You've (not) Come a Long Way, Baby Weight

Several eons ago in internet time--last month, maybe--Facebook was filled with a happy little meme on the theme of "Let's End the Mommy Wars," with women holding various signs showing that they can be friends despite different parenting styles and achievements.

Being the sort of person I am, I can hardly let such harmony and goodwill go uncriticized. So I'd like to hone in on one of the pictures, the one where one mom is holding a sign that says, "I lost all my baby weight," and the other mom is holding a sign that says, "I'm still working on losing the baby weight."

In other words, guess what is still *not* an acceptable option in this love fest of moms who do and don't breastfeed, co-sleep and eat organic? That's right--it's not caring about the baby weight. You don't have to lose the baby weight, necessarily, but you have to *try.* If you cannot return your body to its mythical pre-baby state, you at the very least should have the decency to feel badly about it.

(And before someone starts droning on about the Serious Public Health Problem of Obesity, let me point out that the mom holding the "I'm still trying" sign is not, by the most extravagant stretch of the imagination, fat in any way that threatens her health or even would be noticeable to another human being. It's the scale and the idealization of the Pre-Baby Body that is driving her quest.)

In the interest of honesty, let me say that I am, by the official government numbers, overweight. I never lost the baby weight, and carrying twins full term packs on a good bit. I breastfed for a year, I eat a well-balanced diet of whole foods, and I exercise moderately but regularly because I like to. Doesn't make a difference. This is the weight I am (I'm not going to say a number because comparisons are exactly the thing I'm trying to get away from here) and, barring extravagant measures, this is where I'm going to stay.

Yes, I'm noticeably heavier than I was pre-children. I also don't melt down into a screaming lunatic at 5 p.m. if I haven't eaten. Or need to take a nap in the morning despite an uninterrupted night's sleep and working at a desk. In other words, I'm healthier and stronger. And heavier and bigger around. (Ironically, although it never bothered me much, I really did think I was on the chunky side back in those days, when any sane person could, and sometimes did, tell me I was borderline emaciated. My family runs to large bones and dense muscles and the BMI doesn't really apply.)

Increasing stoutness with middle age, and especially with child-bearing, is not, after all, anything new or tied to our evil modern lifestyle. It's the normal human condition, in settings with adequate food. There are always a few naturally slim folk who avoid it, but it is not especially virtuous or healthy to try to dodge it if you aren't one of those. (And I'm not going to call them lucky. They're not luckier, they're just different. There are tradeoffs to everything. As you get old--which I'm sure we all want to do, given the alternative--less fat just means more wrinkles.) 

If we really are seriously concerned about problematic obesity, then the *last* thing we should be doing is encouraging mothers to worry about how their body will look after the baby. Because restricting a mother's diet before the baby is born sets the child up for metabolic syndrome and truly serious weight problems.

It's good to encourage people to eat a healthy, well-balanced diet and to exercise regularly, because those things really are beneficial. But they won't necessarily make you thin, especially not if you've been through an event that may have reset your base weight, like pregnancy. It's important to be honest about that. As soon as thinness becomes the goal, people start being lured into diets and exercise programs that are not really healthy and not really sustainable.

Please don't tell me about how you have found the one common-sense dietary program that really works. In five years it will be discredited and you yourself will have forgotten about it. They always are. They all boil down to some combination of (1) not eating specific kinds of food; (2) not eating enough food; (3) not eating often enough; (4) following rules for eating so complicated that it's just too much trouble. All of those have problems in the long run.

And exercise is fine, but intense programs that lead to injury and then inactivity are not good for your long-term health. Better to do something moderate and unimpressive (but fun) that you can keep doing for the next 50 years.

Guess what? It probably won't make you thin. It will help you live longer and leave you free to laugh and enjoy the time you have and eat ice cream occasionally without making a big deal about it.

A new thing to be snooty over

Worse morning sickness is correlated with smarter children. Although it doesn't seem clear what it means if you're not as sick with one of the kids. Still, I should have a crew of geniuses on my hands here.

Bring It On

Labor-induction folklore is like hiccup remedies: the purpose is to keep you occupied and your friends amused until nature can take its course.

So far I'm still sticking to the versions that are fun. Walking (well, sort of). Fresh pineapple. Foot rubs. Etc. Some people apparently go for eggplant parmigiana, but others say it's the basil and oregano that are important, which is good because eggplant is a vegetable towards which I harbor a deep skepticism, no matter how thoroughly it is parmigianed.

The way I figure it, people must have gone into labor while doing almost everything except flying stealth bombers. One can therefore pretty much try anything to go into labor. Murphy's Law seems a good place to start:

Will removing the toilet from the main bathroom induce labor?
Taking DOB's spare jeans out of the hospital bag?
Having the house full of people?

So far, no luck with those. We considered trying attending a distant event, but it was too much trouble.

I also theorize that watching suspenseful movies should help. However, so far Alfred Hitchcock has done nothing for me.

Now it comes down to whatever I want to do, or whatever anyone else is trying to talk me into doing. Hey, maybe killing spiders induces labor! Cooking supper! Bopping DOB!

You never know.

Waiting Some More

You know how it is to drive down a long country road with directions that say, "Go on for several miles until you see the gray barn opposite the gas station," and somehow that gray barn seems like it's never going to materialize? Yet when you drive back home the trip back to the freeway only takes a few minutes.

Or how long it is from when you have the last touches ready for company and the company hasn't shown up yet and every time the phone rings you're convinced it will be them saying they can't make it after all? (When you're not ready, of course, they show up ten minutes early.)

I'm starting to feel like a freak of nature. (Not in appearance, necessarily. Even yet no one jumps to suggest I am having twins.) Every time someone sees me it's the same routine: "You haven't had those babies yet?" (What WAS your first clue?) "I've never heard of anyone going that long with twins!" Perhaps I should charge admission: "Step right up to see QOC and her uterus of steel!"

That and I get a lot of sympathy as to how miserable I must be. When in fact, I feel better than I have the entire pregnancy. Whether it's pre-labor hormones, better weather, or a more consistent exercise routine, I've had more energy the past few weeks than since last October. Plus I think I'm getting used to balancing. The only thing that is really uncomfortable is the occasional nerve-pinching in the legs, which is making those helpful long, brisk walks nearly impossible.

No doubt I really am uncomfortable, but I've rather gotten used to it. I'm sure I'll fully realize it later, like the peasant taking his livestock back out of his hut.

While we are waiting, Wondergirl has started on repainting the living room and we are making food for the Fourth of July. We are not planning on going anywhere. My mother stayed home from Fourth of July festivities the year my sister was due, and she wasn't born until the 13th. We did have a calf born that day, whom we named Uncle Sam, and then renamed Aunt Samantha when we were able to get close enough for a thorough inspection.

I have every classic sign of labor being imminent, but things just haven't started yet.

Another Try

My doula suggested that visiting the zoo was a good way to jump start labor. Not only did you have all the walking around, but the animal hormones in the air seemed to encourage things. With 39 weeks closing in and the babies edging closer to 8 lbs apiece (!) I am ready to try almost anything. But not castor oil. Not yet.

We were too cheap and tired to do a full zoo visit, so we went to see the farm animals at a county park. I had pineapple and raspberry leaf tea for breakfast. I walked around the animal pens, inhaling deeply (it smelled more like manure than hormones to me, but you never know).

Then, for good measure, we took care of some much-needed shopping: a booster seat for D1, a pair of "Uncle Steve" shoes (knock-off Crocs) for D2, whose feet have grown too wide to fit in the lovely leather sandals I picked up for him at a yard sale last summer. Then groceries and fabric store, to get fabric to try this. For two babies. Somehow.

Every time we passed a small baby, I pointed out to D3 and D4 how blissful existence in the outer world was. Unless the small baby wasn't looking too blissful, in which case I moved quickly on.

Now my feet hurt. DOB is passed out on the couch.

Still no labor. Does it really have to be the zoo?

D1 and D2 certainly had a good time, though.

Impatience

Yesterday I returned from a long waddle. (Three blocks out and back. That's a long way when every step hurts.) The ducklings were blowing bubbles with Wondergirl in the front yard. D2 came running to greet me and asked, "Can I hug the babies?"

"Yes," I said, "Hug the babies and tell them they can come out now."

"Oh!" he said, "Are they coming out now?"

"No. Believe me, if they were coming out, I would be making very strange noises."

"I want them to come out so they can hold my fingers. Will they come out when we go inside?"

"Probably not."

Nor did they.

A few other words of wisdom from the ducklings:

"Firemen put out fires and cowboys put out cows."

"Cowboys ride on cows to catch horses, but I don't know what cowgirls ride."

Waiting

Every once in awhile, at this stage, I feel a need to post just to say: Still here. Still in one piece. Still waiting.

We are also waiting to see if the ducklings are going to come down with the chicken pox. (Two weeks ago, Cicero had an outbreak of shingles right after babysitting them.) It would certainly be better to get that over with before the babies arrive. This situation has precedent, as DOB and his siblings began erupting just as their mother went into labor with B5.

One of the carseat covers is clean. The other does not seem to detach from the seat. That has got to be the stupidest idea ever--a non-washable infant car seat?--or else we are all just missing something obvious.

I have crossed the point of true desperation--where labor sounds like more fun than still being pregnant. Wondergirl sent ahead some matching outfits for coming home, both in newborn (5-8 lb.) and 0-3 m. sizes. If I snip the tags off the newborn size clothes and wash them right away the babies will wait until 41 weeks and be 8.5 lbs each.

The weather has cooled off enough to permit long walks and Wondergirl arrives tomorrow afternoon. Some people say fresh pineapple helps--it couldn't hurt to try.

The Guessing Game

After what happened last time, I'm a little nervous about posting this. But I refuse to be superstitious.

So, it is time to guess when D3 and D4 will arrive and how large they will be. Winner gets . . . can we award the same titles we used last time? If not, you'll have to be content with bragging rights.

Enter guesses as to: The date of their joint arrival, the time between their individual births, and each one's individual weight. If you really want to play outsmart the ultrasound technician and guess a different gender combination than we have been told, that's up to you.

Pertinent Facts:
Official due date is July 8.
Although twins proverbially come early, that's just an average and accounts for the larger number of people with complications. I haven't had any complications or any signs of labor so far.
I've never gone overdue.
I currently have no backup plan for induction or c-section. My doctor is committed to letting nature take its course, assuming there's no signs of trouble. I'm going to start taking long wobbles as soon as Wondergirl arrives on the 17th, though.
The twins have been measuring right on target for single babies of the same gestational age, with the advantage of an ounce or two going to the boy at last check. Ultrasound weights are notoriously sketchy, though.

Gestating

I want to have some profound and witty things to say here, but the usually relentless flood of profundity and wit flowing from my brain (at least I THINK that's how it was) has trickled down to two thoughts:

Ow. Ow. Ow.

I am so tired, and I have done nothing all day.

Now, I know the latter one is not entirely true. Growing babies is not nothing. The trouble is, at this stage it is completely indistinguishable from doing nothing. Eat, sleep, trip down the hall, repeat. (Interrupt to settle squabble, change overdue diaper, and scrounge another meal.)

The degree of boredom in a job does not necessarily indicate its importance. Not unlike pregnancy, many very important jobs are 95% boredom and 5% terror. That does not diminish the boringness of the boredom. If only my brain didn't go on vacation with my body, I could be writing the Great American Novel between checking my feet for signs of swelling (not so far, but they look like they're thinking about it). But (as is evident), I can't even come up with material for a coherent blog post.

As the danger of pre-term labor begins to fade, one naturally progresses to the next concern of pregnancy: These babies are never going to come out. It does not matter that over 6 billion people are walking around the planet as proof that babies do eventually come out, every 8-months pregnant woman firmly believes that hers will prove the exception.

I've been reading a science fiction series in which technology is available--but not always used--to incubate babies in artificial replica wombs. The idea gets more appealing all the time. But can you imagine the societal consequences? It would put all other mommy wars to shame.

Lurching

I was once pulled over for drunk driving on my way home from work, though I had drunk nothing more potent than filtered water all day. The steering on my car was going out and even my most sober efforts could not keep it from drifting from side to side. Fortunately the officer was persuaded by a brief conversation of the true problem, and I got off with no more than a warning to get that steering fixed soon. I never had to get out and walk the line.

Since I'm not driving at all right now, I hope I will not have to walk a straight line, because I'm sure I could not do it. My walk is more of a lurch, drifting from side to side rather like the car with broken steering, scattering small children in my wake. (And woe betide any small child who has left small, invisible toys on the floor in front of me.)

In C.S. Lewis's space trilogy he compares reentering planetary gravity to being pregnant, only faster. I haven't reentered planetary gravity, but I do have the advantage on him in pregnancy, and I'm sure it's quite different. More gravity makes everything heavy at once; pregnancy is concentrated in one place. It's like wearing a securely attached but poorly balanced backpack on the front. I was surprised one day, when wearing the backpack we use for a diaper bag, to realize that I felt balanced for the first time in months. It was almost tempting to start wearing it around all the time, except it would make it hard to lie down.

This is NOT funny

33 weeks, 4 days.

Taking Pictures

We went in for an ultrasound today. All these ultrasounds are quite strange for me; we had none with D1 and only one early on to date D2. (And I still didn't believe the doctor's date. But apparently they were right.) With twins they like to do them every few weeks to make sure everyone's growing reasonably well.

The ultrasound technician at this office is less personable than the one at the old office. This is good. The other technician was always pointing out every body part to me as she measured it, in an expectant way, as if I was to coo over it. "There's the femur." "There's the kidneys." Now, I'm as daffy over newborns as any hormonally-crazed female, but I just can't work myself up into a tizzy over ultrasound images of femurs. Even faces aren't too charming on ultrasound, looking as oddly sliced-through as they do. About the only thing that's cute on an ultrasound is fingers and toes.

Twin measurement ultrasounds take forever. Well, half an hour, which is forever when you have thirty-five extra pounds sitting on your spine and have to lie back. They should invent an ultrasound table where you can lie on your stomach with a hole cut out for your belly and they run it from underneath.

Everyone is growing well, and Baby A is definitely a girl, and she has her head down. Baby B does not, but the doctor thinks he's in a good place to move around when Baby A gets out of the way. They each weigh about five pounds. That's getting to be a lot of baby. Of course, I was ten pounds when I was born, but that was two weeks past my due date.

The Way Things Are

I'm really doing pretty well for the shape I'm in. Here I am at 31 weeks, still on my feet (if not for very long!), no sign of pre-term labor, no swelling, blood pressure low, babies kicking like crazy. The doctor thought at least one was head down and both seem to be in a more vertical posture, so they're moving in the right direction. We'll get a better idea at the ultrasound in two weeks.

But I feel lazy. Oh so lazy. Even when I'm not actually tired (which is seldom) I have no desire to get up and do anything. Quite novel for me, since I'm usually itching with restlessness. Thank you very much to everyone for the book suggestions--I have a slew of them on hold, and when I pick those up I'll reserve a slew more. Some of you guessed a little too well and suggested authors I've read many times (most notably Austen and Sayers), but that only confirms your excellent taste!

As far as help, we are already getting a fair amount of help. DOB's sister has been staying with us at least three nights a week all year (she goes to school nearby and works at his office). She catches us up on the dishes and does other things. The rest of his family, and especially Aunt Bettie, come over at various times and help out. Grandma and Grandpa take D1 and D2 Monday evenings through Wednesday morning so I can rest and go to doctor's appointments on Tuesday. Other friends stop by and help, too.

I feel like an Oscar winner thanking the supporting people. But really, we couldn't do this alone.

Wondergirl is coming out in June to stay into August, and DOB's sister, not having school, will be around more much of that time as well. It will make a huge difference to have someone around all the time during the first few months. Being able to breastfeed the babies without any supplements is very important to us, since DOB's family has such a history of allergies, and I've heard that may require nothing but sitting still and having people hand me food and water for the first month or so. After that, we'll see what we still need. No doubt things will stay crazy for quite awhile.

I'm actually a little disappointed that I don't get comments about how huge my belly is. Maybe it's just that I don't get out much. Or maybe it's my long torso; I really don't think I have nearly the discomfort most twin mothers do at this stage. The babies can't even reach my rib cage to kick it. Although this build will plague her all her life in buying jeans, if D1 inherits the twin tendency she will someday thank me for passing it on.

Birthing Positions

It was almost a relief when the first doctor said she didn't even want me to try to give birth normally to twins. D1's birth was long and exhausting; D2's birth was short and terrifying. The thought of having a set day, of turning it all over to the doctor, of being relieved of the burden of exercising and rehearsing for a natural delivery, sounded like a blessing in my state of anemic mid-pregnancy exhaustion.

The longer the thought of it brooded in the back of my mind, though, the longer it nagged at me that these were not good reasons. At least not for me. Sure, there are small risks associated with attempting a vaginal birth after a c-section, and those are slightly increased with twins; but then, there are risks (including potentially fatal ones) associated with having a c-section, and they increase each time. The only risk that a scheduled c-section seemed certain to avoid was the risk of having another unscheduled c-section--but scheduling surgery in order to avoid surgery doesn't make a lot of sense.

Truthfully, I simply wanted to dodge responsibility. I was tired; I am tired. Giving birth is a lot of work. I didn't want to fight the doctor or find a new one; I didn't want to deal with the uncertainties of when and how and whether everything would work out. I wanted to just know. And not have to worry about it.

Of course I should have known better. I knew full well that recovering from a c-section is more painful and exhausting than giving birth--only instead of being over when the baby is born, it goes on and on while you should be enjoying the baby. I knew that in life there are no guarantees, no such thing as freedom from risk. But when a doctor is sitting there telling you she'll handle all the risks, it's hard to say no.

Maybe it was the iron pills, but I finally realized that I couldn't just sit back. This is my body and these are my babies and I have to do the best job I can to take care of them: barring a clear indication of genuine complications (not just risk factors), that means trusting my body and theirs to work as God designed them. That means embracing the work it will take to prepare them and me.

At the same time I have to let go of wanting to control the outcome. Nothing could free me from the uncertainty of birth. For all our search for security and guarantees, the doorway to life always comes through the valley of the shadow of death. I was reminded of something a mother of many children told me once, that with every new pregnancy we must pray the prayer of Mary: "Behold, the handmaiden of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word." Letting go, giving up control, becoming open: that's what the process of birth is. And it is only the beginning.

So I am doing what I can: we switched to a doctor who actively supports natural birth, we're hiring a doula who's attended twin and VBAC births, I'm doing those exercises. I still don't expect a fairy-tale natural birthing story. I'm still quite concerned that the babies will never move out of their sideways position into one in which a normal birth is even possible. And I still don't like waiting and wondering when and how. But I'm happy to be trying, and I'm trusting that God knows when and how these babies should be born.

Three More Days

No, I'm not planning to go into labor this weekend. (At least I sure hope not. I've felt rather weird all day, but I think it's just . . . feeling weird.) If all goes well, I should have eight more weeks of whining about hip pain and trying to find clothes that fit.

But I just tallied up how many days I actually have to prepare for the babies' arrival. I don't have the energy or brain functionality to do any moving boxes, organizing or planning on days when the ducklings are here. Either dinner or diapers would have to go. Nor do I have much energy left on days when I have a doctor's appointment.

So, there are only left the days every other week when the ducklings are visiting Grandma and I don't have a doctor's appointment. Between now and when I automatically go to weekly visits, that leaves three days.

Three days just doesn't seem like enough time to get ready for anything, let alone handling two newborns. Still on the list to do:

• Find all the baby-type gear and clothes in the attic and have it accessible (having anything accessible in our attic is a miracle).
  
• Pack a hospital bag.
• Acquire places for the babies to sleep and ride in the car.
• Write down everything I do around the house and a simplified rotating menu plan so that our very kind and generous helpers are not asking me questions all the time. (Something I find far more fatiguing than doing the work myself.)
  
• Set up things with a doula, talk to La Leche League about feeding two at a time, exercise and prepare for the birth (and convince these babies to get their heads down).
• And, of course, take it easy, drink lots of water, eat lots of protein, and not stress so as not to be going into labor anytime soon.
  

I wish I had eight weeks for preparation and three days for feeling pregnant.

Concerning Clothing

The clothing situation was getting desperate, so I betook myself to the thrift store. I am not willing to pay full price for clothes to be worn for two months of lying about the house. But it was getting to the point of buying more clothes or wrapping myself in a sheet for most of the week, and we're short on sheets, too.

Unfortunately, there is a dearth of second-hand maternity clothes above size medium. (And since the tent-like maternity clothes of yesteryear have gone out of style, if your stomach grows beyond medium-sized you are forced into larger sizes whether or not the rest of you has grown apace.)

Why is this? Surely women larger than size medium get pregnant and, eventually, get done being pregnant. What do they do with their clothes? Even at the mothers of twins sales there were only three t-shirts in size large, and two of those were pink. (I think I need counseling on my aversion to pink, it's going beyond a fashion statement to a personal vendetta.)

I did manage to find a couple of pairs of jeans that will still fit, and one cute shirt. Unfortunately, one of the pairs of jeans had--shudder--zippers at the bottoms of the legs. I thought that style had been safely buried in the 80s, but either it is coming back or someone really waited a long time to clean out her closet. Considerations of the style aside, though, what kind of sense is there in making zip-leg jeans for women who can't reach their shoelaces? That pair is destined to become cut-offs.

Everybody likes to moan about the miseries of summer pregnancies, but I have finished all my pregnancies in the warmer months and much prefer it that way. (I'm miserable in hot weather even when I'm not pregnant, so that doesn't make any difference.) I've never needed a maternity coat. I can wear sandals or go barefoot every day. (Barefoot and pregnant is not about male oppression, it's about blood flow. And swelling.) And it's so much easier to keep a newborn healthy and comfy and away from people with evil germs in the summer than in the winter--plus, fewer clothes means less laundry.

Pancakes

Today we went to the license bureau to get our new license plates. On the way out, I caught a whiff of the pancake house a couple storefronts down.

Naturally, even though I had just eaten three poached eggs on toast for breakfast, this set me off into pancake craving. Pancakes are not something we usually have, because we lack a griddle and it just seems like too much trouble. But this time I could not deny; I went home and mixed up a double batch of blender pancakes and a pan of brown sugar syrup.

I ate half of it. All by myself. Two hours after breakfast.

It wasn't that hard (the cooking--or the eating, for that matter). I wondered why I didn't fix this for breakfast more often. Then I remembered: oh yeah, I just ate half the pancakes. All by myself. There are at least three other people who need breakfast, too. But the blender won't hold more batter.

We seem to be outgrowing all standard kitchen equipment. I should know what bigger families do, but I can't seem to get my head around what we should do. It seems to me all the big families I know have taller kitchen helpers, which makes multiple batches or multiple dishes more doable. (That, and I don't know any little kids who eat as much as the ducklings.) I'm not sure what to do until my assistants top four feet. Buy an industrial-sized blender?

The good news is, I'm not that hungry for lunch, so there should be enough to go around. And we've got some nice leftover pancakes for snacks.

Everything You Didn't Want to Know

People ask me what it's like being pregnant with twins. It's like being pregnant with one, only three months farther along. So right now I feel about two weeks overdue: everything hurts, I can't find a comfortable position, I get contractions if I stay on my feet for ten minutes, all my cute maternity clothes are too small and only the tents are left. And I still have two and a half months to go. And I don't even have any complications!

All I have to do to reconcile myself to the discomfort of my current position is to go read a few stories of babies born at 28 weeks. It's wonderful what they can do these days in the NICU, but I want my babies with me, thank you very much. So they are welcome to stay in another ten weeks, even if they must tango on my bladder.

The consoling factor on hugeness is that the ducklings still refer to me as "little Mama." I suppose they think this is the logical reciprocal since I call them my little people. Sort of an all-purpose term of endearment. No doubt if we had an elephant it would be their little elephant.

The other difference with twins is that not only am I paranoid about whether I've felt the baby move lately, I'm paranoid about whether I've felt both of them move. Which is hard to know since I'm not quite sure which one is where. Sometimes they kick each other instead of me, which feels odd.

We have acquired the minivan (a Honda Odyssey, the choice of rapidly-growing families everywhere). We have acquired the double jogging stroller, and discovered we have nowhere to store it except in the living room. Making room for the babies is going to require divesting ourselves of some furniture. No matter what everyone says, I refuse to stock up on swings and bouncy seats. I don't like them, I don't trust them, and I don't want one more thing to trip over.

Still on the list to acquire are a co-sleeper (whereby I hope I can keep both babies within arm's length at night) and the monster twin nursing pillow. Still on the list to do is rearrange our bedroom to make space for these things. Also I must decide if I want to stick with the doctors' practice I have or switch to one with a better track record in handling twin VBACs naturally.

Then there's the whole eating and sleeping thing, which takes up pretty much all of my available time. I miss my brain most of all, though. I left the salt and soda out of the biscuits for supper. Not pretty.

Whoot! Whoot!

I passed my 3-hour glucose test, so I can continue eating sugar with reckless abandon. Actually I haven't even liked anything sweet this entire pregnancy, except fruits; I keep trying to eat dessert and finding it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Still, it's better not to have to mess with more stuff to do.

Also, we love the taste of fajitas but they are very messy to serve and eat, and it's almost impossible to find tortillas that don't contain soy. Today I cooked a big pot of rice, dumped the fajita filling on top of that, and everyone was happy and nobody made a mess. Everyone was really after the guacamole, though.

And it was a gloriously sunny day and we spent two and a half hours outside, me basking and reading and the ducklings getting nice and muddy and trying their bikes out again. Nothing will persuade them to use the pedals, though. The hassle of even a trip to the back yard is beginning to distress me, though--how will I manage it when I have to add two babies into the mix, and someone needs to go potty? Aiee!

Power to the (Pregnant) People

This post by Amy had some comments that I could relate to:

When I was single and living on my own, I was a fairly ambitious person. I used to want to live in D.C. and work in government or public policy. One of the young women in this book reminded me of that old Amy.

It just so happened that, on the day I was reading about her life, my life was SOOO stay-at-home-momish. It was one of those days where I felt like I had been doing laundry non-stop for three days. What happened to that young woman I used to be, so full of life and energy?

I know that feeling, all too well. I used to be good at things. I used to have grand ideas. I used to be ready to change the world! I used to have unique and valuable skills. Nowadays, I can't even get the dishes washed. (I can hardly even reach the faucet.)

However, I was also re-reading A History of the American People while waiting to be poked all morning. (Fortunately no one else was in the waiting room for long, so I turned the TV off.) It struck me again, with more force this time, that the key to successful new grand ventures is not the bright and energetic visionaries who get them started. Nor is it how many young, strong men (or, in these more egalitarian times, independent, energetic women) you have around to carry out your plans.

No, what a new colony or novel idea needs to make it a success is a bunch of pregnant mamas waddling around, trying to get supper on the table. That's where permanent colonies come from; that's where lasting social change sets in. Somewhere in the middle of all those diaper changes, a new world is born.

In the book A Lantern in her Hand, an elderly pioneer woman attends the "old settlers" picnic.

And then it was time for the speech of the day. The young county attorney made it, from the airy heights of the band stand, at his side a glass of water on Abbie Deal's marble-topped table.

It was a good speech. It flapped its wings and soared over the oaks and elms, and eventually came home to roost with: "You . . . you were the intrepid people! You, my friends, were the sturdy ones. Your days have been magnificent poems of labor. Your years have been as heroic stories as the sagas. Your lives have been dauntless, courageous, sweeping epics."

"'Sweeping' is the word, Sarah!" Abbie said when the applause had faded away into the grove. "I wish I had a dollar for every broom I've worn out."

Sarah Lutz's little black eyes twinkled.

"How about it, Abbie, do you feel like a poem?"

"No, Sarah, I was always too busy filling up the youngsters and getting the patches on the overalls to notice that I was part of an epic."