I haven’t really given much thought to our birth plan until recently. Early on, our doctor let us know that we were almost definitely facing a C-section. It bums me out a little. I want the opportunity to work hard and be a part of the childbirth process. I want that sense of accomplishment. Instead, my birth plan sounds a lot like that dinner scene in “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.” I’m the big snake that gets wheeled in at the end. Someone will slice me open and a bunch of babies will come pouring out. I (half) joke with Matt that once these boys are born my body will crumple to the ground like an empty skin suit. Then he’ll have to wear my skin suit from time to time and pretend to be the mom. This visual cracks me up for some reason, even though it requires me to die a terrible death.
Spring took its time getting here, but finally this week the sun came out, the flowers bloomed, the grass instantly grew to a chigger-friendly length, the birds commenced their melodious yakking, and the pregnant lady’s ankles swelled in celebration of the warm weather.
I need to learn not to brag about things. At last week’s ultrasound I told our doctor I was going to have my cervix bronzed because I was getting so many compliments on it, and she basically told me to shut up and stop gloating because it was still early and my cervix could give out at any moment. Gulp. Ego destroyed.
Matt comes from a modern family that includes three very loving sets of parents. Over St. Patrick’s Day we got together with his mother, K.B., and stepdad, G (they have real names but we go by the letters), at Matt’s brother’s house for a lovely baby shower where we scored some much-needed money and killer bric-a-brac for the boys. I ate my weight in lasagna and a delicious Smurf cake that Matt’s niece, Addison, art directed. Needless to say, it was a good time.