Twenty-Eight Weeks

First, I'd like to start by thanking Taryn and her husband, Chad for hooking Hal and me up with a much needed date night to see Ben Folds last Thursday, who I love always and forever. Chad not only snagged us seats in a standing crowd, but AMAZING seats, down below, so we could see and rock and sway and sing along and in my case, cry... (Chad plays in the band and kills it on drums, guitar and tambo.) Because, it just so happened that Thursday was Mr. Folds' son's birthday: the first born of his twins. He spoke about his babes, how they were actually born on separate days, his son born first and then his daughter, just after midnight. Hal and I had discussed that weeks ago - how crazy it would be to have twins with different birthdays, birth months, years...

His children were at the show, he said. And then he played the songs he wrote for them:

And he cried as he sang and I cried as I sat and I'm pretty sure Hal cried, too, even though he tries to deny it because he's so incredibly tough.

Because, HELLO! It was a sign! Because twin birth story/serenades aren't the usual concert fare. Because there are people like Taryn out there who are awesome and generous and go out of their way to offer pregnant grumps like me a night on the town. Because the last time I went to see Ben Folds play the Wiltern I was pregnant with Fable and WHERE HAS THE TIME GONE!?? Because twins. Everywhere we go, it's all about twins. So thank you, Taryn for your awesome. And thank you, Chad for making us feel all cool and VIP like. I have the coolest readers ever of all time.

As you may know by now, every few weeks Babycenter hooks it up with a "peek inside your pregnant belly" shot of twins in utero and lucky for you, TODAY is the day! Behold, a twenty-eight week cartoon replica of my anatomy! One of these days I'm going to get one of these images screen-printed onto a t-shirt. Very chic.

And can I just say, THANK you, Babycenter for labeling Baby A's "eye" because I was like, what is that thing on her face? And now I know.

Meanwhile, I think I solved the puzzle as to why people are so nice to pregnant women. There is nothing less threatening than a woman with four feet of mass attached to the front of her body. Especially one who hobbles, hunched over to keep from cramping.

It's kind of amazing how fast the sidewalk parts these days. I think everyone expects I will go into labor right there on the curb so there's this, like, "uh, uh, uh... what do I do?" dance people do. Awkward smile meets freaked-out speed walk. At first, it made me feel uncomfortable but now I think it's kind of funny, especially when I stand spread-eagle over strange women's designer shoes...

Remember that scene in Sex and the City when Miranda's water breaks on Carrie's new sandals? Pregnant women are like hot potatoes no one wants to have anywhere NEAR them when the music stops. Ahem.

The babies are... bigger this week. I have no idea HOW much bigger but I'm pretty sure they gained two pounds this week as I have gained my usual weekly-four. At this rate, I'll have put on a healthy ninety pounds by the time this pregnancy is over, to which everyone always responds, "but there are two babies in there!"

Totally. Which means I'll only have about 78 pounds to lose, come October.

This week I grew out of half my Maxi dresses because my belly is sticking out at such an incredibly impressive angle that even size large Jersey dresses cannot handle the force that is my nature. Hence what I wore yesterday. Which looks insane, but will likely be the only thing left in my closet I can wear for the next TEN WEEKS OMG:

It's supposed to be a "house dress" aka "pajamas" but I've decided to wear it as a proper tunic-y thing and stop caring. Which is incredibly liberating, let me just tell you. I've been caught at least a dozen times in the last three days picking my nose in public. Because, eh, whatever. Bodily functions are a pregnant girl's best friend. I'm like the dog your husband blames his farts on, and the thing is? I'm totally cool with it.

Now that you're completely grossed out (and/or inclined to pick your nose), here's some really good news (if you're me): I think I found a way to cure my acid reflux! After months of trying 78979231 different homeopathic methods (including apple cider vinegar which made me puke!) I decided, the other night, to eat half a watermelon while watching House Hunters International and GUESS WHAT! Cured. Seriously. I have now done the exact same thing three nights in a row and I kid you not, NO REFLUX. I haven't slept this well since I was able to sleep on my stomach. It's a Christmas miracle is what it is. A Christmas miracle in July. (ED: It HAS to be House Hunters International. House Hunters domestic just makes reflux worse.)

So being that I actually got some sleep this week, I've been in much brighter spirits! Of course, that doesn't mean I can't get in an argument with a bike cop at a gas station, after being pulled over for DRIVING WITH MY CELL PHONE IN MY LAP, which I now know you can get a ticket for. Especially while stopped at the La Brea/Beverly intersection, which is where bike cops hang out and stare at people's laps through non-tinted windows.

One hundred and seventy dollar fine? Of course I was pissed! Of course I raised my voice because, "I WASN'T EVEN TALKING ON MY PHONE, BIKECOP."

Which apparently is NOT what bike cops like to be called. Bike cops prefer not to be reminded that they're on bikes. Bike cops are in denial about being BIKE COPS.

But you know what's worse than being a bike cop? Being pulled over by a bike cop! They don't even have sirens! They're wearing helmets and shorts! And Oakleys! I'd rather get pulled over by a Segway cop! Or a rollerblade cop! (Do those exist? Probably not.)

Anyway... I'd like to end this post on a high note, because this really was a red letter week, traffic violations and questionable fashion statements aside...

So.

Back to Ben Folds. So we're at the show and we're listening to Ben Folds' twins' birth story, huddled together with our hands on my belly in the darkness, strobe lights illuminating our tiny teardrops like tiny diamonds of nostalgic blissful woe and all of a sudden, who should appear on the stage for an impromtu cover of Snoop's "Bitches Aint Shit"?

BOB SAGET, you guys! As in Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen's television dad! As in, twinny-twin-twinsy-twins-a-rama-twintastica! Twins!

Well. It certainly seemed serendipitous at the time. And these days I'll take what I can get.

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twenty-seven weeks

twenty-six weeks

twenty-five weeks

twenty-four weeks

twenty-three weeks

twenty-two weeks

twenty-one weeks

twenty weeks

nineteen weeks

eighteen weeks

seventeen weeks

sixteen weeks

fifteen weeks

fourteen weeks

thirteen weeks

twelve weeks

eleven weeks

ten weeks

nine weeks

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GGC