Craving Ink and Paper

You know how some women have weird pregnancy cravings like pickles and ice cream? Yeah,  that's never been me. Sure, I want to eat stuff that I can't access in this corner of mid-America (I would kill for a bowl of mie ayam), and I was more than a little upset when I went to the fridge the other day and discovered that the remains of the peanut butter cookie dough had disappeared, but that's just because certain things are common sense. Just like you "don't ever touch a black man's radio", you don't ever steal a pregnant woman's dessert options. And yes, night before last I may or may not have threatened to stab Littles with a fork if he touched my food again, but on the whole, I think I've been fairly normal about what I'm eating. I don't have an odd desire to go eat laundry soap or chalk or anything like that.

However, I am having deep and intense book cravings. I think I mentioned earlier that I've regressed to my thirteen year old self this pregnancy and reread a bunch of fantasy and young adult fiction (last night was the second half of the Prydain Chronicles), but there are a few books right now that I would beg, borrow, or steal if they were anywhere in my line of sight. Let me be more specific, I have had an unearthly and very deep need to reread the Enchanted Forest Chronicles by Patricia C. Wrede and an unwholesome fever in my bones to get my hands on Rick Riordan's Mark of Athena.

And let me just say right now, if you live anywhere within a fifty mile radius of me and have any of those books and do not read this blog and immediately drive to my home, book in hand, to lend them to me: you. are. dead. to. me. And I refuse to tell you what the twins' genders are until everyone else already knows and I may possibly withhold baby pictures after they are born.

I'm just being honest.

And I'm aware that none of these books are high literature. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Did you know I could once read and carry on reasonably intelligent conversation about James Joyce and his ilk? No more. Pregnancy brain has sapped me of brain cells and all I want now is pure entertainment and escapism. Especially if I'm capable of concentrating on the plot line while the boys build pillow forts and drive trains up and down my back (which feels incredible, by the way).

Also, if next week, any of these books arrive via post, the gold will have been officially separated from the dross. KIDDING. Mostly?

Just letting you guys know I'm still alive, and of unsound mind and rapidly expanding body.

Catch Up (not Ketchup or Kecap, but some of it is Manis)

I have not been purposefully avoiding the blog. It's just that since the Man got home, we have been going full throttle. This is what happens when two type-A personalities marry, find out they are having twins, have less than twenty four hours to process together (and then three weeks to process apart), and know that they only have a few weeks to get everything squared away: they hit the ground running. 

The first week he was back I found and bought the bunk beds. The Man dutifully used his huge muscles to pick them up and bring them home. Incidentally, there will be a lot of references to the Man's dutiful use of his muscles in this post. Prepare yourself. I also did twenty gazillion loads of pre-deployment training laundry. And started cooking real food again. Don't act so shocked.

That week we also had change of command at the squadron, I spoke at a VBS about growing up in Indonesia, and I had my twelve week check up. Did you know that they do ultrasounds at every check up with twins? I learn something new every day. Also, the nurse practitioner gets nervous when you're pregnant with twins and actually lose a pound between your 9 week and your 12 week. I blame Tiny. He likes to steal my food. And being his mom burns a lot of calories.

The first weekend we went minivan shopping. If we had been smart, we would've left the kids with someone, but we had tricked ourself into thinking we weren't really going minivan shopping, we were just doing some quick pricing, but it quickly turned into an all day long extravaganza of excitement. Yes, we play mind games with ourselves about the whole minivan thing. Thankfully, one of the dealerships had a parrot, one had a playroom, and the other had balloons (which is enough for a one year old). Littles had a great time exploring his future as a photographer and got this awesome shot of my flying pony tail reflected in the show car:

I am waiting to include a picture of the new minivan when I can pose on the hood, fully pregnant, with huge eighties hair, channelling the best of the car models. Possibly with an electric guitar. Don't kill my dream.

Then last week, Littles broke his brace so we had a quickie trip to OKC and back. I availed myself of the Chic fil-A in Lawton coming AND going and did not feel a smidge of remorse. It is times like that when I really do believe that twinancy is awesome. Why pick between the grilled chicken burger and the orignal? Have both! Yes, I can have my cake and eat it too, thank you. Anyway, the exceptional photographer in the family took this picture of me while we waited to get his brace fixed. The rest of the time I was sleeping off the two hour drive while he and Tiny showed off their dance moves as I dutifully sang Matt Redman's 10,000 Reasons over and over again. Yes, I sleep and sing at the same time. Don't you? PS That's Tiny's head in the bottom left corner, not my huge and really hairy knee.

Then we had a marvelous four day weekend that we put to good use: setting up the new bunk beds in what used to be the guest room, buying another mattress, buying more pillows and bedding sets, cleaning out the garage, moving the guest bed to the nursery, rearranging the closets, buying a new dresser, staining and sealing the new dresser, moving said dresser into the room and filling it with lots of little boys' clothes... And yes, you guessed it, when I say "we" I mean, the Man's rippling muscles and my moral support. Seriously, he doesn't let me do anything. Which means that we filled in all the little bits of time when we weren't working by getting in fights because I am hormonal and feel useless and I'm not so good at the useless bit. He was very understanding and took me to see buffaloes and eat massive hamburgers on Sunday to make up for all the trauma his thoughtfulness had put me through.

Here's the new dresser, complete with some "sport's stuff" per Littles' request. My favourite thing about the dresser: I have Tiny's diapers and wipes in it, and when I'm changing his poopy diapers, I can smell the fresh wood and varnish instead of the sewage that I'm cleaning up. Don't tell me if this is bad for the twins. I really don't want to know.

At any rate, this week has been full of fun stuff as well (the less details for you the better), but I will tell you that I diligently filed everything that has been loading up on our desk for the last four months. I hate filing and put it off as long as humanly possible and was only motivated to deal with it because in an attempt to make room for the twins, we had to move the desk into our room. Surprisingly, it only took me an hour and a half, and that was with multiple interruptions from my children who moved every single couch pillow into our bedroom. There have been multiple pillow forts lately. Also, I moved all of my nonmaternity clothes (and a couple of the maternity clothes that I've already grown out of) into our spider infested garage. Just wait until I spring that 20 week picture on you guys. You are going to flip.

But I have to say, the biggest accomplishment of our week was this:

For the first time in three and a half years, there's no one sleeping in the nursery. Tiny made it in his big boy bed all night last night. Sure, the blinds took a beating, and the Man and I had to do an hour's worth of hard core laying down the law (which is appropriate, since the Man is a cop), but we survived. We'll see how tomorrow night goes. But (cue Mariah Carey), Tiny will always be my baby.

At any rate, I'm sure you can understand now why there has been a little bit of a lull in these parts. When we get a break these days, I am using it wisely (by which I mean, sleeping, eating, or doing mindless Internet surfing). And really the only reason I made it to the blog today is that the Man has the car and the boys and I are "having a quiet day at home" which means doing a big fat load of nothing. I am pregnant, and I support that message. But I'm hopeful that now that the major stuff is done, we can chill out a bit and let things return to semi-normal.

Whatever that is...

In Which Mouse Crisp Occurs

Yesterday I broiled a mouse. Or baked him. It could quite possibly have been more of a slow roast. I'm not sure. It was accidental.

I swear it was accidental.

Although if I had found His Mousiness still alive and kicking in my broiler drawer, I'm not quite sure what I would've done. Screamed bloody murder and called in the snipers? Or just screamed bloody murder and called in the neighbors.

As it was, I screamed bloody murder when his well toasted tail snapped off in my paper-toweled hand as I tried to remove his dead carcass from my previously rodent free home.

Incidentally, when your somewhat relatively even tempered mommy screams bloody murder and you are only one and a half, you may start to sob uncontrollably and be sent to your room, hence missing the rest of the completely thrilling de-mousing of the oven. This could cause latent trauma.

At any rate, I will never get over the grossness. But I treasure this in my heart: I took care of it myself. It's the small victories, people.

With that said, I am now wondering if I should wash every single dish in my kitchen and get rid of any and all food that could have possibly been anywhere in the vicinity of said mouse, not to mention the fact that I spent a good hour last night wondering if there was an entire mouse army coming to avenge the death of their fallen brother by shoving me into the oven and leaving me there to slowly burn to a crisp. Don't ever accuse me of not taking things seriously.

Incidentally, the Redwall books, anything by Beatrix Potter, and Stuart Little are all dead to me. And no, I will not give a mouse a cookie. But I did concede defeat and lovingly read Tiny's Big Adventure to the boys tonight, seeing as Littles has recovered from whatever emotional scarring he incurred and is now fascinated by the fact that there was a mouse in our home.

And the moral of the story is the next time a mouse decides to entertain himself by scouting out my kitchen, he'd better hope his name is Shadrach, Meshach, or Abednego, because that sucker is going to be thrown into the fiery furnace. 

Strength and Weakness

I want to be intrepid. Unshakeable. Capable. Self-sufficient. Impregnable (which is a joke in and of itself). Indomitable.

I want to be strong.

Over and over again the last few weeks, though, I have learned that my battle cry is not that. It is, instead, "Weakness, weakness, weakness." I must proclaim this repeatedly. I must learn to revel in it, reminding myself that when I am weak, His strength shines through.

Recently, I've thought often of Moses, weakened, tired, sending out Joshua to fight the battle, while he sat on the mountain and literally had him arms propped up by Aaron and Hur, so that he could do the only thing he was capable of doing: pray. I am Moses in this scenario. I have nothing to offer to this situation or any other except my utter dependence on God for the victory.

You are the ones holding my arms. You are the ones fighting the battle. You are the acquaintance showing up on my doorstep to take my temperature and look at my rash. You are the friend staying with the boys so I could go to the ER. You are the ones praying while I am there--and rejoicing with me when it turns out to be just a virus and a funky rash (not something weird like shingles). You are the ones sleepless and just being there for me. You are Aaron and Hur. You are Joshua.

And I feel like a broken a broken record, and I'm sure you are all sick of hearing this, but I am daily astounded by the grace that is being poured out over our family as I have completely crashed and burned and lost any ability to pull my own weight (much less that of the two boys or the twins).

I have nothing left to say but thank you. And then continue to boast in my weakness and His strength.

Oh, Harry

I'm considering writing an entire post completely filled with Harry Potter references, but I don't know how many of you would then come to the stunning (and belated) observation that I'm a complete nerd and stop being friends with me. That would be okay. I'd still have Harry. And possibly my own twins that I'm now considering naming Fred and George (or Padma and Parvati, depending on the gender).

Anyway, in the spirit of geekishness, let's just do it.

I'm thinking of hiring Professor Slughorn to follow me around and transform into a cushy armchair whenever I want to sit down.

These excess hormones leave me with cry days where I'm giving Moaning Myrtle a run for her money. I should take up residence in a bathroom. This would help with other things too.

I've decided that Trig-dog could very well be the Grim, in that he's going to be the death of me.

If I was on Mrs Weasley's clock, my hand would vacillate between sleeping, eating, and pretending to parent. There are no other necessary options. Unless being pregnant with twins counts as mortal peril.

There are wrackspurts in my brain at all times.

And I think that's more than enough for tonight. Don't judge me. I get insomnia when the Man is gone and do things like obsessively rereading favourite books and rewatching favourite movies, and this week it's been Harry Potter. Besides, I've got to start the twins early, right?

Twinancy Blurbs

• One of the great things about everyone knowing I'm pregnant with twins is that they can now stop pretending that I'm not showing already. When I know that I look like I just swallowed a baby armadillo, it's eye rolling-ly funny to hear, "You're not showing at all!" I'm just saying: please tell me I don't look like this all the time.
• Maternity swim suits suck. The end.
• Doing twin research while actually pregnant with twins is a bad idea. If there is even the remotest possibility that you could ever end up with twins, do the research before you get pregnant. Otherwise, you will end up a sobbing bucket of irrational fears. "It's not a pretty picture--I don't like doing it!"(Name that quote!)
• I am working on my mooching skills. Some days this goes better than others. Today, I had a friend tell me that I need to take better advantage of being the Man's wife. As in, "Do you not know who I am? You'd better help me, or I'll make sure you are given ten thousand tickets!" And that is the advantage of marrying Security Forces, people. If only I could learn how to throw some of my soon-to-be-expansive weight around.
• Unlike previous pregnancies, I have been craving Indonesian food like there's no tomorrow. Naturally, this happens now that we live no where near an Indonesian restaurant. Thankfully, my mom sent me a care package with some IndoMie in it, and then today I busted out the nasi goreng (fried rice) spice packets. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of looking at the ingredients list. Never do that with foods you love. MSGed!!! (And name that quote.)
• Never underestimate the power of a clean kitchen floor. A friend of mine took Littles for the afternoon, and since I was one kid down, I finally decided to tackle the mopping. You couldn't see the bottom of the sink by the time I was done, the water was so gross. But now, I feel happier and healthier, and am considering making the boys eat outside for the next six and a half months so that I never have to mop again. That wouldn't be crazy, would it?
• There are guardian angels whose sole purpose is to track down the run away dogs of twin-pregnant women with toddlers. Twice in one week, Trig-dog? Do we need to talk about the possibility of turning you into a rug again? Do we?
• Somehow, vacuuming has turned into an extreme sport that requires pee breaks, hydration, and sitting down with my feet up. Someone explain this to me.
• Other kids fall through the cracks. Just being honest. I showed up at the playground this morning around 930 and looked down at Tiny only to realize last night's diaper, which had not yet been changed, was starting to sag down through the bottom of his pajama shorts, which he was still wearing.
• I eat chocolate these days like I'm recovering from a Dementor attack. And sometimes cake for breakfast. Don't judge. I'm trying to give the twins a good start in life.
• This version of pregnancy brain is killing me, Smalls. I can't even put together coherent thoughts. Case in point: this blog!
• I am now officially a one upper. "You're pregnant! Oh, wow! Me too!" Pause for effect. "And my husband's deployed." Pause again. "And it's twins." Privately think: eat that, sucker!!! (This is a joke--just clarifying.) But seriously, how did this happen? Don't answer that.

Help and Home

The first question you get asked when you tell people your husband is deploying is, "Are you going home?" My response has always been no, for multiple reasons, all of them halfway decent (stability for the boys, wanting to stay with our military community who understand deployment, no room in the inn...).

Of course, when people found out I was pregnant, they asked again, thinking the answer might have changed.

And then again, when we discovered I was pregnant with twins.

One day they will learn that I am mule-stubborn and hate changing my plans even more than I hate eating eggs.

The truth is that I know if I wanted to move to Tennessee or Virginia or Pennsylvania (or Indonesia!) for the duration of this deployment, the Man would support me and our families would find a place for us. I know the boys would have a wonderful time. And I know I would find at least a few people who understand deployments or at the very least would be willing to listen. I love our family, and our family loves us.

And there are definitely days when it would be nice to plop down on my mom's couch or my mother-in-law's or my sister's or my aunt's and say, "Pregnancy sucks; feed me everything in the house and then go mop my floors for me." Really, that's only acceptable with family. They have to love you even when you're rude, demanding, and lazy. Which is pretty much the whole nine months of pregnancy for me.

But I have never doubted my choice to stay put, and I'm not sure it has anything to do with the three reasons I usually tell people. The reality is, this is my home. Not the small town we're currently living in, but the military community that we are a part of. I learn that over and over again.

I learn it when I am invited to dinner two nights in a row by two different families.

I learn it through emails and phone calls, just checking in.

I learn it from a bag of hand me down clothes for Littles and an invitation to go to the pool with an extra set of hands.

I learn it when a neighbor and his son come by to feed the cat and pick up dog poop.

I learn it from another mom taking Tiny to the play room at church so I can listen to the sermon.

I learn it from a clean box of kitty litter--not changed by me.

I learn it from a chocolate cake baked to help celebrate the Man's birthday, even when he's not here.

I learn it when friends gang up on me to make sure I ask for help and when they just start doing things when I haven't had the courage to ask.

Over and over again, I learn that this is home. I learn that this is home because we are not even a week in and I already have lost the capacity to say thank you enough. I am a broken record of gratitude, and this is good. In my brokenness, I am allowing others to bless, and I hope that's the blessing that they need right now in their lives too. And perhaps, like Mary, if I treasure up all these things in my heart, one day, I will be able to bless them back too.

In the meantime, all I can say, again and again, is thank you. For loving me. For loving my boys. For loving my husband. And for loving in a tangible, real way. You are Christ to me. You are home.