Start of Sultry Season

Eighty-eight and sunny in Orlando this afternoon. Over the next few weeks the daily high temperature will inch up a degree or so per week, just in time to welcome WT with a climate nearly equal to the one they've experienced the last seven months. This is my proclamation for the day. No need to expand on the sentiment that Florida sizzles in the summer, and that sizzling babies are frowned upon by parents and babies alike. Perhaps delivering children on the summer solstice in the subtropics isn't the hottest idea (beg your pardon), but we'll manage nonetheless. And with any luck we'll stave off the big day until June 22, so the Cancers in this household will outnumber the Pisces three to one.

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I plan on refraining from weather reports in future entries, as there's simply no need: on any given day here it's either warm or hot, pouring rain or forecast thereof, mixed with anticipation June through November of flying toolsheds and floating cars.

32.9 Week Update

Well, after the pre-e scare last Friday, things have improved. Tuesday was an OB appt with Dr C - these are now weekly. The bp is down and the cervix is still closed- promising news on both ends. He disagrees with the perinatologist, predicting that I will likely make it at least another 4 weeks- which would be 37+. I have to say, this news was just slightly disappointing to me. Yes, we all want WT to be born big and healthy and all indications are that they will be. They are both just about 5 lbs now and within 2 weeks should be close to 6. My goal was to make it to 36 weeks but since they are measuring about a week ahead, 35 would be ok too. But closer to 38 weeks…oh boy! Now that I'm not working, time seems to be passing slower than ever and what else do I have to think about but the big event…when, where, how? Ok, we pretty much know where. It's the when and how that are now constantly on my mind. Yes, I have grown rather impatient. Speaking of growing…as of last Tuesday, I am measuring 40 weeks- full-term for a singleton. There's another unanswered question- how much more can this belly stretch? Again, only time will tell.

Wrong Way

A week has passed since our visit to Winnie Palmer and moderately alarming diagnosis (see last entry six inches down. The nice thing about my slack writing is readers don't have to search among dozens of archived entries to arrive seven days in the past; I also don't have to worry about a comfortable income from blog-driven ad revenue). On Tuesday, Kel put her arm in Dr. Crofoot's blood pressure cuff and got a reading of 130/80. Much better. Her ankle swelling also decreased. But not our consternation. Friday doc insists that the pressure will continue to increase, yet the escalation can be slowed by plenty of rest. Meaning: "stop working." He ensures us that regardless, she'll be a mother before her next Winnie appointment three weeks hence. Tuesday doc, though reacting to a reduced pressure, claims she's fit as a fiddle, can return to work, and indeed should walk and swim and hula hoop, whatever, it's tres bien, and delivery won't come for at least four, heck, why not six weeks?

What to do, what to do... Do we listen to "play it safe" Friday doc, since he came sharply dressed in a tie and eased the mood with some light chatter about his incessant duel with boredom leading him to dive into law school? Or should we be slapping the EASY button as advised by laissez-faire Tuesday's doc, in his green scrubs and hedgehog haircut? It seems that throughout this pregnancy the advice from our two doctors has been as parallel as a plus sign. Are we the hapless victims of a conspiracy to confuse? Dare we plunge into publications pointing us to the light? No, I say again! (Scroll down another half foot). We turn to Nostradamus, or failing that, a blog poll.

Uh-oh, SpaghettiOs!

Friday with the high-risk doc. The joy ride is over. Kel's blood pressure measured 140/90, which flirts with pre-eclampsia. Not good. Mister MD all but ordered her to stop working as of Tuesday and essentially clamp down on all physical activity. Even a 30-minute walk or swim is excessive. Her blood pressure will continue to increase, but she can slow that rate if she promptly curtails her level of physical activity. She won't need medication as long as her condition doesn't deteriorate before her normally anticipated delivery time. If it does go downhill, however, she may have to be admitted and, worst case, induced prematurely.

So that was our yellow alert. We did leave with good news, though: WTs' blood pressure is just fine, they're growing like 'shrooms (4.3 and 4.4 lbs), and they still appear to be a boy and girl. With that in mind, we finalized first and middle names for both and will shortly give the go-ahead to MarMa to get going on those personalized cappies.

Plenty of Pointers

Earlier this week I wrapped up the "Happiest...Block" book. This post will not be a critique; it also won't link to the Amazon.com page where you can acquire your own copy. It is, overall, a valuable read. Aside from the central theme of the 5 "S"s that promptly calm a fitful infant by recreating the comforting conditions of the womb, the book scatters useful tips for coping with a newborn, lastly reminding the desperate parent to contact Poison Control or the fire brigade prior to abandoning all hope.

I'll offer my own advice: one ought to be wary of relying too heavily on any printed parenting advice, whether on a blog, website, library shelf or in a glossy monthly. Oh sure, you can't attempt a virgin foray into parenthood without some well-meaning assistance. Likely, you'll get plenty of help (maybe more than you can stand) from relatives and friends and the random Target co-shopper (true story: last week we shared the laundry aisle with a lady who tipped us off on the need to overstock on t.p., as a new mother's "(frequent) going problem" will last a few months after delivery). Bottom line: books tend to generalize and in some readers raise unnecessary alarm leading to misdirected solutions. I'll let Mark Twain get this point across: "Be careful of reading health books--you may die of a misprint."

The Home Stretch

Tomorrow afternoon we return yet again to Winnie Palmer for our next to last (or last) checkup. The ride is nearly over, though we've yet to receive and assemble the crib, pick up a paint brush, wash one onesie, wipe down the bumbo, add WT to my insurance, select a pediatrician and likely another half dozen 'must-dos' of which I'm not even aware. Again, no worry! I'm comforted by The Happiest...Block book, which tells me that for infants, the first three months of life constitute the fourth trimester. So, they won't really be ready to jump into our world until late September-- plenty of time to sell this house, buy another, move our stuff, set up their new room, and wipe down that bumbo.

No Reading Into It

I've noticed that May hasn't been a good month for the WT blog. All indications are that June's tally will be even lousier, July's will be non-existent, and August through December may find me starting a new blog- "Regaining My Sanity, or How the WieleckiTwins Sucked out my Every Last Ounce of Life." Perhaps it won't be as catastrophic, but this quip points to the one sole worry that may be floating out there in my skull. Despite my last couple of posts, I'll admit I have a bit of neutron-sized anxiety about the forthcoming period: that WT, the precious twinkly-eyed miracles that they'll be, will displace such a sizable portion of the day that reading, writing, or any other of my customary pleasures will jump to the back seat, or to the trunk...or onto a rickety plywood trailer secured by one worn shoelace.

By no means is this a complaint; I'm the family optimist and rarely encounter a situation in which I don't quickly discover the positive. There are others who would gladly trade their situation for mine and may feel some repugnance from this post. So, I'll stress again that for what awaits me I have nothing but gratitude and the loss of sleep, reading time, and extra cash will be no more than minor inconveniences.

A Monumental Month?

Thirty three days to go, according to the bouncy floaty fetus countdown clock. In essence I am approaching the end of a 31 year period during which I've not been responsible for anyone else nor had anyone else absolutely dependent on me. Up to now everyone I've known has had a caretaker: their parents, spouse, themselves, someone. In a month, though, there will enter the world two humans completely incapable of sustaining themselves, wholly dependent on us for their survival. This must be as unique an experience as any in life. A ton of responsibility just drops on your shoulders, whether you're prepared for it or not. And this extra layer of accountability doesn't just arrive for the summer, or through the football season, or until the appointment of the next Secretary-General of the United Nations. Oh no, it's here for a good 18 years, or longer, though from today's vantage point portends to be a permanent adjustment. Still, no worries. The countdown could read 33 minutes rather than 33 days and I'd be just as ill-prepared for this next episode.

Stress Supressed

As the days go by and our countdown clock nears zero and Kel's midsection increasingly protrudes, my level of worry should correspondingly advance. It does not. Despite all the dire warnings of the impending downturn of my carefree life, I fear nothing. Strange, really. Take my sleep habits--I am a very light sleeper and require at least 8 1/2 hours each day. This will not be possible starting this summer. I should be concerned, yet concern escapes me. Perhaps I lack certain neurons or one particular squiggly fragment of my brain that in the rest of the populace would fire off a continuously strengthening signal of alarm. Whatever the cause, I choose to withhold anxiety until the time is ripe: once the hourly shrieks begin, I'll roll out of bed, eyes half shut, head pounding, and do what needs to be done...until the next shriek renews the call for action.

Black Tassels and Noses

Naturally I should blog about Kelly's graduation ceremony yesterday, when she was handed a blank sleeve for the previously mailed Master of Human Resources diploma. Hmm, it appears that I just did. Congratulations to Kelly, M.H.R., and soon to be M.o.T.

P.S. The black graduation gown did a fairly successful job of rendering her pregnant state, and her gender, virtually indistinguishable.

* * *

On to the business of the day: we took Hana to the dog park. Her playmates likewise were of indiscernible gestational status and gender. She was fairly reserved throughout her stay, mainly sticking by her chauffeurs, though occasionally she did attempt to join a developing skirmish.

My apologies for the abrupt end. The hour is advanced and so is my hunger.

Odd Day Recap

A bit of catching up is in order. As this month has started off eventfully, the blog has suffered. Over nine days, there've been two baby showers, another 4D ultrasound and Lamaze class, and some unrestrained bargain hunting at a mega baby stuff swap meet. I cringe at excuses for not writing, so I'll leave it at that. In order of appearance:

I. May 1st. My coworkers organized a joint baby shower for Kel and one of my fellow expecting employees. It was a decorous affair, lasting but an hour, with adornments strung from the ceiling tiles, a colorful cake, and a killer punch laced with 7-Up. The group spared us the stock goofy baby shower games and we stuck to the agenda: diving into the gifts, the cake, and the exit. We scored an impressive assortment of kid goods and a very generous BabiesRUs GetWhatYouWant card.

II. May 3rd. GOMOTT organizes a quarterly sale of used baby paraphernalia. We took full advantage. Starting at 7AM, the doors opened to club members (Kelly, whether intentionally or not, is one). With the fervor of Supermarket Sweep, we scooped up a jogging stroller, several baby books (including an informative title on sushi--no joke), a rocking horsey that neighs upon request (the request is communicated by pressing his ear), and other accoutrements. At 8AM, the general public, who've been lining up patiently outside, stormed in with cash in hand for their own mad grab.

III. May 5th. Last of Lamaze. We came with spinach quiche and left with a diploma. For our last class, we did a pot luck dinner and watched a segment of the film adaptation of The Happiest Baby on the Block. The author carries on like the Dog Whisperer of infants: a swaddle here, a shush there, then some finger clicks, whistles and a sprinkle of pixie dust, and your baby is as calm a llama.

IV. May 7th. As promised by the 4D ultrasound guy following our first visit, we returned for another swipe at A. Last time, B pulled off a near total eclipse of her; this time he obliged by temporarily halting the direct kicks at her face, allowing a few minutes' peek into her world:



Judging by the foot kiss in the left photo, no doubt she'll be a great sister. And I'm not sure what that pirate's hook is in the right photo. I didn't ask. I'll brace myself in several weeks.

V. May 9th. Kel was showered yet again (number 4), this time by her coworkers. It was a pleasant and thankfully low-key affair. I shouldn't steal the thunder from Kel's imminent entry on this topic and I'll allow her to cover the details. Suffice it to say that the organizing committee deserves honors for their efforts and the whole group for their generosity. I attended out of pity and to help carry the stuff to the car.

Roadtrip Wrap-up

Sunday afternoon we returned from the Nation's Oldest City. We accomplished our objectives for this trip only marginally: Kel more than once complained of exhaustion and indeed they were a hot couple of days for a high noon stroll; four fifths of our meals were fast food; and, though we hopped into the Atlantic, the ocean was devoid of seaweed head wear. Worse, there was an oversupply of rather strong persistent waves and so Kel stumbled out of the water nearly as fast as she got in. And she had an audience: the few beachgoers that remained that late afternoon shot more than a couple of glances her way. I can't blame them, though; you don't often see an advanced twin pregnancy in a bright orange two-piece. (Sorry, I have no photographic evidence).

So, our trip was only a partial success. Still, it was a refreshing respite from a routine Orlando weekend. St. Augustine has a distinct Old World character, with its numerous 19th century structures of solid construction sorely lacking in today's (or at least as of a year ago) "build it and they will occupy" mentality. The streets and sidewalks are narrow, a few of them gratefully off-limits to cars, and are great for a stroll. And, despite its age, the town is home to Flagler College and with it a youthful component, reflected in several lively pubs. Sure, there was the standard supply of schlocky tourist stores, with one merchant's deals on I Heart St. Augustine t-shirts vying with another's on mini Florida-tag keychains bearing names from Abbie to Nathan to Zack. Still, the town offers a hospitable antique flavor, like a slice of old Boston mixed with a tropical air. Just don't stay at the Days Inn on exit 218.

Swimming with Sharks

Tomorrow we travel to St. Augustine for a mini getaway. Our big agenda includes strolling its 'ancient' streets until the verge of heatstroke, avoiding a constant diet of fast food, and hopping into the ocean. (Kelly to swim and I to retrieve seaweed with my toes and place it on my head. Don't ask. It's an unexplained habit). Swimming has become Kelly's favorite pastime, yet presents her with a dilemma. How do you reconcile your love of swimming with the growing difficulty of fitting into a swimsuit?

Enough. We all know Kel is expanding and I more than anyone should demonstrate sympathy. Still, I feel I'm doing a vital job of recording her trials over the course of these eight or so months. These are the nuances of history that quickly fade from memory as soon as our lives move on to the next chapter. Who's going to remember the multiple mall trips for Aunt Annie's pretzels, the struggle to agree on names, the nervous anticipation of the first high-risk doc visit, the giant blue shorts and muumuu tees, and the waddle walk? Kel may lay in to me now, but she'll thank me later!