36 Weeks, July 25, 2011

One week to go, and multiple sources say I want to last the whole week. Even though the babies are healthy, advantages of going another week include a better nursing reflex, a more complex immune system, and a few extra ounces of birth weight. Other moms with 36-week births have run into hospital rules that treat their babies as premature even though they are full term for twins. So, their babies spend needless and very expensive nights in the nursery or NICU just because it’s hospital policy. That gives me some incentive to last until my induction. On the other hand, it would be nice if I’m going to have three kids to know what normal labor feels like, and it’s reportedly easier on the babies than even-your-eyeballs-are-squeezing pitocin contractions. So, my plan for the week is pretty much this:

1. To stand on my head until Friday.
2. To right myself and jump up and down all weekend until gravity does the rest.
3. To go into labor on Sunday night, thus checking normally into the hospital a few hours before my induction is scheduled so I can have delivery at 37 ½ weeks.

Our bird family vacated the nest in our planter this week. We heard a flurry of activity on the doorstep and were in time to see the babies take off with much coaxing from the mama and daddy birds.



Baby #1 did a controlled fall to the windowsill, letting us snap a few telephoto pictures of his downy head, and then tried to hop back up to the nest via our screen.



Baby #2 peeked over the edge for fifteen minutes and managed to careen all the way to the spruce tree.



Then the whole family flew together around the corner of our house and was gone. This must be why they call it “empty nest syndrome,” not “empty den syndrome” or “empty stable syndrome." Once they’re gone, it’s final; they don’t even come back to do laundry.

I’m past the huge belly phase and into the ‘stuck a couple of babies under my shirt’ phase. It looks more like I have a rare and medically documented deformity. All day the twins bounce around inside like the numbered lotto balls in the dispenser, giving me the mental picture that they’ll suddenly plink into position and come popping out like they do on TV. Twin A (righty)’s heinie is up so high tonight it looks like I’ve developed a rogue third boob. She’s the one that the doctors say will be delivered first, but unless she’s planning to come out my ear I’m wondering if she’s changed her mind.

Something I did when I was just pregnant (and not so big that my bulk makes the tides shift, affecting worldwide weather patterns and causing the Eastern heat wave) was to take Devon to the mall. First, I got the same thing at Sonic: a Lime Real Fruit Slush. This beverage speaks to the twins in ways I am incapable of fully understanding. Then, after Devon played in the climbing gym, we'd get another lime slush and take it home to Craig. He’d drink that one while he worked on his dissertation upstairs.

Today I was able to repeat the ritual with the help of my parents. They fed Devon shaved ice and chased him around the mall, keeping up with him in ways I shouldn’t if I don’t want my water to break in a very public place. My Dad also initiated a loud conversation in the food court about what it means to be 3 cm dilated and 90% effaced.

“So, how do they find this out?” he wondered aloud.

“The doctor pats the babies on the head, and then he knows,” I said, which was, I thought, the most the topic needed to be addressed while people sat around us eating their Chinese stir fry and their Chick-fil-A.

On the way out, I ordered Craig his drink like always.

“So, I hear you’re having twins!” said the cashier.

“Yep,” I said, glancing back at my parents. The joy of grandparenthood is directly proportional to the number of people that know all the details.

“Well,” said the cashier, looking down at the second 44 oz slush, “that explains a lot!”