Written October 6, 2009
Yet more time has passed since we found out the good news. We have told all of our closest friends and family, and everyone seems very supportive and excited for us. We go in for ou first ultrasound on Thursday and we will get a sneak peak at the new babies who will come live in our home. Yes. That’s right. Babies. As in the plural form of baby. But before I leave it at that, let me give all two of you who read this some backstory as to why I feel that there is more than one human inside of me.
In July of 2009 (one month before pregnancy began) I donated my eggs to a couple in Toronto, Canada who wanted to have kids and couldn’t. I signed up for this through an agency that coordinates egg donors to different fertility clinics around the US and Canada. As a part of the donor process, the doctor sent me shots in the mail to make my ovaries work in hyperdrive. During a regular month, the average woman produces 1 or 2 eggs. Average women who receive these hyperdrive shots produce 7-12 eggs in a month. When it came time for the doctor to harvest my eggs, there were 21. Needless to say, those shots jacked me up. And when I found out I was pregnant, my cycle was still really weird, so I assumed that the medicine had not left my system yet.
So now, I am nine weeks pregnant officially. I haven’t been able to button my pants for two weeks, and the remaining visible portion of my feet gets smaller and smaller each day. Women I don’t know ask me how far a long I am, and when I say “eight weeks” they make a face like someone just stuck a pencil up their butts. Great. Either I am carrying a sumo wrestler, or there is more than one.
Not to mention the fact that I feel like doo doo. I stay nauseated most of the day, and the thought of most foods make me want to vom. That means that my usually healthy diet of fruits, vegetables, and stuff with fun names like quinoa (pronounced “keen-wa”) and flax meal has digressed to chips and cheese dip, apple pie a la mode, and an entire bag of Trolli’s sour bright crawlers. I’m ashamed, as I should be. I never understood those women who went from healthy and fit to tubs of jello when they became pregnant. Now I understand that the first trimester is a not a force to be underestimated. My choice is either to throw up or to eat an entire pint of Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream. There is no middle ground. Apparently the intense cravings and sickness is a new thing to the women in my family, which leads me to believe that my case is extraordinary. Extraordinary as in triplets extraordinary.
My brain has run all possible scenarios of what may happen Thursday. I have thought of everything from the baby being dead to becoming the next octomom. What will we do with quads? Will we have to get one of those converted church busses to cart all of those kids around in? How can one body feed six mouths? What do you do if you don’t have enough arms to hold all of the babies at once? Are Chris and I going to turn into Jon and Kate plus eight, where I emasculate him on a daily basis and he decides to ditch me and the kids for some ditzy blonde college girl who thinks he’s “the bomb”? Will I have to be on bedrest and wrap my belly up like leftover deli meat so my skin won’t split open? Am I going to have to get a ridiculous haircut that proves to the world that I have given up on trying to make myself look nice? What if we have enough kids to make us seriously poor but not enough kids to get a reality show? What if Chris decides he loves procreating and we become the Duggars? What if all of this hype is for nothing and there is just one baby inside of me? Won’t that seem anti-climactic?
Ah, the questions. Most of which will be answered in just two short days. I have no proof, but I do feel in my bones that there is more than one. Call it women’s intuition, or call it a side effect from the entire bag of dill pickle flavored potato chips I ate yesterday. On the couch. By myself.
It’s those darn babies inside of me. They took a vote and elected that they wanted those dill pickle chips. This is all their fault. Any time you’re talking about a consensus going on in your uterus, you know you are in big trouble. I guess time will tell. In the meantime, I will be researching for a hairstylist who can give Kate Gosselin’s super-awesome front mullet. It’s all the rage for women with litters of children, or anyone who wants to keep her business in the back and the party right up front where it belongs. I’ll let you know what I find out.