Twin Time

When you are pregnant with twins, most of the people you meet tell you that twins are early and it seems that everyone knows someone whose twins were born so many weeks early. Even the doctors and medical books tell you that 38 weeks is considered full term for twins. And the numbers show that over half twins are born early. So, you can imagine that I pretty much took my due date, revised it two weeks earlier, and figured I was set. Surely I’d have the twins right around 38 weeks.

On Friday, January 9, at 37 weeks and 4 days, I started having regular, mild contractions over my IHOP breakfast with friends. I knew they were kind of giving me the hairy eyeball, so I tried to play it cool. When J and I got home though, they kept up and were 4 minutes apart. “Holy smokes!” I thought, “Is this it?!” My other labors had both begun at night, so this whole mid-morning thing was throwing me off. But it was enough that I called Josh home from work and my friend Stacy from her morning errands to watch J.

When the contractions started petering out on the way to the hospital I thought it was just because I was sitting. In triage at the birth center they looked unconvinced, as I was myself, that this was for real. The price of admission was a dilation check, which I don’t like to have done until I am seriously in labor. You can be a little bit dilated for a long time (like weeks) or not dilated at all and progress quickly, so for my personality that number is simply stressful. I was nervous about heading home without knowing if things would heat up, so I consented and, as I was dilated between 4 and 5cm, they kept me.

You know the ending. We did not have babies that night. We spent about 10 hours at the hospital as the contractions grew further apart and fainter. Finally, I admitted defeat, and we went home. Here I would like to say how thankful I am that my OB had no problem with my going home. It was the best decision for sure.

A little over a week later, with my sweet in-laws now in town, arriving early after our practice labor, I got ready for bed, resigning myself to having full term—as in 40, not 38 week—twins. But as I tried to get comfortable for sleep, I started having some crampy feelings (this was about 11:40pm). By midnight things started to get more intense, and I went to tell Josh to stop working on his paper because this might be it. I don’t have long labors, so it was only 15 minutes later or so when I decided to call my doctor. This was definitely not practice. She called right back and told us to come on in.

I did the Hypnobabies home study this time to help me stay relaxed in the hospital atmosphere. For me, personally, a hospital is not my first choice when it comes to birthing babies. To make matters worse, because I was having twins, the hospital required me to push in the operating room, just in case. The operating room is not the most welcoming room in the hospital. I was afraid that I would freak out and be unable to relax during my labor. The Hypnobabies program did help a lot with that. On the way to the hospital, I listened to my hypnosis track and actually did pretty well with the contractions, even though they were getting pretty intense, and I was having a lot of pressure in my back.  I remember as we made the last few turns thinking, “I just want to get in the tub. I just need to make it to the shower.”

We arrived at the birth center at 1am. Josh parked and came around to get me. Getting in the car had been no big deal, but faced with the prospect of climbing out of the Civic, I wasn’t sure I could do it. I waited out a contraction and forced myself to get out of the car. It was freezing cold, and Josh had my coat, but there was no way I could put it on just then. I walked into the birth center in my short-sleeved PJs. Thankfully I got a break halfway to the door, and I walked as I could to get in the door before another contraction started.

How they expect laboring moms to sign forms is beyond me. Josh took care of just about everything, and I scribbled something illegible between contractions. A smiling nurse showed up to wheel me to a room (no triage this time). I looked at the wheelchair and informed her there was no way I was getting in it. It took three contractions just to get from the lobby to the second floor.

Once we got to our room I was sort of surprised to find that it was crowded with Dr. Proverbs and nurses. Everyone was busy prepping something. They very kindly asked if I’d get on the bed so they could do a monitoring strip on the babies. I told them very tersely that I was getting in the shower and started stripping. Dr. Proverbs helped me in the shower, and we got the water going. The hot water was so soothing.

I was probably in there a few minutes, though it seemed like no time at all when Dr. Proverbs came and said, “The nurses are getting kind of nervous. Would it be ok to get out now and check on the babies and your dilation?” If left to my own devices, I would have stayed where I was, but I understood that the babies did need to be checked and slowly climbed out of the tub.

They got both babies on monitors, and checked my dilation while also putting in a hep lock. It was a busy moment. Dr. Proverbs announced I was at 9cm. Given how fast I was progressing, we decided it was prudent to go to the OR. Thankfully, they wheeled the whole bed down the hall; there was no way I could have walked so far.

We started pushing shortly after we got in the OR. My water hadn’t broken yet and the bag started to bulge out pretty quickly. Dr. Proverbs told me to keep pushing and expect a big pop. I actually felt the bag bulging out, which was both cool and weird. Another push or two and it exploded out. Josh said the nurses actually jumped back out of the way. Once that was gone, it was down to the real deal.

It took a few pushes to find a good rhythm. My doctor was doing perineal massage during every push and that really helped give me something to focus on. Everyone was really encouraging and supportive. At 2:53am, when M was born, Dr. Proverbs told me, “Jamie! Open your eyes!” and there he was. They gave him to me right away, and I cried with joy and relief. I did wish that the nurse vigorously rubbing him would go away. I didn’t want anyone messing with my perfect babe. Because the boys shared a placenta, they cut M’s cord pretty much immediately, which was disappointing. There was some concern that odd things could happen with the blood flow between the boys with one on the outside and one on the inside, but I still wished he could have gotten more of the cord blood.

Josh took M, and the nurses took his measurements and wrapped him up and gave him to Josh. Dr. Proverbs was telling me what a great job I’d done. She said M had been born posterior, or sunny-side up. That was why my back had hurt, and it had made him more challenging to push out. We hoped that little J would be better positioned. A few minutes later the show was back on. I thought my water broke on one of the pushes, but afterwards Josh told me Dr. Proverbs broke it. Either way, he was heads down and coming out, if a bit sideways. He didn’t take as long to be born; I think that was probably because his brother had stretched things out for him and also because I had a better handle on pushing. His contractions were really intense though with a crazy tail on them where I didn’t feel like I could push, but I was still contracting. A few of those were really hard to deal with.

At 3:17am, 24 minutes after his brother, little J was born. He was also placed on my chest and he got to stay. They let his cord pulse for several minutes before they clamped it and Josh cut it. Then they took him over for measurements as well.

I had been a bit nervous about the third stage. In both my previous labors it had taken a good 45 minutes for the placenta to detach. I knew that hospitals were not too patient with waiting on a placenta, so I feared I might have to tap dance a bit to keep them from trying to go in after it. Thankfully, this time it came free within just a few minutes. I was bleeding a fair bit, but nothing too crazy, so they let me be for the moment.

Later, in recovery, I ended up with Pitocin to get my uterus to contract down. I was still bleeding on the borderline of a hemorrhage, so they were being careful. I had the choice of Pitocin, Cytotec, or uterine massage. I don’t know if you’ve ever had your post-baby uterus massaged, but believe me when I tell you that it is extremely unpleasant. After enduring that several times, we tried the Pitocin, which was actually much gentler (I had been afraid that it would also cause really painful contractions), and stemmed the bleed. Once that was under control, they took us to a recovery room.

I was very leery of going to a hospital to have my babies. For twins, it was the best decision, as we do not live anywhere near a really good hospital. The hospital we went to was 45 minutes from our house, much too far if we’d run into any real problems. The staff though, was amazing. It helped that our labor nurses were actually the same ones we’d had the week before. They were thrilled to see us back and excited to be part of a natural twin birth. We had nothing but supportive, kind nurses who respected our decisions. It was such a relief. I was afraid that they would wake us up all night even more than the babies would, but we had the same night nurse both nights and she just peeked at us and pretty much let us be, which was great.

A week out, I’m finally used to there being two babies. Those first few hours and days I’d just look from one boy to the other and say in wide-eyed wonder, “There are two of them!” I had seen them on ultrasound, I had felt their individual wiggles and kicks, but to see their beautiful faces side by side was a revelation. I feel that they are a fulfillment of a promise. And they are so much more than I ever could have asked for.

Big Boy

I’ve discovered a special flavor of tenderness for this little man of mine—my rainbow baby, born after so much heartache. When this amazing little man came into my life and soothed all the raw places in my heart, I couldn’t help but have a little different attachment to him. I’m more protective of his babyhood. When you have your first, you’re so eager for them to grow. But this time, I just want him to stay small. And he refuses!

This is the child who wants to be big. He wants to sit in a big boy chair, drink his milk without a lid, and eat the exact same sandwich you are eating. He wants the toy that big sister wants; he would really like to ride her bike if only his legs would reach. He takes in everything, and conquers it.

He is also the child who greets me with an enthusiastic, “Mama!” every morning and any time I come home from running errands by myself. He literally runs into his Daddy’s arms every day, shouting, “Daddy!” with the biggest grin. So easy going, so happy; he makes life a joy.

He was my worry when I found out I was pregnant. H got 3½ years of my time all to herself. Poor J only gets 2 and a couple of months. He still wants to be held and soothed and rocked and cuddled. What will happen to him when both my arms are full of babies? Will he still know how very much I love him? I will have to make sure of it.

Of course, this little man also has a temper. He has a tendency to throw and hit—occasionally bite. We are learning all about gentle touches and inside voices. His vocabulary, so long limited to “Mama,” “Daddy,” and “There it is!” has begun to expand. Today his said shoes. This is big stuff.

I wondered to Josh the other night if I would feel this nostalgic for the twins or if I’d be so relieved at surviving that I’d just take a nap and call it good. I will probably be worse because they will be my last babies. And truthfully, it doesn’t matter which kid it is that is having a birthday, it reminds you of all the joy that child brings to your life (and frustration). This particular kiddo is just all the more special for being so desperately wanted and so beautifully starting to heal my heart.

Little J, I hope you always know how much I love you; how amazing your smile is; how capable I know you are; and that you can accomplish anything in this world. You will always be my little man, even when I have to look up at you.

Give it Away

So at about 10:15am this morning God told me to get off my butt and do something. Clearly, I did, because what else could I do? I blame the whole thing on Jen Hatmaker.

Some of you may laugh, but this fall I started my very first Bible study class ever. I decided I needed some Mommy time each week and Protestant Women of the Chapel (PWOC) seemed like a good fit. It’s a military, multi-denominational group that meets once a week with snacks and has a bunch of Bible studies and child care.

I eased myself in by doing a study of Jen Hatmaker’s book 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess. For those not familiar with the book, Hatmaker, a blogger, writer, and pastor’s wife, took seven months and dedicated each one to an area of life that she felt was excessive. It wasn’t just about getting rid of those old snow shoes you said you’d use but never did; it was about trying to re-evaluate her life through the lens of how much she has just by virtue of being a US citizen versus the vast majority of the world. If we all took a few minutes to compare our lives to those struggling, we’d be pretty embarrassed and possibly even ashamed. It isn’t about trying to make you give away family heirlooms. It’s more about opening your eyes to the real needs of those around you and making a difference where you can. That’s where God tapped me on the shoulder this morning.

Like many churches, ours has communion on the first Sunday of every month. As a member of the choir (I sing Soprano), I have to be at both services. There’s not enough time to go home, so today I took 7 with me so I could do my reading between services.

So there I am, in this nice little library room at my church, eavesdropping on a Sunday school class of people old enough to be my grandparents and reading. Suddenly Hatmaker shares this story about a friend of hers who suddenly realized that Staci, her daughter’s friend’s Mom, was seriously struggling. Single mom, working full time and going to school. The family owned two plates. There were three of them. So Hatmaker’s friend demanded a list of what that family needed. Four days later their apartment was furnished and their cabinets were full down to a bowl of Red Delicious apples on the counter. When I read that story of how a small group of women completely transformed that family’s life, and quite possibly saved them and their future, I cried. I cried in a cute little library at my church while trying not to attract attention.

Suddenly I remembered that a few days ago I pulled on my maternity skinny jeans and found $80! That is quite a bit more than the crumpled $1 I’d expected to find when I unfolded the bills. My clothes had just come back from a round of pregnancy with my cousin in Nashville, but a few quick texts resulted in the fact that neither of us remembered misplacing $80. How comfy are our lives when $80 misplaced makes no lasting impression? In the end, I decided we could split what was essentially the windfall, and we each ended up $40 richer.

Then God poked me in the head. I picked my butt up and drove around the corner to the Dollar General, a store, incidentally, that I’d never stepped foot inside before. Being honest, I felt like it was for poor people. I didn’t need to shop in a place like that. In this case, it was a block from church and for $51.30 I bought 34 toiletry items for Welcome Central, a local non-profit that connects people in need to services in the community. They’re a first line of defense and the people who come to them are often on food stamps and have immediate needs. While you can buy tobacco and alcohol with food stamps, you cannot buy toilet paper. (Because that makes total sense.) So I bought toilet paper and shampoo and soap and combs. I bought a moment of dignity for someone in a rough situation. I bought the comfort and confidence of being able to present yourself, clean and refreshed to the world.

What else would I have done with $40? Nothing noteworthy. It would have been spent at Target on things we almost certainly didn’t have a lasting need for or on an Elsa wig for H’s Halloween costume (I’ll freely admit, that’s still happening, though it had better not cost $40! Thankfully I am blessed enough to start seeing the poor and still afford to give my five-year-old a bit of magic.)

As I headed back down to the choir room after dropping off my bags of toiletries in the atrium, I was amazed at how God had so clearly spoken to me in that moment. I’ve always been a Goodwill donations person, but I can be pretty lazy the rest of the time. I was even more amazed when I checked the flyer and realized that  though I’d been meaning to grab an extra shampoo at the Commissary anyway, the last day to donate was next Sunday, when I would be out of town. That moment in the library was the moment. The only moment when I could make that difference with money I’d lost and never missed. Money that could feed a family for a few days or help a bunch of people who just needed toilet paper.

It makes me wonder what else I miss in my frantic Mom-of-young-children world. Probably a lot. But my eyes and ears are opening, and I hope they never close.

Take a Bite

There I am in the kitchen last night, mixing up cinnamon muffins from a box. I silently lament, “It’s too bad I was so stressed this weekend. It would have been nice to make something.” You’re quick on the uptake; you’ve already realized that I was in fact making something at that very moment. It took me a few more minutes to realize that I am the rare person who considers making muffins from a box mix “buying muffins from the store” as opposed to making them at home, i.e., from scratch.

The light bulb goes on, and all I can do is shake my head at myself.

It reminds me of a time a few years ago when we were staying home for Christmas and didn’t have a huge crowd coming in. A neighbor asked what we were doing for Christmas, and I said we’d probably just make spaghetti. The sweet lady gave me a look—eyes narrowing, head tilting. She tentatively asked, “Spaghetti? You’re more than welcome to come over…”

I looked back her, my head tilted, puzzled eyes, and after a good 30 seconds realized what the problem was. In her mind having spaghetti for dinner meant a jar of sauce from the store. For a lot of people it’s probably one of the simplest, lowest stress meals you can prepare. It’s definitely not worthy of the celebration of Christ’s birth. What she didn’t realize is that I’m Italian. We’ve been having sauce on Christmas my entire life. It’s made from scratch. It takes at least six hours. When my mom does it, it takes the form of a lasagna capable of feeding about 30 people. There is also anti-pasto salad, garlic bread, and bowls of pork and sausage cooked in the sauce. This is followed by Christmas cookies of every description, all made from scratch, and cream puffs, also made from scratch. No one leaves the table hungry—for anything—ever again.

I feel like this topic of food has come up several times now because I keep finding myself relating to food and its preparation in ways that seem to vary—sometimes wildly—from the norm.

We spent three weeks waiting for our household goods to arrive from the other side of the state. My neighbors have been so amazing. We brought some basics with us: a 6 quart pot, a griddle, a 3 quart pot, and a colander. We also had a few spatulas, can opener, etc. There were a few things I had to buy, like a cutting board and a cookie sheet. I borrowed a set of mixing bowls from a neighbor. But still, I managed to make chicken pot pie and blueberry cobbler. We only increased our meals out when we realized we could charge them to the incompetent movers.

Is that weird? It reminds me of my grandmother, who, when they camped had my grandfather improvise an oven so she could make stuffed peppers and bake a cake. They had the most popular campsite. Kids would wander over and return to their own campsites demanding to know why they were stuck with hot dogs and beans.

That’s weird, right?

The only explanation I can provide is that I’m third generation American. It’s actually kind of crazy. There’s a single branch of my family, the Sterners, that goes back to the Revolutionary War. Everyone else came from Italy in the early part of the 20^th century. All the other great grandparents were born in Italy. My dad’s mom spent World War II in Sicily after her family was trapped there when they went back to visit. Her dad was a fascist. She worked as a translator for the Allies after Sicily was liberated. My great uncle was part of machine gun crew for the Italian army. My mom grew up living above her Italian grandparents. Grandma Miraldi spoke to her in Italian, and my mom answered in English. My dad was the secret translator for his siblings when his parents spoke Italian.

It’s a different tradition when your family’s cultural heritage is still so close. My parents both grew up on Staten Island. They went to the Italian stores; they lived practically next door to their entire families. My dad has a picture of somebody’s birthday, black and white, and around the table are bodies packed just wall to wall. He can name almost every one, and they’re just about all related to him. And if you thought that description earlier of Christmas dinner was crazy, try it at my dad’s house growing up. First you had an entire pasta meal, all the trimmings mentioned above; then you had a turkey or a ham or both; then you had fruits and nuts and cheeses; then you had dessert. It took hours. And it was like that at every holiday.

I can guarantee you that none of it was pre-prepared or store bought. Of course, that’s partially because those things didn’t exist in the 1950s, but mostly it was because that’s not how it’s done.

This isn't my actual family, but you get the idea.

I will definitely continue to laugh at myself for baking “store bought” muffins from a mix. But I’m so proud of my heritage and the skills that have come with it. H loves to cook with me, and I’m so happy to pass that knowledge on to her. Not only does it mean a chance to teach her tradition and heritage, but it also means learning to understand food and appreciate it in its many wonderful permutations. Being able to cook gives you a freedom to control your destiny, while still honoring the past.