In the past two weeks I meant to update this blog and redesign the page and update the title so that it makes more sense currently (like, I can’t say “expectant mother” anymore).
Yeah, that didn’t happen.
Here’s what did:
I was pooped and peed on no less than forty-eight (48) times, and sprayed with my own breast milk like a rap star’s girlfriend getting gratuitously hosed with champagne in a music video.
I have mastered the art of eating while walking, talking, and doing anything and everything on the go at the same time.
I have perfected the double feeding: One of you on each knee, on each boppi pillow, in each bouncer seat, on each side of “my twin brest friend.”
(I love you, Twin Brest Friend.)
I touched my toes, wore shoes that tied, dropped the soap in the shower and picked it up and held in my pee just because I could.
I was utterly flabbergasted by the capacity of my own voice to reach such high pitches, especially in the morning when I miss you already after a mere two-to-three hour span, “HI, angel bay-BEES! Good MORN-ing!”
I cried. A lot. At least once a day, often brought on my music. In fact I may have to ban music for a little–especially the Jack Johnson station on Pandora in case that “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” song comes on—in order to get through the day without having to explain, “Sorry, babies, Mommy isn’t sad, Mommy is crying because she’s happy…”
(I’m so happy my heart can’t take it.)
I also cried the two (2) times I went out without you because I missed you. The first time was in the driveway on my way to Home Depot to buy you guys a mini-fridge for your room. (Pretty soon the house will have a double set of everything, who wants to go up and down stairs?)
(Oh, and I noted that if I were single the best place to meet guys would be at a Home Depot 4:30 on a Tuesday afternoon for the male-to-female ratio alone.)
I completely disconnected from society not watching the news or reading the newspaper but instead watching only the shows that Nanny had on: General Hospital, The View, Dancing with the Stars, Oprah, movies on the Hallmark Channel, the Food Network…I watched Rachel Ray make chicken schnitzel twice and Ina Garten a chocolate cornucopia…
I looked at your father and realized that I love him now even more.
I ate a lot of cashews—not a baby/new-mom thing, just ate a lot of cashews.
I met the uglier, more powerful sect of the Pregnancy Police. This group is even more opinionated, more emphatic, more judgmental than their gestational counterparts, the unsolicited advice givers we encountered during pregnancy. They are called Other Moms. One Mom, for instance, scolded me for serving you breast milk at room temperature. It was as if I were like, “here you go, babies, here’s a nice warm glass of Drano!” At the time she made me doubt myself; she made want to cry. In retrospect, I should’ve offered her, how about a nice warm glass of shut the hell up?
–Some Moms are nice, though.–
One told me that when you guys are smiling it’s because the angels are talking to you.
And here I thought it was because you had gas.