It’s becoming exceedingly difficult to write as of late. I’m in my 33rd week of this twin pregnancy and with my ginormous belly measuring 45 weeks, even reaching the keyboard has become quite the feat. I’ve also acquired strange looking hobbit feet and cannot for the life of me figure out how Bilbo Baggins was so stealthy on his when mine are making me feel about as graceful as a Sasquatch, with a belly big enough that I can’t even see my own crazy-big feet.
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I spent years dreaming of the perfect proposal. My favorite consisted of me walking through the hauntingly beautiful woods with my soon-to-be fiancé – he, leading me down a pathway of candles (you don’t worry about fire hazards when your planning your dream proposal) and I, walking gracefully with a look of wonder and anticipation… with my hair billowing behind me. He would stop me at the end of the path, reach into the opening of a hollowed tree, out of which he would produce a small box, open it, kneel and well, you can probably guess the rest.
It didn’t end up happening that way. Not even close.
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In that little cottage, I had two little ones and was expecting my third. My grandmother had become ill and required assistance. With no one else in a position to take her in, we decided to invite her to stay with us. We partitioned off a section of our living room to be her “bedroom” and we tried stop the children from using Grandma’s oxygen hose as a skipping rope (especially while it was attached to her nose).
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I’m having twins, so my midwives have referred me to an OB. I’ve been dreading my first appointment with him, and I’m not disappointed. He reads my history. “Eight children at home, the oldest is only eleven years old, five past miscarriages, and twins on the way. I have to ask the question… contraception?”
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