Dit Dit Dot.

Monday night I attempted to attend a class for expectant parents of multiples. Unfortunately, halfway through the evening I had to excuse myself to projectile vomit in a hospital bathroom stall. Almost 22 weeks and still not done puking, Zofran or no.
Truthfully I was almost relieved at the excuse to beat our hasty exit, as I am just not ready to discuss birth and baby care. If I make it to 24 weeks I will start thinking about accumulating bulb syringes and a crib, but until then I am merely focusing on getting the Science Babies—hell, all three of us—to viability intact.

Lately I am like the little girl with the little curl, if you know what I mean. Much of the time I am my usual delighted (and delightful) self. I eat whole meals, I watch television, I give the babies fond little lectures about how when Biggie promises to “make it hot, like a kettle get,” he is utilizing a simile (it is never too early to learn about figurative language, you know). I am, in all respects, the pre-holiday Alexa, overawed with every aspect of her life and giddily contemplating the future.
And then, occasionally, something misfires, and I lose all grip on my rational mind. Those instances, when they come, continue to level me with their breathtaking awfulness, though happily they do not come as often (nor linger as long) as they once did.
Last night Scott upgraded our computer’s RAM, and as he explained to me what RAM is, exactly, I decided that my primary mental problem is that I have insufficient RAM for the quantity of data (emotional, physical, practical) I am attempting to process. This has happened from time to time in the past, and I generally react the way you might if your computer had such a problem—I close a program or two, metaphorically speaking. Alas, I am now faced with a situation where it seems there are simply no extraneous programs running. And my brain, unlike my Mac, is not easily upgradeable. The RAM I have is all I get. And thus ends the nerdiest paragraph ever typed.

But while the past two weeks have been tumultuous ones, they also contained my favorite moment of pregnancy thus far, the moment Scott was first able to feel a kick from the outside. I wish you could have seen his face; it lit up like a flare in the dark. This particular kick was courtesy of my dear boy, who is head down on my left side and has taken up the study of Morse code. His sister, on the other hand, has positioned her placenta between herself and the outside world, for privacy (I forsee a surfeit of poorly-lettered KEeP OUT! signs in my future). Since that first startling thump I have been able to feel movement in a more organized and baby-appropriate way—that is to say distinct kicks rather than the vague impression of subterranean scurrying I had before. This seems more congenial somehow, and less like I am housing a sneaky, abnormally large tapeworm instead of two human babies. Feeling my children, whom I will presumably one day assist with homework and entreat to put on a jacket, for heaven’s sake, kick me with their ACTUAL FEET defeats all superlatives. I have been told the novelty will wear off, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon.

I have been looking at the pictures taken two weeks ago, at my 20 week ultrasound, and no matter how diplomatically I try to view the evidence, there is no denying that the Science Babies are exceptionally handsome.
See for yourself:

Boy (Baby A, also sometimes referred to as Stampy):

Girl (Baby B):

I, on the other hand, have reached a size that apparently entitles strangers to LAUGH OUT LOUD at me before faux-sympathetically asking how I’m feeling (thanks a lot, random lady). I think this is due to my short stature and the fact that I have gained no weight anywhere but out in front, in the fortress the babies have constructed from milk, tortellini, and sausages. The last picture I have was taken a week ago, and sources close to the subject (read: my husband and a trusted friend) assert that I have “really popped” since then.
So this…

…is me before this week’s growth spurt.
I will not be posting an “after.”