Urban Sprawl.

Dear Science Babies,

I know this is a busy week for you, what with developing reflexes and all, so I won’t take up much of your time. But they tell me you’re each about the size of a lime now, and I think that is big enough to be talked to honestly. So here goes:
I have some concerns about your overnight routine. I can’t help but notice that in addition to the four+ trips to the bathroom necessitated by your presence atop my bladder, lately you have begun to demand wee-hour kitchen excursions for milk and saltines. These demands are most strident after evenings when I have consumed what you seem to regard as insufficient protein. (A recent example: whole wheat spaghetti with tomato sauce and romano, followed by a piece of cheese pizza).
Punishment for ignoring these demands has been swift and, in my humble opinion, a tad severe: doesn’t the heaving bother you? Apparently not, and that’s good—I’m glad you’re comfortable, and believe me, I will do everything in my power to keep both of you happily ensconced in my abdomen for the next 25 weeks, and if that means four nightly trips to the bathroom and two bleary seatings at the midnight milk and cracker buffet, so be it. I admire your single-minded pursuit of your nourishment, and I think you will find that the grit and determination you have displayed in this area are traits that will serve you well in the future when dealing with many of life’s challenges, such as mastering cursive or, later, dealing with insurance companies, wedding seating arrangements, or naturally wavy hair. Still, I know that you do not have access to even the most remedial of logic textbooks in there (or maybe you do, which, come to think of it, would explain this heartburn I’ve been having), and thought I would offer a bit of advice.
I have a short torso. Not just because of my height, though I am of small stature to begin with, but in relation to the rest of my body: my legs are abnormally long, and the rest of me is tacked on top almost as an afterthought. I was teased about this as a child, actually; they called me “Daddy Long-Legs.” Children can be little shits, as you are unfortunately almost certain to find out on your own in a few years.
In gym class, I could not touch my toes without bending my knees, not because I lacked flexibility, but because it was physically impossible. If you look at a picture of me, my lack of proportion will be obvious, but I understand that Flickr is currently unavailable to you.
I tell you all of this about my torso for a reason: to emphasize that with two babies residing inside it, the phrase “a place for everything, and everything in its place” is particularly apt. Alas, you seem to have some sort of daily Fetal Manifest Destiny thing going on. Though I start out almost comfortable in the morning, by the evening my belly begins tautly just below my breasts, and seems to be full of…something, making the consumption of dinner difficult. Please see fig. 1, below:

You will notice the limited amount of space given to my stomach, and the uncomfortable way my intestines are wrapped around my other organs. The only way I could fit the steak you so desperately desire into my abdomen at this time would be with the assistance of a scalpel and retractors. Frankly, eating anything at all is unappealing once I reach my daily critical mass point, but I choke something down. For you.
I’m not trying to tell you your business—god knows it has been years since I was a fetus myself—but it seems to me that if what you want is a large, protein-rich dinner, the logical thing to do would be to leave my stomach a bit more room to expand. I am not suggesting you slow your own growth, obviously, but I am sure we can find room somewhere. Maybe you could do less of whatever it is you do that produces such startling quantities of gas? That is just one suggestion, maybe you have a better idea. We are only twelve weeks into this, and it seems a bit early to be exhausting the available real estate, is all I am saying.
You two have a lovely evening—no fighting, and I will send some ice cream down later.

Love,
Your Mother