Here we go

The last three times I've spoken on the phone with my dad, he has suggested that I start a blog. In my head, I have poo pooed this idea, thinking, "Do we really need another blog in the world?" But he has been persistent, arguing that it would be a great way for everyone to keep updated on the twins. And here we come to the real reason he has been so insistent on me posting my thoughts out into the ether. It is not that I am full of profound thoughts. Nope, in fact, my maternal mind is astoundingly forgetful these day. It is not that I lead an amazingly interesting life. Laundry, dishes, taxi service, nag. It is that I'm currently lugging around twin boys in my belly. That's right. TWIN. BOYS.

Upon hearing this, most people feel compelled to say, "Better you than me," or some other negative comment, like I've just announced I am carrying the spawn of Satan. Which, quite frankly, I find offensive. However, I try to let it go in one ear and out the other, along with all the really scary labor stories people feel compelled to tell me. I'll be perfectly honest.
When the doctor said I was having twins, I sat up and told him to "Shut UP!" and then proceeded to say "Holy Shit" for the next two weeks. But it wasn't that I wasn't happy that there would be two, but rather, that I was trying to figure out how to afford two of EVERYTHING a baby needs and how do you feed two, and hold two, and change two. You get it, right, TWO. Yikes. But it was a good Yikes. Especially as the road to conception had been long, bumpy and painful. And now that I've read every book on twins written in the last fifty years and joined a support group, the prospect of two seems perfect. I can't imagine having just one.

They have been affectionately dubbed Scooter and Skippy or Skippito. For those of you who are parents, yes, that is a reference to Skippy Jon Jones aka Skippito Friskito, the great sword fighter. For those of you who just said, "Huh?" You need to google him. He will make you bust out laughing. And noooo, we aren't really going to name them these names. I can just see it now, "Do you Skippy Wallace take so and so to be your lawful wedded wife?" Geez. But they had to be called something until we could whittle the name list down to a reasonable size of a hundred.

This is my first, and to be honest, most likely my last trip down the pregnancy lane. From the beginning, it hasn't gone, shall we say, smoothly. I have come to the conclusion that I will never reach the part of this journey where I am not worried or in pain. First, there was the "why can't we get pregnant" part, followed by a crazy round of painful and intrusive tests and exams. Note: if anyone ever tells you a HSG test will not hurt, they are lying. I felt like one of those cartoon cats who rocketed to the ceiling and was hanging there from it's claws. I'll spare you from any further details, but if you want to know about it, there is always good old google.

Moving on, once we found out why I wasn't getting pregnant, Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome--your eggs form cyst around them and can't fit down your tubes and eventually explode inside your ovaries. Sounds like fun, huh. Sorry, maybe I should have told you to google that too. Anyway, I began a round of clomide, a nice little pill you take for ten days. First and second round of clomide were a bust. In the infertility world, you get three shots at most treatment before they up the ante. So I knew going into round three, if we didn't strike it rich, the next step was going to involve sharp objects and the doctor being present at conception instead of my handsome husband. So I had a serious talk with my body, explaining it was time to get it together. Sadly, we were told round three was a bust as well. Apparantly there was no big O--ovulation that is. This left me with the decision of wether to accept my infertility, walk away and mourn. After all I had two wonderful step-daughters. Or to take the next sure to be painful step. While I was still deciding, I was requested to come in and give another gallon of blood so they could monitor my hormones. A week later, the nurse called me and said I was pregnant. I felt the stab to my heart, and politely explained that she must be looking at the results incorrectly because that was impossible. She insisted she was right and I made her check three times. I still didn't believe her and went in the next day for a retest. Shock and delight don't even begin to cover it.

And just when you think the worry and pain ends, ha. It was straight into the "please, please don't have a miscarriage" portion. To be pleasantly accompanied by the "throw up you toenails everyday, all day" portion. Currently, I am in the not so bad part. Except that last week, week 22, during my ultrasound, it was discovered that I am already dialating. Warning: this may be too much info, feel free to skip to the next paragraph. My cervix is shortening. My doctor has been monitoring it and will decide tomorrow whether or not to do a cervical cerclage. This is where they put in stitches so you don't continue to dialate. Yes, they put in STITCHES--THERE. The idea of them sewing my woohoo shut makes me want to hurl.

But enduring this procedure is a much more appealing option than going into preterm labor. Now at 23 weeks, my little guys weigh in at 1.3 and 1.1 lbs and althought there is some chance of them surviving labor, the chances aren't ones I would take to Vegas or anywhere else for that matter. If I can get them to week 28, they have a 90% chance. But that would also include a nice long NICU stay. If I could get them to week 34, we'd be great. So as you can see, we are in another worry and painful portion of this journey.

I'll keep you posted. For now, I am following doctor's bedrest orders and keeping my fingers crossed unil tomorrow.

Jenna