mother’s day

When we were going through infertility treatments and struggling to get pregnant, this day was so bittersweet. I have a wonderful mom and a great mother-in-law. But the pain of feeling excluded from this day, because of the challenges we faced having a child, weighed on me.

This year is different for two obvious reasons and I am beyond grateful for our twin girls. They are smiling, cooing and starting to develop a little bit of personality.  It definitely helps make the long nights worthwhile.

But since I had the twins, a realization that had started to take shape when we struggled with infertility has continued to become more clear to me.

Motherhood does not happen to you, it happens in you.

Yes, it sounds totally cliché and trite, but bear with me. I did not magically become a mother on February 19th of this year. There was not a moment in the delivery room where a rush of hormones released a locked part of my brain, making me a mom.

Becoming a mom started a long time ago when I watched my own mom care for my sister and tried to imitate her with my doll I named Karen. It started in preschool when I pretended to be the mom when we played house. It continued to develop when I would babysit my siblings and neighbors. In my career, my instincts to mother grew as I learned how to nurture my coworkers and help those who reported to me achieve their goals. In volunteer work, I practiced and developed mothering skills with teenagers – one of the toughest and most rewarding groups to work with.

That being said, on February 19th when the doctors gave me my daughters to hold, I was filled with the requisite awe and wonder at our infant daughters. And while I loved them immediately, the moment was not transformative as I had previously imagined it would be. Sure, now I had the title, but it occurred to me that I had been doing the job, in one way or another, my whole life.

Am I saying that being a mother isn’t full of responsibility, challenges and difficulty? Certainly not. After being up most of the night with the twins, I have new appreciation for my own mother. I also have an even greater appreciation for my husband who was up with me, changing diapers, making bottles, rocking and burping.

But I also have a great appreciation for all the women in my life that have mothered me without having the official title. From teachers, bosses, mentors and friends, I have been fortunate enough to have a fantastic biological mother in addition to an army of women who have come alongside me and used their mothering skills to help me grow and flourish.

Mothering is encouraging, growing, nurturing, challenging, comforting, loving and caring for others, with little to no reward.  For the women out there who feel excluded from this day because they do not have children, I hope that this realization affirms the wonderful women that they are. It may not take away the pain and heartache of not having a child in your arms, but I want you to know that the amazing work you do in the lives of others is not, and will not be, forgotten.

And for everyone out there that has had the great fortune of having an army of mothers as I have had, I hope that you can take some time today to thank some of those outstanding women.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of the women who mother – you are all a wonderful treasure!

fuzzy logic…

Anyone who tells you that they operate just fine on less than five hours of non-consecutive sleep for days at a time is a liar.

But there is a remedy for the no-sleep baby blues: Diet Coke.

For anyone who knows me at all, you know that have had a love/hate relationship with Diet Coke.

I hate all of the nasty stuff in it.  I am positively certain that Diet Coke is probably one of the worst things I can put in my body.

But!

I LOVE how much work I get done while drinking Diet Coke.  I love how zippy I feel.

I’m not addicted, though.  I can quit whenever I want to.

Sure, you might snort at me and say, “Sure, Em, I believe ya.”

But really, I can stop whenever I want.  I don’t get headaches when I am off The Sauce (my pet name for Diet Coke).

And I’ve stopped before.

Cold turkey.

But for now, I am worshiping at the alter of The Sauce.

For as cute as the twins are, these sisters are not fond of long stretches of sleep in any consistent pattern. So if I’m going to be useful during a work day, I need Diet Coke.  Preferably in a 32 ounce container.  And, if I’m being picky, I like a wider straw – it gets the Diet Coke in faster.

I’d do an IV drip, but the IV accessories don’t really go with my outfits.

I have my priorities.

in the middle of the night…

In the middle of the night
I go walking in my sleep
Through the desert of truth
To the river so deep
We all end in the ocean
We all start in the streams
We’re all carried along
By the river of dreams
In the middle of the night

~Billy Joel, “River of Dreams”

I loved that song when I was in high school.

And now, 12 years later, I find myself walking in my sleep through the land of diapers to the babies in their cribs.  And when I get there?  They are usually crying.  Sometimes, for added bonus, they are covered in puke.

I love it.

I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I love holding them and rocking them and praying feverishly that they will NOT throw up on me (or Frank or Grandma) and that they WILL go back to sleep easily after their middle of the night feedings.

When I am rocking the girls and NOT praying for positive digestive results (“Dear God, please help Ellie move her bowels so that I won’t have to do that thing with the thermometer that the doctor told me about that sounds so terrible!! And dear God, please do not let Carrie puke down my shirt again.  If she pukes on my shirt, that’s okay, but if she pukes down it, I’m going to have to shower and I really, really just want to go to bed…”), I try to sing to the girls.

Ahem.  I try to sing because I am not a very good vocalist.  I have no ear.  And I have no memory for songs.

So in the middle of the night, I try to remember songs I liked growing up.  And I try to sing them as best as I can.  It usually goes like this, “In the middle of the night, I go walking in my sleep, to the river of dreams, in the middle of the night, I go walking…” and I realize I am in a death loop with the lyrics and heavens, I don’t even think I have the right lyrics!

When I come to the realization that I am about to permanently lodge a song in my brain with completely incorrect lyrics, I then make up songs for the girls.

“My name is Carrigan, I went to the fair again, I won a bear again, who has no hair again, just like me, I’m Carrigan.”

And Carrie doesn’t really seem to care much.  Singing a song that makes sense or doesn’t make sense does not seem to impact the likelihood that she will puke on me.

For Elliana, sometimes I sing to her, “My name is Elliana, I have a friend Gianna, we went to Tia-juana.”  But that’s as far as I get before I start thinking, “Well, I think it’s Tijuana, not Tia-juana.  And isn’t that where they used to race the horse they made the movie about?  Not Secretariat, but the other horse movie.  The other recent one.  The horse who won all three.  Gosh.  Who was that?”

And so you will find in my Google history that I have googled “Lyrics for Billy Joel’s River of Dreams”, “clumpy baby spit up”, and “horses that won the triple crown.”

By the way, Seabiscuit, the horse I was thinking about, did not win the Triple Crown.  War Admiral did.  But Seabiscuit won more races that year overall and more money.  So, I guess I can tell the girls that little factoid when I am singing to them in the middle of the night, when I go walking in my sleep.

To the river of dreams…

why I didn’t call Meghan back…

My dear friend Meghan called at about twenty minutes to five today.  Oh, the joys of receiving a phone call from an adult!  And, as luck would have it, I just finished changing and feeding the girls, so there was a happy calm over the entire house.  Ahh…. the calm before the storm.

At 4:50 p.m., Frank announced that dinner was ready and I told Meghan, “I’ll call you right back, we’re just going to have dinner.”  Yes, that’s right – it wasn’t even 5 p.m. yet and we were ready for dinner. To say that our biological clocks are a bit off would be an accurate assessment of the situation.

Carrigan was in the bouncy chair and I put Elliana in the swing.  About three seconds into eating, Elliana started squawking.  Frank picked her up to comfort her and discovered that she was all wet.

This was curious because she wasn’t wet when I put her down and she didn’t have any signs that she had spit up. Frank decided to check her diaper upstairs in the nursery.  Mistake number one.

While I was still seated at the kitchen table, I heard Frank discovering the horrors in our daughter’s diaper.

“Oh-oh-ohmygosh!  It’s a blow out!!”

“Do you need help?” I called up the stairs.

“No. But, ohmygoshohmygosh! Oh, ew… eww!!  Ellie! Oh, that is just – that is just EVERYWHERE!  You have got to be – ohmygosh – Ellie!  What did you do??”

“Are you sure you don’t need help?”

“Maybe.”  Silence. “Yeah, yeah, I need help.”

I thought I would feel differently about our first blow-out diaper.  You know how you imagine the romance of being proposed to, the joy of your wedding, the bliss of giving birth to your children, etc?  I thought that there would be mass hysteria on the streets below, a soundtrack of terror in the background and some sort of angry monster banging on our front door.  Instead, I could hear birds chirping outside the window, the sound of children laughing as they played soccer on the field behind our house and the roar of our neighbor’s engine as he peeled out of his driveway.  But in front of me was a nightmare of poop covering my child, her changing table, my husband and an escalating number of diapers.  Every time Frank attempted to put a new diaper on it, the stream of baby nastiness spewed forth.

“Ah, um, what can I do?”

“I don’t know – it’s everywhere!  It’s on her clothes!  It’s on my hands! EMILY! IT’S ON MY HANDS!”

And just then, as he was taking off her third diaper, Ellie stopped crying.  I cocked my head to the side.  Time slowed down.  When Ellie stops crying during a diaper change it usually means one thing…

“PEE!” I yelped.

And indeed, there was pee.

For. The. Win.

Frank and I looked at Ellie and she looked at us.  And she started crying again.

“Well,” said Frank slowly, “I think she’s going to need a bath.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah.”

Now, this is where I should’ve cut our losses and done what we knew worked.  I should’ve just given Ellie a sponge bath upstairs and thrown everything in the hamper.

But no, that is not what I did.

My mother-in-law suggested that we give the kids baths downstairs on the washing machine.  Initially I balked at the idea – I’d heard that washing the kids on a counter was dangerous because the tub could slip off the surface.  But after thinking about it, I figured that I could put towels over the washer and dryer and get a nice little bath system set up.

So, I lugged a bath tub, towels, soap, new clothes, a new diaper and a screaming, half-naked Ellie down to our finished basement.  I put Ellie in the pack’n’play and started getting the bath ready.

But her bath tub didn’t fit under the faucet of our slop sink very well.  I thought about using our floor-washing buckets to fill up the tub, but I felt that sent the wrong message to Ellie.  I went upstairs and grabbed our extra-large red tupperware salad bowl.

Frank, who was attempting to finish his dinner, saw me with the red salad bowl.

“What are you doing with that?” he asked mid-bite.

“I’m using it to give Ellie a bath.”

“What?”

“I’m using it to give Ellie a bath,” I repeated.

“Why?  Don’t you have her tub downstairs?”

“Yeah.”

“So what are you doing with the salad bowl?”

“I’m using it to give Ellie a bath.”

“In the salad bowl?”

“NO!  I can’t fit her tub under the faucet so I’m using the bowl to fill up the tub.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I went downstairs with the red salad bowl, filled up the bath tub, undressed Ellie and put her in the tub.

Ellie looked at me and I looked at her and then I heard the ominous sound of farting in a bath tub.

I looked down and saw that Miss Ellie had pooped in her bath water.

“CRAP.”

She cocked her head to the side as though to say, “Well, now what?”

“FRANK!  She pooped in the bath tub.”

Now, it’s worth saying that Frank does not like giving the girls tub baths.  He feels like he can give them a more thorough sponge bath than a tub bath.

He came downstairs and saw Ellie cold and screaming in her bath towel and me looking at the bath tub and announced he was going to give Ellie a spa sponge bath.

“Whatever.”

I cleaned up the bath tub (lots of antibacterial spray) and started the laundry.

When I made it upstairs, I found Frank and Ellie in the nursery.  Frank had turned on zen spa music and was carefully cleaning Ellie.

And Ellie was not crying.

“See?  Zen baby,” said Frank.

Frank taking care of our zen baby!

Zen baby, indeed.

Meanwhile, sweet Carrie was sitting quietly in her bouncy seat, staring out the window and plotting.  I’m sure she will not let herself be outdone by her sister.

Carrie staring out the window and plotting ways to out-do her sister.

Send help.

Even the stuffed animals in the nursery were appalled by the diaper disaster!

And that is why I didn’t call Meghan back.  Or answer Sue’s phone call.

Sorry ladies!

the shortcomings of the interwebz

The interwebz is a great tool for communicating sight and sound.

The girls at 2 weeks.

You can see our twins and observe how cute they are (I’m biased, I know).

You could hear the twins, too.  If I was cruel, I would record all of the twins grunting and crying so that you could enjoy their vocal stylings.

But I am not cruel.

But, oh, how sad I am that the interwebz is not a great tool for sharing smells.

Frank bathed the girls tonight and put on some yummy nighttime lotion on their tummies and legs.  He brought them down to me, all fresh and swaddled and smelling like delicious little babies.  And I thought, I wish I could post this glorious fragrance on Facebook.  People would check my status just to enjoy it.

Side note, I wish that the TV had smells, too.  I’ve been watching copious amounts of the Food Network (and by copious amounts, I mean, I haven’t changed the channel except to watch E!) and have often lamented that I cannot smell the dishes that are being created.  Even worse, I cannot taste them.  But I digress…

Alas, I cannot post smells on Facebook.

Although, it’s better this way.  While my girls smell fantastic right now, these young ladies can toot with the best of ’em.  Toots are not something that you would probably enjoy smelling as my Facebook status.

Maybe the interwebz is smarter than I thought…

what is in a name?

When Frank and I were considering names for our twins, we had to come up with four names – two boys and two girls – since we did not know what the genders were of our children.

What initially sounded like a fun proposition turned out to be more daunting than I originally thought.  Sure, we had one “gimme” name – we definitely knew one of our boys names would be Frank the sixth.  Beyond that, we just weren’t sure.

The other complicating factor was that while I’d always thought I’d name a daughter Alleene, it seemed almost unfair to use that name and not have a name of equal importance to share with a second girl twin.  So, we went back to the drawing board.

After several months of text messaging, researching, reading and telling each other horror stories of people with names we were considering, we finally had four names for our children.  Phew.

And, as you all know, we had two lovely little girls and named them Elliana Mary and Carrigan Jean.  I wanted to share with you all (and with our little girls), why we selected the names we did.

Elliana Mary

Frank and I wrote down the name Eliana on the same day and texted it to each other as an option, without knowing that the other liked it.  Eliana is a Hebrew name meaning “God has answered.”  We felt that it was a perfect name after all of the challenges we went through with fertility and losing Lily.  The only problem was that we felt like the spelling was not exactly what we were looking for and so we added an extra “l” to the name to make it Elliana.  Even now when I look at her and think of her name, I am overwhelmed with gratitude to God for all that He has done for our family.

We selected the middle name “Mary” after my mother specifically and also after all of the important “Maries” that shaped our family as it is today.

Mary Kay, my mother, is the oldest daughter in her family (like Elliana).  My mom has a vibrant, warm personality and she is fiercely loyal.  Since the death of her mother in 2006, my mom has been the matriarch of our family, bringing everyone together for family holidays and events.  She is the glue that holds us all together.

My mom has a fantastic sense of humor and a tremendous ability to laugh at herself.  Wherever my mom is, there is a gathering of laughter and happiness and delicious food.  Mom is so gifted in hospitality!  In naming Elliana, I wanted to endow her with a name that represented some of the dearest and sweetest parts of my family.

While Elliana is named for my mother, my family has a strong tradition of great women bearing the name Mary.  My mother’s mother was named Rosemary and she was a talented artist and a model.  Rosemary had a knack for entertaining that she passed along to my mother.  As an artist, it was important to her that her grandchildren would be able to spend lots of time drawing and coloring and painting with her.  Her home had a perfect order to it – beds were always neatly made with crisp hospital corners and her closets had a faint smell of mothballs as she meticulously cared for all of her clothing.  Rosemary was a fashionista in her own right and was a talented seamstress who made many of her outfits.  Rosemary even made wedding dresses for her daughters and one of her daughters-in-law (Aunt Judy).

My father’s mother was named Mary Ruth.  While my grandmother Rosemary was born in Chicago and lived in the Chicago suburbs, Mary Ruth grew up in the country and lived in a small town called Roanoke just outside of Peoria.  Like Rosemary, Mary Ruth was born and raised Catholic and her faith was an extremely important part of her life.  Mary Ruth was a kind and sweet soul, always thoughtful and warm-hearted.  She had 18 grandchildren, but when I spent time with her, I always felt like I was her favorite.  Whenever we’d visit Mary Ruth, we’d find her sitting in her easy chair watching the Chicago Cubs and Country Line Dancing on The Nashville Network (now Spike TV – oh, how Mary Ruth would’ve wept!).  While I have many fond memories of Mary Ruth, one of my favorite things to remember is her singing while she scrambled eggs or poured cereal.  She’d invent songs about whatever she was doing in the kitchen and chirp them out as she went about her morning.

Carrigan Jean

We loved names that started with “C” or “K”s, but had a hard time picking a name since we already had a Caitlin, Karen and Kathryn in the family; a myriad of close friends named Kristin and Kelly; and then we have the Kardashian family to contend with (ugh – Kourtney, Kim, Khloe, Kendall and Kylie!).  Frank and I have very little in common ethnically speaking, except that we both have a little bit of Irish heritage.  Frank loves Irish names, so after pouring over all of the options, we kept coming back to the name Carrigan.  The name Carrigan means “spear” and while we did not see any immediate importance of the meaning, as Frank has been reading through the Bible, the word “spear” comes up frequently.  Just searching the word “spear” in the Bible reveals numerous occasions where the word spear was used.  In fact, it was a spear that pierced Jesus’ side confirming that he died.

Carrigan’s middle name Jean is in honor of Frank’s mother, Sandra Jean.  Sandy was also the second daughter in her family and the name Jean means God is gracious.  Sandy is a talented artist who loved both creating art and teaching her children how to create art.  Sandy is one of the sweetest women you will meet – and yet firm at the same time.  Sandy has a gentle sense of humor and is incredibly smart – she is more well read on many world issues than most people and she rarely speaks on anything that she is not informed on.  Her love of learning and interest in world issues was passed along to my husband.  Sandy loves the Lord and has dedicated much of her life to gently sharing the Word of God with her family and her friends.  Our hope is that both of our children will inherit that ability.

Sandy has an innate ability to be content with where she is in life.  That’s not to say she is complacent, but rather she has been able to discern when she can change her circumstances and when she simply needs to weather the storm.

Like Elliana, Carrigan’s middle name embodies several generations of our family.  Frank’s grandfather was named John (from which Jean is a variation) and Frank had many fond memories of spending time with Grandpa John on summer mornings as they went to a local diner for breakfast.  Grandpa John was a great businessman who loved God, his family and his friends.  Grandpa John was known for throwing great parties – a tradition that Frank likes to carry on with an annual K-Fest party.  Fair and just, Grandpa John was also known to get a touch feisty when provoked.

And so my hope is that Elliana and Carrigan would be encouraged by the women that have preceded them and add abundantly not just to our family’s story, but to God’s story.

From a purely aesthetic standpoint, we liked that their names weren’t too “twinny” when you used their full names, but that their nicknames Ellie and Carrie sounded similar.

twinpocalypse

If you drive by our home right now, you’ll see a white flag waving in the front yard.

We’ve succumbed to the twinpocalypse.

It was only a matter of time.

To be sure, I’ve managed to shower nearly every day.  I’ve put on make-up every day.  Maybe not a lot of make-up, but just enough to feel human.

We’ve ventured out into the world for things like a new cell phone, groceries and doctor’s visits.

We were actually in a wedding this weekend, which was only possible thanks to my mom, my sister (Caitlin), my sister-in-law (K1), and my aunt and uncle.  To thank all of those wonderful sitters, each of the girls puked mightily.  Because the K family’s motto is “Go big or go home,” the girls decided that simply spitting up was too… quaint? … for their liking.  Instead, they sprayed vomit in excess of 18 inches from their little selves, coating the couch, the carpet, various family members and, of course, themselves.  As a fellow projectile vomiter, I was proud of my girls.  Well done, sweethearts… well done.

In spite of our efforts to make our beds, keep the house somewhat orderly and keep ourselves fresh(ish), there are signs around the house that it is a losing battle.  Crusty stains on the couch (no matter how much we blot and spray and clean) and a never ending pile of burp rags by the basement steps headed to the washing machine tell the tale of two parents fighting the good fight.

If you were to drive by our house in the middle of the night, not only would you see a crisp white flag of surrender fluttering neatly in the breeze, but you’d also see various lights on throughout our house.  If the light is only on in the girls’ room, it is a calm night.  If the lights are on in the girls’ room, our room, the family room and the kitchen, well – game over.

I find myself feeding the girls in the middle of the night thinking of how easy it would be to have only one baby.  Feedings would take half the time.  While feeding the second baby, I think jealously: I could be in bed right now.

I also find myself thinking of my coworker’s daughter who had triplets and thanking my lucky stars that I have an equal number of hands to the number of children in our house.

Thankfully, we are mostly sleeping at night and awake during the day, which is very helpful in feeling like a normal human being.  We are still keeping up on some of our favorite TV shows (um, hello – FRINGE??  So good!) – even if there are quite a few interruptions to make bottles and change out the laundry.

And even though I am sure that it is only gas, the girls are smiling and cooing and “singing” in their sleep, which makes this all seem worth it in the end.

three things: birthing humans

In the middle of the night, when I am trying to feed two babies bottles and pump and watch Food Network before it goes to horrible paid programming at 3 a.m., I often think back on my time in pre-term labor (PTL) and delivering my little girls.  I thought it would be good to expose the truth about child birth (without grossing everyone out).  Here goes:

#1: lying liars!  the epidural DOES hurt!

I was most concerned about getting an epidural.  I know several people with botched epidurals and the dreaded spinal headache.  I hate headaches.  Of all the stuff that happened to me in the hospital over the course of the 12 days I was there, the headache and neck pain I had from lying in the horrible hospital bed was what made me cry.  Yeah, that’s right, pushing babies out was less upsetting to me than the headache from the hospital bed.  That says a lot about the hospital beds, right?

Anyway, I digress.  The anesthesiologist was annoyed that I was concerned about his skillz putting huge needles/catheters into people’s backs.  I think he would’ve given himself an epidural to show me that it was “no big deal, yo” – except that since it is hard enough to scratch your own back, much less stick arm-length long needles in your back.  (Note: I do not know the exact length of the needle… but I’m pretty sure it was arm-length).  Let me tell y’all, I felt everything.  I felt the numbing shot.  I felt the catheter going in.  I even told the nurse, “OH my gosh!! PAIN! Shooting down my legs/back!”

But once it was in, I had about an hour or two where I was pretty comfortable and didn’t feel anything. Until I felt EVERYTHING.  After about 2 hours on the epidural, I started saying, “I think that’s a contraction.” and Frank would look at the screen and say, “Oh, yeah, that was a contraction.”  And then I started breathing to get through the contractions.  I told the nurse that I was feeling the contractions.  That I knew where my cervix was.  OH-Heavens to Betsy-I knew exactly where my cervix was and what it was doing and it WAS NOT PRETTY! I emphatically told the nurse: THE EPIDURAL WAS A LIE!!!

Which is when the anesthesiologist returned, annoyed, to up the meds.  He left and I looked at the nurse and told her that THE EPIDURAL IS NOT WORKING!!!  She looked confused and concerned – how could this magic medication not work?? Now, as someone who would have foregone the epidural with a single baby delivery, I wasn’t as upset about the pain as I was concerned that if something went wrong in the delivery, they were planning to use the same catheter line to deliver the pain medication for the c-section. And if I felt a contraction, I was pretty sure I would feel the knife cutting for the c-section!!

Turns out, the epidural stopped working because Ellie’s head was in my cervix, blocking the medication from getting to me.  Her head was in my cervix because it was time to push!  And no, I did not need a c-section.  Phew!

#2: lying liars!  that is not pressure – that is PAIN!!

Thing one really bleeds into thing two: the problem of pain in a hospital full of pain medication.  I found that in the hospital they try to treat all of your pain – no matter what it is – to make you as comfortable as possible.  This is done mostly so that while in the throes of transition (the really painful part of labor), that you do not scream like a demon and scare the poor girl in PTL down the hall.  When pain cannot be addressed with narcotic pain medication, an epidural or some other such pain relief medication, you are actually experiencing pressure.  For example, when I was feeling pain in my cervix, I was actually experiencing intense pressure.  When I felt the epidural catheter being inserted into my spine?  You guessed it – that was just pressure.

#3: wait, how many gauze pads did we use?

Once our sweet baby girls were born, swaddled and whisked off to the NICU for evaluation and admittance, I was left on the operating table to get put back together.  I will not bore (or scare) you with the details, except to say that I remember listening to the doctor counting off ten clean, sterile gauze pads.  He used them to… um, do stuff… and then he counted eight used gauze pads.

He counted the gauze pads again…. and again… And then a nurse frantically started ripping through all of the linens in the soiled linens container.  And another nurse started shuffling through the items on the tray.  And the doctor started looking through a pile of sheets at the end of the operating table.

“Everything OK?” I asked.

“MMmhmmm,” said the doctor absently, counting  the gauze pads again.

“Missing a few pads?” I asked.

“MMmhmmm,” replied the doctor.

“Cool.”

Not to worry, they found the missing two gauze pads.

I’m just glad they counted.

the twins’ birthday: a day in pictures

About a week before the twins were born, Frank snapped my last pregnancy pictures in my super fancy, extra-large hospital gown.  What can I say?  I’m a trend setter!  For anyone wondering why most of my smiles look so pained, all you need to know is that I had a scary cervix.  A very, very scary cervix.

 

 

Then there was the morning of the twins’ birth.  The first picture is of my mom and me and the second is of my mother-in-law and me.

Grandma Mary Kay and me

Grandma Sandy and me

Then, after wondering if Frank was going to make it to the birth – he arrived!!  Hurrah! (note to self: pictures of me lying down are not the most flattering…)

Baby Daddy and me

After sitting around for about 90 minutes, the doctor determined that it was go-time!

Ready to have some bebez!

After pushing for about 20-30 minutes, sweet baby Elliana was born:

Baby Ellie

And then just three or four short minutes later, sweet little Carrigan made her way into the world:

Dad and Carrigan

In just under an hour, our little family of two became a family of four!  Mom holding Elliana and Dad holding Carrigan:

Our first family photo!

 

Yo’ Mama’s Got a Scary Cervix

… and other tales of child-birthing.

At some point last week, all of the maternal fetal medicine doctors (MFM), OBs at my practice and neonatal intensive care doctors were monitoring my condition from the sidelines.  One MFM doc told a NICU nurse that I was the patient with “the scary cervix”.

Sure, I knew that things didn’t look all rosy from a cervical standpoint, but in my fight to stay positive about the situation, I didn’t really think that my hooha was “scary”.  Well, not scarier than usual.

Anywho.

On Friday I had some visitors and I started to feel badly by the end of their visit.  My blood pressure was rising, which is not typical for me, and I was just feeling “off”.  I tried to get some sleep before the 1 a.m. nurse shift change when they conveniently wake up all of the sleeping patients and get their vitals.

After the 1 a.m. check-in, I stayed up to wait for Frank to land in Denver.  Oh, did I not mention that Frank was flying?  We decided that since it seemed like I could stay in my current condition for a long time, it didn’t make sense for Frank to take time off just to watch me sit (not patiently) in a hospital bed.  So Frank was flying into Denver and landing at about 2 a.m. CST.

During our conversation I mentioned to him that I just didn’t think I would make it until Monday to give birth.  I just had a feeling.

I tried to sleep after talking to Frank, but I felt like I had to go to the bathroom a lot.  I kept getting up to go, and then didn’t feel like going.  Finally I realized that  I might be having contractions again (what can I say?  My contractions just didn’t feel like contractions).  I called my nurse, she started monitoring me on the fetal heart rate monitor and saw that I was having contractions every 3 minutes.  She stepped out of the room to call my doctor and the hospital OB.  The hospital OB made it upstairs and assessed the situation.  I was at 5 cm and the amniotic sac was definitely bulging.

I was going to Labor and Delivery.

But no one would say for sure that I was going to have the babies for sure.  So after asking multiple times if I should call my husband in Denver and not getting an answer, I finally just called him.  Within minutes, he was up and getting dressed and racing for a flight.

The doctor did a quick ultrasound and determined that the babies were both head-down (how did the second twin flip around again in such tight quarters???).  I asked for an epidural both because I had to have one since we were delivering twins and because I knew it would slow down labor and give Frank a chance to make it to the hospital.

My mom and Frank’s mom arrived and sat with me while the epidural set in.  Note: epidural pain meds are not fun.  I was pretty pain free for the next hour or two while we waited for Frank.  He landed in Milwaukee at 9:30 a.m. and ran from the airport to the car.  Once he was in the car, we talked about delivering vaginally or via c-section.  He told me he thought that I would regret not trying it vaginally and I knew he was right.  I let the doctor know that we were going to do a vaginal delivery.

At 11 a.m., Frank arrived at the hospital.

Once Frank was there, they decided to administer pitocin to kick start the labor since the epidural had slowed down contractions.  After getting the pitocin started, I started to feel all of the contractions in my cervix.

Before that moment, I couldn’t tell you where my cervix really was.  I could vaguely say, “my cervix is down there.”  But once the pitocin started in, I realized exactly where my cervix was and what it was doing.  I complained to the nurse, as I breathed through the contractions, that this epidural business was a farce.  She said, “Are you feeling pressure?” and I said, “NO.  I am feeling pain.”

In the hospital, they often call painful things they can’t do anything about “pressure” because then you are not in pain.  If you were in pain, then they’d have to find something to do about it.  But pressure, well, that’s just too bad.

The anesthesiologist came back in, increased the pain medication and looked at me like I was crazy.  After he left, I told the nurse that I was still feeling a lot of pain.  Not pressure.  Pain.  In my cervix.

The nurse looked at me with the same confused look – how could I be in pain while on so much epidural medication.  She called the doctor in and after a quick check, he announced that I was complete.

What in the world does complete mean?  It means you are ready to push.

They gave Frank scrubs and started prepping me to go to the Operating Room because twins are never typically delivered without easy access to surgical equipment.

They wheeled me into the operating room and then told me I needed to scoot myself over to the operating table.  Excuse me?? I thought I hadn’t heard them right.  But I did.  So, me and my numb legs and giant pregnant belly scooted across the labor bed onto the operating table.

After everything was in position, I pushed for about 20 minutes and delivered Elliana and then 3 minutes later I delivered Carrigan.  Both babies were born screaming and generally ticked off.

Elliana was 5 lbs 10 oz, 19 inches long with tons of fuzz on her head.

Carrigan was 5 lbs 6 oz, 18 1/2 inches long with a little bit of black hair.

And they are doing awesomely well for being born at 32 weeks 5 days gestation.  No oxygen, no warmers and they are eating like crazy.

We are madly in love with them.