Picture is Unrelated (Christmas, Twenty-Five and Other Miscellaneous Pregnancy Bitching)

Tuesday the 20th, I had another growth scan with the Pretty Peri, my MFM at the fancy-pants maternity center that is so new 90% of the building is closed until March 1, 2012. Last time we'd seen the babies, they were measuring in the 24th and 29th percentiles (girl/boy). Although on the smaller side, neither Robert nor I batted an eyelash. Did you see how tiny Evan was when he came out fully cooked? It's not like my twig frame lends itself to chunky babies (that is, until my breastmilk heavy cream comes in).

We thought all was well until I noticed the measurements on the screen seemed a bit small. Baby boy is now in the 22nd percentile with Baby girl squeaking in at the 11th. She's on the cusp of growth restriction (10th percentile) and not comfortingly far away from IUGR (5th percentile). IUGR is a nasty acronym in pregnant-ese that stands for Intra-Uterine Growth Restriction, aka We're going to take your baby now because your body and the placenta are failing at health. Better in than out, and that isn't something I'm ready to even think about. It's still 2011. And I've got (in my mind) quite a ways before I need to worry about all that.

We made Christmas cookies on Christmas Eve...for "Santa". Can you guess which three Robert decorated?

They also noted an echogenic intracardiac focus on Baby girl's heart. Woah. Wait right there. I was already worried about size and now there's this? Lovely. Although a lot of times, this bright spot on the papillary muscle of the heart doesn't mean much more than a fuss, it is considered a soft marker for Down Syndrome.

I didn't say much of anything after the appointment. I cried a bit on the ride on home and then went and took a nap. I then rounded out my emotional mess with copious amounts of vomiting. My friend Kelly came over and climbed onto the bed with me that afternoon and petted my hair. She brought me marshmallows and a tub of belly balm, and listened. Just listened. And that was exactly what I needed.

I didn't sleep much the next few days, and found that my morning sickness/stress induced vomiting had returned with a vengeance. Robert and I went out on a date to talk about things on Wednesday night. We reaffirmed our name choices, so baby A & B, as so labeled on ultrasounds, will forever be...well, A & B. It just so happens that is their initials. We talked about the what-ifs and all the other scary parent speak I didn't want to partake of, but knew I needed to. No matter what, these babies have our love.

The tricycle was a big hit. It was the first thing Evan ran to in the morning.

I found myself over the next few days boiling inside. I was exhausted. And stressed. I wasn't feeling well. The storm culminated to a peak on Christmas Eve, when I finally damn-near exploded throwing a stuffed animal and crying and throwing f-bombs like it was my job. It was nothing and everything all at once, and after my fit, I collapsed in bed. Robert pulled me close, even though I know that probably wasn't his first instinct.

I did all that I could the next few days; stayed on bed rest, tried to eat, tried to relax and tried to enjoy the holiday. I read a lot about all the medical speak that we'd been bombarded with, and waited until I saw my OB, Dr. O today (the 27th).

Evan was a pro at tearing up wrapping paper this year. It was so great to see the pure, unadulterated joy of a child opening surprises.

I hit my twenty-fifth week on Christmas day, but between the sickness and stress, I just wasn't up for pictures. I kept saying "maybe later" until the sun set and then stayed in pajamas all day Monday. Perhaps I'll feel up for pictures next week.

Evan did take a few breaks in between opening his four boxes. We had breakfast. And plenty of tricycle time.

Before my appointment with Dr. O this morning, I met a nutritionist that is housed in the same office as the MFM. I'd been referred to her, as part of the "multiples program", although I was told that maybe, sort of, I don't know, we're not sure if you qualify for the multiples program, even though you're a multiples mom and blahblahblah. Whatever. I was willing to have a sit-down and listen to advice about how to pack on the pounds.

Aaaaaaand, I was told to eat 2,025 calories a day. That would be LESS than what I'm eating now, and less than what any doctor has told me, and honestly, it was more about weight loss than gain. By week 28, the nutritionist was recommending I cut my calories to below 1800, and that was when I kind of tuned out and went to the "smile and nod" function.

She pointed out what I knew, though, that I'm grossly under the weight goals of where I should be. At 25 weeks, I should have gained anywhere from 34 to 47 pounds by now. I'm sitting at a meager 17 (wahoo! It still counts as weight gain even though I wore jeans and a sweater!). I don't understand how she thought limiting my calories would make the scale jump by double the amount it has risen, but hey, you can't say I didn't try another avenue of advice...very, very poor advice that I promptly shoved out of my head less than ten seconds later.

The biggest hit was the wooden pot, pan and spoon set we bought him. It was to accompany the wooden kitchen Robert's parents bought him that we only assembled tonight, despite it taking up real-estate in our dining room since the 23rd. Evan kept shouting "SPOON!" and "STIR!" and would clang everything together.

Dr. O was lovely and jolly as always. That woman has this deep laughter that sounds so bubbly and light, that you can't help but feel more relaxed just by being around her. Robert and I love my appointments and think the midwives really knew what they were talking about when they said Dr. O was just the type of doctor I needed.

There was some discrepancy in the report about my growth scan from the 20th. It was input that babies were even smaller than the percentiles I'd been told, and there wasn't a mention about a foci on A's heart.

There was a detailed transcription about blood-flow and heart valves that looked pristine and perfect, but not a word about the soft marker for Down Syndrome that had overwhelmed me for a week. Dr. O told me that it would all get sorted it when I have my next growth scan on the 10th, which is the same day I go back to see her as well. She told me I have nothing to worry about except growing my babies and loving them.

My brother, the "cool uncle" bought Evan the biggest, most obnoxious toy he could find. He wanted to surprise Evan a bit, so he did a hilarious wrapping job that encompassed three sides of the box and probably a quarter of a roll of duct tape.

I then did the ever-lovely glucose test today, something that last time was a world of fun. I downed my orange syrup in less than thirty seconds and waited for the sugar high...the sugar high that never came.
The sugar crash? Oh yes, it came hard and fast. I came home and slept for almost four hours.

I hate this toy so much. Really, I do. If it were up to me, it would have lived in the box back at the store. I was rail-roaded and the toddler roller coaster was unpacked and played with. As such, it's sitting unassembled in our garage where my husband normally parks his car.

So, I'm in limbo. Waiting. I'm waiting on everything, it seems.

Waiting on the results of that gestational diabetes test.

Waiting to know what percentiles the babies really are in, and whether A's heart is okay or if that was just a one-time fluke.

Waiting to make sure everything is going to be okay.

I'm just so tired, too tired to get riled up and fuss about it anymore. I'm not in the angry, emotional, out-of-control scary part anymore. I'm not in the scared and sad phase anymore. I'm just tired.

My mom hemmed and hawed whether to give me these onesies. She'd been holding on to them for quite a while, evidently. She's very superstitious about gifting babies things before they're born, but the cuteness outweighed any skepticism. These were ultimately my favorite gift of the day.

I'm glad though, so overwhelmingly grateful, that I'm not alone in all this. That although Robert may think I've got a screw loose thanks to the surge of pregnancy hormones, and Evan can't understand why mama's lap is rapidly disappearing, that they love me and want me here. That four-hundred times a day I'll get hugs and pats and kisses, and even when I cry my big ugly cry and give in to the stress, that I'm loved. And okay. And that I'm not alone.

I'm not alone. It's the five of us, this little family. Robert, me, Evan and A&B. We're all in this together.