Posts Tagged ‘twins’

Every waking minute we’re either feeding, burping, changing, rocking, bouncing, wrestling dylan, working, doing household bullshit or dreaming about sleeping.

Excuse my absence from actual posts. In a few weeks I’m sure my body will adapt to these weird hours.

The purple painted room is a “while you were out” that myself and a few friends arranged as a surprise to Julie when she returned from the hospital. I’d show you the reveal video, but Jules would kick my ass.

We’ve had more ultrasound visits than I care to count. If there was a radiation factor to each scan, I’m pretty sure my wife’s vag would be frickin’ Chernobyl at this point. (Remind me to tell you about the time about the vodka bottle and the Geiger counter. ROWR!)

So far we’ve see Leah the beautiful on many occasions. She is the social uterine-fly we’ve always dreamed of. When the wand sends out its pulses of soundwaves, she waves back. We’ve already contacted three modeling agencies to take pictures while still in the womb and pay us in large amounts of baby swag (read: diapers yo).

Yet, every time we go through the growth scans or quick peeks, the little lady of the vag is all smiles and showing off, while my son Mason has only graced us with clear shots of his ass and coin purse. We have actually seen in real time Mason flip from facing out to completely facing the spine in mere seconds, once the wand is turned on. Maybe he can feel the tepid blue goo squirting onto the bell bell, who knows? We’re beginning to think things are amiss.

Not amiss like something is wrong with him or something dire like that. No.

I’m under the impression that he works for a shadow agency for the American government. He has been commissioned to listen to the mindless chatter of womenfolk who come in contact with my wife. *I’m making the chatty motions with both of my hands.* He must be armed with a device that allows him to process classified military intel at such a high rate that the drivel that the rest of the male population hears spewing forth from the female population is just yadda-yadda-yadda-yadda-and then i says to the gal-yadda-yadda-yadda.

My son is a double agent in a double sac with a double placenta and a 100% chance of being fucking adorable. Armed with his umbilical cord, transparent liquid shit and the ability to barrel roll like a hotdog underwater in a soggy bun, Mason is a man on a mission.

If he isn’t working for the American government, maybe my trip to Russia in 2002 was actually a front and I was receiving robot implants in my seminal vesicles.

YEAH, THAT SOUNDS GOOD.

Having Twins Now: Seminal Vesicle Implants.

You can’t make this shit up people.

So yeah, every time we go to get a shot of the kids in their fetal glory, my lil punk ass kid flips his shit around and moons me!

FINE DUDE! WE’LL JUST KEEP SHOWIN’ PICS OF YOUR SEESTER THAN!

TAKE THAT SECRETIVE LITTLE MAN UP INSIDE MY WIFE’S VAGINA!

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We had our 27 week OB appointment yesterday and while Julie’s growth is steady and looking good, her activity level is about to be drastically altered. I keep telling her that she’s having twins. She keeps ignoring me.

During our visit with Focus On Women (*which won’t be Focus On Women next time we see them in two weeks), the doctor went over the usual questions like:
*Do you know the sexes of your twins? Yes doctor, you ask us that every time.
*Any swelling of the hands or feet? No. Just this huge ass belly yo.
*Any hard time breathing? Of course. Especially when my husband’s pullin’ 2 footer’s with the local hooligans.
*Any grouping of contractions of 4 or more per hour? Well, yeah.
*Any pain? Yes, everywhere. Not to much here, or here, but right here *she makes circular motions around the bell*
*Are you going to the mall later? No, keep spelling mister.

The trend I’ve noticed as the semen donor, housekeeper and wife flipper (when she gets sweaty I flip her over and powder the moist side) is that when she has a stressful day at work, she is a contraction machine until the following morning. A rough day at work doesn’t mean she’ll have a relaxing time at home because it takes her nearly 12 hours to get back to Juliostasis (Julie’s homeostasis). So in actuality, a bad day makes for a bad week because right after she’s calm again she has to go right back into the stress festival at work.

So I let the doctor know my concerns about these contractions potentially leading into a pre-term labor situation and the fact that her blood pressure shouldn’t be poked and prodded by an up and down work environment. I wanted her off her feet and I said so.

The doctor was already planning on bed rest for Julie at week 28, we just didn’t hear him actually SAY it so I wanted to at least say my piece.

My’s pieces weres saids.

Julie will not be returning to work after the Thanksgiving holiday to SIT AND INCUBATE.

Regardless of her boredom and the potential stress from not being able to wipe her own ass, home is the where she’ll sit and I’m extremely relieved the doctor was already heading in that direction.

If he wasn’t on board, I might have had to throw a tantrum like my soon-to-be two year old is now perfecting the art of.

Thank the vas deferens my Julie will have time to RELAX before we never, ever, ever get the chance to again.

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So Tuesday’s appointments were aight. Freal. They be straight up gangsta like the rest of em. Nothing out of the ordinary or particulary shocking. No prodding by doctors without asking my permission. Nobody offered me any taffy.

WAIT. YES THEY DID.

Rita at Safekeeping: High Risk OB at the lovely and spacious Delnor Community Hospital offered me a piece of taffy which was orange in color, yet tasted like black licorice. Had I known her longer or had she been looking at MY vagina all those times maybe I could’ve told her, but I HATE BLACK LICORICE. Rita is now on my “scowl upon seeing” list that now has 4 members. All three of those members are either on the Chicago Cubs or are part of the management of the Chicago Cubs. So Rita holds some pretty shady company.

BUT, yes, we had the 25 week growth scan and saw the twinsies rockin’ and rollin’ all ’round the ute. Everything is right where it should be and the kids are growing nicely.
Leah is an amazing 1lb 13oz.
Mason is a svelte 1lb 110z.

Mason can already be heard saying things like:

• “You sure you wanna’ eat that Leah? That might add on another ounce or three. Imjussayin.”
• “Don’t worry about it, it’s probably just water weight, or my liquid feces.”
• “You want me to eat half of that? No? Figures.”
• “Damn, I am getting RIPPED doin’ these spine pull ups! What are yo- Oh, eating?”
• “Leah I don’t think you’re fat. What? No, no one said anything, I just want you to know that I do not think that you are a fatty. Fatty.”
• “Hey, you go first out the chute over there so there’s plenty of room for me to drop out. K?”
• “Can a fetus get some frickin’ room? Huh? JEEZE MA NEEZE!”

As you can read, my son is already the picture of sarcasm, humor and what I refer to as “shit wit” – meaning, you give people shitty witty banter in exchange for rude looks, kidney jabs and the occasional back of the head slap.

While peekin’ around inside the womb hotel we got a few pictures. And when I say pictures I mean actual frickin’ “this is what my daughter looks like” pictures.

We learned that if there is a great profile shot and at least a few centimeters of fluid between the profile and the sac wall, you can hit this magic button on the machine and you get a frickin 3D image. I mean, we got one with our son when he was around this age, but holy CRAP this is unreal.

I never thought I’d say this, but: “Son? Your sister is cuter than you are. In the womb.”

And well, Mason wasn’t having all the bright lights and paparazzi, so he remained face down towards Julie’s spine, which is quite the spine I must say. We couldn’t get an accurate face shot, but I can assure you the following image will someday make the Yorkville chief of police furious as it will be driving by at 30 miles an hour out the window of a passing Ford Fusion.

Yes, my unborn son just mooned the crap out of you. TAKE IT! TAKE IT! TAKE IT!

As you can see, the censorship board got ahold of the image.

My kids are adorable, even if I can only judge one of their looks by the shape of their chunky little old man ass cheeks.

Hey sports fans & all you creeps interested in my wife’s cervical length!
Yes, I called you creeps! Are you offended? Offended enough to send me 5 dollars cash to apologize? I DIDN’T THINK SO!

Back to our Cervix Length Update ladies & gentlemen!

Yesterday, November 3rd, 2009, Julie was measured at a whopping 5.0cm!

What does that mean? Well, it means that all of the communication that I have had with her nether regions are actually paying off! The time and energy I have devoted to speaking directly into the birth canal have made the impossible happen!

YES! The cervix seems to be GROWING! Yes, the doctors all say that is indeed impossible, but fuck them! They have no idea of the power of positive thinking and one on one discussions with a vagina!

These “Conversations With A Crotch” will soon be a part of a nationwide movement for all husbands of ‘preggo with multiples’ broads to get down at eye level with the baby-spewing-hole of their loved one and repeat the following poem in a Danish accent:

There once was a cervix named Flo, it’s loved ones urged her to grow.

When she was given the powers that be, she took over rank of the va-jay-jay and was soon in charge of the power to pee!

Shine on you crazy cervix, for you hold the everlasting power of birth, remain in your strength and length to keep my kids up in there, not yet on this earth.

Until the doctor says those magic words, dear cervix named Flo, I will give you the attention you deserve.

Yes, I know. I have serious problems, but what would you do when the only thing holding your kids in their mom-cubator is a tiny few centimeters?

Me?

I take my role as a supportive father very seriously and will do anything to ensure a safe arrival to their destination.

And yes, that includes reciting ridiculous poems to my wife’s crotch hole.

fin.

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