Adulthood, Babies, Parenting, RealTalk, Sarcastic, Twins

A Long Two Hours….

It’s finally here…sex day…just under 2 hours from now we’ll leave to go find out what the babies are. I cannot. fucking. wait. O.M.G. 

11:00 cannot come fast enough; so excited to see them hanging out in there, kicking and playing with each other too!! They better display their goodies for us, that’s all I have to say. Can’t write coherently…

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Adulthood, Babies, Parenting, RealTalk, Sarcastic, Twins

Legal Mental Torture for Expecting Moms (or: Unsolicited Advice)

Aside from the present struggle that is waiting another 5 days to find out what my twins are, there is another all too common torture that is inflicted on moms-to-be practically daily: unsolicited advice. I don’t think we can even help ourselves; I’m definitely guilty of it myself too. New or expecting mom is suffering from X, or nervous about Y, and suddenly we’re all fucking experts on the subject, or have some story about it, or have heard something from a friend/the news/the Internet/deep space so *that’s* clearly the gospel truth. For some reason, we seem to particularly like scaring the holy hell out of each other, as if rehashing our own horror stories or terrifying opinions somehow bumps us up a notch on a theoretical totem pole of mom-knowledge or experience.

Most recently, I’ve (naturally) been plagued with such “advice” surrounding the impending arrival of the twins – everything from their mere existence to how much harder our lives are going to be once they’re here. No shit…I know it’s going to be hard. Arguably twice as hard. Babies are a fucking trip to begin with, let alone managing two. Do you REALLY think it’s helpful to constantly remind me that my life is about to become the definition of a living hell?? Do people think that’s somehow useful?? That it somehow prepares you better, maybe?? Personally, I think it’s just stress-evoking enough to send your blood pressure through the roof and up the odds that you’ll be throw into full blown preterm labor right then and there. At least there aren’t nearly as many veteran twin moms lurking in the shadows, just waiting to share their terrifying birth stories like singleton moms were with my first (in fact, twin moms may be the best of them to talk to, because they’re actually smart enough NOT to over-share their horror stories to someone about to take the plunge themselves).  

Now, don’t get me wrong – I love seeing the surprise on people’s faces when I tell them we’ve got twins on the way. It’s one of my favorite things about having to carry two little nuggets around for the better part of 9 months. It’s hilarious and dramatic and usually pretty wonderful. But not always…upon sharing the news I literally had one woman drop her jaw to the floor, put her hands over her gaping pie hole, gasp loudly, then practically yell across the room with a look of sheer terror on her face: “OH MY GOD Christina – TWINS?!? How are you going to DO it???” Newsflash fuckface: the standard response here is congratulations. Some kind of excitement. Something. I felt like saying back, “Yea, it sounds pretty tough; I think I’ll just give them away instead, or maybe kill them off altogether. It’s still early enough…” [Note: this is not meant to be a dig at or judgement of those who may have made those decisions. To each his own…I don’t have to raise your kids. That just clearly wasn’t the news I was sharing at the time.] And this person is not a relative or someone even remotely close to us who may end up (read: get stuck with) sharing the burden of raising said twins. Unhelpful reaction – which has been followed by weeks of similarly unhelpful, unsolicited advice. Smh…

Interestingly enough, while shopping with Logan a few weeks ago, we saw these twins in the store that entirely changed my perception of the adventure we’re about to embark upon. Logan actually noticed them; that’s how well behaved these kids were being – I didn’t even see them at first. He said to me, “Look mumma – twinnnssss!! Just like we’re going to have!!” with a big huge smile on his face. So excited. He’s the best – four year olds have this brilliant honesty & innocent naïveté that can make you see the world in a whole new light. So I turn around and see strapped into the shopping cart two adorable, Bruins-clad, curly blonde haired 2 or 3 year olds who were chatting between themselves and giggling happily. Cue the light bulb. 💡 WOW – that doesn’t look so bad!! Their parents don’t look like they’re about to jump off a bridge in the slightest. The store isn’t falling to the ground around a tornado of ill-behaved monsters. They actually are just really cute!! And that’s when it dawned on me: I had never, ever pictured life with the twins as anything but screaming, inconsolable babies and a house utterly destroyed and in squalor. Literally never. I hadn’t even considered the two beautiful little smiles that would be staring back at me, the comfort of always having a buddy at home, the (dare I say) convenience of “getting two done at once.” After all, if we had a third kid via a third pregnancy, that’s basically another two years of being out of commission due to pregnancy, nursing, and the sheer exhaustion of having a child under a year old. Then I thought about the twins that I knew personally, particularly ones of one friend from school that’d had a girl followed by twin girls two years later (bless his heart, lol) since Logan’s even had a few gymnastics classes with those twins. They seem happy and well-adjusted and the twins were very sweet little girls. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad…

And that’s when I finally let myself start getting truly excited about having twins. About time too, since it’s happening whether we like it or not at this point. I realized I’d let myself get so wrapped up in the combination of what others were telling me and my own concerns and fears that I wasn’t even enjoying the prospect of these babies coming into our family. I finally acknowledged how much I already love both and each of these babies. Now I’m working hard on letting things roll off my back when they’re negative, whether directed at me or just floating out in the world, waiting to be seen. I don’t need the stress or the bad vibes and I sure as hell don’t need the extra anxiety – my own mind creates plenty of that by itself. I just try to be real zen and shit, you know?

So one last piece of [unsolicited] advice (see, I told you everyone does it 😉) for you all: before you go to say something, particularly to those in vulnerable states like new or expecting moms, think twice about whether your statement is actually going to be something useful to the other person. “Is what I’m about to say helpful? Did they ask for my advice/opinion/story? Am I just trying to scare them?” Those around you will appreciate it. I know I myself am certainly more selective in what I choose to share these days. 

Adulthood, Babies, Parenting, RealTalk, Sarcastic

Chapter 1: The Baes Who Lived

I’ve heard it said that going from one child to two is when parenting goes from being a hobby to being a job. If that’s the case, then going from one to three likely turns things into a career – and if I’m about to start a new career, I should probably document the journey somewhere for posterity (and likely sanity as well…). 

The story truly begins with The Boy: my light; my stars and moon; my sweetest, most brilliant, polite, caring, affectionate, well-behaved, perfect baby boy. But, you know, in a four-year-old’s body who also sometimes happens to drive you batshit crazy. Logan joined the world on June 18, 2011 at 10:01 am – just half an hour before the Bruins championship parade would roll through the streets of Boston only miles away from our hospital room; as his daddy watched longingly, even catching glimpses of our own friends on tv standing in the crowd waving flags and screaming. Three days earlier they’d won the Stanley Cup, and Logan apparently wanted to make sure he was here in time to join the celebration.  

Logan Paul Delicata ~ June 18, 2011 10:01 am ~ 6 pounds 6 ounces 19 inches
 

Logan’s delivery was tumultuous at best, and perhaps someday I’ll detail that whole saga for you all, but for now the quick and dirty of it is that I was out cold for his c-section birth after unsuccessfully pushing for 5+ hours and telling the hospital staff “fuck you, I’ll do this myself” after they suggested a c-section might be in order. Turns out, this wasn’t their first rodeo and they happened to know what they were talking about…lesson learned…

Fast forward about three and a half years, and this amazing little guy starts suggesting that he would like a brother (not a sister; he already has a girl cousin two years younger than him that was practically a sister). Suggestion evolved into demand, along with complaints that he was “bored” or “lonely” after moving away from the busy city life and out of the big house that had also had his Mimi, Uncle, Aunt, and aforementioned cousin to keep him occupied. I won’t lie, we weren’t totally sold on the idea of a second baby. But we didn’t want to just have one forever either, and no one was getting any younger so it was kind of time to shit or get off the pot. So the Mirena came out, and the quest for baby #2 began. 

When you’re trying for a baby, I think especially for the woman (though being a woman, I can’t truly speak for the men myself), every cycle without success digs at your soul a little more. It’s this overwhelming desire, a craving or obsession, for a child that comes from your innermost primordial being and actually makes you go clinically insane. Seriously. Whether it’s the first month or tenth, it eats at you and makes you feel more and more like a failure of the human species – after all, this is how mankind has survived for thousands of years so everyone should be able to do it, right?  

We were 29 and healthy, and had gotten pregnant with Logan just three months after getting married without “trying” very hard at all…you know, just normal newlywed sex stuff. So I expected things to go just as easily this time around. Three months in, I’m fairly convinced that we had a chemical pregnancy (though, not having doctors monitoring closely we couldn’t really be sure of it) and two weeks after that I found myself peeing on sticks three times a day and dragging Dan into bed when it seemed like the timing would be right. Insanity. 

It didn’t help that this time around our other friends were having babies and announcing pregnancies practically weekly.  iPhones and Pinterest had turned Facebook even moreso into a billboard/megaphone for shove-it-in-your-face sharing of every aspect of people’s lives than it had been four years earlier. Look at it this way: we still had BlackBerries when Logan was born. I had a hard time being happy for everyone else, save for my best friend who gave birth to her first son when I was four months into the ordeal. But we kept trying and alas, that pee stick finally showed up positive and I immediately texted a picture of it to said best friend (in Seattle, at what would have been 4 or 5 am for her) for confirmation that I wasn’t just imagining that second faint line. 

Trying not to get yourself excited is literally one of the most challenging things in the world, so I waited a day for another positive test to tell Dan, trying not to fully let myself believe that this had finally happened just yet. [Disclaimer: I completely recognize that anyone who has been trying for longer than six months wants to punch me in the face for using the word “finally” here; however, I stand by my previous statement that no matter how long you’ve been trying, once you decide you want a baby every passed month is a month too long.] But positive it was, and excitement and announcement ensued, followed very closely by weeks of puking in between sleeping for days on end. At the 12-week ultrasound, we would get the surprise of our lives when we found out that there were actually two healthy little DeliBeans sprouted in there: The Baes Who Lived… 

Our twinnouncement posted to Facebook on Thanksgiving.