I have come to the conclusion that I suck at writing. I really do. So, this isn't really some fancy-pants article contrived of grandiose articulation and deep-provoking thoughts from a wise soul. Hardly. This is the day to day horrors and joys of trying to raise twin boys without maiming them emotionally. I do want them to come home for Christmas periodically. (As I type this, one of them is growling like a black bear and the other is banging his head on the cabinet.) Yeah, I have the midas touch.
So, they came home from the hospital 14 months ago. (Where the hell did the time go??) I carried them to term and they were carved out of me weighing 6.5 pounds each. Big fuckers! They were the sweetest little beings to me. Hardly a cry nor a peep from either - only when they were hungry. My role, at this stage, is to be a giant boob. It was non-stop boobapalooza in this household. Trying to nurse two is quite a feat. I had one of those ginormous twin boppies and positioned each to where they could sleep, I could watch TV, and then stick a tit in their mouth when hunger woke them from their precious baby slumber. This was the first three months. I sat on my fat ass, ate as much as what I imagine Chewbacca could eat, and grew fat. I weigh more now than I did when I was pregnant. (But that is another blog.)
Now, when they arrived on this planet of ours, one had club foot and the other torticollis, which is basically a bent neck. Have any of you undergone holy hell with quad panels and lab results?? We were given initially a 1 in 20 chance of a Down's child. No matter what, I chose to accept whatever may be, so while scary, I made myself as prepared as could be. I went in for the 3D ultrasound scan. Two soft markers on Baby A. While the doctor informed me that one soft marker is fine, two *could* signify a problem. There were no hard markers but still, this bumped the chance for Down's to 1-17. If I ever were to get pregnant again, to hell with the tests. They cause nothing but stress and worry. Simply and absolutely NOT worth any of it.
So, back to the one with club foot. We had him in a cast at 8 days old. Bless his tiny little clunker self. The other one had a burp cloth wrapped around his neck. I was horrified to take either anywhere. The tackiness of other parents is upsetting. Once, in Babies R Us, a man asked me if I dropped Xander, implying I broke his leg. Where do people feel they have the right to ask these kinds of things to complete strangers? I did, however, want to take Xander's casted leg and smash that man in the face.
(Really, I'm a good person, mostly.)