My husband and I staggered out of the ultrasound technician’s office after being told we were having twin boys and decided to table our freak-out session until his work day was finished. We drove off in our separate cars, me heading to Dunkin’ Donuts, and him probably skipping work and hitting a bar. What was especially jarring to me, combined with my terror of multi-tasking, was that we were in the process of building a house. The house wasn’t supposed to be ready till early-June, and that had been carefully planned for a singleton baby with a July delivery date. These twin penises were probably going to pop out early, and it dawned on me while I was still at Dunkin Donuts caking my face with white, powdery goodness, that they were going to be born either just BEFORE or DURING our move. Panic set in. Actual heart-attack-simulation panic. But that didn’t stop me from grabbing a sixer of Munchkins before I ran out the door clutching my chest.
The problem—besides the fact that moving sucks a Fatty on its own, WITHOUT even throwing a 3-year-old and twin infants in the mix—was that along with being Multi-Task Dysfunctional, I have a life-threatening Change Allergy. After a childhood of moving almost annually until I was 16 years old, you would think I would have developed a happy-go-lucky and adaptive attitude towards changing my environment. Oh, you sweet, naïve, simple person (she says, shaking head and clicking tongue condescendingly). If you think that, well then you think WRONG beeatch! No, I have actually developed the tendency to unleash an eye-gouging, foaming-at-the-mouth, profanity-laden tirade on anyone who MAKES ME MOVE. Just ask my traumatized husband. And if you make me uproot my three-year-old kid, even though clearly he doesn’t have the gypsy childhood I did, it opens up a Pandora’s Box of Mommy Guilt filled with freakish mood swings; abrupt and loud weeping; long, moaning periods on the floor in Child’s Pose; hours spent holding and rocking myself in the corner; lifeless moments curled in the fetal position; and any other psychiatric ward standard that feels mildly comforting. On top of all the bloodcurdling change being inflicted upon myself and my child, if you make me simultaneously deliver twin penises smack dab in the midst of all this, well then grab the buttered popcorn and a plastic poncho because you are in for a SHIT SHOW.
With this cluster eff of anxiety still swirling in my head, I showed up for my OB appointment a few days after the Twin Reveal. While he was checking out the heartbeats, I asked my doctor how in the DAMN HELL this was happening to me. Was it because my husband and I both had identical twin cousins in our family?
“No, I’m afraid not,” he answered. “Identical twins are formed from the splitting of one egg, and that isn’t a tendency that’s hereditary. Regardless, you are having fraternal twins, which consist of two different eggs being fertilized. Typically when a woman of your age conceives fraternal twins naturally, it’s because the body is producing and eliminating more eggs to prepare for menopause.”
A vinyl record scratched loudly in my head, and as he kept blathering on, all I could hear was menopause, menopause, menopause echoing over and over. How fucking OLD does he think I am?! And while the second part of that menopausal sentence was something about “eliminating eggs” all I heard in my head was egg dump, egg dump, egg dump, egg dump. I can’t be sure, but I think that’s about the time I started cackling like a disturbed bag lady, while the little Beavis and Butthead soundtrack in my head went: Uhhhh, your ovaries, hahaha, have taken, hahaha, a massive EGG DUMP, hahahaha. After what felt like 10 minutes, I found my doctor looking at me strangely and inching backwards to reach for the Crazy Pregnant Bitch Emergency Rescue Button.
“I’m ok, I’m ok, really,” I said sweetly. “Please go on, doctor.”
Clears throat. “Umm, yes, so as I was saying, our office has a strict policy of putting our twin moms on bed rest at 28 weeks. We believe this is non-negotiable for promoting full-term twins with higher birth weights.”
That’s when the sarcastic, jokester voices in my head stopped laughing, and I started wailing in a way, they tell me, much resembled an ambulance siren. It’s also when the good doctor decided to go ahead and give that button a push.
Please see the next installment of this Twin Trilogy, which already has a working title: “If You Thought Your Ass was Big Before, Try Sitting On it for Two Months.”Never miss a Big Top Family post! Click here to put the Ringleader in your inbox!
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