It's a bird, it's a plane ....

Time flies, or so they say. But for many years I managed to ignore the passage of time.

From about 1994 to 2004, I lived essentially the same life. I resided in New York City, worked and dated. I moved apartments twice, changed jobs a lot and had a couple of boyfriends, but the through line of my life remained relatively unchanged. For those things that did change, I had ways of covering them up: A few more gray hairs? More highlights! Frown lines? Nothing a little Botox can’t fix. Ticking biological clock? Let’s have another cocktail and forget it.

But now that I am a mother, nothing stays the same. This week alone, life has handed me irrefutable evidence that time is rushing by with alarming quickness.

1. August and Finley turned six months old.
2. August and Finley tried solid food for the first time. One moment, only milk, formula and a little Tylenol had passed through their perfect pink lips. The next moment, mashed up avocado mixed with breast milk was running down their chins.
3. Finley rolled over all the way from back to front for the first time.
4. August pushed up onto all fours. In a day, two days, a week, he will surely be crawling. At least that seems to be his intention. (I wonder if sleeping through the night is on the boys' agenda!?)

It always seemed like a cliché to say time flies. But it does move –- it runs, it leaps, it rushes through the 59th street station to catch the subway, it speeds past you on the 10 freeway in the fast lane. It goes by like the wind sweeping your hair into your face and obscuring your sight for a moment. Time, it turns out, is breathtakingly fast.

I don’t know what point I’m trying to make exactly, but I guess it’s this: I am amazed and appalled by how quickly my sons are changing. I can’t believe my little guys are already so big. I can barely remember what they were like two months ago. I can’t believe this is how fast babyhood goes. Some days -- like when I have to get up five times in a night to soothe crying babies -- I want to fast forward a few years. Some days -- like when August pushes away from me so he can go explore some new fascinating horizon -- I want to freeze time. Mostly, I try to savor the newness of each day, with mixed success. Sometimes I mourn the end of the day and other times I celebrate it.

Anyway, it's been six life-changing months of motherhood. And this is just the beginning.

A Plea for Advice from Working Parents

So many things have happened since I last blogged, I can’t even remember all the hundreds of blog posts I’ve started in my mind and never actually wrote. As a mom to twins, I find that time runs away from me each day. In the mornings, I come up with an ambitious list of things to accomplish. By the afternoon, I can’t even remember what was on the list. And now, the passage of time is speeding up even more.

The dreaded deadline in every working mom’s life is approaching fast: the end of my maternity leave.

The moment August and Finley came out of me, I started to wonder how on earth I could ever be parted from them again. (I mean, look at that adorable face of Finley!) They are, of course, the most precious things in the world to me. I hate the idea of giving them over to someone else for most of their waking hours every weekday. But this is not a debate I can have. My family requires me to work so that we can do little things like, say, eat and pay the mortgage.

As the day of my return to the rat race has gotten closer, I’ve started to come to terms with my new life. In fact, there’s a secret little part of me that is relieved at the idea leaving the house unencumbered, of being able to walk across the street and get a sandwich without pushing a double stroller, of talking to adults about something besides diapers, about wearing clothes that are not covered in drool.

I’ve talked to lots of my friends who work and have kids, and they all tell me two things. 1. It’s really hard. 2. But it’s not as bad as you think.

I’ve also been brainstorming with my husband and just on my own about how I can walk the tightrope of being a good, hard-working employee and a good, present mother. Each moment I can spend with my boys will be like an amazing meal to be savored, so I’m trying to carve out as much time as I can in my new schedule. Only time will tell how it works.

So I humbly ask your advice my friends: If you are a working parent (a mom or a dad), how do you strike a balance between your job and your family? Do you have any tricks, any suggestions for how this works? I very much appreciate any wisdom you have to share.

Jealous Mommy

August and Finley are just starting to get nervous around new people. They’re at ease with people they spend all their time with: me, Matt – and our nanny.

Yes, I already have a nanny even though I’m still on maternity leave. Flora comes four days a week and makes it possible for me to do things like shower. She’s great with the babies – maybe too good.

Today when I came home from running a few errands, August didn’t even look at me. He was totally focused on Flora. I’d been gone an hour and already he seemed to have forgotten me. I literally rubbed his foot and head and pinched his little cheeks until he looked at me and gave me a big gummy smile. “Hi, it’s me mom… remember me? I’m the one who has been with you every single day since you were conceived. Yeah, look at me!”

Trying to get his attention made me feel like a insecure, desperate teenager vying for the affections of the popular boy at school. He just has no idea what a grip he has on my heart. It feels awful and ugly, but I get jealous when August and Finley hit it off with anyone besides me.

Of course I want the boys to enjoy being with their nanny. But there’s this: Soon, my maternity leave will end. When that happens the nanny will be with my boys all day. She’ll be the one to greet them when they wake up and hold them up as they try to stand and pick them up if they fall. I’ll swoop in for a couple hours in the evening -- their most cranky time of day – before they conk out for the night (that is if they ever learn to sleep through the night!) And that is what makes me jealous.

The New Normal

Being mother to twins feels like wrestling a giant squid. There’s always another unexpected strangle hold coming to pull me under. But now that I’ve been a mom for four months, I’m learning to get this beast under control – sort of.

In the past few weeks, I’ve experienced glimpses of the thing I used to call “life.” Matt and I went to brunch -– twice -- with the babies. We also once socialized outside our home with the boys. We drove to the San Fernando Valley for a pumpkin carving party. Admittedly, we did not actually carve pumpkins. We showed up an hour early and left 30 minutes after the party started. But we went and that’s the point.

We’ve also started to just go ahead and venture out with August and Fin because the other choice is to stay at home for the next 18 years. Our little adventures have had mixed results: We’ve been to Trader Joe’s on a Sunday afternoon to grocery shop (bad idea); a nursery to look for flowers for the garden (too many bees!); a Halloween party for multiples (a success!); and Costco (terrifying, babies or no babies).

It’s not been easy -– nothing is easy anymore -– but I see hints of a new “normal” emerging. I still feel like I’m fighting a giant squid and I certainly look like I’ve taken a beating -- my hair is unkempt and I rarely wear makeup. But I fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans and I managed to watch the season premiere of “Top Chef.” With the help of a part-time nanny, I’ve gone grocery shopping, to yoga, to a doctor’s appointment, to the mall. I’ve become expert at loading the babies and their stroller into my car or just getting ‘em all out on the sidewalk to a stroll. I’ve even briefly carried both babies at once now that they can hold their own heads up.

So the new normal is a very, very scaled back version of the old normal: 20-25 minutes of free time at a stretch, brief appearances at barbeques, movies on Netflix instead of in the theater, lunch out but never dinner. But it’s fine. I mean, I’ve said in the past that I don’t care if I never go out to a nice dinner or sleep in past six a.m. again. That’s not exactly true. I ache for a morning of lounging in bed reading the paper, for enough personal time to go to the gym, but we -– my family and I –- are birthing a new life together. We're taking baby steps to figure out how to walk and later to run and that’s all I can ask for right now.


NOTE: typos are bad and I try not post them. But, as I mentioned, I have twins, which means I can’t always proofread as well as I’d like. Thanks for your understanding.

Flexing New Muscles

August is getting really good at holding his head up. He lays on the bed, hoists his noggin off the blanket and smiles proudly like he’s saying, “Hey Mom, look at me!”

But the new skill has taken a lot of work. As August raises his head, his body shakes, he pants and strains until he finally lets it fall back down with a light thud. That’s how parenting feels to me – I strain and pant and then collapse. But like August, I’m getting better it, and the accomplishment of each day can make me feel shiny and proud.

Still, learning to parent is like learning to flex new muscles. Last Friday, I was facing my first full day with both boys alone. I normally go a stretch of four or five hours by myself with them, but 10 hours… Ug. A whole day would include at least 3 feedings, 8 diaper changes and probably 4 meltdowns.

So, I flexed a new muscle: I asked for help.

I literally put out a plea on Facebook saying I needed assistance taking care of my babies. I tried to make it come across as light-hearted and funny to hide my desperation, but it was a serious request.

The crazy part is that people answered the call. I ended up with three babysitting “shifts” to my day. First, a very old friend of mine named Debbie drove all the way across town after dropping her own two kids off at school to come over and hold my babies. She helped put the boys down for a nap, get them up later and allowed me a few moments to actually prepare and eat food. Here’s the crazy part: Until recently, I hadn’t been in contact with Debbie for 20 years. We ran into each other at our high school reunion, realized we both lived in L.A. and vowed to get together. But we never did – until I had kids.

One day a month or so ago, Debbie showed up at my door with fresh tamales, all sorts of baby hand-me-downs and just wonderful positive energy. And then on Friday, she came over in my hour of need. I mean, my heart is practically breaking over her generosity.

What I’m finding out late in life, but not too late, is that it’s okay to ask for help. And even more shocking: People are willing to give it.

The rest of my day was filled with equally amazing acts of kindness. My sister-in-law showed up to help with the boys’ midday feeding. She shrugged off a large amount of spit up down her arm and even started the task of cleaning up an explosive diaper issue, which I simply could not let her complete. Some jobs really are just for parents to do.

Later a new friend, Kyle, came over with a gift for the babies even though he’s already given them one! Then he proceeded to spend more than two hours with me and the boys. He held August for 30 whiny, wiggly, fussy minutes before his feeding – then Kyle stayed and fed him! I mean, what? He saw my babies at their crying, inconsolable worst (well, not quite worst!) And he still stuck around for more.

It’s like the sky has opened up and beamed angels into my life. And they are helping me learn to hold my head up.

Motherhood Infidelity

The absolute hardest thing about having twins is the cheating.

At least that’s what it seems like when I am holding one baby, but smiling and cooing at the other one over his shoulder. I feel like a married woman who’s flirting with another man.

The other day I sat on the couch with Finley to my left and August to my right. I rubbed their tummies, massaged their little legs and talked to each of them, alternately bobbing from side-to-side like a crazed metronome. It was exhausting.

Yesterday, I smooched August as he was lying on the bed learning to roll from his tummy to his back. “Yay! Good job!” I said to him and planted enthusiastic kisses on his big round cheek and soft neck. I clapped and smiled at him. He smiled back happily cooing at me and making me feel like I just lit up his whole world.

I was beaming – for a moment. Then Matt, who was holding our other son right next to me, said, “You have to hold Finley now. He’s looking at you with August and he’s crying. He needs your attention, too.”

I am constantly aware of trying to spread my affection equally between my two boys, and of generally failing. When August and Fin were in the NICU, I’d sometimes end up holding and feeding Finley twice in a day and not spending any quality time with August, or vice versa. I’d go home that night feeling guilty and vowing to focus on August the next day.

This concept of splitting my attention equally is not new. I am an only child. While only children get the benefit of all their parents’ attention, we also have the burden of trying to please two parents.

I remember vividly going on a walk in the Sierra Mountains with my parents when I was about 12 years old and being hyper-aware of the amount of time I spent with Mom and Dad. If I pointed out a particularly beautiful wild flower to Mom, I tried to then share a moment appreciating the stunning view with Dad. I was utterly exhausted by the effort of keeping track of and maintaining equal contact with both of them.

At some point, I realized I can never slice myself perfectly down the middle. My relationship with each parent is separate, but not equal. Still, each Christmas I make sure to buy both parents the same number of gifts. They each get one “big” present and several small ones that all equal out to be roughly the same cost. I even make a list comparing Dad’s gifts to Mom’s: he gets a CD, so she gets some bubble bath etc.

With August and Finley, sometimes at the end of a day I feel like one of them has been deprived of his mommy time. Part of my parental fatigue is caused by keeping a running tally of what I did with each boy. How many times did I feed August vs. Finley today? Did I spend more minutes doing tummy time with one of them? Who got more hugs, kisses, cuddles?

Matt often jokingly asks me, “Which baby is your favorite?” I quip back, “Whichever one isn’t crying.”

In truth, I am determined not to favor one baby over the other and I’m devastated knowing I will surely fail. I take solace in the knowledge that as they get older I will have a unique relationship with each son. And for now, I’ll keep trying to match a kiss for a kiss.

I Think We're Alone Now

When I was a teenager I babysat to make spending money, but I had a secret: I was afraid to be alone with the kids I was minding. Now, I am alone with two babies many hours every day and that old fear still bubbles up.

In the mornings as Matt leaves for work and the night nurse heads off into the sunrise, I think, "Don't leave me alone with these babies! What am I going to do when they wake up?"

Of course they always wake up (thank god) and I overcome the fear long enough to do the things you're supposed to do with babies: Pick them up, cuddle them, kiss them, feed them, change them, sing to them, love them. But under the surface the anxiety looms.

I'm not scared of an accident happening. I'm mostly just terrified that August and Finley will cry loudly and uncontrollably. Which they sometimes do. I’m scared they'll cry so long and so loudly that I'll start to cry too, that I'll just sink onto the ground saying, "I can't do this!" or that a neighbor will call child protective services and the three of us will be discovered wailing on the floor of the babies' room and be hauled off by the authorities.

There's also this: Part of it is a fear that I lack the leadership skills to helm a family.

Let me tell you an embarrassing story. When I was in the sixth grade, I was elected class president for the second half of the school year. This was a huge deal because I'd just moved to town at the beginning of the year, so the fact that my new classmates liked me enough to make me their president was really an honor.

But then when the class president from the first semester – a supremely confident and popular girl -- announced my name, she said, "Well, come on up to the front of the room, Marla." She wanted me to take over the rest of the election process, which included taking nominations for vice president etc., and writing the candidates' names on the chalkboard. I have always had awful handwriting and been a terrible speller, so I was petrified to write on the blackboard. I thought everyone would suddenly realize I was not worthy of their votes. I was so scared that I told the teacher I didn't want to be president after all.

It may sound silly, but that decision is one of my biggest regrets. Of course, I should have faced my fears and just gone ahead and been president. I mean, if George W. Bush can be president of the United States, I could handle being president of the sixth grade, right? Anyway, sometimes I still feel like that little girl who doesn't want to be class president. All my self-doubt comes out and I think, "Who left me in charge of these small babies? I'm not qualified for this. There must be some mistake. What if I mess up?"

But the deed is done. I am the president of mommyhood for August and Finley. I can't step down. So when that door closes in the mornings and I'm alone with them, I acknowledge the panic then move on. I'm even starting to enjoy our alone time because of the other feelings it occasionally brings out like confidence, peace and flashes of joy.

Showdown in the Afternoon

I know I recently gushed over motherhood, but yesterday certainly tested my commitment to that sentiment.

Most days I manage to keep the chorus of crying – mine and the babies' – to a minimum. But yesterday turned into crymageddon when August and Finley simultaneously woke up from their naps upset and angry.

My usual strategy with two crying babies is to console one first, give him a pacifier and then put him into whatever baby-holding apparatus is available. Next, I start the process again with screaming baby no. 2, and soon everyone is back from the brink.

But maybe the babies have gotten wise to me. They do not want to be soothed and then dropped into some swing or Boppy pillow. They want to be with Mom – and not just near me, but ON me, in my arms, cuddled against my chest at all times. Believe me, I have tried to cuddle two infants in my arms, but it's basically impossible. Or at least it is for me. With their little unsteady heads bobbing and waving, I need both hands to secure one baby.

Yesterday afternoon, every time I thought I had one baby calm and tried to put him down, he'd start howling again. After a few minutes of this, I realized there was no way I'd get both babies to be quiet at once. I thought I might just have to live with this gut-wrenching, ear-piercing wailing forever. What the hell was I going to do? I considered running into the street and yelling "Help!" in the hopes that some passer-by would come inside and hold a baby. Or just running out into the street and leaving all together. Instead, I decided I would keep Finley calm and I would leave August, who was absolutely apoplectic, in a bouncy chair in his room alone.

"I'm going to heat up the bottles," I said, then walked out while he yelled at the top of his lungs.

As the bottles warmed up, I cuddled Fin in the kitchen and let his brother scream the kind of scream that sounds like it means 'I am dying! I am on FIRE! The world is coming to an END!' I tested the bottles, I heated the water more. The whole processed seemed to be taking an age. All the while, August was yelling like he was being tortured.

Finally, I couldn't listen to that awful cry anymore, so I walked into the room. August had his eyes wide open and was staring at the door looking horrified, as if he thought he'd been abandoned. When he saw me, his cries started to subside. He took some deep breaths. I did the same. I sat on the couch, put my foot onto the bouncy chair and started to bounce August. He looked up at the little stuffed birdies attached to his chair and stopped crying all together.

If August was an adult, we both would have felt a little embarrassed by the scene we'd caused and would apologize to each other. "I'm sorry I got so upset and yelled at you," he would say. "I'm sorry I stormed out," I would say. Then we'd hug. Without that kind of reconciliation possible, I moved my foot so I was touching August's leg and bounced him a little faster. He stared at me quiet and unblinking.

"I love you and I will never leave you," I told him. He sniffled and furrowed his brow like he was about to wail again, but then decided not to.

We sat like that for a long time. Me bouncing August in his chair. Him coming to terms with just being near me. Finley asleep on my chest. In that quiet aftermath of the crying storm, it felt like we were making a pact to stick together, try our best and accept that none of us are perfect.

My So Called Life

Since giving birth, I have missed out on a lot of things.

For instance, I haven't seen the last Harry Potter movie. I think I am the only person in the world who doesn't know who wins -– Harry or Voldemort. I may never know (but please don't tell me!). I'm going to miss a fabulous party in Palm Springs this weekend. For months I haven't been to the gym or a store that sells anything other than diapers or groceries. I have missed birthday parties and barbecues. Hell, I have missed this entire summer.

But, here's the crazy thing: I don't care.

I feel like I shouldn't be enjoying life as a mom yet because right now parenthood consists of cleaning up crap, doing laundry, washing bottles, being screamed at by tiny humans, having an aching back, getting little sleep and essentially being a prisoner in my own home. You know what, though, I totally love it.

August and Finley, to me, are the most divine creatures ever to be made. When I had my first "conversation" with August as he learned to coo, it felt like witnessing a miracle. When Finley smiles at me with his huge gummy grin, it's so much better than Harry Potter. Watching them kick their legs in absolute delight at the stuffed octopus that plays an annoying tune is worth missing a million brunches.

That's not to say that I love motherhood every minute of every day. There are some very dark moments. There are times when Matt looks at me and I know we are both thinking, 'What the hell have we done?' We've done something irrevocable. We can't give these kids back. They are our responsibility for the next 18 years at least. That idea can stop my heart. How will we ever manage that emotionally, physically, financially? I can't go there.

But I can think about the daily sacrifices -– about how one year ago I was in Hawaii on vacation and now I'm lucky to go for a walk around the block. About how my hands are dry and cracked from washing dishes and poop stains. I feel seasick from fatigue. My stomach is fat. My old clothes don't fit. I don't know when I will ever see my friends again or break a sweat at a great aerobics class or savor blueberry pancakes during a leisurely brunch or sleep in past 6 a.m. It could be years. But so what.

Now I have what it took me years to even know I wanted: A home filled with love and noise and chaos and real hard, trying, amazing life.

The Breast of Times, the Worst of Times

Taking care of one baby is no problem, but I'll tell you what is a huge problem for me: breastfeeding.

Breastfeeding is one thing about motherhood that I imagined would be easy -- baby comes out, roots around, latches on, and soon you're whipping out your boob in line at Starbucks with your baby slung around your body.

Not for me. In my story, the babies come out, get whisked to the NICU and have a feeding tube stuck down their throats.

For three weeks, nurses painstakingly taught August and Fin to be able to eat tiny amounts of expressed breast milk from tiny bottles. While the babies were there, I did work on breastfeeding. I met with a lactation consultant and learned how to position the babies, how to squeeze milk into their mouths and watch their suck swallow reflex. I breastfed both babies a handful of times in the hospital.

Once I got home, though, it all fell apart. The exhaustion and the frequency of their meals beat me down so that somehow pumping and feeding milk to them in bottles seemed easier.

Then August and Finley's appetites quickly out-paced my breast milk production, so we introduced formula. Every day, I'd half-heartedly try to get one of them to breastfeed, but they would scream –- really scream –- and push me away like I was poisonous. It may sound silly, but I felt so totally hurt and rejected by my sons. The breastfeeding sessions usually ended with all of us in tears -– and a bottle in the baby's mouth.

I've been ashamed to admit it, but I'm a breastfeeding failure.

Then, I turned a corner, sort of. I met a nurse while Finley was at the hospital last week. She asked me why he wasn't breastfeeding. (Don't even get me started on how people look down on non-breastfeeding moms.) I told her about the NICU and the screaming babies and my feelings of rejection. She stared at me with steely look -– not pity or judgment –- and said, "It's not too late."

The nurse told me that if, for one day, I made August or Fin try the breast at every single feeding, if I pushed through our mutual frustration, by the next day the baby would know how to breastfeed. So, I spent one horribly exhausting day with August yelling, crying, throwing his head back, and pushing his little fists into me at every feeding –- and then he did it. He learned to breastfeed. I tried it with Finley, too, and got him to take partial feedings from me.

It's still not easy. I'm never going to be that laid back earth mama with two babies breastfeeding at once. Both boys still often take a bottle with a mixture of breast milk and formula. I still pump about a million times a day. And I can only get Finley to take one boob -- it's a work in progress -- but I finally, finally, finally can breastfeed my boys.

One Baby, No Problem

Okay, this might not earn me any new friends, but I just have to say it: People who complain about taking care of one baby have no idea how easy they have it.

For reasons I will explain later, Finley had to spend the night in the hospital last night. We knew this was coming, so Matt and I decided I'd take the day shift with Fin at the hospital and Matt would stay with him at night. So that meant I'd be home with August all night and into the morning alone. (Our night nurse currently doesn’t work Wed. nights)

As the day approached, I was a bundle of nerves. I debated whether or not to ask my dad to drive in from Palm Springs to help me take care of August. I've been alone with both babies for a few white-knuckled hours at a time, but this would be at least 16 hours of just us two. Yikes!

August can really scream – especially when he's hungry. And I am so sleep-deprived that I literally feel dizzy almost all day, every day, like I am walking around on a ship swaying side-to-side. Usually Matt is here in solidarity with me as we stumble through the haze of 2 a.m. feedings. Would I be able to keep it together by myself all night? Would August come out unscathed? Would I?

Well, I have my answer and I'm here to tell you that the last 12 hours have been like a vacation. I feel like I've been getting a massage on the beach in Hawaii. Sure, August ate at 11:30 p.m., 2:30 a.m. and again at 6:30 a.m. Yes, he yelled bloody murder while I warmed up his bottle up and he got fussy for no clear reason right before bed. But so what – it was only one baby!

My life has become about the physical and mental act of balancing two babies who both want to be soothed, held, fed, changed and entertained at the same time. Taking care of one baby is like juggling one ball – just plain easy. Mostly.

This morning after his 6:30 a.m. feeding, August went back to bed. I took a shower and shaved my legs. Seriously, I had time for personal grooming. I made coffee and oatmeal and was able to consume both!

When August woke up around 8 a.m., I waltzed into his room and cooed to him, "Good morning, August. Good morning!" He grunted and half smiled. I rubbed his tummy and picked him up as sun streamed into the room. I held him to me and nuzzled his neck. In return … he spit up all over the front of my shirt. So much for my vacation.

My Dirty Secret

Yes, I have twins and it's totally, crazily hard. But I have to reveal a secret, something that makes me feel ashamed and like a whiny, entitled snot.

I have help. Lots of help.

Five nights a week, a night nurse comes to our house at 10:30 p.m. and takes care of our babies until 6:30 a.m. I still (usually) wake up to pump milk at some ungodly hour like 2 a.m. or 3 a.m. or 4 a.m., but Matt and I basically get six hours of sleep on those five nights.

I realize that lots of people – normal people with jobs and no kids and fun lives -- function on that much sleep. But for me six hours of sleep is like eating frozen yogurt when I really want gelato. It satiates me, but it pales in comparison to the delicious treat (or eight hours of sleep) I truly crave.

During the two days a week when we don't have help, Matt and I are like cranky, crazed zombies – pale and sunken, angry, grunting and mindlessly eating whatever is in our paths.

And that's not all: For the last several weeks, my mother has been renting an apartment nearby and coming to help me every day. She arrives at about 10 a.m. and helps me all day with August and Finley. She feeds the boys, changes them, does laundry, washes dishes, makes lunch and even waters the yard and sweeps up the giant dust bunnies created by the plush rug in the boys' room. She encourages me to nap, which I rarely manage to do, and she babysat while I got my hair cut and went to the eye doctor.

When I step back and look at my situation, it seems like taking care of twins should be a piece of moist chocolate cake. But even with the night nurse and attentive grandparents and friends bringing over homemade dinners, this is the hardest thing I have ever done. Having twins is relentless and exhausting and all consuming.

Whenever I leave the house, I imagine scenarios in which I use having twins as an excuse for all sorts of bad behavior like violating traffic laws or cutting in line at CVS. I picture a cop pulling me over for running a yellow/red light and telling him, "I just had twins. I'm sleep-deprived. I can't think straight. My life is on fire." That is how it feels, like the life I knew is burning to the ground. It's okay – a new, lush life will grow up in its place -- but the process is searing and arduous and confusing. I mean, even this blog post has gotten off track. …. The point I set out to make was the fessing up about all the help I'm getting taking care of my twins. People all seem to feel so sorry for me as a new parent. I feel badly taking their sympathy without revealing the full picture. So now that the curtain has been lifted, you can decide whether or not I deserve your sympathy and respect. I hope I do.

One last note: for me, the experience of parenthood is like a shift of the Earth's continental plates. It is connecting me to the continent of humanity. I am no longer an island. I have always been the kind of person who does not like to ask for help, but this has forced me to be humble, to seek and accept people's support and kindness. It's a jarring experience, but I think it's making me more complete.

The Indignities of Parenthood

As an adult without children, I was able to go through life mostly avoiding humiliation. Sure there were some drunk dialing incidents in my 20s, some public stumbles, the time I forgot to mute my phone during a work call, but my everyday life was fairly safe. Parenthood, on the other hand, comes with daily humiliations and indignities.

Pee: On one of August's first nights home, I was changing his diaper at about 3 a.m. when I was hit in the face, in my hair and in the eye with something unidentifiable. In my sleep-deprived haze, I imagined I'd walked through a spider web made by something the size of that spider from the third "Lord of the Rings" movie. I jumped back in horror trying to process what was happening. Then Matt pointed out that it was a strong, steady stream of urine. And that was just the first time I got peed on. Now that both August and Finley are home, being urinated on is a regular part of my days.

The hands-free breast pumping bra: The garment is like a thick black bandeau with two holes cut for your nipples. It seems like it could almost be sexy, except that two bags of milk are hanging off your boobs and your stretched out post-pregnancy belly bulges out from underneath it.

Hygiene: I used to be clean. I showered every single day. Now I'm the kind of person you'd see wandering around Target in milk-stained pajama pants and her shirt on inside out, and wonder 'What was that woman thinking when she left the house?' The answer: She wasn't.

Sanity or lack thereof: There's a Paul Simon song that goes "Losing love is like a window in your heart. Everybody sees you're blown apart." I think the same goes for having twins. People can see I have been blown apart by storm August & Finley. All the veneer and decorum has been blasted away by fatigue and crying jags and poop smeared blankets. There are moments of bliss, like right now when they are both asleep looking adorable and I'm writing on my blog for the first times since they've been home. But in general, the polish has come off my life – haircuts, manicures, showers, high heeled shoes, parties and movies are gone for the moment. Instead I am stripped to bare essentials – holding, soothing, feeding, washing, helping….mothering the best I can.

The Easy Part?

This is the easy part. This is the easy part!? Shit, this is the easy part.

Having two babies in the NICU isn't a piece of cake, but it's a whole lot easier than having two babies at home. I mean, NICU = 24-hour expert care. All day, every day, there is a trained nurse assigned to do nothing except feed, change, clean, and burp August and Finley. It's amazing.

Meanwhile, I am like a bumbling aunt who breezes into the NICU every day for a few of hours, holds the babies, swaddles them badly, changes their diapers badly, gets them riled up, cries sometimes for no good reason and then goes home.

Still, I'm exhausted from merely visiting the babies.

Just so you don't think I'm a total loser, I do have a busy schedule. I pump breast milk 8 times in 24 hours. That means, my first pump of the "day" is at midnight, then at 5 a.m., 8 a.m., 10 a.m., noon, 3 p.m., 6 p.m. and 9 p.m. Plus, I drive 10 miles to the hospital spend 4-5 hours with the babies, come home, eat, pump, sleep, pump, sleep, pump, sleep, pump, do chores, pump, go see babies, etc. Yet, this is the easy part!

I'm already sleep deprived, cranky, moody, weepy and having hallucinations.

The other night, Matt woke me up for my midnight pump (he was just coming to bed after having watched "Fell Metal Jacket" on Netflix for reasons I couldn't fathom.)

Anyway, Matt says, "Are you going to pump now?"

I say, "Yes." Then I do not move.

Matt finishes getting ready for bed and says again, "Are you going to pump?"

I say, "Yes, but someone has to take this baby off me first."

"What baby?" Matt asks.
….

I raise my head up to try to figure out where I am and who the hell I even am. I realize I'm at home and my babies are in the NICU being cared for by someone else. I'm not even that tired, really. I'm getting enough rest to realistically maintain sanity. And I'm still losing…my…mind. In my half asleep state, I thought one of the babies was sleeping on me and that our Russian NICU nurse Lana was in the other room.

So I'm starting to think maybe I am not the best person to be trusted with two small infants. Instead, the best way for these boys to grow up is to be raised by NICU nurses in a hermetically sealed environment where visitors must scrub down "Silkwood" style before entering and the temperature never fluctuates and the babies can be hooked up to heart monitors until they are 18 and Mommy can visit every day.

Together Again

Yesterday we had a magical moment in the NICU. Our fabulous nurse, Monica, helped put August and Finley together for the first time since birth.

As I sat in a rocking chair with a sleeping Finley, she moved August out of his incubator, stretched all the wires attached to him as far as they could go, and placed him in my arms next to Fin.

It was overwhelming and so cool for me, but the boys did not appear to share my enthusiasm. Fin remained completely asleep. August looked around a little – mostly in the opposite direction of his brother – and soon fell into a deep sleep, too.

I guess that's a good lesson of parenthood to learn early: the kids will be their own people, not who I expect them to be.

Once I was holding both boys I felt such joy, along with a slice of panic. (I think you can see the panic on my face here -- smiling a little too hard.) My mind raced. How will I handle these two little beings when I don't have a team of trained NICU nurses to help me? How would I even lift them both up and support their fragile little heads? What if there was an earthquake at that very moment and I had to throw myself on top of them to protect them – could I do it without crushing them? Yes, I take my anxiety to disaster-level scenarios, thankyouverymuch.

I asked Monica if she would come home with me and the kids once they are released from the hospital. She laughed. And said no. She said all NICU parents ask that same question. At least I'm not alone.

For now though, I'm trying not to get ahead of myself and to meet immediate goals -- keep pumping, produce more milk, sleep occasionally and remain semi-sane – which is all hard enough.

August and Finley Arrive

Well, I was finally right when I predicted that Mon. June 27 would be The Day. Dr. S finally looked at me and Matt and said, "We're done." He called my OB and before we knew it, I had a c-section scheduled for 8 p.m. that night.

For a couple of hours, Matt and I sat in a hospital room waiting, having my IV set up, filling out paperwork. Time moved slowly.

Then around 7:30 p.m., life suddenly sped up. My doctor showed up. My labor and delivery nurse, Tammie, introduced herself and quickly became my lifeline and BFF. The anesthesiologist talked me through the spinal block. I walked myself to the operating room -- crying a bit from fear and anticipation -- and then I was on my back being cut open.

For everyone who told me that a c-section was no big deal – you lied. Or at least it was a big deal to me. Maybe it's because I walked into that operating room already freaking out, but when the anesthesiologist said I could expect to feel "pressure" and "tugging," what she meant was pain.

The saving grace of the c-section was that it was over quickly. And that Matt was there with me. I held his with a vice-like death grip and told him that this was awful and I hated it.


Then when our babies were born and I heard them cry out, I cried with joy. And when they were briefly brought over for me to see, I forgot all about the "pressure" as the doctors sewed me up. My heart rate went down. My mind calmed. My complaining stopped. My life changed.

August (at left) was born at 8:32 p.m., weighing 4 lbs., 13 oz. Finley (above) was born at 8:33 p.m., weighing 3 lbs., 10 oz.

Both boys were rushed to the NICU. Only later did I learn that August was in serious distress at birth, having swallowed a ton of amniotic fluid. In the end, our "Little Floatie," Finley, was more stable than our Big Floatie.

But that doesn't matter. What matters is that they are both doing great, getting amazing 24-hour care in the NICU and making strides every day. And what really, really matters is that Matt and I love them beyond any measure that could be expressed in words.

The Mommy-To-Be Who Cried Wolf?

Okay, yesterday was still not The Day.

I'm starting to feel like an ass for always proclaiming every doctor's appointment could be it. My first doctor-imposed goal was to make it to 28 weeks, then it was 30, 32 and maybe if I was really, super lucky, 34 weeks.

Well, I am at 35 weeks today. Now I feel silly for having sounded the alarm every single week for 10 weeks.

Not only do I feel like a bit of a fool, but I feel guilty for not working. I've been home on bed rest just lying here waiting for babies since June 1 and thinking the floaties would be here any day now. I hate the idea of letting people down. Of course, the worse part is that my workmates are totally fine without me. They tell me they miss me, but it's not like the office has come to a grinding halt in my absence.

So was my fetal specialist's dire prediction 10 weeks ago a false alarm? I've thought about it, and I actually don't think so.

Even though my babies have made it past the doctors' predictions, our littlest floatie is still very small. Last we measured, he clocked in at just over 3 lbs. That's because he's not getting as much blood as the big guy, who is about 4.5 lbs. Little Floatie only has two veins in his umbilical cord (instead of the usual three) and he's attached to a part of the placenta that's just not delivering as much blood and nutrients. So even though it often feels like I'm just sitting here wasting time, I think if I'd pushed myself to work longer, do more, keep going, I might have jeopardized his health.

My friends and family call me a rock star and say they're so proud of me for holding the babies in so long. I feel silly accepting that compliment. I'm getting praise for doing nothing -- literally -- for letting Matt do the shopping and cooking, for lying on my bed and ordering baby things online. To be hippy dippy about it, I'm being praised for having the strength to let go.

I'll never know for sure what would have been different if I'd pushed myself harder, had tried to keep working, going to the gym, socializing. Maybe the outcome would have been the same. Or maybe right now instead of blogging from home I would be sitting in the NICU nursing a super premature baby and cursing myself for not slowing down.

I don't want to be the mommy-to-be that cried wolf again next week, so even though I totally think this coming Monday will be The Day, I'm going to try to play it cool.

I'll just say this: The journey I'm on only has one ending -– these babies are coming out. It could be next week, it could be the week after that or even the week after that. But, the end of my pregnancy is coming to an end soon. Then a whole new journey will begin.

Today or Not Today?

Isn't it ironic, don't ya think?

Of course, now that I think today is really, really The Day, I'm finding all sorts of things to do to keep myself busy.

Last week, I thought I would lose my mind from boredom. On Saturday, I was especially cranky. I moped around all day feeling sorry for myself and took my frustration out on Matt just because he had the ability to actually leave the house, which he did, to have a burger and a beer with his friend.

I could not motivate any enthusiasm for anything – even the season premiere of my fave show True Blood, which I got on DVD from my pals at HBO. I watched it begrudgingly like a spoiled kid.

By Sunday, I finally snapped out of my mood, partly because we had visitors, who brought donuts and gossip, thank god.

Today, I'm feeling upbeat. I've been reading, writing, catching up on email and imagining all the things I could do with another week of bed rest. Yet somehow on this Monday -- just one day shy of 35 weeks pregnant -- I have a feeling of finality, like this is it!

In two hours, during our weekly specialist appointment, we'll know for sure…

I Lied…

On Sunday when I said Matt and I were ready for the floaties, I thought I was telling the truth but I wasn't.

That evening, I started getting cranky. By Monday morning, I was in a full-blown panic-induced state of darkness. I kept thinking, 'Someone is going to literally cut me open today. Holy shit.'

I've had several women assure me that getting a c-section is not that bad, but for me the idea of having my uterus sliced open is incredibly unpleasant. I've had surgery before. It's not something I really care to repeat.

Then, there's the idea of life after the c-section. Two tiny beings will be depending on me for everything. In the months ahead there will be sleepless nights, raging hormones, sore boobs and lots of excrement. I don't know how on earth I can prepare for that, really.

At Dr. S's office, I watched Matt's expression as the doc informed us that both babies are still growing, though they've both slowed down; the little one has less amniotic fluid; and I am having contractions. My husband closed his eyes, dropped his head to his chest and rubbed his temples. I thought maybe he was going to pass out. He and I were both thinking, "This is it. This is really, really it." I thought we were ready, but when we believed the next words out of the doctor's mouth were going to be, "You should get to the hospital and deliver these babies," Matt and I were stricken with fear and foreboding.

Instead, the doctor said, "I don't see any reason we have to deliver you today. Make an appointment for next week."

I was totally stunned. Part of me wanted to say, "Really? Come ON! Let's get these guys out of me, already." The other part was thinking, "Whew! Now I can finish season 3 of 30 Rock on Netflix and watch the finale of Games of Thrones on Sunday. Oh, and I don't have to get cut open and become a mother today. Thank you!"

But now we're back to where we've been every week for the last seven weeks. My life is like Groundhog Day. I already know what's coming this Sunday: Takeout dinner, Game of Thrones, crankiness and panic. Will I ever actually be ready? I kinda think I won't.

The Last Sunday?

This week will mark 34 weeks pregnant. (I always count Mondays as the turning point, though Tuesday will be exactly 34 weeks.) This is as far as any of my doctors predicted I would make it into pregnancy. So is this literally my final day as a non-parent?

I have no way of knowing the answer. As usual, it's all up to Dr. S. Tomorrow we will have the answers to the all important unknowns: Do the babies still have enough amniotic fluid, strong heartbeats and enough blood flow? Has our little floatie, who two weeks ago weighed 2 lbs., 13 oz., grown enough? If the answer to any of these things is "no," it's off to the hospital we go.

I could be a bad mother for thinking this, but part of me is really ready to meet these little guys – and get them out of my body. Today I developed a pain in the upper left part of my back that won't seem to go away. It's hard to sleep, sit up, lie down, stand, walk or just move in general.

This morning I slept in until 9 a.m. Matt had to come in and wake me up. Lying on the bed next to me he mused, "Is this our last Sunday alone?" I wondered, "Is this my last day to read the paper and drink coffee?" "Is this the last day our house will be quiet?" If it is, I haven't done anything earth-shattering to mark my last day of freedom. I made banana bread. We ate tacos for lunch. Otherwise, I sat on the bed most of the day reading the New York Times and surfing the Web.

I have often felt paralyzing fear at the idea of becoming a parent. (Only to be matched by the paralyzing sorrow I felt when I thought it might never happen for us.) The waiting game of the last couple months hasn't taken away my fear of parenthood, but it has made me more at peace with the inevitable. As Matt says, there is no alternate ending -- the babies have to come out at some point. So whether it's tomorrow or a week from tomorrow, we're ready. At least we're as ready as we can be.

What Kind of Parent Will I Be?

I'm haunted by the fear that I'm going to be an inadequate parent.

There are things I am good at, but that list is far shorter than the list of stuff I don't get, never learned and will likely never know.

To be optimistic, let's start with the good stuff: I have big heart, a generous spirit, patience, a love of reading, a sense of adventure and an unquenchable appetite for new experiences and travel. I'm a good swimmer. I'm not afraid of things like climbing trees, heights, roller-coasters or riding a bike through Times Square. I've read a lot of Shakespeare. I can be funny. I like writing. I'm learning to garden. I know the names of several tropical flowers. I can drive a stick shift. I can (sort of) ski. I'm reliable and loyal. I'm a good friend, usually. I'll do things for friends like pick them up at the airport. I always bring wine or beer when I'm invited to a party.

As for the things I am not good at: I don't know much about history. I'm terrible at speaking French despite years of lessons as a teen. I've never run a marathon, gone skydiving or participated in a triathlon. I'm afraid of horses. I can't cook. I can't play an instrument. I never know what bands are hip. I'm not very tech savvy even though I've worked online for years. I don't volunteer. I watch too much TV and can't seem to do anything productive after dark. I eat croissants on the weekends. I don't like schmoozing or networking. I'm terrible at math. I can't paint or draw. I'm not good a crossword puzzles or trivia games. I'm not particularly fashionable. I lack discipline and often confidence, too.

Those last two things are what I worry about most. I want to give my boys a good example of how to be happy and to achieve remarkable things. I want them to believe in themselves and work hard. But how will I teach them those lessons if I haven't learned them myself? I've sworn a million times that I would work harder, do more, be more accomplished. Of course, there have been lots of times when I've been proud of myself, but I have put off many things I want to do, thinking someday I'll skydive or learn to cook or become a professional cyclist or write a book. In the past, I've made small efforts towards some of those goals. Yet, they remain on my list of things to do.

Well, I'm about to have two babies, which, from what I hear, takes up quite a lot of time and money and energy. I've had 30+ years to do what I wanted. Why is there still so much left undone? I don't want to relegate my life's list of goals to the backburner. And it's not because I'm selfish. The idea of having kids makes me want to be a better person. I want my kids to be proud of me. I hope I can give them that gift -- someday soon.

Stir Crazy... Going, Going, Gone

Well, I've been at home and not working now for eight days, and that seems to be my tipping point. I'm bored and lonely and tired and feeling sort of sorry for myself.

This morning I didn't get out of bed until almost 9 a.m., and only got up at all because the floaties were kicking me like mad. I could basically hear them saying, "Mom, get up! We're hungry!" So, I had a little conversation with them – out loud 'cause who else am I going to talk to. I said to them, "Okay, okay, Mom has been a lazy bones this morning. We're all going to get up and have some breakfast." I apologized to them for being a neglectful lump.

We three had some raisin bran with blueberries and blackberries, some water, OJ and coffee. (Yep, I'm allowed one small cup.)

But beyond that I couldn't seem to motivate myself to do much of anything. I finished reading my book and watched a little Food Network. It took me until noon to even shower. I decided I absolutely had to leave the house or I'd go insane, so I ran a quick errand to mail something and get some food. I was gone 25 minutes at the most. Then I came right back home and couldn’t figure out what to do besides eat lunch and watch old episodes of "30 Rock."

I'm definitely starting to lose it a little. Every day, I log onto my work email, but mostly just get junk mail these days. I check Facebook, read some news stories, hem and haw over baby things to buy online and then, the highlight of my day is to write a blog post.

Still on my list of things to do: write my memoir, put together my wedding photo album, make a floatie-appropriate play list on my iPod and buy all the baby shizz we still haven't gotten.

So what will I do now? A couple more episodes of "30 Rock" sounds great….

33 Weeks and Counting

Yesterday was another one of those "Will this be The Day?" days. But once again, it was not.

Our fetal specialist Dr. S -- who has previously scared the shit out of me and Matt with his dire predictions for our babies -- has completely changed his demeanor since we made it to 32 weeks. Now, he acts jovial and relaxed during our visits. He laughs and seems nonchalant about the babies' health. Yesterday, he playfully showed us an alarmingly loud buzzer that is used to wake up babies in utero who are not being active enough. Our babies are plenty active, but Dr. S just wanted to show us the buzzer for fun.

As usual, I got hooked up to the fetal heart monitor. (See photo to the left) The boys were sluggish at first, but then became super active. They bounced around causing the sensors to make seismic-like squiggles on the heart monitor paper. Dr. S said the "kids," as he calls them, "look beautiful on the monitor."

Their blood flow continues to be fine. Their amniotic fluid is normal. It's almost like I am a normal pregnant lady now. Almost. Yes, my babies – at least one of them – will go to the NICU for sure. I'm still high risk because I'm having twins. And I spend most of my time in some sort of reclined position.

But I'm otherwise an average bed-resting pregnant lady with sore joints, achy feet, stuffy sinuses and a big belly. Oh, and now I'm also a lady with two car seats in the back of my car and a stroller on the way. It's gettin' real folks.

Reaching Out Beyond My Comfort Zone

I've been writing here in anonymity for a couple of months. I started my blog simply to keep a record of what was happening and to give myself a place to blurt it all out.

For some reason the format of a blog – of hitting publish and seeing the text live – gives me a sense of finality and relief. I lived it. I wrote it. I posted it. Done. Plus, it's easier to read and more focused than journaling in a spiral notebook, which I have done off-and-on my whole life – and it doesn't take up any closet space. (My husband does not understand why I insist on keeping boxes of old journals and files full of old writing, but I simply can't let them go.)

Last week, in a moment of optimism and open-heartedness I decided to share my blog by posting the link on Facebook. The moment I did it, I felt terrified and like I might have to lie down. Was it too much? Did I want people I went to high school with and people I work with to read my musings? Was it too embarrassing or too raw? I was so nervous, but I took a breath and let it go.

About five hours later, I went back to Facebook to see if anyone had noticed my post – and I got wonderful, supportive reactions. In fact, I continue to get encouraging comments.

I don't know if anyone will come back to look at the blog again, but I'm grateful for the support I've gotten so far.

I think this motherhood thing is really going to force me to reach out, to ask for help, to expose my vulnerable side more than I'm used to. It's a great feeling to know that when I reach out, there are some people willing to reach back.

Hiccups and Gas and Cramps, Oh My….

Pregnancy is full of a lot of unfamiliar aches and pains – and it seems that the line between what's normal and what's life-threatening is disturbingly thin.

Yesterday, after Floatie B (the big one) got hiccups for the fifth time in a day, Matt looked it up. Yes, most valid pregnancy web sites stated that fetal hiccups are totally normal, nothing to worry about. But some of the comments on these sites -- comments from random, non-medical people on the Internet -- claim that too much hiccupping can mean a baby is gasping for breath and perhaps sitting on its own umbilical cord.

Normally, I have a good bullshit meter. But on top of the Baby B hiccups, I was experiencing cramping in the lower right side of my uterus. Or maybe it was just gas. Or it was both. As everyone knows, it's really hard to differentiate between gas and cramps.

Anyway, it was starting to get dark. I was hungry. I was thinking about the fact that my OB is going on vacation for five days next week. Suddenly I was afraid that those Internet comments were right. Floatie B was slowly strangling himself in my womb and I would soon be faced with the worst nightmare any expectant mom could have.



"Matt," I yelled. "I need my phone. I have to call the doctor." As I was dialing, I looked at my husband and asked, "Do you think I'm crazy?" More than almost anything, I hate the idea of being one of those paranoid, annoying moms. But Matt looked scared too. We'd both let the Internet comments get to us and wanted to be safe instead of sorry.

Before I knew it, my doctor was on the line and I told her everything that was happening. She assured me, "there is no such thing as too many hiccups" for a baby in utero. "Hiccups," she said, "are one of the most reassuring signs of a healthy baby."

I hung up. I cried from relief. And then I started to worry about why Foatie A has not had the hiccups yet.

Working Girl

I have worked since I was 12 years old.

I started earning money with odd jobs -- babysitting, watering flowers for neighbors, sweeping up fall leaves for family friends. In high school, I filed papers and ran errands for a doctor's office where my aunt was a nurse one summer. When my mother opened a clothing store called The Creative Edge when I was a sophomore, I worked there. I spent two summers as an usher working 6 days a week at the Cirque du Soleil in San Francisco. With the money I made, I bought my first car.

In college, I was on a work-study program and held down a job in addition to my classes. When I moved to New York, I took the first job I could get and never looked back.

I have not had more than two weeks off since 1994 -– until now. As of two days ago, I stopped working. I'm just home. On bed rest. All the time.

For me, not doing a job brings on a strange feeling of weightlessness like floating underwater. It's quiet and slow and my body moves with the currents of the day.

I feel like I should be accomplishing life's list of things to do –- everything from writing my memoirs to finishing our wedding album and sewing the button eyes securely onto Matt's childhood teddy bear that's on display in the floaties' room -– but somehow the hours go by and those things don't get done.

I worry that too much not working will make me feel unmoored, mentally and physically adrift, maybe even depressed. So far, though, I'm okay. It's been a whole day and half and I haven't gone completely mad. We'll see how long that lasts. Tick tock.

A Reprieve

Yesterday was not the day. I had my go-bag packed and in the trunk of the car. I had friends, family and coworkers on high alert. I think even the floaties were nervous going to the doctor's office. But Dr. S looked at me and said, "Well, you're 32 weeks along. And you know what, you're going to stay pregnant a little longer."

So we – me, Matt and the floaties -- have earned a reprieve. Dr. S even said he thinks I'll make it to 34 weeks. I am amazed. He seems amazed. Our families are amazed.

"You've passed the scary part of the pregnancy," Dr. S added.

Slowly, I am taking my finger off the panic button.

The Final Countdown

Tomorrow could be the day.

For the last couple weeks, I've been complaining about being uncomfortable. My belly is so heavy. The babies move around in opposite directions, pulling my uterus into circus-freak-like shapes. Matt stares at my belly with a mix of horror and amazement. I have to pee all the time. I'm exhausted by the end of every day.

So, one would think we should be totally ready for these floaties to come. And we are – sort of. But I'm also freaked out. I've become accustomed to my very quiet, peaceful, solitary days. For the first time in years – years! -- I have time to think and read and imagine. There's time to take a step back and look at my life, to consider where I might go in the future, to think about my career, my hopes and aspirations. Normal, everyday life leaves little room for this kind of considered contemplation.

But soon, I can kiss all that goodbye. In two days, I could very well be cross-eyed with sleep deprivation and reeling from hormonal upheaval, weeping and whimpering from a host of emotional and physical issues. I'll be taking care of two babies, even if they are in the NICU. I'll be healing from major surgery. Matt and I will go from being a couple with no real obligations, aside from a mortgage, to parents responsible for two other lives. As Matt puts it, we could be sent to jail if we say, forget to feed the babies for a couple days. Suddenly our lives will not just be ours anymore.

All this hangs in the balance, depending on what Dr. S finds tomorrow afternoon. Is floatie A still growing? Is he getting enough blood-flow? How are their heartbeats? The answers to these questions will determine whether we are granted another week of quiet or we go hurtling into our future.

Coming Together

When the question was "to shower or not to shower?" I took the path of least resistance, which was to go ahead with the baby shower. And I'm so glad I did.

It was the first time I'd ever brought together all the various people I know in L.A. I mean, not literally all of them, but I had coworkers, college friends, new friends and even my parents here at our house. And the beauty of it was that they all had a blast. I love introducing people I love to each other, watching them meet and make that connection where they go, 'Hey, I like you – you're cool.'

I probably exerted myself more than I should have –- it was certainly more activity than I'd had in weeks -- but being surrounded by all that good energy was worth it. And I think everyone felt grateful to share a happy, sunny, fun-filled Sunday afternoon.

Now I'm back to my solitary ways with Matt and just the sounds of the neighborhood outside to keep me company. And I'm trying to be at peace with the solitude 'cause it's not going to last much longer.

I suddenly feel the truly imminent arrival of these two floaties and how utterly life-changing that will be. Even now, the idea of it is totally white-knuckle, gut wrenchingly scary. So I try not to think too much ahead or worry about things that may or may not come to pass. They're coming and when they get here, Matt and I will do our very best for them.

Go Team Floaties!

The little guys and I had our 30-week appointment today. Our fetal specialist, Dr. S, tilted his head and squinted several times as if he were slightly perplexed -- or possibly totally panicked -- as he took the babies' measurements. At one point, he urgently scooted his rolling chair across the room to consult my chart. He made my heart palpitate with worry.

And then he pronounced the babies fine.

Floatie A (i.e. the little one) grew by about 6 oz., over the last two weeks, while Floatie B shot up a full pound, to a whooping 3 lbs., 6 oz.

But the fact that they are both still growing is the headline here. The little guy is going to be smaller when he's born, but he's chugging along, gaining weight, keeping up his blood flow and moving around like crazy. Believe me, they are both ACTIVE little dudes.

Dr. S, who has in the past delivered terrifying news, actually told me he's "very happy" with my progress. Wooot!

My goal has been to get the babies to 32 weeks. Not to jump the gun, but the often-pessimistic Dr. S says he thinks we'll get there. We might not surpass it by much, but we're running toward that line with all our might.

xoxo

Week 29

I have made it to 29 weeks, another mini milestone. (Every week, every day is a milestone.)

About three weeks ago, I thought the floaties might not make it to 28 weeks. I was weepy and panicked and trying not to Google all the horrific things that could go wrong with such premature babies. Now, at 29 weeks I'm trying not to get cocky.

I keep reminding myself that 29 or even 30 weeks is still two months early. We want to keep the little guys in the cooker as long as possible. The closer they get to 38 weeks, the better. Still, having two straight weeks of good news from the docs is lulling me into a false sense of security. I can't really imagine the day -- which I know will come -- when the doctor says to me, "This is it. Today is the day you give birth." It will start like any other day, but end with me being cut open and having two babies in the NICU.

The weird thing is, I've gotten disturbingly comfortable with the idea of having premature babies. I've been told it's inevitable, so I've come to terms with it – sort of – at least until it actually happens, at which point I fully expect to freak out. I keep trying to find the "up side" of early babies: I'll have time to heal from my c-section; the babies will be getting excellent 24-hour care and monitoring; I'll have time to buy the stuff, like car seats, that I haven't gotten yet.

Also, I have been assuming the babies will be okay. And they probably will. But the fact remains that it's not ideal to be born premature. There are still lots of risks to my little guys. So while I think positively about the floaties and their health, I force myself to relax, rest, take a deep calming breath and drink another big gulp of water.

Go Team Floaties!

To Shower or Not to Shower?

I'm not referring to hygiene. I'm talking about a baby shower. I had one planned for last month in the Bay Area, but orders of bed rest put the kibosh on that. The shower went on with me, only requiring 10 minutes of Skype time from home. I was weirdly relieved not to go. I have gotten used to seeing few people, interacting over email and occasional phone calls. Suddenly, I'm nervous about the real life energy of people. Those pleasantries beamed over the Internet made me feel connected and loved while also preserving my solitary sensibilities

The next shower is supposed to happen at my house, so, if it happens, it will be difficult to avoid actual flesh and blood people – their hugs and smiles and energy pouring over me. And that freaks me out.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful. As I have mentioned, I have been bowled over by the love, understanding and affection directed at me over the last six months. It's truly humbling and eye-opening. I'd honestly forgotten how kind the world can be.

My fear is about whether I can physically and mentally make it through three hours and 20 people at my house. In some ways I've always been a person who craves attention and yet feels itchy and uncomfortable in its glare. I never had trouble getting on a stage or speaking in front of groups. But when the attention feels more personal, I sometimes panic. Growing up, I hated opening presents at my own birthday parties because I realized that the gift was as much about the giver as the receiver. The price of getting a present is making sure you have the right reaction to it, that you are appropriately effusive and grateful and gracious, and that you make sure the person who gave it to you feels good, too.

So when guests show up to my house bearing gifts and good intentions, I simply must rise to the occasion -- make sure I am the right mixture of happy hostess and honored guest, that I give back the effusive energy of those who've made time in their busy schedules for me. Which takes energy. I have become accustomed to not putting out much effort for others. My effort is reserved for the babies. My effort is to rest and remain calm. So can I (and the floaties) afford to have that attention diverted away from them and to 20-odd people? Am I up to the emotional and physical challenge of matching the energy of those well-meaning friends?

I'll ask my doctor first. He's good at saying "no" when it's the best answer. If he says it's up to me, I'll ask my husband, my friends, my mom and myself. And we will see.

Achy Breaky Heart

The crazy thing about impending motherhood is that it seems to be cracking my heart open. I used to think of myself as an open book, but the years have hardened me. I'm easy to know on a surface level, but getting to the ooey gooey center takes lots of time and work.

But pregnancy changes that – by force. Or by hormones. Now I cry almost daily. Matt sees it coming on and takes a deep breath to get through whatever the tears are about – worry over our babies' health, the death of Osama bin Laden and the memories it evoked, a kind word in a card written by a friend.

The thing that's really squeezing my heart is the kindness I've received from old friends, new friends and strangers. A woman I've never met sent me a "virtual bouquet" after I posted a note on my twins group web board revealing my babies will likely spend time in the NICU. My girlfriends from high school -- many of whom I see only every couple of years – have showered me in the kind of deep love and understanding that comes from 25 years of friendship. My husband's uncle and a pal's mother-in-law added me, Matt and the babies to the list of people they're praying for in their prayer groups. Yesterday, I received a massive box of baby hand-me-down clothes from my old roommate in NYC and an edible bouquet from a friend in L.A.!

There seems to be this club of motherhood that I never knew about. Other women feel deeply and profoundly what I am going through, the bed rest, the uncertainty about my babies' health, the overwhelming fear, joy and raw emotion that comes like waves.

It makes me reflect on how cavalier I've always been about birth and babies and parenthood before. I loved to give a cute onesie or a stuffed animal to friends who were expecting, but beyond that I didn't have much insight or empathy.

I wonder as I go forward, will my heart remain vulnerable and open or will it close back up as life moves forward with the real-life challenges of parenthood?

The Good, the Bad, the Unexpected

Yesterday I couldn't wait to go to bed. I was cranky and bloated and tired. The last couple of nights I'd been sleeping hard - like not even getting up to pee once. But instead of sleeping bliss, I got a waking nightmare.

First it was the need to pee. Then I got a bloody nose. Followed by cramps that seemed freakishly like contractions but I wasn't sure. I was sure, however, that the floaties were dancing and kicking like cracked out club kids in NYC. Then pee again, then a growling stomach. Matt, who was awake and worried next to me, got me a 3 a.m. snack of dried apricots, turned off the fan that was drying out my nose and rubbed my aching back.

By the time the morning came, I was delirious and thinking up ways to bag out of work. Oddly, I was focused, alert and working all day. In fact, it was a lovely day -- until I backed my car out of the driveway so Matt could move the garbage cans out to the street and rammed into the telephone pole with my side view mirror.

Somehow, the total unexpectedness of the cracking plastic and shattered mirror seems like a metaphor for the shit you can never be prepared for as parents. The good news is that while Matt and I both thought, 'Well, this sucks,' we also couldn't stop ourselves from laughing -- a lot. It's a pain in the ass. It'll cost money. But it's not the end of the world. So it goes with the life about to unfold before us with twins. Broken plastic and laughter.

Making It Through D-Day

When the going gets tough, I stop writing. Which is not good. But it's true. After my last doctor's appointment, I was scared mute. I spent the last 5 days lying on my left side and stuffing myself full of "good fats" like avocado, pumpkin seeds and almonds (not to mention some bad fats like cupcakes) in an effort to fatten up my floaties and give them the best chance to have good blood flow from my lazy placenta. Hang in there, placenta!

I'm still scared, but yesterday I got at least a 1-week reprieve from the looming threat of an emergency c-section or 24-7 monitoring in the hospital. The babies have decent fluid, the same blood flow as last week and regular heartbeats. I tell myself not to get cocky. I know my circumstances can change on a dime. But I am relieved.

We're not out of the woods, but we're hoping we get to the all-important week 28 without incident.

Do Not Go Over to the Dark Side

At about 1 pm yesterday, my main concern was whether or not I'd be able to fly to my baby shower in the Bay Area. By 1:45, I had my answer: "You're not going anywhere," said my fetal specialist.

That was just the beginning of the dark news that was to come. But first the good stuff: Our floaties, who have made it to 26 weeks in utero, are growing and have enough amniotic fluid. The bad news: they may not make it beyond 27 weeks in there, though we're hoping for 28 or even 30 weeks. It seems my placenta is starting to slack off, to lose focus and stiffen up. If it decides to pack it in, the little floaties won't get enough blood flow or food and will need to join us out here in the wide, scary world. We want to avoid this as long as possible.

So now I'm on bed rest basically, though I'm still working. Matt corrals me over to a tiny slice of the bed at night so I have no choice but to sleep on my left side, which supposedly improves circulation to the uterus and fetuses. I'm trying to stay off my feet, drink lots of water and not spiral into any dark mental spaces. Let's keep it happy, in the moment, light and airy and strong.

Suck It Up

I've been lying in bed – or in a semi reclined postion on a padded piece of furiture – for two days. Tomorrow, I go back to work. I think I've decided to work from home. I'm lucky that's even an option. But I feel guilty about my decision. Monday seems like a day to show up in the office. Kick the week off right with an actual appearance before one's coworkers as an indication of commitment to the job, to the shared responsibilty. Plus, we get free lunch on Mondays.

One of my coworkers is on vacation and I mentioned to two different friends over the weekend that because my team is down a person, I really just have to suck it up for the week. Both friends immediately, and kind of angrily, said, "No you don't." This is the time, 6 ½ months pregnant with twins and coming off two days of bed rest, when you actually do not have to suck it up, they said. These are friends who do what's right in general -- but also for themselves.

For me, saying I'm not able to do something -- I can't, I have to rest, I have to lie down on my side and just BE -– is one of the toughest things to say. First of all, it's admitting weakness. Second of all, I consider myself one of those people who other people can count on. That Marla, she's a good egg. She shows up. She puts in her time. You don't have to worry about her. Even if I'm prone to sacrifice myself for others, what about my floaties? Will I do the right thing for them? What kind of mother will I be?

I guess I'll be a mom who compromises. I do plan to suck it up this week. But also to work from home on Monday and lie down at lunch. And take deep breaths. And check in with my doctor. And eat salmon for dinner tonight even though I don't really like it, because my floaties need omega 3 fatty acids. So there. That's the kind of mom I am already.

Contraction Preview

Yesterday I ended up in the hospital with early contractions. I basically felt like I needed a couple Advil 'cause it was the same kind of sensation as bad menstrual cramps. At first, I was reluctant to go to the doc, thinking I was probably imagining it. When you're pregnant -- at least for me -- it's hard to figure out what's normal and what should be alarming. I mean, are these Braxton Hicks contractions? Is it just my uterus expanding? Or am I about to give birth to two super premature babies and have my life come crashing down around me?

In the end, I'm reassured that some sort of instinct kicked in. I was not feeling quite right and I knew it. Of course, I had to have a mini meltdown in the bathroom at work before finally calling the doctor's emergency line. But I got it done. Go Mama!

And there are some up sides: I got a preview of the hospital, which is kind of swanky and private and lovely. The nurses were sweet. My hubby came and got me and took good care of me. And I learned I need to pee more. Don't hold it in, they told me. And of course most important of all, my little floaties (as we call the twins), are safe and healthy.

Baby Cooking

I'm 6 months and one week pregnant with twin boys. I'm not sure exactly what has happened over the last 2-3 weeks, but my active life has come to a slow, creeping halt. Exercise is out. Walking more than three blocks sends me fleeing back to the couch. My belly is hea-vy. Friends? Nah, I can't go out and socialize. My focus is this giant belly with two very active little dudes bouncing around inside. I've become a (mostly) home-bound baby cooker. Of course, I still work. Must... keep.... working. And while I'm there I keep up, I pull my weight, I do my job. Then I come home and collapse.

I feel bad for my husband, Matt, who now does the lion's share of the household work like cooking, washing dishes and taking out the trash. I mean, I still try. I do wash dishes and make salads and heat stuff up for us to eat. But Matt tries to head me off at every pass. Drop a morsel of food on the floor? "Don't get it!" he shouts. Start the laundry, "I'll do it!" he yells from the other room. The poor guy doesn't get a break.

To backtrack a little, since this is my first blog post: These will be my first (and only) children. I live in L.A. I'm 30-something. The twins are identical. And I'm terrified of becoming a mom about 98% of the time.