It’s been over a month-and-a-half since I’ve written. That’s pregnancy, I guess.
I used the last few weeks of my energetic second trimester to finish writing, producing, and acting in a web series, while also working here and there as a personal assistant to for two different people and trying to maintain my fitness and sleep.
THEN CAME THE THIRD TRIMESTER. I died. My energy was gone, much like it had been during the first trimester. My attitude was back to bad. My entire body hurt. But I still had stuff to do. I still had another web series to act in. I still had work I had already scheduled for my personal assistant gigs. And the babies are so close. I’m 33 weeks pregnant with twins! I have friends who had twins at 27 weeks! Gotta pack my hospital bag! Make sure the doula and the breast pump and the gear is all lined up! Sometime, it might be nice to get a list of names together that don’t make us retch! I better curate a “Giving Birth” playlist and write down my labor and delivery wish list! And I still haven’t researched hypnobirthing or baby sign language or best sleep practices for twins! But there are days, like yesterday, when I can do nothing but lie on the couch.
Luckily, the third trimester is not a complete repeat of the first. Though I’m back to feeling mostly awful, the one thing I do have is some perspective by now. Not full perspective, mind you, but enough to know that this is a damn hard job I’m doing, and therefore I must go easy on myself. Unlike during the first trimester, it is very clear on the outside that I am not like everybody else, so I don’t have to fight myself when I need to put off everything on my to-do list for another day…or another week. It will all happen when it’s meant to happen.
My new husband and I have accidentally taken very stereotypical roles in preparing for these babies. It’s sickening, biology.
For him, he can’t stop working. It’s all he does. He is trying to save as much money as possible, imagining all these scenarios in which the babies come and suddenly we have no money at all. I have come to take issue with this compulsion of his a few times, like this week. He’s refereed 16 hockey games in the past three days, even though the past two nights he’s come in with chills and a fever he refuses to diagnose by thermometer. He also refuses to get someone to cover for him because “we need the money.” So while I conjure up all these nightmare scenarios in my head of him in a hospital room, I do all I can to take care of him–making him a nutritious breakfast, making sure he drinks an Emergen-C and lots of water–and I try not to worry.
Meanwhile, my estrogen-filled self is compelled to clean everything we own, to get rid of everything unnecessary, and to organize what’s left to “make room” for these rockers and strollers and onesies and bassinets. I spent three hours organizing the pantry and the cabinet under the kitchen sink. I’ve taken three car trips to Salvation Army so far. I took down the curtains and even took the throw pillows out of their cases to wash. I borrowed a caulk gun from a neighbor and re-caulked the whole bathroom. I washed and waxed my car, even scrubbed the upholstery and brought in a Q-tip for all the cracks. And that’s only the beginning of my nesting to-do list.
At least it feels satisfyingly reassuring when I see my handiwork. Maybe that’s how Kai feels when he deposits his checks, even with trembling hands and a fever.