So now the dynamic duo are full term (36 weeks for twins). And getting heavy. My body has reached truly grotesque proportions: if you imagine one baby curled up at my front, you get the impression there is a six-month-old child in there. Whenever I'm out (yes, I'm still walking), I get stares wherever I go. People look at me as though they are wondering what I'm doing out in public. I must be the most obviously pregnant woman they have ever seen. I am increasingly wondering what obese people do to get through small spaces. My friends remind me that fat is more flexible than a 47cm taut uterus.
I spent 2 hours yesterday strapped to a chair for a Non Stress Test so that they could monitor the babies' heartbeats. B was co-operative (he/she is the Zen one) and A, as usual, was kickboxing in utero, rendering impossible any proper tracking of his/her development. I'm supposed to do this test every week before they arrive, so I guess I won't have more than one more of them, but damn it's a tedious thing to be doing at this point. It's funny: the nurse gives you a little gameshow-type-buzzer for you to press when you feel fetal movement. My finger was pushing that thing the entire time. The irony is they ask for you to eat so the babies are active during the test, but A was too active and refused to settle down! This does not bode well for his/her life outside the womb.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
My babies look like babies...
and not miniature alien senior citizens! Week 28 ultrasound this week and I got to see facial features and, finally, a little bit of fat on their formerly long skinny limbs. It's all starting to feel more real, and certainly more imminent. I can't believe I still have about 10 weeks to go, though. Every store I go into, the clerk says Bientot? (Soon?) and rather than answer dishonestly I have to tell them how much longer it will really be and they gape in disbelief. I can essentially see the cogs turning in their heads as they imagine my belly inflating to an even larger size than it is now, as though I'm a character in a bad Saturday Night Live skit.
Well at least the seats are being offered up quickly on the bus now. I really look forward to finishing work this week and not having to take the bus anymore, because it depresses me to have a seat and see elderly people with canes get on board and nobody offers them a seat. I feel like I'm always offering a seat to an old lady (who never accepts) or am being offered a seat by an old lady (and I don't accept). And who gets treated like chopped liver on the bus? Single moms with strollers. Nobody offers them a seat, ever. Nor does anyone spare them a look of absolute scorn. Oh the things to look forward to about being a mom.
Well at least the seats are being offered up quickly on the bus now. I really look forward to finishing work this week and not having to take the bus anymore, because it depresses me to have a seat and see elderly people with canes get on board and nobody offers them a seat. I feel like I'm always offering a seat to an old lady (who never accepts) or am being offered a seat by an old lady (and I don't accept). And who gets treated like chopped liver on the bus? Single moms with strollers. Nobody offers them a seat, ever. Nor does anyone spare them a look of absolute scorn. Oh the things to look forward to about being a mom.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Comment t’appelles-tu? (What is your name?)
About six years ago, when I first lived in Montreal, I had to fill out a form for a travel visa. The form was in French, the attendant was in French, and my French was rather rusty, having lived in English Canada for the entirety of my life up until that point. Still, forms are not exactly unpredictable, so I was able to fill most of it out. I saw a question I wasn’t able to translate. I pointed to the question and asked the attendant, “C’est comme ‘marital status’?”
She nodded yes. I couldn’t believe it had never occurred to me to find out the expression for “single” in French. So I asked her.
“Celibataire,” she said.
That didn’t sound quite right to me. After a brief and confusing discussion she said, “Just write single!”
This year, when I registered at the hospital for my pregnancy and birth, I had to fill out a form with my personal information, including the father’s relationship to me. Despite the fact that this province has the lowest marriage rate and the only legal swingers clubs in the country, the hospital’s computer system wasn’t exactly accommodating “alternative” relationships. The woman at the registration desk gave me my options: Mari (Husband), Ex-mari, Conjoint (Common-law spouse/live-in partner), or Ex-conjoint.
Until then the fact that my obstetrician’s hospital is called St. Mary’s hadn’t really meant anything to me. “Is there no space simply for ‘Father of baby,’ or ‘Friend’?” I asked. S and I have known each other for a decade and are close but we have never been so involved as to live together, nor do we have any immediate plans to do so. How about “Noncommittal lover but committed father-to-be?” I thought.
“What do people who don’t have a husband, partner, or ex do?”
“Usually they leave the father space blank altogether,” the woman remarked, as though the year were 1957, not 2007.
Well that wasn’t happening. So I went for “Ex-conjoint” and left it at that.
“So your marital status is…” the woman eyed me critically over her glasses.
“Celibataire,” I said.
It had sounded strange before, but now I was going to be “une maman celibataire.” It sounded about as logical in my own language as “virgin birth,” but many people have managed to accept that concept. Ironically, it is those same people who set up the hospital registration system that excludes our family from the realm of accepted possibilities.
Ah well, I never was good at fitting my life into a template on paper. I like the thought of my kids starting out life similarly undefined.
She nodded yes. I couldn’t believe it had never occurred to me to find out the expression for “single” in French. So I asked her.
“Celibataire,” she said.
That didn’t sound quite right to me. After a brief and confusing discussion she said, “Just write single!”
This year, when I registered at the hospital for my pregnancy and birth, I had to fill out a form with my personal information, including the father’s relationship to me. Despite the fact that this province has the lowest marriage rate and the only legal swingers clubs in the country, the hospital’s computer system wasn’t exactly accommodating “alternative” relationships. The woman at the registration desk gave me my options: Mari (Husband), Ex-mari, Conjoint (Common-law spouse/live-in partner), or Ex-conjoint.
Until then the fact that my obstetrician’s hospital is called St. Mary’s hadn’t really meant anything to me. “Is there no space simply for ‘Father of baby,’ or ‘Friend’?” I asked. S and I have known each other for a decade and are close but we have never been so involved as to live together, nor do we have any immediate plans to do so. How about “Noncommittal lover but committed father-to-be?” I thought.
“What do people who don’t have a husband, partner, or ex do?”
“Usually they leave the father space blank altogether,” the woman remarked, as though the year were 1957, not 2007.
Well that wasn’t happening. So I went for “Ex-conjoint” and left it at that.
“So your marital status is…” the woman eyed me critically over her glasses.
“Celibataire,” I said.
It had sounded strange before, but now I was going to be “une maman celibataire.” It sounded about as logical in my own language as “virgin birth,” but many people have managed to accept that concept. Ironically, it is those same people who set up the hospital registration system that excludes our family from the realm of accepted possibilities.
Ah well, I never was good at fitting my life into a template on paper. I like the thought of my kids starting out life similarly undefined.
Double Entendre
Nineteen weeks into my pregnancy, as I lay on the table for my first ultrasound, I told the technician I didn’t want to know the sex of the baby. She reminded me of the more significant reasons for this test and said, “First we want to make sure the baby is healthy.” My heart nearly stopped when she looked at the monitor with concern and said, “I have to tell you something.
“There are two babies in there.”
This revelation was both exhilarating and terrifying. Firstly, I was relieved that there was nothing wrong with the baby – er… babies. And twins? Who would not find the idea of two babies at once a little exciting? But I had just come to terms with the thought of having one baby, my first. On the way to the ultrasound I was joking with a friend about getting a t-shirt for the baby that said 100% unplanned goodness. Now I’d need a second t-shirt that said Totally frikkin’ random or Holy crap!, or maybe even the French-Canadian f-word Tabarnac! (It literally means “tabernacle” – most of the curse words here come from Quebec’s disenchantment with its Catholic history.) Logistics had had nothing to do with my pregnancy; I still hadn’t worked out exactly how it was all going to add up, although I did have a handy list of bookmarks in my web browser and numbers of baby equipment stores, government agencies, and doulas I knew I needed to call.
The twin factor would force me to contend with this stuff in a whole new way.
S., the father, wasn’t at the ultrasound because work had taken him out of town for the week, and rescheduling would have meant no ultrasound for a few more weeks. It would be up to me to drop this bomb on him when he got back. The last time we’d had sex, he had looked up at my belly and said, “We’re lucky this isn’t how twins are made.” How would I break this news to him? Obsessively logical, he was already more concerned than I was with the “business” side of having a baby. I decided I should look into things to get some answers for when I gave him the news.
My ovaries must have sensed my relocation to Quebec, because my move coincided with getting pregnant, and Quebec has the best pregnancy and childcare policies in Canada. My pregnancy books talked about asking for a “sibling discount” at daycare; but in Quebec, where government-subsidized daycare is just $7 a day, I couldn’t really complain about having that raised to $14. I would need to sign up soon, though, since space is obviously in high demand. We also have maternity, paternity, and shared parental benefits here, meaning I am entitled to up to 50 weeks off at between 70% and 75% of my salary. Would I get more benefits for having two babies at once? No: special bonuses are reserved for supertwins – triplets, quads, and so on. Still, I felt that of all the places in the world to find out I was having twins, I had landed in a pretty good spot. And twins wouldn’t literally cost me double – at least, not for the first few years.
After that initial flood of concern on the ultrasound table, then, giddiness was not long settling in. It’s hard not to feel special hearing that the odds of your pregnancy are one in one hundred. It’s not exactly lottery proportions, though now I might be tempted to play – I could use the money after all – but still, it’s as close to a feeling of being blessed that a secular woman like me is likely going to get.
“There are two babies in there.”
This revelation was both exhilarating and terrifying. Firstly, I was relieved that there was nothing wrong with the baby – er… babies. And twins? Who would not find the idea of two babies at once a little exciting? But I had just come to terms with the thought of having one baby, my first. On the way to the ultrasound I was joking with a friend about getting a t-shirt for the baby that said 100% unplanned goodness. Now I’d need a second t-shirt that said Totally frikkin’ random or Holy crap!, or maybe even the French-Canadian f-word Tabarnac! (It literally means “tabernacle” – most of the curse words here come from Quebec’s disenchantment with its Catholic history.) Logistics had had nothing to do with my pregnancy; I still hadn’t worked out exactly how it was all going to add up, although I did have a handy list of bookmarks in my web browser and numbers of baby equipment stores, government agencies, and doulas I knew I needed to call.
The twin factor would force me to contend with this stuff in a whole new way.
S., the father, wasn’t at the ultrasound because work had taken him out of town for the week, and rescheduling would have meant no ultrasound for a few more weeks. It would be up to me to drop this bomb on him when he got back. The last time we’d had sex, he had looked up at my belly and said, “We’re lucky this isn’t how twins are made.” How would I break this news to him? Obsessively logical, he was already more concerned than I was with the “business” side of having a baby. I decided I should look into things to get some answers for when I gave him the news.
My ovaries must have sensed my relocation to Quebec, because my move coincided with getting pregnant, and Quebec has the best pregnancy and childcare policies in Canada. My pregnancy books talked about asking for a “sibling discount” at daycare; but in Quebec, where government-subsidized daycare is just $7 a day, I couldn’t really complain about having that raised to $14. I would need to sign up soon, though, since space is obviously in high demand. We also have maternity, paternity, and shared parental benefits here, meaning I am entitled to up to 50 weeks off at between 70% and 75% of my salary. Would I get more benefits for having two babies at once? No: special bonuses are reserved for supertwins – triplets, quads, and so on. Still, I felt that of all the places in the world to find out I was having twins, I had landed in a pretty good spot. And twins wouldn’t literally cost me double – at least, not for the first few years.
After that initial flood of concern on the ultrasound table, then, giddiness was not long settling in. It’s hard not to feel special hearing that the odds of your pregnancy are one in one hundred. It’s not exactly lottery proportions, though now I might be tempted to play – I could use the money after all – but still, it’s as close to a feeling of being blessed that a secular woman like me is likely going to get.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)