Chasing the Maternal Glow

This probably sounds bad, but I’m so done with being pregnant. I feel like I’m supposed to love this time—that I should be bathing everyone I’m around in my maternal glow— laughing in slow motion while my fingertips caress the gentle slope of my belly and my luxurious copper locks of hair fly gently on the perfectly-calibrated wind. I feel like I’m supposed to be this walking symbol of life and motherhood and all that is virtuous and right and fertile in the world. Like everything around me should be smooth and soft and set in sepia tones. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to be that way. But if you think you see my maternal glow, I assure you that it is in fact the three rosy patches of acne that I’ve had since week four. If you think my hair is glossier, you might be right— the boys have been sick, so it’s not unlikely that their boogers have added to my sheen. And there’s nothing gentle or sloping about my belly—this thing is large and in charge. 

I know this time in my life will be over soon enough and I won’t give these limitations another thought, but I’m so ready to run and play with the boys without hurting, and to throw a ball as hard as I can without it twisting my ab muscles in knots. To walk without my back hurting. To lift the boys up. To be able to walk up three flights of stairs at a normal pace instead of at the pace of a small, distracted, crippled snail. To not have to pee every couple minutes or feel like I’ll pass out if I don’t eat every hour. All of those things will fade to grey. But for now they are bolded and in all CAPS and right in my face. A lot like the current state of my maternal bossoms.

I feel like such a fussy baby when I read what I’ve written, but it also feels good to say it. I know that when I see little Peapod’s face and hold his tiny body it will all be worth it, but right now it just feels like it’s taking forever and I miss my other body. Also, did I mention that I think I’m just about as heavy at 22 weeks as I was with the boys at this time? My body seriously needs to chill out. It’s not a competition, and there is only one human in there this time. Get over yourself. Everyone knows you can carry twins. You don’t have to try to do it again. I do not want to give birth to a 13 pounder—which is about what the boys weighed combined.

Okay, I’m done whining. Besides, I have to go pee.

This is me and my maternal glow holding up the toaster.
This is, however, from when I was 30 weeks pregnant with the boys.
I noticed that I don't have pictures of myself from this time...

Thursday Thesicle

There's nothing wrong with a boy in a hair clip.

 

Thursday Thesicle

There's Cool and there's Rockstar Mohawk Cool; you can't touch Rockstar Mohawk Cool.

Thursday Thesicle

Recipe for a good time: Open toddler, insert Pop Rocks.

Fashion or Fighting Instincts?

I’ve been wondering when the boys would develop their own fashion sense, or more fittingly put, their attachment to one article or type of clothing. They’ve always just shared all their clothes. I was imagining that maybe in their teens it would start— when perhaps one of them wants to wear only gigantic basketball shorts, huge shirts, and straight-brimmed hats and the other can better express himself in skinny jeans and tight t-shirts, or whatever the equivalent styles are in the future.

Here is the mohawk Clark woke up with the other day. Bedhead? Sure, honey. I saw that gel in your crib.

But alas, it happened today. That’s right. The boys have these similar shirts—they are both striped, one green and one orange. The orange one has a blue monster on it and the green one has a space ship, stars, planets, and a moon on it and says Spaced Out. For whatever reason I usually dress Cal in the orange one and Clark in the green one. So as I faced two wiggly, naked-chested boys this morning, I grabbed the green one to put on Cal. He immediately started screaming, “ORANGE JUICE!” which is what they call anything that is the color orange. I didn’t understand him at first and I thought he was simply trying to elude getting dressed. But then Clark started screaming and frantically tearing at the green shirt coming over Cal’s head. Clark raced over and picked up the orange shirt and threw it in my face. When I handed them each the correct shirt the crying immediately subsided as Clark patted the planets and stars fondly and Cal laughed lovingly at the monster. Clearly Clark feels he is the more spaced out one and Cal that he is the monster.

And on a similar clothing/accessory note, they both love my headbands. Usually when I’m wearing one they reach for it and say “turn, turn, hay-band,” which means they need a turn with the headband. When I relent, causing my hair to fall into familiar disarray, they smile confidently and proclaim themselves “hassom” which means handsome.

I’m not sure if this means they will have a keener sense of fashion than their mom, (let’s face it, I don’t really DO fashion, especially since motherhood set in) or if they just like to fight.