I take my beets pickled

I am now sporting a hot new number: an ambulatory blood pressure monitor.  I get to wear the big cuff, with cord sticking out, and wear the battery-control pack around my waist (or neck, like a camera in the old touristy days) for the next 24 hours. I am glad that we are going to get to the bottom of this blood pressure business, but I was not anticipating this thing to be so BIG. (That's what she said.)

So I guess we shall see how much  my blood pressure fluctuates throughout the day and then my dr will decide what to do from here.  He laughed when I told him that I ate a pile of beets last night and that it actually brought down my blood pressure this morning.  But then he added "Beets are good for you anyway."  I did not mention that they were pickled beets.  Not sure if that is cheating, but they are SO GOOD that way! And hey, my bp went from 142/104 to 122/77 overnight.  So whatever.  I take my beets pickled.

BEETS!

I need me some beets.  I read on some internet-wacko site that beet juice has been shown to reduce blood pressure, enough so that 250 mL of beet juice gave the same effect as prescription medication.  So last night, I ate a serving of pickled beets (right out of the jar, no plate required) and this morning TA-DA!  122/77!

Of course, last night it was still 142/104, so I assume the beets had not entered my system quite yet.

I am sure the effects of the purple plant are temporary, though, so I gotta raid my mom's pantry for all her pickled beets.  And make some of my own!

Hypertension

My blood pressure is high.  Again.  It was high when I was pregnant with the twins. After the miscarriage, my blood pressure went back to normal within a couple of weeks (this was verified by my doctor). And now, at 15 weeks, it is back up there.

In the last week, I had a wicked headache, if you remember from my last post.  I had not really thought much about it until Tony asked if I had checked my blood pressure lately.  I had not, so I went in to his pharmacy and checked it at one of those machines.  It read 138/88.  Not hypertensive, by definition, but still higher than the 119/78 I had when I was not pregnant.  Since then, I have had 3 more headaches, and am now monitoring my blood pressure at home.  My doctor wants to see me in a couple of days regarding this, because obviously this is an issue with pregnancy and me.

Anyone wanting to send prayers and good karma my way is more than welcome to.

Happy Birthday Sacha!

My first-born is now a 4-year old.

I had a horrific migraine last night, but I really wanted to finish the knit T-Rex hand puppet that I was making for him.  All I had left to do was sew on the eyes.  So I did it, placed it in a little bag, and hung it from his doorknob.

This morning, he ran into my room with a big smile on his face: "It's my birthday today!"

I told him to go look on his door.  He came back with his puppet and gave me a big hug, saying, in a way only a sweet 4-year old boy can, "Thank you for making this for me, Mommy.  I love you SO much!"

I love you, too, Sacha.

Smells like sweet pickles

Tony is upstairs making batches and batches of pickles, and while I enjoy the smell of brine as much as the next gal, I am retreating to my blog (hello?  Anyone still out there? No?  Aw, bad bloggy Sarah neglecting her blog for so long).

Things that are happening right now:

1. I am nearly 14 weeks pregnant.  Yippee!  Hurrah!


2. There is only one jelly-bean fetus in there, as confirmed by two separate ultrasounds.


3. I have been having a pretty good pregnancy.  Not too much nausea, some fatigue, which seems to come in spurts.  My appetite is insane, and I am having a passionate love affair with 11:00 pm snacks, including, but not limited to, bologna and kraft singles sandwiches, two things I normally do not keep in the house.


4. Kees has discovered that he is a 2-year old, and should act accordingly.  Most of the time, he is still a good little boy.  Other times, however, I just want to put him in his room, close the door, and wait for him to turn 18.


5. Kees speaks in sentences now.  He is a truly bilingual child, and when he doesn't quite know the right word, he just adds "ee-nay" (or for you francophones, "-iner" to the end of words he does know.  This is how we get sentences like: "Kees bonkiner pied again."  What does this mean?  Kees bonked his foot again.  See, he does not know how to say bonk in French, but surely, since all French words end in -iner, adding that sound to the word bonk MUST be right!


6. Sacha is freaking smart.  The other day, he came up to me and said "Mommy, I have a hypothesis."  I asked him what his hypothesis was, and he replied "My shovel looks like a grader shovel, so it should pick up rocks."  When I asked him what the word hypothesis means, he said "a hypothesis is a word that you can test out."  Not bad for a 3-year old!


7. Sacha still relies on Daddy to go to sleep and stay asleep at night.  Not too sure how we are going to get over this hump (again).  We had him broken of this habit, but then we were on holidays, and sharing beds in hotels, and now we are back to square one.  The only issue now is that we have to get him sleeping alone because Kees is getting ready to move out of his crib into a twin bed.  And where is this twin bed?  On the bottom of the bunk bed that Sacha currently sleeps on.  Kees sleeps all night.  Sacha does not.  Sacha needs to start sleeping all night so he can move to the top bunk and Kees on the bottom.  This must be accomplished well before the baby comes (I am due at the end of Feb) because baby will be taking over Kees's room.  All part in parcel with having a 3 bedroom house and 3 kids.  I  have thought of putting baby with Kees, but that would involve buying another twin bed...LeSigh.


8. Tony is learning the art of home preserving.  He is currently making pickles, sweet pickles, and has already made pickled beets.  I, on the other hand, have made about 50 jars (those little 1-cup jars) of various jams and jellies.  Oh, and I waded into pressure canning territory and canned 7 quarts of spaghetti sauce.  Now, I am taking a bit of a break from canning until the tomatoes are ready and Operation Salsa kicks into effect.  I made roughly 30 pints of salsa last august, and I only have 3 left.  Salsa is a vital condiment in our house.


9. Sacha is turning 4 this week, and I have promised him a dinosaur party complete with dinosaur cake.  This will be a feat if I can pull it off...cake decor is NOT my forte.


10. We are  T-17 days from our New Brunswick trip! Just Tony and I.  No kids.  For 6 whole days. I am really excited to go, nervous about leaving Sacha (Kees will be fine) and so pumped to see my friend Lynn! I searched online today to see if I can bring my knitting needles on the plane, and I totally can.  YES!! I cannot sleep on planes, so I may as well make socks!


11. I am rewatching the entire LOST series.  In bed before I go to sleep.  I know, I am a nerd.  It really is better the second time around knowing how it all wraps up.  And yes, there WAS foreshadowing even in the first season.


12. I am in need of a good read.  Suggestions in the comments are appreciated!

Over and out, bitches.

Miss-Gedo

Kees is a very chatty two-year-old.  He talks himself to sleep, he talks to himself in the morning, usually just rattling off all the people he knows: Mommy, Daddy, Sachy, Vayvay (Memere), Gedo, Jake, Élise, Minou minou (his stuffed sheep).  Kees is functionally bilingual, as he translates almost everything he says, for example, if his food is hot, he will say "Chaud! Hot!"  If he wants to go to the river to look for jet boats, he says "Boat! Bateau!"  He speaks in minimal 3-word phrases, often with a verb and a predicate.  Or a verb and a subject.  Or a subject and a sound effect: "Truck CWASHSHSHS!"  I also am starting to see the cleverness behind his babble, and have realized that he is not my innocent baby anymore; he has a brain, and is very adept at using it for humour.

The other day, the boys were playing in the garage, Sacha on his bike, Kees pushing his dump trucks around (and crashing them into me and Sacha).  Suddenly, Sacha looked up and pointed: "Oh NO! A mosquito!"

Kees looked up with hope: "Gedo? Gedo?"

"No Kees, not Gedo.  Mosquito.  Mosquito," I repeated, laughing to myself at his interpretation of the word.

"Miss-Gedo?" Kees said with a giggle, while Sacha and I howled with laughter at Kees's verbal antics. Seeing that we were amused, Kees continued:

"Miss-Gedo! Miss-Vayvay! Miss-Vayvay!"

Oh, that Kees-man.  A play on words and he doesn't even know it yet.

Kees

Overconfidence in knitting speed makes mommies stupid

My 3-year old loves anglerfish. That was my main motivation in buying Hansi Singh’s Amigurmi: the anglerfish pattern.
I went through my stash and chose colours that would work together and please the 3-year old dictator, and then started up. I literally had cast on 8 stitches when Sacha looked at me and said: "Is it done yet?"
So by day 2, I had the body done and it was stuffed. Sacha really wanted me to finish it, but alas, I have to take care of my other child, 2-year old Kees. So I promised him that as soon as Kees went to bed, I would start working on his anglerfish and finish it, then put it in his bed so that he would see it first thing when he awoke in the morning.
By 12:30 am, after 4 hours of knitting damn fins and such, the anglerfish still had no teeth or eyes, but I was so tired that I said screw it. I put it in Sacha’s bed as it was. I went to bed and hoping to regain feeling in my arms by morning.
At 5:00 am, I heard him call out: "Mommy! Mommy!"

I stumbled to his room, tired, but excited, thinking he was going to thank me. All he said was: "Mommy, you forgot to put on his teeth!" I rolled into his bed and went back to sleep.  Two minutes later, he told me to go back to my bed. BAH!

I drank about 5 coffees when I woke up and finished the eyes and teeth by 9:00 am that morning.


Sacha christened him Spike.

Why I Don't Like Camping aka The Worst First Period Story Ever

'Tis the season.  Camping Season.

Everyone camps.  People have tents, people have trailers, people have motorhomes.  In our neighbourhood, we are most likely the only family that t a) doesn't have a trailer or fifth wheel; b) doesn't have a lake lot at Lesser Slave Lake; or c) doesn't even own camping equipment of the basic type, such as sleeping bags.

My husband loves camping.  His parents have a lake lot with a fifth wheel and a park model trailer.  My parents have a trailer and a lake lot.  My sisters both own tents and all the gear for camping, and have gone camping together with their spouses in the mountains. Unfortunately for my dear Tony, we do not camp.  Not together, not as a family, nada.  I hate camping.  And this is the awesome story that I get to tell every time someone gives me the incredulous look, wondering what the HELL is wrong with me that I hate it so much.

When I was 12 years old, I went to a summer bicycle camp.  The whole premise of this camp was that we, as a group of 12 year olds, would bike about 30 km a day for six days, make camp each night, and take off the next morning.  Sounds like fun, right?  And as an adult, I can't help but think of the exercise and calories you would burn.  Fun times, right?

WRONG!

The first two and half days of camp were fun, but there were some disgruntled kids at camp who thought that the primary counselor was a total bitch.  That may be partially true.  As a result, many kids were wanting to call home to talk to their parents (understandable).  The main problem with this was that we had to use pay phones (remember, this was before the cell phone made its way out of the car bag).  Pay phones involved getting an adult to help you figure out how to dial collect or use a calling card or whatever. The Bitch was scared of all the kids calling home.  There were some threatening to call home to get their parents to pick them up.  She did not want to have this horrible counselorship on her resume, so she made the unilateral decision to not let ANY kids call home. Period. Full Stop.

Enter Sarah. First time camping, I was getting the hang of it.  I was 12, I didn't have BO yet, so I really did not mind not showering every day.  Or just pulling my hair back into braids to get the yuck off my back.  No biggie.  Until I went to the outhouse and saw blood in my panties. Oh. Sweet. Fuck.  It was a period.  My first period.  And I was out camping with no amenities.  No running water, no pads, no tampons (although I seriously doubt there are many who wear tampons that first time).  All I had were stained panties.

I collected myself and went to talk to one of the counselors (she was the NICE one).  She was 16, and told me it was no big deal, and that she would talk to the other counselors and other teenage girls and see if anyone had pads I could have.  I asked if I could call my mom, who was about an hour away.  Bitch started freaking out a bit, would NOT let me call home. After wondering what to do with me, she got her mom, who was helping with meals, to run to the store about 20 minutes away to buy me something.  Too bad the mom must have been WAY past menopause, because she had no clue what to buy and came back with a pack of panty-liners.  And a small pack to boot.  Bitch gave her mom shit for buying the wrong thing, but never asked her to go get the RIGHT thing.  So there I was, in the middle of the forest, with coyotes and bears, with blood in my pants and 10 panty lines to clean it up.

That night, it rained.  It rained hard, and the tarp on our tent did not work so well, so our tent flooded.  Now I had bloody panties and I smelled like a wet dog.  Wait.  Scratch that.  A wet dog who has just been attacked by a coyote and is bleeding everywhere.  I got up the next morning, threw out my panties and my pants, changed into new ones, put on that useless panty liner, and wrapped my windbreaker around my waist rather than use it to shield myself from the rain.  There were BOYS there that would have made fun of me, so I made the sacrifice.  We had to bike a shorter distance that day (about 15 km) but it was ALL up hill.  In the pouring rain that came sideways and slapped me in the face.  The only perk to that rain was that I was so wet when we arrived at our destination that my underwear and pants had been presoaked and there was no trace of blood.

That night, we stayed in a seniors drop-in center, which had plumbing, but no showers or anything like that.  I threw out my wet underwear and pants, put on another useless liner and went to bed.  I woke up all bloody, again, and repeated the whole routine of throwing out my underwear, putting on clean ones and clean pants, wrapping my windbreaker around my waist and set off for a leisurely 48 km bike ride to the next camping point.

The next camping point had pay showers.  Since I was 12 and was not TOLD that we needed money for pay showers, I had none.  The Bitch gave me one token and told me to go wash up.   I threw out my panties and gleefully  got myself all lathered up in tepid water, shampooed my down-to-my-butt hair, and the water turned off. Sweet merciful CRAP.  I dried myself off, got dressed, and went to the water pump to rinse the shampoo out of my hair.  I hit the old sleeping bag (complete with secret blood stains!) and longed for morning.  Morning would be the beginning of the LAST day, when I could go home and clean myself up and actually DEAL with the fact that I had my period.

When I awoke, I was eager to get out of there. We were 30 km away from our destination, and I could not WAIT.  Then, just as we were leaving, my dad pulled up in our minivan.  Before he even had a chance to say hello, I blurted out "DAD! I got my period.  I NEED PADS. Can you go get me some and bring them back to me?"  He looked at me and smiled, then went back to town to get me what I so desperately needed.  He returned when I was on route, so I hopped into the back of the van to put on a pad, then I kept biking.

Why I didn't just pack up and go home, I am not sure.  I must have not wanted to let on to the other kids that there was something wrong.  Or I wanted to eat the hot dogs at the wrap-up BBQ.  Who knows. I do love me some BBQ hot dogs.

But THAT is why I hate camping. And I have yet to tell that story to someone who has not responded with "Man, I'd hate camping, too."

Yes, you would.

Lost and Found

I am one of those people that stayed up to watch the series finale of LOST.  I watched the pre-show with my sister for a while, then we ran to the store to get wine gums, popcorn and Fresca, then came back in time to watch the whole episode.  Along with approximately 45 minutes of commercials. Once the episode was finished, I was exhausted, but I slept very poorly last night.

As a true hardcore LOST fan, I was expecting a lot from this episode, but also not knowing what to expect.  I was not disappointed.  I did NOT see it coming that the flash-sideways world was purgatory (since I am Catholic, I will use the RC word), nor did I expect their reunion to be post-mortem.  But it all made sense: live together, die together.  In death, regardless of when they died (I loved the line Christian Shepperd used: in this place, there is no now; only here) they were all reunited in the afterlife and felt whole. They had spent their lives feeling lost, and in death, they found themselves in their connections to each other.

I have often pondered the afterlife, especially when my father died and in the events since then.  I have wondered whether I will recognize my dad when I see him again. I wonder what we will look like in heaven: if I die an old lady, will I be an old lady forever in the afterlife?  Will I return to my younger self? What will I do there? Who will I spend eternity with?  Will my dad be waiting for my mom, or will she be waiting for my step-dad?

It is said that our heavenly bodies will not resemble our earthly bodies, but we will recognize each other by our souls.  LOST was the same.  They needed to touch each other and feel each other to recognize their loved ones and make the connection. I have developed my own theology on afterlife, that we return to the person and entourage that we had when we were most happy, when we felt most purposeful.  Until one has lived their entire life, you cannot know the answers to these questions.  My period of happiness may have already occurred, or it may not happen for another 40 years. I may lose significant people in my life (again) that change my entire reality that shapes the soul within. I may yet meet people that will drastically alter my outlook on life, and that could change my afterlife.

Despite all my questions and uncertainty, there is one thing that I am sure of: that I will meet my Maker and that he/she will make a place for me in which I will be at peace. I just have to have faith that I will be with the ones who matter most to me, those whom I love. That I will be FOUND.

And I do have faith.

Happy

There are many  little words that a mother longs to hear from her baby, growing into a toddler and now a preschooler.  Kees's vocabulary is growing at an exponential rate lately.  Coupled with the fact that he imitates nearly every word we utter, both in French and English, he is a little vocal machine: he tells you when his food is "hot! chaud!" or when he sees a "boat! bateau!", or that he wants to go "house, maison."  He likes to state as many things as he can in both languages, just to be sure that both Tony and I understand exactly what he wants.

The other day, while Sacha was in preschool, Kees and I went to visit my Baba.  We were having a conversation about food (or something similar, although I am pretty sure it was about food) and Kees came crawling into my lap and kept iterating something over and over.  I wasn't really paying attention to what he was saying, since I was still talking to Baba, so he grabbed my face in his little hands and made me look at him.

"Ma ta,' he said, which is his approximation to "Je t'aime" which is "I love you" in French.

'Je t'aime aussi, Kees."

Then he hugged me and buried his face into my shoulder and said "Happy."

And that made me the happiest I have been in a long time.

My Kid-Free Mother's Day

I went away for Mother's Day.  My Baba made me feel guilty about it for, oh, about 10 seconds when she told me that I should be spending Mother's Day with MY mother (who lives about 5 blocks away).

HA!  Not only have I never had any sort of Mother's Day pampering, I have never had any time away from being a mother since I had Sacha.  Never have I had more than 4 hours away from my kids since August 25, 2006.  And that 4 hour stint was only once, when Tony bought me a "Get Stoned" spa package when Sacha was 3 months old.  Other than that, never more than 2 hours.

This weekend, I had 56 whole hours of relaxation and bliss.  Tony had bought me tickets to Stars on Ice for my birthday, to go with whomever I chose.  I decided to go with Talia, my sister, since she is as equally dorky about figure skating as I am.  I got to drive to Edmonton, which is 500 km from home, spend the weekend shopping, eating out, drinking Starbucks, indulging in a pedicure, singing karaoke at a pub, staying out past 10 pm and drooling over Scott Moyer.  And Kurt Browning, who did an entire routine to Luck be a Lady on hockey skates.  Them's are some skillz!

By Sunday, I was ready to come home.  I missed my kids, and I missed being a mommy.  Most days, I am trying to find some way to escape, and it feels awful.  I don't like being a SAHM who wishes she was working, or drinking, or doing ANYTHING else, frankly, other than being a mommy, raising kids day in and day out.

56 hours away was all I needed to want to go back to mommyhood.  I felt good about seeing my kids, about waking up at 6 am the next day, about why I chose to be a SAHM.

Moms who work at least have those 8 hours a day when they get to be someone else, a professional, a contributing member or society. A stay-at-home mother does not have an alter-ego.  There is only one self, and that is MOMMY.  This weekend helped me remember that deep down, Sarah still exists, a Sarah who can sing, who likes to spend hours at Chapters with a coffee in hand, a Sarah who likes to eat out at places without colouring pages for menus.

I need to learn to get away more often.  To learn to let go and let someone else take care of the kids for a day.  To reacquaint myself with Sarah and live her sans-kid life once in a while so that she can enjoy coming home to mommyhood.

The Gender-Identity Crisis Part 2

While driving to Walmart last week, Sacha suddenly piped up from the backseat: "Mommy, I think I gonna marry a boy after all.  I gonna marry Kees because then I can have a Smart Car faster."

Stunned, and somewhat perplexed at where this was coming from, I had to get the basics out of the way: "Sacha, you cannot marry Kees. He is your brother. You have to marry someone else who is not your brother, or cousin, or mommy or daddy."

Sacha: Oh. Well, I still think I gonna marry a boy so that I get my Smart car faster.

Me: Sacha, you don't need to be married to have a Smart car.

Sacha: But who would sit next to me?

Me: You could choose whomever you want. Kees, Daddy, Maman, Jacob, Stef, anyone. You get to pick.

Sacha: But I still think I gonna marry a boy. Because then I can get the Smart car faster.

Me: Sacha, why can't you get a Smart car if you marry a girl?

Sacha: NO, I get one FASTER if I marry a boy because boys can't have babies in their tummies.

I had to think for a while before I continued, trying to piece everything together in my mind. Finally, it all clicked together.

Me: You want to marry a boy because then you won't have any kids.

Sacha: Yeah, because if I have kids, there is no backseat for them in my Smart car. So if I marry boy, I won't have kids and then I can get my Smart car faster!

Although based on somewhat erroneous assumptions, you cannot argue with that logic.

My not-so-secret guilty pleasure

I love Twilight.

Yes, I am a mom. Yes, I am in my late 20s. Yes, I have better, more productive, things that I could be doing. But I'd rather be reading Twilight. The whole saga.  I have read it twice in the last 6 months.  I will probably read it again.

Here is the other secret: I am not alone. There are many of us, mothers, who love Twilight, who love Edward, who love Jacob. There are even maternity shirts to prove it.
Seeing how the premise for these books is so cheesy and rooted in vicariously satisfying our insane teenage romantic angst, one may wonder why there are so many moms who love it to the point of plopping their kids in front of the TV so that they can read just ONE MORE CHAPTER,  and then sleep on Edward pillowcases while their husband snores away next to them.

Why do moms love Edward?

1. Edward is perfect. Every woman loves a broody, dangerous man, a man that hints at adventure, but wants to protect you and not let you into his world for fear of corrupting you. That is Edward. Corrupting without intending to corrupt.
2. Edward is 17. Forever. Seventeen. Wouldn't we all like to be sleeping with a 17-year old forever?
3. Edward wants to protect your virtue. How many 17 year old guys wanted to protect mine? None. That's how many. Not that I was giving it away, but there were enough that wanted to steal it and run away to Fiji and bury it in volcanic ash so that I could never find it again.
4. Edward sparkles. Everyone likes sparkles. Especially moms who can admire the brilliance of it without having to vacuum it up for months afterward.
5. Edward is ok with you having guy friends, even ones you are potentially in love with but don't know it yet. This may be seen as pure stupidity from Edward's perspective, but not really. When one guy is jealous and the other is kindly and gently waiting for you in the wings, who do you run to? The sparkly one. Who will be 17 forever.
6. Edward plays the piano and writes his own music. He can serenade you anytime you want with your OWN lullaby, written just for you. And if you drag your piano outside, he'll sparkle while he plays.
7. In the midst of global warming, Edward is natural and free AC.
8. Since vampires don't sleep and have extraordinary speed, he could clean your house for you while you sleep and get your beauty rest.
9. Dude is loaded. Not that I am a gold digger or anything.

Jacob has his good points, too.

1. Jacob has a nice complexion, so no need to sunscreen him up every 30 minutes when playing outside.
2. Jacob is so tall you will never need a stool to reach for things in the cupboard anymore
3. Jacob can keep dogs and cats from digging up your flower beds.
4. Jacob is super hot - temperature, that is. As a female who is habitually cold, this appeals to me. And this would save on rising energy costs.
5. Jacob will grow out OR cut his hair for you. It's all a matter of preference.
6. You could have a baby with Jacob without it trying to eat its way out of your womb and breaking your spine during delivery.
7. Jacob will grow old with you and will eventually die of natural causes.

Either way, moms love Twilight. So much so that you can now buy your own bite-sized Edward to keep on your nightstand. Or to bite at your own leisure. He could sure bite me anytime...



**And many thanks for my dear husband who feeds my addiction by buying me said action figure. Did I mention it sparkles?  Just saying...

The Meaning of Easter

Last week, we asked Sacha if he knew what happens at Easter.  He replied: Jesus died on the cross and we hunt eggs!!

He got it mostly right. Just forgot about the resurrection part.

Have a happy Easter!

The Coming Out Post

If ever I had to come out of the closet, I think I would pay Ricky Martin to do it for me.  His writing was so heartfelt and poignant that I thought maybe I should come out, too.  Then, I remembered that I am not a homosexual.  So I'll just link you to his blog post and let you feel the strength and truth for yourselves.

The Gender-Identity Crisis

There comes a time as a parent that your kids say things that take you off guard, and leave you wondering what could possibly be going through their heads.  As the parent of a 3 year old boy, these crises come on a regular basis.  This week, we had what I would call a Three-Year-Old Gender Identity Crisis.

Crisis Number 1

"Mommy, I wanna marry a boy."

My first thought is: What?! Oh man, how can he be gay already?? I know he says he doesn't like girls, but isn't that normal for a 3 year old boy?

I then reel in the irrational-express, destination Sarah's brain and decide to pursue a little further.

Sacha: I gonna marry Kees-man.

Me: Sacha, you can't marry Kees.  He's your brother.  And why do you want to marry a boy?

Sacha: Because girls don't like aliens and I LIKE ALIENS!

My thoughts at this point: Oh thank GOD!

Then I say: Sacha, even if girls don't like aliens, it is ok to marry one.  If you want to be a daddy someday, you're going to have to marry a girl.

Sacha: But why?

Me: Because only girls can have babies.  If you marry a boy, a boy can't carry a baby in its tummy.

Sacha: Hmmm...then I just gonna marry you.

Me: Sorry, Sacha.  Maman is already married.  You have to find someone who is not married yet.

Sacha: Oh.  (pause while he collects his thoughts)  Well, then Kees can marry Stef (Sacha's former love interest) and I can marry Madison 'cause she's so CUTE!

Crisis Number 2

Sacha: Daddy, sometimes I wish I didn't have a penis.

Tony: WHY?

All I am thinking is "Oh crap, he figured out that he needs a vagina to have a baby."

Sacha: Because then I could pee out of my bum.  HAHAHAHAHAHA! That is silly.  Poop and pee out of my bum!  Or, maybe I could poop and pee out of my penis!  HAHAHAHAHAHA!

So far, gender-identity crisis averted.  As long as he doesn't decide that Sacha is a girl's name (which it is NOT, but I digress) and that he can have a sex-change operation and not even have to change his name.

5 weeks later...and this is how it goes

I had my D&C five weeks ago, and things have not resolved themselves.  Emotionally, I am better.  I have made a sort of peace with the fact that I lost my twins.  The fact that they died at the same time makes me believe that there was something genetically wrong with both of them, and they were not meant to live outside of me.

Physically, I am annoyed beyond reason.  In the past five weeks, I have had 12 days of no bleeding.  That makes 23 days of bleeding.  The past 9 days have been light, much the way it is when you are at the end of your period. the end of my period typically does not take 9 days.  And usually proceeds a good 3 weeks of NON bleeding.  Not just 12 days.   Annoying, though, is the fact that my doctor is concerned about infection and keep testing and swabbing to find the cause of this.  So far, nothing.  Everything is negative. I am glad that he is concerned, but I have had enough stuff shoved up my bajingo  in the past month to last me a while.

I just want things to be back to normal so that we can try again (shoving something else up my bajingo, but somewhat more pleasant than a speculum and extra-long Q-tip).  I really wanted to have a baby in 2010, but if things keep up the way they have...well, that won't be happening.

My son is getting married

Earlier this week, Sacha stopped me in my proverbial tracks with the following announcement:

"Mommy, when I get to be an adult, I gonna get married and I gonna go on a honeymoon to a WARM SANDY beach."

"Oh really?  Mommy and Daddy went to a warm sandy beach for our honeymoon," I answered in all sincerity.

"Yeah.  I think I gonna marry Stef (his love-interest in preschool)."

"Stef?" I asked, trying to conceal my laughter at his total serious approach to this issue.

"Yeah, cuz Stef and me, we would not forget our sunscreen and our sunhats."

"That's good, kiddo.  Do you like Stef?  Is that why you want to marry her?"  I asked, wanting to hear some 3-year-old's profession of love for his 4-year-old girl friend.  Sacha did not answer right away.  He hesitated, thought carefully, then said gravely:

"Mommy, it's a long story."

I'm sure it is, kiddo.  Happy Valentine's Day!

Optimism from sad places

One of our biggest dreads when we found out that we had miscarried our twins was telling Sacha.  Sacha was so very excited about having a new baby in the house, he just couldn't wait to see a picture of the baby, just like the pictures from his ultrasound, which he has seen and loves to look at.

Of course, there would be no picture from this ultrasound. There was nothing to celebrate, not a moment that I wanted to capture in print for the rest of my life.

When we returned home, Tony broke the news to Sacha.  We decided not to tell him that we had lost twins, as this would have confused him and caused questions we didn't really want to answer at this point.  When Tony told him that the baby in my tummy had died, Sacha firmly placed his hands on his hips and demanded an answer: "WHY?" he exclaimed.  Tony told him that these things sometimes happen, and that we were very sad about it. Sacha's response:

"Well, looks like we're just gonna have to get another baby!"

When Tony started giggling and crying at the same time, Sacha just looked at him, placed his hand on his shoulder and said "Don't worry, Daddy.  It gonna work out better next time."

And how can one argue with that?

Robbed

I just feel robbed.

I could have handled having lost one baby.  I know that statistically, it very well could happen.  And when I saw on the ultrasound that there was no heartbeat, I was sad and crushed, but I knew it was a part of life and the gamble of getting pregnant.

But the chances of naturally getting pregnant with twins are small.  And then to lose them before I ever really knew I had them is worse.  I never got to experience those wild fantasies about my babies, what it would be like to have twins, how they would grow up together. I never got to have the hopeful anxiety over having to raise 4 kids, and what I was going to do at home alone with these 4 kids under the age of 4.  I never got to imagine whether or not they would be identical.  I never got to imagine what it would be like to be a part of that elite group of mothers-of-multiples. I didn't get to have that joy and awe in carrying two lives in my belly.

Because I didn't know until they were gone.

Last night, I lay in bed crying and clutching my belly, riddled with guilt over my babies, knowing that it would be my last night with them.  The last night I would know them and that I would be their mommy.  The last night that I would be a mother of twins.

Because I am not anymore.  I bleed as though they were never there.  I cry because they always will be.

Sorry Times 2

My first prenatal visit for this pregnancy was today.  I was excited to hear the heartbeat and find out how much weight I have gained.  Well, not so much about that, but wanting to know how bad it was (9 lbs in the first trimester).  Sacha wanted to come so that he could hear the heartbeat, although he was convinced he was going to get to see a picture.

So Tony and him waited in anticipation as the doctor tried to find the heartbeat.  Waited, and waited, and waited.

The doctor could not find a heartbeat, so they sent me to have an ultrasound.  I could tell by the visuals on the screen that there was no heartbeat.  That we had lost this baby.  My doctor then came to talk to Tony and I directly and told us that there was no heartbeat, and that it had been twins.  The twins had died at 8 weeks, and I am sitting here at 11 weeks 5 days.  He was very compassionate, describing what we needed to do next, since my body was obviously not going to miscarry on its own.  All the while, I feel numb.  And horribly guilty.

Guilty for saying that I didn't want twins, that I was terrified of having twins, that it would be bad.  As though I somehow caused this to happen.  I keep trying to tell myself that this is not my fault, but I can't help feeling guilty over it.

I am sorry I said I didn't want you.  I did.  I do.  And now I will never know you.

I am so sorry.

Twin Cursing Makes Me Nervous

It has been brought to my attention (thanks, Katie) that I have not posted in two months.  I think that is about right, as I am now...10+ weeks preggers with #3.  I know that I may be jinxing myself for putting it out on the web that I am with child, but since I am already sticking out of my pants and my boobs are popping out of all sides of my bra, there is not much denying it anymore.

So the past 2 months have been mostly wrought with fatigue, nausea, bitchiness, horribly disturbing dreams, moodiness, irrationality and cursing the damn skinny jeans I bought one week before I found out I was pregnant.  I am also living in fear that I am having twins.  There is no rational reason for this fear (see irrationality as a symptom of said pregnancy) other than that I already had a bump at 8 weeks, my friend says she is having twin dreams, my stepfather keeps wishing twins on me, and other people have seen me and have said something to the effect of "hmm, maybe you're having twins."  Oh, and my SIL had twins last year (along with a horrifying TTTS experience) and I have twin aunts.  And the nagging feeling that my pretty picture of 3 kids and NOT having to buy the freaken minivan everyone says I will need seems too gift-wrapped and perfectly bundled to come true.   And the idea of having 4 kids under the age of 4 scares the holy freaking crap out of me. Other than that, no rational reason for my fear.  Did I mention that I am sometimes a pessimist?

For the most part, I am starting to feel better (most days) as long as I stay away from things that smell like broccoli, feet, coffee or vino - mainly Tony (Bwahaha!).  And from people who tell me that I am going to have twins.