WEEK 20

This was a big week. We’re technically at the halfway mark, but I’m likely more than halfway done cooking these kids up. A uterus can only stretch so far before all hell breaks loose. For awhile I was afraid I didn’t look pregnant enough for someone having triplets. Then I watched the Beyonce documentary “Life is But a Dream” on HBO. At one point, BK turns to the side to show the camera her tiny 20 week baby bump and says something like, “There’s no hiding this!” I cringe. I have been hiding much worse than that for years. When I look at my naked torso in the mirror now, I see something that looks like a giant Homer Simpson face.

This past weekend Matt’s two brothers–Kevin and Ryan– came into town for a bro-down. They are both huge and muscly, and when Matt stands next to them he looks like a leprechaun sandwiched between two brick walls. Two brick walls that can seriously bust a move. We take them to a bar in town where our friend, Cam, is DJing. All three brothers hit the dance floor, freaking on girls who are delighted and girls who are disgusted but tolerant. I am bopping in place, holding my Homer Simpson, trying not to shake the boys too much. After a couple of songs my ligaments are crying out for mercy. I usher everyone out of the club at midnight, swing by Wendy’s to pick up six bacon cheeseburgers for them, and show to them their sleeping quarters (the future nursery, which tonight will be filled with the snores and farts of the triplets’ lovable, drunk uncles.)

On Friday, we head in for our 20 week ultrasound. A lot of measurements have to be taken, so it’s a long session. But, a good one. The perinatologist tells us that the trips are “fatsos,” weighing in at 13 ounces (Trip A), 14 ounces (Trip B) and 13 ounces (Trip C). I’m happy that they’re looking so good, but just as the ultrasound technician is midway through Trip C’s measurements I start to feel weird. First I think it’s a panic attack, then I think I’m going to vomit, and finally it dawns on me that I’m about to faint. “I think I’m gonna faint,” I say. Then I faint.

As a Southern woman, I should be a pro at “getting the vapors.” The protocol is to drop daintily onto a settee with your arm draped over your head, keeping your coiffure intact. Instead, as Matt tells me later, my eyes rolled backwards like Linda Blair, and I let out a loud, shuddering snore. When I wake up, I have a wet towel sitting on my head and my naked butt is hanging out for everyone to see. Very genteel.

It turns out there is a blood vessel, the inferior vena cava, that runs behind the uterus. Lying on my back, I had positioned the trips directly on top of the vessel, cutting off blood flow to my heart.

Nice job, fatsos!

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