Reproduction

Prior to meeting Mike, reproducing was something I never really thought I would actually do. Afterall, I had very little childcare experience. There were no babies in my family so I had no baby-wrangling background and I only babysat a whopping 2 or 3 times in my life, because I never really liked childish, infantile behavior. In fact, I always considered myself far too self-involved to let a child come between me and myself.

Then came Mike. A really nice guy, loaded with common-sense and brains, who loves me to death, even though I'm a bit of a character with a serious shopping addiction. I started thinking I must have this man's children! He would make an amazing Dad and I have to have a hand in it (or at least a womb in it). I suddenly forgot all about my childcare shortcomings and threw myself head-first into becoming pregnant. Who knew it would take 3 years and be so damn difficult for us? Then, when it finally happened, I got a belly-full of twins! I remember putting my head between my legs when I heard the news, in a lame attempt to get some blood back up there. I always knew there was a good chance this would happen, but I was sure God would feel a little nervous giving me one child never mind two, so I was safe. (As for Mike, he was completely unphased by everything as usual).

Nine months later, I was having a c-section to yank those puppies out. You see, Max (better known as twin A) had crammed himself in a breach position at about 4 months old (fetus age, obviously) and never once moved the next 5 months. Apparently when twin A (the first twin) is breach, there's no room to turn him around because twin B (which stands for Ben) is using up the rest of the space. I was actually happy and relieved to be having a c-section. I never had to have labor pains, yet I was given immediate drugs. Also, because I was having twins, there were a boat load of nurses and interns to watch and help, which meant there were lots of people to talk to. This was important, because Mike had become somewhat comatose at this point and combined with his crying (he will only admit to misting) left me in need of some normal company. I spent the 20 minute procedure talking about the Nordstrom shoe sale I was missing to birth these kids, and how I would hold it over their heads for the rest of their lives.

During this procedure my Dad, (better known as the kindest, smartest man alive and a Jack LaLanne clone) was having major stomach upset. To this day, he swears it had nothing to do with the stress of knowing his baby girl was birthing his grandsons. On the otherhand, I'm pretty sure my mom was waiting with baited breath to finally see the snot-nosed, obnoxious kids she had always wished on me while I was being a bratty teen.

I was in the hospital for 4 days and did as little parenting as I could during that time. One day was my birthday. My mom brought me chocolate cake knowing I hate chocolate cake, but she loves it. This additionally sucked because I couldn't eat solid food until I farted, signaling to all concerned that my insides were working again after surgery. That cake sat for 3 days waiting for flatulence, which is mind-boggling if you had any idea how flatulent I truly am.

I learned to care for the kids quickly. Whenever they would both cry at once I would sing, "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow", from "Annie" to make myself giggle through the episode. Mike was sure that when the kids grew up and became serial killers, this song would be playing in their heads as they stabbed their victims. Meanwhile, our dog Kasey was having a ball eating the dried up stem of Ben's umbilical cord when it finally fell off (she thought it was just beef jerky for dogs).

Most importantly, I proved that I was once again correct. Mike was, and is the best Dad and was surely born to parent. As for me, I muddle through taking comfort in the knowledge that college funding can always apply to any future therapy the kids may need.