Eight years ago today, I got two.
Halloween was on a Monday that year, and I was nearing the end of my second Clomid cycle. I'd felt different for most of the week before – an unrelenting pressure at the base of my pubic bone, a stiff tightness in the same area whenever I stretched, unquenchable thirst and insatiable hunger, and damn – did my boobs hurt.
Then there was the dream on Friday, three nights before the 31st. I dreamed that I'd taken a newfangled pregnancy test which not only revealed knockedupedness, but also revealed the gender of the baby – a pink squiggly line for a girl and a blue squiggly line for a boy. In the dream, I took the test and much to my surprise, there were two squiggles. One pink and one blue. The real me woke up just as the dream me felt her heart leap explosively through her chest. I sat up straight in bed, the rush of adrenaline and joy still racing through my veins. I gained my bearings and realized that I was only dreaming – my racing heart proved the reality of the adrenaline, but there was not yet anything concrete to justify the joy. Maybe some would have felt hugely disappointed to have been teased in such a manner, but for me, the dream left in its wake a feeling of unbridled hope. Not the flimsy, pleading type of hope I'd felt cycle after long cycle through the past 2.5 years, but pure, undiluted genuine hope. Screw being scared and not wanting to let hope get the better of me. I was aloft and I relished the feeling, and I uncharacteristically clung close to it instead of brushing it away.
Three days later on the afternoon of Halloween, I found myself drawn away from the candy aisle and over to the pharmacy section. I had planned to test in another five days, which would have been 14dpo. Why not go ahead and get the tests and have them waiting? I scanned the boxes, still feeling the surge of renewed hope. This was the first time in two years I felt excited about buying pregnancy tests. This time, I wasn't buying tests in some sorry, superstitious ploy get my long-missing period to start. This time, I had a solid chance. Instead of grumbling and reluctantly grabbing the first box within arm's reach like I usually did, this time I perused the tests carefully. There was a new test on the shelf – NOW TEST FOUR DAYS BEFORE YOUR PERIOD! – I grabbed the pink and white First Response Early Detection package (back then it was FRED, not FRER), quickly throwing the plan not to test early to the wind. I was just off by one day, so what could it hurt?
I checked out with nothing but a hundred dollars worth of candy and a box of pregnancy tests. I sped home with the memory of those two squiggly lines in my mind.
Candy – flung on the floor. Box o' FREDs – gripped in hand. Bathroom door – slammed. Britches – dropped. One test dipped and set aside on the edge of the tub. I read the testing directions again, studying them intently as if I hadn't read pregnancy test directions a million times before. Full processing time is five minutes, but check after 30 seconds to ensure the test is working properly. I observed the second hand of my watch and when I saw that about 45 seconds had passed since the dipping, I cast a nonchalant glance to the right to check for proper travelling of the pee. Yup, two lines there, so it's working properly. Now just to wait for another 4 minutes or so for the resu….TWO LINES? I did a double-take. Rubbed my eyes. Two – yes, there were TWO lines. The familar white space of no was occupied by a pink, solid yes.
I ran out of the bathroom (remembering to pull up my pants only after I nearly tripped myself) and showed Frank. He looked at it with a confused expression. Then he saw the smile and tears on my face and gripped me into a tight hug. "Does this mean what I think it does?" he asked. I nodded yes, and he squeezed me tighter.
Two weeks later, our first ultrasound revealed twins. The week twenty ultrasound revealed that we were, in fact, having girl/boy twins. "Your wildest dreams come true" never made more literal sense than it did on that day.
At 37 weeks, I dropped deuces. Kyra Alexander and Jaiden Khalil. Kyra Bell and Jaiden Bug. Ki-Ki and J-Rock. Kyra Pie and Buckethead. K2 and J2.
Then later came Jordan Malik Vincent and even later came Kaelyn Imani-Rebecca L'Faye (yes, that's really her whole name). Jordy-Boy and K-Bop. Monkeyboy and Babycakes. Jo-Jo and Pixie.
1-2-3-4 — and it all started eight years ago today.
In my last post, I mentioned how toilety I've been feeling and even likened my mood to a turd in mid-flush. Going along with the theme I started in Craptastic, if you didn't already know, "dropping a deuce" is actually a slang phrase for taking a dump. Pooping. Going number two. Dropping a deuce. Gross, right?
No, it's hilarious.
Deuces + K2 + J2 + TJ = el Cinco, and yesterday they were running
around the living room doing silly dances and singing a new silly, made-up song. Somehow they got a hold of the phrase "dropping a deuce" along with "bust a grumpy" (which means to fart). They think that anything which deals with digestive output is matter of hysterical nature. As they bounced around the living room chanting
Bust some grumpaaaaays, drop some deuceeeehhhhs,
Bust some grumpaaaaays, drop some deuceeeeehhhs,
I realized I didn't feel quite so crappy anymore. I couldn't.
Because they're the funniest little shits I've ever seen.