Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Boom Goes the Dynamite

When I consider their parents, it should come as no surprise that the twins are jerks in the making.  Recent check-ups prove this.  There was one appointment a few weeks ago when the tech advised that she could probably get some really good pics of the girl, as she was sleeping.  Before the ultrasound probe was put into position, however, the boy started kicking the girl in the head.  She woke up unimpressed.  I would like to say that an in-utero cage match ensued, but it did not. 

The girl did, however, retaliate in a big way. The spiteful creature cut off the food supply.  I like to think that she physically and purposely pinched his umbilical cord shut.  Whether that is true is debatable. The result is the same.

Sara's appointment of last Thursday revealed that the girl is growing much faster than the boy.  Should that situation continue, there is a danger that the girl will start sucking up all of the nutrients, in which case the twins would have to be removed early, because otherwise the boy might, um, die. As if this is not enough of a problem, early extraction means they would both be born with underdeveloped lungs and likely suffer from bronchopulmonary dysplasia - which basically results in reduced lung function, susceptibility to respiratory illness, and lowered life expectancy.  For further details, see Google.  Sara had to get steroid shots to speed up their development. ("And boom goes the dynamite," Chris said, as the nurse pushed in the plunger).

But these are all details.  My selfish reaction to the news that the births might be sooner than expected was to exclaim that it couldn't happen because I wasn't ready.

Seriously, though, I'm not ready.  And not just because I don't have a dramatic finish planned for the blog.  Hold them in a little longer, please.*

*I drafted this a few days ago.  In the intervening time the boy has started growing normally again.  I'm not sure whether there can possibly be anyone happier about this than me.  Other than the expectant** parents, obviously.

**I am growing tired of the word "expectant" and decided to look up synonyms.  These included "great, anticipant, large, anticipative, enceinte, big, gravid, heavy, and, with child".  For some reason, you can't look up synonyms without also being subjected to antonyms, of which in this case, there were only two: "non-pregnant" and "hopeless".  Ouch.  Cheers to my hopeless future.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Baby Fat (Body Break)

There was a point about 5 years ago when a friend (that friend was Sara) suggested that one of the most hilarious things she could imagine was for me to turn into a Jesus-loving fitness addict, considering my unhealthy/debauched/godless lifestyle. Specifically, the image she entertained was one of me doing bicep curls and saying "love you Jesus" with each lift of the forearm.

I still don't love Jesus.  However, slowing metabolism and vanity have turned me into something of an exercise fanatic in intervening years.  I have grown so freakish and obsessive that it is not unusual for me to get home from 2 hours of dance class (one of my preferred modes of exercise) and deciding to go for a 5K run, just for something to do.*  Or to throw my cross-trainers into my luggage for 2 days out of town hoping that my hotel has a gym, and being disappointed when it does not.  It's a little out of hand.  Why don't I watch television like a normal person?

If you were to poke me in the belly, your finger would be stopped by rock-hard muscle.  Your finger would pass through an inch-ish of marshmallow flesh before reaching that muscle.  I call this "the wino layer". Liquor consumption is the only reasonable explanation for its existence.

I bring this up because last weekend Sara had me drink Pimm's exclusively because we were celebrating a birthday** at a bar that happened to have it.  Here is what I experienced.  Pimm's, on its own, is sweet, almost syrupy.  I didn't care for the tradtional way of mixing it with some ginger ale and adding a cucumber slice, so the bartenders made a mission of coming up with ways to serve it that I would enjoy.***  These ways involved a lot a lot of fruit/fruit juice.

Fruit, in itself, is healthy, as we all know.  Fruit juice, as any personal trainer will tell you, is a bad choice in terms of calorie consumption. (Alcohol is also not recommended).  I reminded myself of this the next morning as I poked at the wino layer and despaired.****

The estimated weight gain of your average lady carrying 31 weeks worth of of twins is 27 to 30 pounds.  Sara comes in under that at 21 pounds so far, 6 of which we know for sure is fetus.  The typical weight of everything else the average woman would be carrying is 3 pounds of placenta, 4 of amniotic fluid, 2 of breast tissue, 4 of water retention, and 7 of "fat".  For those of you capable of simple math, it is clear that Sara is lacking in at least one of these areas.  One would assume that her doctor would be concerned if she came up short in the  placenta, breast tissue or fluid areas, so it stands to reason that at this point she has lost fat rather than gained.

I had sort of hoped that after she expelled the minions Sara and I could embark on a shared diet and exercise regime in order to shed the unwanted weight we both have accrued over the course of this pregnancy.  I can't in good conscience blame the wino layer exclusively on drinking for two, but whatever.  It certainly has't helped matters.


*These runs sometimes end at the liquor store. Yin yang.

**I am making special note that we were at a bar "for a birthday" specifically because Sara is well beyond being mistaken for overweight and strangers have been judging her with their eyes whenever she is in a situation where alcohol is involved.  She won't even step into a liquor store anymore, not even to keep me company.

***Giving your bartender one uncommon ingredient and telling them to make you something delicious with it is pretty fun. They actually seemed excited.  I got several free drinks out of it, as well as fairly quick service.  They both had been enlightened to my drinking for two project, so perhaps that was additional incentive.  Toward the end of the night, one of them did a shot of Pimm's with me and told me I was a "real trouper".  Or trooper.  That could go either way.  They mean slightly different things.  Look it up.

****I am really, really vain so I feel the need to point out that even with the wino layer , no one would ever describe me as "you know, the heavy set girl".  However, my standards for myself are high and I know there is no reason why I shouldn't fit into slightly smaller pants.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Fist City

It's official.  The squatters have been served with their eviction notice and will be forcibly removed from Sara's premesis no later than August 10.  Which is to say, a c-section has been scheduled for August 10.  Most doctors in Canada refuse to do c-sections unless there is some valid medical reason, and since getting two freeloaders out is a little more complicated than one, the expecting parents actually get to choose.  Sara and Chris had been quite torn about which way to go, but it seems that the positioning of the boy fetus would necessitate Sara's doctor giving her a good deep fisting and using a vacuum to get him out.  Decision made easy.

I have been tirelessly researching the risks and benefits of both caesarian sections and vaginal (eww) delivery, with the intention of offering some well-informed advice, which seems a little redundant now.  I don't plan on letting my efforts go to waste, so more on that another day.  I will say this:  you hear plenty of horror stories about people having emergency c-sections because things have gone horribly awry during the planned vaginal (eww)/natural birth.  You never hear stories about a doctor performing a caesarean and midway through the procedure announcing in a panic that it's not working and the demon will have to come out the old-fashioned way.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Fertility Guru

It seems that there are people out there who believe that the state of pregnancy denotes special fertility knowledge.  I am quoting a conversation that Sara recently had with a cab driver, word for word as it was recounted to me, because there are some things in need of no embellishment.

Cab Driver:  So how far along are you?

Sara:  6.5 months.  With twins.

CD:  Oh wow... did you get any of those tests?

S: Yes, they're fine.

CD:  Cause my mom was 50 when she was pregnant with my brother and they told her that he was going to be messed up and have all sorts of problems.  But he's 6 now and fine.

S:  Oh that's good.

CD:  Yeah, she went to like 5 doctors and they all told her to get an abortion, but she didn't and only one gay doctor told her he'd be okay.  I guess you need to be gay to really know the insides of people if you know what I mean.

S:  (has no words)

CD:  So I really want to see Hangover 2.

S:  Yeah it looks good.

CD:  (takes phone call)

CD:  So I've been married for about a year and I really want to get my wife pregnant when I go back home this summer.  Do you have any tips?

S:  Not really.

CD:  Like should I bring insurance?  Like Viagra?

S:  I'm not sure that what that does to your sperm as it relates to fertility - I'd probably check that before I take it.

CD:  Is it true that women are most likely to get pregnant aout a week after their period?

S:  Yes... so you could time your trip that way... To make sure you get two cycles.  How long are you gone for?

CD:  Like a month and a half.  You mean ask my wife when she's having her period?

S:  Yes, so you can time it.

CD:  I don't think I'm comfortable doing that.  I hate the smell in the bathroom when my wife has her period.

S: (has no response)

CD:  I knocked up like 7 girls in high school - so I must be fertile, but that was 10 years ago.

S:  Uh huh.

CD:  All 7 girls had abortions... So I guess I'm responsible for killing 7 babies.

End conversation.

As some of you already know, since Chris and Sara's misconception occurred last winter during the 5 or so weeks that I lived under their roof, it was not special fertility knowledge but proximity to my sexual energy that gave Chris double-strength sperm and incited Sara to release multiple eggs in one go.  Sara recently ran into one of her neighbours while daycare shopping, and it turns out that this neighbour got herself in trouble at almost the same time as Sara... leading me to the obvious conclusion that my powers extended beyond Chris and Sara's four walls.

For those of you who feel the need to breed, don't waste your time with how-to books and ovulation thermometers. Just invite me to hang around your house through two cycles or so.  I guarantee that the women of your household and neighbourhood as a whole will start squirting out children within the following 9 months, since it appears that pregnancy follows me around much in the way a domestic cat lavishes the most attention on the person who dislikes it most.


Friday, June 3, 2011

The Rapture

So, both the rapture and the end of the world have come and gone, and here we all are.  Sigh.  These things are always a disappointment.  Remember Y2K and the mass chaos that was supposed to ensue?  What a let-down.  But there's always next time.  The end of the world is bound to happen - right on one schedule or another.  What is it about 2012?

At any rate, since a number of my friends predicted that if any of us were to be raptured we would likely be halfway to heaven before being tossed back to earth like unwanted carp, it was decided that drinking absinthe would be the next best thing.  There happens to be a Russian vodka bar not far from my apartment serving absinthe - the real stuff complete with wormwood.  So away we went.

Unfortunately, when we got to the bar it turned out that they were out of absinthe.  We stayed for a few drinks anyway.  I gave Sara free reign and she ordered two drinks for me - I started the evening with a Mr. Shakes* and I followed it up with a Boney M**, both of which were fine but not exactly absinthe.   The vodka bar soon grew too loud with Russian dance music for our liking, so we headed down the street to a neighbourhood pub, where typically there are tables available, frosty beverages on tap, 90's music playing, etc.  It turns out that my local pub has metamorphosed into an ill-conceived dance bar*** - a good place for a five minute party**** but not so good for a group of people looking to enjoy a conversation about Jodie Sweetin and a quiet pint.  We left without delay, but not before Sara went to the washroom***** to accidentally walk in on someone inserting a tampon.  All Sara said about the experience was that it was awkward - and that the offending girl said that it was probably more awkward for Sara than it was for her.    I wonder whether Sara experienced just a little bit of menstrual nostalgia? Did she think back to the time when she had regular cycles, the way others might think back to a really good summer?  If she did, she's not talking. 

We found another bar, a little disappointed with the evening up to that point, but that was nothing a pitcher of PBR couldn't fix.  At least the bar gave us front row seats to the parade of attendees of a nearby fetish party strolling by.  Query:  are there people with a pregnancy fetish?  I presume so.  I mean, plushies.  Not that the two are at all related, but surely if there are people who want to dress up as stuffed animals and fuck, there must be people who get off on pregnant women.******  I feel kind of bad for them.  The pregnancy fetish people, I mean. While there are plenty of pregnant women, I doubt that there are many who are ready and willing******* for the fetishists to indulge.  The fetishists probably only get about two periods lasting a few months each to live out their fantasy over the entire course of their lives.  Unless they have the luck to hook up with women who want to have a dozen children and don't mind that their uteruses fall and start to hang out. Prolapse.  It happens. 

Of course, maybe the people with a partiality for pregnancy are content to masturbate to pictures of pregnant women, of which there is certainly no shortage.  Why ladies in their third trimester think it's a fine idea to have their near naked photos taken and then post them on Facebook is a mystery.  I mean, really.  Most of you don't look good.********  Just puffy and jowly with bad skin.  Stop it.  Just stop it.  Or at least reserve the pictures for your baby book rather than publishing them for all to see.  Are you really comfortable with the knowledge that out there somewhere is a printout of your cherished photo with dried sperm on it?


*Mr. Shakes was a surprisingly tasty concoction involving schnapps, chambord, rum and champagne.  I ordinarily have too much respect for alcohol to order anything involving schnapps - apart from the summer that I worked at a bar where the staff were all liquor pigs who liked to drink while they worked.  Peppermint schnapps gave us all very fresh breath, so by the end of our shifts we smelled like we'd recently brushed our teeth, rather than stale and boozy like we'd been drinking for the last six hours or so.

**The Boney M tasted like blueberries and made me think of the Boney M Christmas album that my mom used to play incessantly during the holiday season.  My brothers and I smashed the cassette with a hammer.  It was immensely satisfying.  Parents: keep your collection in a secure location.  Children are ruthless.  If it's not quite to their taste, they will destroy all the music that you play all the time because you particularly like it.

***Katy Perry....

****more about that another time

*****she's going every ten minutes on average these days

******well, maybe not directly on them

*******I have no doubt that they're able

********Except Sara, of course, who is adorable.  When she's sitting down you'd never even guess that she's knocked up because her shockingly enormous bosom blocks the view of her swollen abdomen.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Hometown... Pride. Yes. Pride.

I recently returned to my hometown of Chatham, Ontario to attend a wedding.  Let me describe Chatham.  Unemployment, drug use and petty crime are rampant, as is domestic abuse and having half a dozen children all with different fathers.  Or mothers. 

It has also been described as a mystical land where men's shirts disintegrate and women's birth control is rendered ineffective. 

I'm told that men can feel the fabric of their shirts starting to thin upon entering the city limits.  Not being a man, I cannot confirm this.  I can confirm, however, that at some point in our dubious history it must have been deemed unnecessary for men to wear shirts in public unless visiting an establishment enforcing the "no shirt, no shoes, no service" rule, because full frontal male nudity is everywhere.*

I had my first sighting immediately upon arrival, when I spotted a group of ten or twelve people milling about a front lawn, several topless men included.  There were also four cruisers in the vicinity, two parked on the lawn and two on the street. Oh, homecoming.  Not far down the street, I witnessed another shirtless man riding a bicycle much too small for him.  Probably stolen.  Probably from his own son.

My next encounter was later that night shortly after last call, when I looked across the bar to see some guy removing his shirt.  Apparently once service is no longer offered, wearing a shirt is no longer necessary.  There was at least one shirtless man after the bar shut down at the wedding as well.

The phenomenon of women's birth control rendered ineffective is definitely true.  There are accidents growing up all over town.  Maybe the same forces that disintegrate the fabric of men's shirts also damage latex.  Maybe something in the water counteracts hormone-based contraceptives.  Or maybe the high birth rate has something to do with the local belief that a man drinking lots of Mountain Dew before sex is an effective spermicide.  Which doesn't exactly have anything to do with women’s birth control, but still.  I'm not making that up. 

At any rate, virtually every female of childbearing age that I came across the weekend of the wedding was pregnant, lugging around at least one small child, or both.  I took a huge risk four or five times.  I'm happy to report that that particular bullet was successfully dodged.

I have promised not to say anything specifically about the wedding in order to protect innocent parties.  I will say two things, however.  First, it's not as though I'm the kind of girl who has devoted any time to planning her dream wedding, but all the same, I don't think my special day would include a reception hall bathroom that comes complete with a vending machine selling perfume, tampons, condoms and textured cock rings for a dollar each.  Second, Sara asked that at the reception I drink screwdrivers and rye and gingers because those are the preferred drinks of Chatham girls when they're trying to be classy.  Maybe it has something to do with my upbringing, but I took to the drinks like a Chatham girl takes to unplanned pregnancy.  I strangely have no misadventures or anything embarrassing to myself to relate.  I did experience some middle of the night nausea, but I'm sure it was due to the fact that I filled up on potatoes and cake at dinner because there were no vegetarian options available.  The next day, the parents of my date mentioned that I seemed like a sweet girl who could sure drink a lot. Or just drinks a lot.  I wasn't entirely clear.  Either way, I don't think it was meant as a criticism.  Just a comment.

*I suppose that this could be the result of the muggy climate, as Chatham is literally a hole in the earth with little air circulation.  Seriously.  I think it might be below sea level. There must be more to it than that, though, because even in winter, shirtlessness is not uncommon.