Maybe if the twins take after their brother, Stella really should be worried about them being born feral. Stella is our three-year-old niece, and my sister-in-law Laura was explaining to her the other day why they couldn’t keep the kittens born on their property. Since they were born outside and grew up without human contact, Laura told Stella they were “too wild” to be handled and wouldn’t make good pets.
“When Auntie Krista has her babies, could they be born wild?” she asked, concerned.
I’m sure with four adults and one small child around, these babies will have enough love and handling to keep them from turning feral, but the jury may still be out about Devon. He is celebrating birth week by cutting all four of his first molars. He runs around the coffee table with one of the New Baby dolls, flashing me an alarmingly toothy smile (“All the better to bite you with, my dears!”). Then, he kisses the New Baby, which for him means biting it on the head like it’s an especially tough apple skin.
It’s Friday night, which means I made it to 37 weeks, just like I was hoping to. Technically, not until Saturday, but even if I looked down at this moment to see water running down my leg I’d not have the babies until after midnight.
So, full term for normal birth, check.
The reason I didn’t follow that statement up with a few exclamation points or some sassy emoticons is that I’ve come up against the disadvantage of having an Iron Matron Cervix. It does its job so well that it doesn’t know when to quit. What it really needs is an emergency release cord like parachutes have. If it did, I’d definitely give it a yank, grab my suitcase, and go have some babies!
There are no clothes I can wear comfortably when I am nine months pregnant. To roll over in bed I have to hold the babies up with one arm curled around my stomach, do a dog-leg kick to give me enough momentum to rise to a sitting position, stand up, transfer the weight of the babies to my other arm, and then lower myself slowly down on the other side until they hit the mattress and I can curl my arm under my head. All this awkwardness and discomfort is accompanied by a burst of nostalgia on Craig’s part, so I never know what unflattering position I’ll be squirming in when I turn around to see a camera lens pointed menacingly at me. I let him take a few sanctioned shots in the backyard so I could at least control what he was shooting and make sure I was fully dressed.
Two days ago I used the last of my Burt’s Bees Belly Butter, not that it has helped me avoid stretch marks. Devon left me with a cute little smirk of freckle-sized marks under my belly button. They faded discreetly under some cheap vitamin E cream in a few months. Though I’d never again have a bikini-ready body it’s really hard to miss what you’ve never had to begin with. My twin stretch marks (aka “twin skin”) are epic, not to mention the red splotch in the shape of Indiana over my belly button that never stretched but sprouted a few days ago as a full-on scar. I’ve bought a forty-dollar tube of Mederma Stretch Mark Repair to start the day after the birth, and if it works I’m buying stock in the company. In the meantime, if you’re a teenager who’s contemplating going too far too fast in a romantic relationship, message me and I’ll send you a close-up shot of my stomach. That’ll give you the strength to choose celibacy for a few more years.
I hope my airing a few petty complaints doesn’t give anyone the impression that these babies are either unwanted or unloved. The main reason I want them out right now is so I can make sure they’re healthy and safe, and just to SEE them. All day I’ve zeroed in on every twinge of a backache or moment of abdominal tightness, willing it into a bona fide contraction. No such luck.
It gives me insight into the Romans 8 passage my Bible titles “Present Suffering and Future Glory," the one that talks about all creation waiting to be liberated:
22 We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. 23 Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. 24 For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? 25 But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.
The mental image I’ve always conjured with the reference to all that “groaning inwardly” is pain, complete with sweating and panting and exaggerated Lamaze breathing (hee hee hoo hoo..). Maybe it’s because I choose to do my hard labor under epidural, but thinking about this passage now makes me think of creation (and Christians) living in a state of intense longing, the kind I'm experiencing right now.
All day long I’ve been begging my body to hurry up and let me see my daughters. For nine months they've been snuggled up under my heart, rocked by my movements, soothed by my heartbeat, and protected from harm and high risk complications by the unseen hand of God.
Come quickly, babies.
Mommy says please.
beautiful. (the picture AND the post)
ReplyDeleteLove your creative words, descriptions and longing for the babies to come! Your humor is contagious! Keep writing!
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