pass. It wasn’t unusual to have 4-6 an hour when I was up and active. They went away as soon as I’d sit down, though, so I started resting more and doing less. It wasn’t bed rest—it was more like self-imposed naps throughout the day, and they were heavenly. Thankfully, I didn’t ever have much trouble sleeping. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have coped with life well at all.

I started losing my mucus plug the last week in September. On October 1st, my husband and I were watching television and I timed 9 painless contractions in an hour. I was 34 weeks along. The combination made me think things were going to start happening, but… it was too early. It must just be another example of a twin pregnancy being more intense, I thought, though I knew that more than 4 or 5 contractions in an hour was reason to be suspicious. There’s no way I’ll go into labor this early, I thought. It’s just a fluke because I had been up so much that day, cleaning, cooking, and canning apple butter. I had an appointment with Glenda and my other midwife, Tammy, the next morning, so I shrugged it off and went to bed.

At my appointment, I told Glenda what had been happening, and again we discussed the prospect of going into labor earlier than expected. It was Friday, and I was 34 weeks, 6 days along, according to the ultrasound date. If I had been going by my own dates, of which I was certain, I’d be 34 weeks even. I still couldn’t decide about an absolute cutoff for hospital transfer, so we decided to play it by ear. Surely I wouldn’t go into labor that weekend. After that weekend, I’d be solidly in the 35 week range anyway, which had been something of an unstated goal all along.

Glenda’s perspective was that early babies needed extra care for sure, but that usually the best place to get that care was right on their mother’s chest—NOT in a hospital, where they would be whisked away and placed in an incubator. So I determined that as long as their heart tones remained strong, as long as I was healthy and confident in my decision, we would all stay at home.

I woke up from an afternoon nap around 4:30, spent ten minutes trying to get up off the sofa, and felt a huge gush of water the minute I managed to stand up. An hour later, the contractions were strong enough that I didn’t want to talk through them. Manny and my midwife’s assistant/doula, Tashina, worked magic to get the birthing pool set up and filled so quickly (thought it felt like an eternity at the time), and I could tell it wouldn’t be long before my first baby was going to be born by the time I stepped in.
Warm water has never felt so good.

Everything that happened after I stepped in the pool, I remember as a series of snapshots. Each one is crystal-clear, but they seem totally separate from one another, like I was present in hundreds of individual moments, and that time wrapped around them like a totally separated thing.

I remember someone saying that he was breech, and thinking kind of absently that he was supposed to be head-down.

I remember thinking that an epidural would be very nice.

I remember thinking that second babies were supposed to be easier than this.

Then his entire body was out except his head (Manny looks back on this part with horror).

T12072802_921097498141_4921615055306034193_nhere was an overwhelming sense of relief and I just wanted to be finished, to hold him, but it seemed like another contraction would never come to help me out. I’m not sure how long we stayed like this. It could have been two minutes or twenty; it was probably five or six. Tammy said, “Steff, next time you feel a contraction at all, you need to push as hard as you can. We need to get him out.” She was so calm.

“I don’t think I can,” I said.

“Well, I think you need to.”

There was no arguing with that. I evicted David with the next contraction. He needed several rescue breaths to get started breathing on his own; I remember asking if he was okay, thinking that he was remarkably tiny, feeling a little concern but also an overwhelming sense of peace and even more overwhelmingly, relief at the break in labor.

In fact, I think I was so happy to *not* be delivering a child anymore that my labor stalled out somewhat of my own volition. I could go for awhile without repeating that process, thank you very much—and my body obliged. An hour and a half later, I forced myself out of the tub to use the restroom. Walking made the contractions start up again (that had been the goal); I had to stop twice in the ten steps it took to make it to the bathroom and two or so more times on the way back.

Newborn Twin By the time I got back to the tub, I was determined. I was getting back in the water, and I talked myself into getting that second baby out. There was no way around it; Baby B had to come, and sooner was better than later. “You can come out now, little one,” I remember saying to him as I leaned on the side of the tub between contractions. “We’re ready for you.” Two hours and forty minutes after David was born, Micah came into the world, also breech, one hand up by his head.

Davey was tiny—so tiny that it was almost scary to hold him at first. He weighed just over 5 lb when he was born, and Micah weighed 6 lb. They each lost about 8 oz. in the days following their birth. It should be noted that they both had incredible amounts of very fluffy hair from the beginning.

Because Micah, the second one to be born, was a pound larger than his brother, he was more challenging to get out, and it’s his fault that I needed stitches afterwards (something I won’t soon forget and might remind him of when he’s old enough to be embarrassed about it). The fact that they were both breech threw a wrench into our plans, too. We had been so sure that at least one was head-down.

I feel like this is the point in the story where I’m expected to talk about how beautiful the whole thing was, and how it was such a special healing birth after Miriam, and how magical/ethereal/fulfilling it was to hold those babies for the first time. And I guess it was, in a way. But the truth is, it was messy. It hurt (go figure). I handled labor well, but everything happened so fast—and I think a part of me had so completely expected something to go wrong—that I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it and fully realize that I’m not pregnant anymore. I still wake up sometimes, see a baby snuggled beside me in bed because he won’t sleep anywhere but up against my chest, and think, ooh, a baby. Where did you come from, little one? And I still wish their sister were here to meet them.

Now, looking back, I’m surprised at some of the decisions I made—like not going to the hospital even though they were only 34 weeks old, or not getting more monitoring during the pregnancy itself.

I’ve always thought it was a little ridiculous when women talk about how they just trusted their intuition and knew things about their bodies and their babies. The truth is, I didn’t know that things would be okay, but for some reason I still had peace with the decisions I made. 12243484_10156224913015274_6911222073545422424_n

I am a believer in Christ. I trusted God with my pregnancy and had put it into His hands multiple times. But I also recognized from losing my first baby that trusting Him with everything doesn’t guarantee that it will be okay by my terms. Trusting Him doesn’t make life perfect, though in sunshiny seasons it’s tempting to think of it that way.

I trusted Him with Miriam and I lost her. I trusted Him with these babies and still wondered what would go wrong. He was (and is) still good. I doubted my decisions but prayerfully stuck with them, because they seemed like the best choices I could make. And I’m so thankful for every single decision that seems improbable or even unwise in hindsight. If I were in the same spot again, part of me would like to say that I’d do things differently—be more cautious, maybe—but I’m so thankful that everything happened exactly as it did.

And I’m very thankful to be through with pregnancy (and labor) for awhile.

Walking in the Woods

A Walk in the Woods CoverIf you have any outdoorsy spark within you at all, then certain books are bound to elevate that spark to genuine obsession. A Walk in the Woods did that for me in July.

The stupid book made me want to drop everything, buy a backpack, and go hit the ~2,800-mile-long-trail posthaste. Nevermind the fact that I’m 26 weeks pregnant with twins, and walking a single mile feels like a feat of superhuman strength and stamina.

Reading Bryson’s account of through-hiking the trail reminded me of hiking in and around the Blue Ridge Mountains with my best friend in college–spending Saturdays in the woods, far enough from classrooms and homework that they couldn’t quite touch us, logging mile after mile and then dragging ourselves to Panera afterwards for soup and sandwiches.

Anyway, the whole reading-and-reminiscing thing sparked a conversation with the hubster, who started an AT through hike with a friend several years ago. Sadly, they couldn’t finish because said friend injured his ankle. The hubster’s dream lives on, and mine remains on my bucket list–the same place it’s been for the past four or five years.

Knowing that about 90 miles of the Appalachian Trail runs through western Massachusetts, we decided to look up volunteer opportunities at the trail conservancy in this area. A few days later, Manny informed me that he had signed both of us up to help rebuild a bog bridge on a section of trail an hour and a half away by car + 1/2 mile by foot.

I protested on the basis of exhaustion and general aches and pains. I told him he might end up carrying me back up the trail. And then I went with him anyway.

We met a few scruffy-looking men who could have been 45 or 80. Apparently one was a ridge runner whose full-time job is hiking the AT from one end of Mass. to another to keep an eye on the trail, rumors of bears, fallen trees, and the like. They handed us some wood to carry down the trail, and down we went.

The weather was perfect–mid 70’s, breezy, clear sunshine and cotton candy clouds. I think I waddled the half-mile to the bog bridge and back half a dozen times over the course of the day, alternately carrying a piece of wood, a box of nails, or a hammer.

Appalachian Trail in MassachusettsI will note that the aches in my back and hips and the fatigue of walking, even while carrying lumber and tools, pretty much disappeared as long as I was out there walking in the woods (they all came back in full force later, sadly).

The hubster and I were also elected to walk another mile up the trail in the opposite direction to post a “Beware of Bear” sign near a shelter where a bear had decided to rob some unfortunate hiker of his entire food bag the week before. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the fuzzy fellow, but no such luck.

But back to the book. If you don’t want to come away from A Walk in the Woods with a compulsion to, well, go for a walk in the woods, probably don’t pick it up in the first place–even though they are making it into a movie next year.

The book itself is hilariously uncouth, captures an incredibly relatable ambivalent love-hate relationship with the trail, and is laugh-out-loud funny. I spewed the tea I was drinking dangerously close to the pages more than once because a particularly entertaining line caught me off-guard. Because of this, I’m calling it the Funny Book on my 2015 Reading List.

Because the spark of obsession was lit, I followed that read with Hiking Through, another AT book, this one from Manny’s section of the home library. It’s an autobiographical account of a former Mennonite hiking the trail after losing his wife to cancer. I respect this guy more than Bryson, but he’s not a writer, and his attempts at both poetry and humor fell rather flat. Still, it was worth the few hours it took to read it. I’m thinking these might lead to a whole series of AT-related reading.

I guess this is all to say that if one day in the not-so-distant future, you read here that the hubster and I are quitting life to take two kids and a dog on a six-month-long walk in the woods, you shouldn’t be terribly surprised.

Go Set a Watchman won’t ever be a classic, but I love it anyway.

Go Set a Watchman Cover

I’m just going to be the odd man out that defends this book as totally worth reading.

Fact: Go Set a Watchman was never intended to be a sequel to To Kill a Mockingbird. Watchman was written first, and Lee’s publisher suggested that the back story would be a more viable read.

Fact: The Atticus of Watchman is not the same as the Atticus of To Kill a Mockingbird. You could say he changed (for the worse?) with age and time, but it makes more sense to acknowledge that Watchman Atticus wasn’t the same man at all. He’s a rewrite, a different story, based on the assumption that Watchman would never be published.

Fact: The plot isn’t primarily about race, and if you start reading it thinking it’s all about race, it’ll infuriate you. Though race is a key element, the plot (and yes, I will argue there is indeed a plot, though many reviewers have rather vehemently said otherwise) is about Scout returning home after years on her own and dealing with the suffocating feeling that she never really knew the people she loved and trusted.

Fact: For some reason, I couldn’t put this book down. I read it through in one day.

I know that many readers who read Watchman walked away disappointed (inevitable for a sequel) and disgusted (inevitable in light of an honorable protagonist who looks at segregation as anything but clear-cut). In it, Atticus–a character we’ve long loved and respected–plays down the KKK and holds some fairly segregationalist views.

But this is a different Atticus. And though today’s America tends to make everything all about race and injustice, the story isn’t about race or injustice. It’s about a little girl who idolizes her father and thinks at least somewhat highly of most residents of her hometown. And when she returns as an adult, it all looks heartbreakingly different.

You can argue that’s not enough of a plot to spin a novel, and Lee’s publisher would have agreed–at least the first time around. That’s why we have Mockingbird. But novels have been spun on far less.

For what it’s worth, I loved seeing the way Lee made the story evolve. It’s a look into an author’s mind. What would we find if we could go back and read the stories Dickens discarded? We might not see the same Dickens we’ve been studying for years, but there might be a controversial gem in there somewhere that gives insight into the way a great writer thought.

And that’s what Watchman is–a controversial, insight-giving gem. Of course, most people don’t pick up a novel for its academic insight. And on its own, Watchman would never have been a bestseller. If it had been published in 1960, it would have faded into oblivion by now. As a standalone novel, it’s in dire need of a good editor. It will never attain classic status in the mainstream literary canon.

But Watchman strays from contemporary norms and controversies and deals instead with the struggle of moral betrayal and growing up as a very real, heartbreaking issue. Today’s audience sees those issues as worthy only of an eye-roll or addendum, not a novel. Watchman looks at race relations as a complex issue, with insight that goes deeper than the oversimplified everyone-was-just-unenlightened attitude we tend to cop about the South today.

We’d do well to look past the controversy (and our own assumptions) and into the human truth of this story.

This one is going to fall firmly into the 2015 reading list category as “Book with Bad Reviews,” but I certainly don’t regret the few hours I spent on it.

Rereading, and an Uncomfortable Bookstore Experience

To Kill a Mockingbird Cover It was almost closing time and I was browsing the “Favorite Bestsellers” rack at Barnes & Noble, wondering whose favorites could have possibly made it onto that shelf, when an older teenaged guy walked up. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

I glanced up from the back cover of The Girl on the Train and squinted at him.

A thick lock of black hair fell in front of his left eye and a thick swirl of improbable, artfully-cut sideburn approached his right. I almost asked him how he could stand to blink with that much fur approaching his line of sight, because that’s about how socially appropriate I’ve felt lately.

“Have you ever, uhm, like, picked up a book, and just couldn’t put it down?”

“Yes, that’s happened to me a time or two.”

He was so earnest and looked truly desperate for something, anything, to keep his mind occupied before Barnes & Noble kicked him out.

“Do you remember any of the titles?”

And then my mind went blank. I had nothing for him. There’s the junk reading I’ve been doing recently, but I couldn’t bring myself to recommend Cassandra Clare to that kid. And my (possibly unreasonable) judgment was that he wouldn’t appreciate any Dickens or To Kill a Mockingbird recommendations. And… what else was there?

Of all the books I’ve devoured and loved, I couldn’t figure out what to tell the kid. I asked him which genres he liked, to which he responded (most unhelpfully) that he liked them all fairly equally. Blah. Either the kid was truly desperate for a page-turner, or he was doing one of those freshman-psych social experiments in which you have to survey random people, and I was the failed experiment. He wasn’t quite awkward enough for that, though.

I need to make a list, I thought frantically. How can I not have an answer to this question? It SHOULDN’T BE THAT HARD. 

The thought made me think I need to revisit some of my favorites and reevaluate them. I did recently break my general practice of NOT rereading books to reread To Kill a Mockingbird. While reading it, it struck me that it’s a different book than I thought it was the first time around.

Many of the times I’ve tried to revisit a childhood book, I’ve been disappointed. Narnia doesn’t have quite the same magic on a second read-through as an adult when you already know what happens. It still has magic, but the magic has changed as much as I have. And it takes a special kind of mood to want to deal with that.

To Kill a Mockingbird is a different book at my ripe old 24 years (hah) than it was at 18. Scout is wiser now, less like an annoying kid. Atticus is nobler. I wanted to cry for Tom Robinson, and I wanted to cry even more for his wife and kids. I wanted to walk through the streets of Maycomb, which suddenly seemed like it must still exist somewhere in Alabama as the book describes, complete with its flying-buttressed mini-jail.

I wanted to rail at Atticus’s ridiculous tolerance of injustice against himself and his proclivity to walk in the shoes all the prejudiced, inexcusably self-serving people of the county–as much I wanted to rail at the challenging fact that he’s terribly, hopelessly right.

In a conversation with his daughter, Scout:

“You aren’t really a nigger-lover, then, are you?”

“I certainly am. I do my best to love everybody… I’m hard put, sometimes—baby, it’s never an insult to be called what somebody thinks is a bad name. It just shows you how poor that person is, it doesn’t hurt you.”

My 18-year-old self would have had something virulent to say about the names certain Maycomb citizens called Atticus, as well as his doormat-esque attitude. My 24-year-old self is confronted with the fact that Atticus is terribly, unarguably, biblically right. And realizes that ten years from now, To Kill a Mockingbird will be a different book yet.

So, rereading. Not as much for artistry (though there is that) as for wisdom.

I don’t think I’d gain much by rereading anything Cassandra Clare wrote, which is probably one of the reasons (along with acute literary shame) that I hesitated to recommend The Mortal Instruments to my furry bookstore friend. But I could stand to reread Bleak HouseAnd Vanity Fair, which I’m sure would mean something different now than it did when I was 14 and enamored with Thackeray’s turn of phrase.

So I guess I need to make a list of page-turners worth rereading, and then actually reread them. Later, after I finish Go Set a Watchman

Writing hypocrisy.

Yesterday, I was sitting in my non-air-conditioned Massachusetts home, holding a glass of iced water to my forehead, sweating, and writing an article. The topic?  Keeping your house cool in the summertime–without air conditioning. My client wanted suggestions like “Use fans! Open your windows for ventilation! Close your curtains against the heat of the day!” …and I’m sitting there writing about how wonderful those options are, how you can totally make a home comfortable without central air, while taking more clothes off and cursing my home’s failure to keep the house under ninety-something degrees.

Five years of copywriting has taught me just how ridiculous the world of content marketing can be.

When I was in college, I succumbed to the same crime of inconsistency. I wrote for the university paper, and one week I’d been assigned an article on time management and procrastination–particularly, how to complete projects well within deadlines. I had a week to write the article, but I ended up drafting it (with lots of excellent advice, I might add) half an hour before it was due.

I mean, what was I supposed to do? Go to my editor and tell her that I was sorry but due to personal failure, hypocrisy, and a priority system that put that paper near the bottom of my list, I couldn’t turn the stupid article in at all?

The worst part was being rewarded for such last-minute work. As a student, I often received feedback (from notoriously stringent writing professors) praising my hard work and attention to detail on the very papers I’d written between 3 and 4am the day before they were due. Too often, the stuff I actually spent hours researching, writing, and rewriting garnered a Nice try, but I’ve seen you do better.

How do you universalize an experience like that? Just stop trying? For me, the solution fell somewhere along the lines of taking the advice and knowledge of professors and then writing to my satisfaction, not to theirs. I got better grades that way (and, I daresay, wrote better stuff) but it took most of my college career to figure out that secret.

And yet. Some days I have no idea what I’m satisfied with when it comes to writing, because when I’m particularly tired, ANYTHING looks good. And when I’m particularly energetic, nothing even seems adequate. And when I’m uncomfortably hot, all I care about is finding an AC.

Such is life.

In case you were wondering.

Twin Boys I should knit a few little baby socks, I thought. It’ll be fun, I thought.

Then I convinced myself to wait until the 20-week ultrasound, at which I would find out the genders of the papooses. After all, I have a tendency to make little-girl things, and how sad would it be to expend all that effort on little Mary Janes if I ended up with boys?

I suppose it’s a good thing I waited to pick up the needles.

After the ultrasound, at which the doctor assured us it was pretty unmistakable that there were two little men in there, I thought, I’ll just knit two pairs of little blue socks and post the picture to Facebook and that’ll answer ALL the questions. Except I underestimated my own OCD and the time it would take to knit four teensy socks. I made the mistake of posting something about the ultrasound and healthy babies to Facebook, then took four days to knit those ridiculous little blue socks and make the information public.

As soon as I indicated on Facebook that my anatomy scan had gone well, my inbox was flooded with messages. It suddenly seemed like everyone had a very driving interest in finding out the genders of my unborn children. Some resorting to guessing or guilting, reminding me they had every right to know before the Facebook world at large. Others hinted at wanting “news” in so many circles that it made my head spin.

Shameless pregnancy selfie.

Shameless pregnancy selfie.

I don’t understand this at. all. Don’t get me wrong–I don’t mind the curiosity. I’m not irritated. It’s been incredibly entertaining. But it baffles me.

Perhaps because I’ve never cared been really invested in finding out whether my friends and family were having boys or girls–particularly early in their pregnancies. I will love those kiddos to death after they’re born. But at 20 weeks, I’m not going to be knocking you over for news.

Does that make me a terrible person?

If you’re the kind of person who’s been holding his or her breath waiting for this information, here it is. If, like me, you really don’t care much, my feelings won’t be hurt. At all. I totally get it.

And if I offended you by depriving you of this news for four long days, then… I’m not sure what to say. I’m sorry? Ish?

Neil Gaiman …and 19 Weeks Pregnant

American Gods CoverI thought I liked Neil Gaiman, and then I tried to read American Gods.

Actually, I might blame the previous month of blogging silence on the psychological trauma that constituted the first two hundred pages of that book.

I tried. Wanted to love it. Realized that every time I sat down, ostensibly to read and relax, I felt a tension headache taking form and a slight, but unmistakeable, wave of nausea.

Was Shadow supposed to be a dimensionless, remarkably boring character? Was the mishmash of mythology intended to be more irritating than it was interesting? What’s with the hallucinogenic-ish rabbit trails thrown in for free?

I’m guessing it makes more sense if you actually finish the thing, but really, you couldn’t pay me to go there again. Well, I guess you could pay me. But the price would be steep.

This ridiculousness makes Samuel Beckett’s style look eminently reasonable, believable, and optimistic.

Giving myself permission to give up on that psychedelic road trip was akin to the guilty pleasure of ordering a venti Frappuccino before breakfast. Sooo ridiculously good.

Maybe I’m just not cut out for the whole contemporary literature thing. That’s actually not unlikely.

Twin Pregnancy 19 Weeks Or maybe it’s hormones. This week, I’m 19 weeks pregnant with twins, more or less halfway through this crazy pregnancy.

One day, I felt like I could pretty much pass for a disproportionate, somewhat overweight person. The very next morning, my belly was preceding me everywhere, announcing to the world that I’m indeed expecting.

It’s getting hard to tie my shoes, roll over at night, and load the bottom shelf of the dishwasher. And I believe my toenail-painting days are over. Cue the wealth of well-meaning comments everywhere I go.

My favorite question: “Do you know what you’re having yet?! Are you going to find out?”

Um, human babies? I hope?

Next week’s ultrasound should give us the much-anticipated gender answer. Though I still don’t understand why relative strangers care so much. I mean, I’m not holding my breath to find out whether distant relatives and strangers in the grocery store are having boys or girls.

Next favorite question: “Wouldn’t it be AMAZING if you had one boy and one girl?”

I think it would be pretty awesome if I had two healthy babies. That would be miracle enough for me. Though I must admit, I’m hoping for at least one girl.

If I said every snarky thing that came to mind these days, I’d be well on my way to making the entire population of Springfield, MA hate my pregnant guts.

The poor hubster.

One extra rant that hits particularly close to home this morning: The baristas at my local Starbucks have proven they are more than slightly ignorant about the contents of a London Fog. Isn’t this relatively common coffee shop knowledge? Clearly not. Because the unsweetened fruity (!) tea-ish thingy I got last time I ordered one didn’t even come close to the right ball park.