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.