When I first considered blogging about my trials and tribulations as a parent of multiples, the first thought that entered my head was: "When am I ever going to find time?". These days, I consider it a small victory if I manage to get a shower before my husband gets home. On those rare days when I have the luxury of taking a shower, applying makeup AND having a hot dinner ready, I feel gloriously triumphant, but yet a little leery that something is going to go awry before bedtime. Usually the law of averages dictates that a chill, relatively laid-back day in our household will bring forth a chaotic evening, full of surprises. I find that a healthy balance of suspicion and optimism works for me, and since evenings are going to be my blog slot, I'm erring on the side of optimism where time is concerned and committing to this ongoing missive with all I've got left at the end of each day.
By way of introduction, I must first admit to choosing such a cheesy title due in part to the fact that two 40-somethings thrust into parenthood must, by way of survival, maintain an EXTREMELY healthy sense of humor. Where we were once too cool to entertain the thought of ever purchasing a minivan (we're both Jeep people), and too hip to imagine ever agonizing on which pattern of baby sling would complement our respective male/female personas (we chose the reversible paisley/polka dot arrangement), and too hard-assed to ever imagine crying with joy over a tiny human being's ability to pass loose stools after days of constipation ... we quickly discovered after the birth of our son that behind our aloof toughness, we were really a big gooey collaborative ball of mush. In addition to learning how flexible we'd become, we also completely, utterly gave in to the realization that in order to be good parents, we were going to have to be big adult versions of the tiny cheeseballs our kids would no doubt become. Since a train always has the possibility of derailing, or being overcrowded, or - *gasp* - becoming a full-blown wreck ... All Aboard The Parenting Train seemed like an apt enough title. Metaphor be damned, all cheesiness intended. I apologize in advance for the longwindedness that follows, but how we got here is important.
My husband and I didn't plan on having a family when we got married a little over three years ago, which was at the cusp of both us inching towards full-blown "middle age". I was fortunate to have acquired through our nuptials a 24-year old stepson who was about to graduate college and move on to both a successful medical career and a family of his own. My husband had been a single father who had earned his child-rearing badge already, and I was operating on the assumption (given prior medical advice) that my ovaries were not only dysfunctional due to massive scar tissue, but that the odds of my ever conceiving a child were on the latter side of "slim to none". I'd been through the rigors every woman of child-bearing age suffers when told she could never have children, and I had long since moved past the emotional and mental anguish of feeling less of a woman because of it. That ship had sailed. I was stable as a single woman, but I was absolutely ecstatic at finally meeting the love of my life, even though it took him for-freaking-EVER to find me. We dated, we wed, we planned the rest of our lives ahead of us with notions of stuff that grown, semi-successful, childless people partake in: cross-country car trips, spontaneous weekend vacations, huge blow-out Halloween costume parties that our friends and family would be lucky to attend IF they were lucky to find a babysitter (snicker, snicker) ... and then out of nowhere, much to our shock and surprise, a very early-term miscarriage occurred. Shaken to the core, rattled to the bone, and just like that Fresh Prince sang about in the mid 80's - our lives got flipped, turned upside-down! Pardon my language (and you'll learn to do just that if you continue to follow us) - but shit got REAL.
I'm going to fast-forward through the rest of the story that leads us to the here and now, not because it wasn't wickedly colorful and interesting, but to keep the introduction at a decent enough length to follow. Also, because I'm tired - a symptom that never quite fully dissipates in a parent of multiples, but tends to linger even during the most energetic and productive of moments. You learn right quick to take whatever bursts of energy you have at your disposal and use it to the fullest extent possible. Hence my typing at approximately 12,000 keystrokes per hour while my sweaty, bed-hogging 18-month old uses my hip as a pillow. It's a thousand wonders that the annoying rat-tat-tat of this furiously fast keyboard pecking hasn't given rise to any objections from my husband, who is on the other side of our king size bed trying to sleep with little sweaty bed-hog-boy's feet digging into his ribs. Why the boy chooses to sleep horizontally rather than vertically is puzzling to us both. Why we allow him to sleep in our bed with us is a whole other post, on a whole other night. But I'm regressing, BIGTIME. Back to the story.
Where was I? Ohhhh, yes... During our jackrabbit phase of love-nesting soon after we married, his sperm and my egg went BAM! and something crazy and unimaginable happened: life began to form inside me. While it was far more sexy and romantic than the birds and bees analogy I just spewed forth, I'll spare you those details. What is far more relevant to the story is that totally unbeknownst to us both, I had become pregnant. However, we didn't know this yet. My body rejected it, for whatever purely natural reason - and I bled out one day on the way back from a Little Caesar's Pizza run during one of our day-long Guitar Hero sessions. (Yes, we'd spend all DAY playing on plastic guitars, in our living room, while we ate pizza and drank beer, knowing full well we could crash whenever we felt like it, 'cause tomorrow was Sunday, and by gosh, we could sleep till noon!) The bleeding was heavy enough to cause fatigue and a fair amount of alarm, so a doctor's appointment was made for the first of the week, and that's when we found out.
My doctor (who wasn't an OB/GYN) didn't label it a miscarriage, even though I told her I had passed clots the size of golf balls. Her blood test said I was pregnant, and she referred me to an OB/GYN with all the optimism of a cheerleader when I told her No, I Can't Conceive, and Yes, I'm Certain This Isn't Just A Heavy Period. I was afraid to hope, afraid to even think for one moment that something miraculous had happened - and honestly, I was afraid of how my husband would react, since he clearly entered into this marriage with the knowledge that I not only didn't want children, but I couldn't have them even if we both did (and he didn't). To my relief, he was calm, comforting, and levelheaded when I told him. I was pretty certain, even without the doc-in-a-box's confirmation, that I'd already failed at keeping an embryo alive in my uterus. Sure enough, by the time I got in to see the OB/GYN, days had passed, and my HG levels had plummeted. She confirmed a miscarriage, I opted out of a DNC since the bleeding had stopped, and I returned home to tell my husband what we both already knew. That's when my long-cured neurosis returned, when hope was replanted, and when the long conversations began between me and my husband about trying again.... and again and again and again, if that's what it took.
This is where the fast-forwarding begins. Really. I promise, this time!
Six months later, after a great deal of fun trying, and three or so dozen instances of pissing on a stick ... and it finally happens again. This time, it sticks. Here I am, almost 40, growing a human being inside me. Sure, my feet and ankles are roughly the diameter of a football. Of course, I go from a size 8/medium to my sister-in-law's XL blouses and husband's pajama pants because I'm too much of a miser to buy maternity clothes and proud of my belly. None of this got me down. It was glorious! My sex drive during this period was (and I understate it) insatiable, and my poor husband was late to work at least three days a week - the other two, he either called in sick, or feigned an early a.m. doctor's appointment because I kept him up so late the night before. Being pregnant the first time was so much fun! Right on time where gestational periods are concerned, I had a natural, drug-free childbirth that resulted in 12 hours of gloriously painful labor and a healthy baby boy! Woooooo! First time parent here! We did this! I have the I can grow another human inside me at 40 glow, and my husband has the My boys still work at 45 bragging rights. We don't even let the damper of the No-Sex-For-Six-Weeks rule that the silly doctor ordered bring us down. We were so wrapped up in the love for each other, the love for our newborn son - even the sleep deprivation that all parents of newborns face didn't slow us down. 22 perianal stitches? Psssh! I'm over it! We just couldn't help ourselves.
Having already given away the punch line early on, you know what happens next. New stick to piss on when I realize that I've got that funny feeling inside me. I hadn't even had the chance to get a period yet, had just barely made my post-partum follow-up appointment after giving birth a mere six weeks ago! But having been pregnant before, you just know. It was confirmed. We both freaked out. This was ... unplanned. Not in our blueprints that we'd laid out. A shocker! We took the "it is what it is" stance and continued to enjoy our new baby. The term "singleton" was not yet in our vocabulary.
I had planned on returning back to work after the typical 12 week maternity leave following the birth of my son, but news of this second pregnancy unraveled our plans and we mutually decided it would be best for me to stay home. We finagled our finances to make this work and didn't bat an eyelash at the sacrifices we were going to have to make for this to become a reality.
It was time for the first ultrasound. We were hoping for a girl, as we'd picked out a lovely feminine name in honor of my husband's late mother, but knew we wouldn't find out for several more weeks and closer to the start of the second trimester. These ultrasounds were an old shoe to us. My doctors kept harping about "advanced maternal age" and felt that ultrasounds once per month were necessary. We didn't argue, as it was kind of cool seeing this little being on camera. Settling back on the table and getting the warm jelly rub on the belly was so routine, yet we were still as excited as ever to get that first glimpse of our newest addition.
When not one, but TWO little beans appeared on screen, the ultrasound technician happily exclaimed "You have twins!"... and I'm certain I would have fainted if I hadn't already been laying flat on my back. Thankfully, my husband was seated as well. We just looked at each other and held the gaze for what seemed like an eternity... then we burst out laughing. What else could we do? It was to keep from crying, I'm sure. To keep from shouting WTF?!?! at this young ultrasound technician who looked pleased as punch to deliver the news.
Our family had a good chuckle over it, as some had already been joking about twins, or triplets, and having a mighty good time doing so. I don't believe in jinxes and the such, but I sure did give my father-in-law a hard time about it. Once again, our life had taken another unexpected turn. We just clenched our teeth and went into it white-knuckled, with as much enthusiasm as before.
So essentially, Mr. & Mrs. Richardson went from being childless newlyweds to parents of three in under two years. The joy, pleasure, pain, ups, downs and all the moments in between have impacted us in a way we will never be able to put into words - though I will try my level best, as I find it cathartic to journal our everyday lives (which I might add has seen duller moments). My goal is to chronicle these wonderful, crazy, chaotic days and share with the world our experiences through this blog. Hopefully you will laugh, cry, gasp, fret and enjoy it right alongside us. We are the Richardson family, and we are proud parents of multiples! We won't always get it right, we won't always be awarded parents of the year ... but this is OUR crazy train ride, and we plan on conducting it with all the style, verve and flair that we can possibly muster.
Alllllll Aboard!!!!!!!
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