Posts Tagged ‘lesbian moms’

Five months old, one more month as a baby baby. *sigh*

January 11, 2010

You are five months old today, and you are both impossibly beautiful.

Snort, you are a chatty, happy little boy. You’ve recently discovered the pleasures of yelling to express frustration, but mainly you laugh, laugh, laugh. You like big, weird surprises….in the middle of a nice song, if I yell BOOM you are transported to new levels of joy.You like sitting on my lap, being walked around, and obviously can’t wait till you don’t have to depend on us (as much) to move around. You have mastered the skill of taking off your enemy, the scratch mitt.

Thumb sucking Coconut, you always look like you are about to burst from a pure joy in being alive. You wake up with smiles and kicks, you beam in response to anyone looking at you. You are learning the yell as well, but you also like to talk to Snort….who likes smiling at you. You are great at standing up on my lap, which is surprising and scary and wonderful. You love it when I blow raspberries on your naked tummy, and so do I.

I’m not sure how five months passed; I know it entailed a lot of sore boobs, bottle washing, poop that smells buttery, tears, and tiredness. Somehow it is easier to think about how Coconut’s face crinkles up when I kiss her neck. How Snort curls up against me after burps (sitting up, always sitting up) and softly snores.

What have I learned in these five months? Quite a lot. I can get a baby on me in wrap or ring sling in about five seconds flat, in multiple positions. In fact, I can get two babies on me without too much thought. I know how many minutes it takes to sterilize a bottle. I know how to change a diaper in about twelve seconds.

But did I ever imagine what it would be like to look at these two little people and be so proud of who they are? And so amazed that they came from me, and we are raising this boy and this girl, who have been their own people from day one. I am in love love love, and I never stop being thankful for the great blessings in my life.

I’ve got one more month with you both as baby babies, no solid food, no crawling, no talking. I am going to hold you tight this next month, but I am also going to rejoice every time I see your other Mum holding you, or the times I see you holding each other.

(On Twitter, I just said, ‘I want to smother my babies with love until they are so dependent they’ll eventually need to stuff my corpse and keep it in their hotel attic.’ But that wasn’t totally true. I don’t necessarily want you to go into business together as hotel owners.)

Lesbian bicontinental mummies.

December 16, 2009

What’s on my mind tonight? Immigration.

When we set foot on the soil of Country A this weekend, a lot is at stake. A ‘normal’ family would just pick the ‘citizens’ or ‘foreign nationals’ line and line up together. Fill in one form.

Us? I am a citizen of Country A and Country B, as are the babies. TMD is only a citizen of Country B, as Country A is a giant big fat redneck ho-down of ignorance in terms of gay rights. Country A can actually refuse her entry into its hallowed fields of grain, etc etc as she is legally married to little ol’ me. (With a legality that is erased and unrecognised by the unbelievable arrogance of the federal laws of Country A.)

Before we had children, we would separate at the immigration lines without being coupley at all. We went through our independent lines. I was never questioned about anything regarding relationships, though I faced a fair number of questions like this: Why don’t you want to live in our great country? What is wrong with it? Why would you choose to live somewhere else? I’ve had my bags ripped apart, I’ve been shamelessly flirted with by male customs and immigration men, I have been questioned and had my answers recorded into their giant database thing.

TMD has had the odd question as well. Coming here for Christmas – what, aren’t your family mad about that? You’ve been in this country a lot recently….why is that? Do you have a boyfriend here?

I have felt belittled and angry about having to be closeted at all. I have no shame about myself, my wife, and our family. But I’ve kept my mouth shut because, well, sometimes that is easier, particularly when the people you are talking to have guns and shiny badges.

With children, things get a lot more complicated. For me, I’ll be asked to prove that I have the right to be taking them abroad on my own – I suspect this will be a bigger issue on the return trip home rather than going into that country, but still. The issue is there. I’ll be asked who I’m travelling with, as I’m actually not able to fly alone with two four month old babies.  We both have full parental responsibility for Snort and Coconut, which makes things even messier. TMD and I do not want to lie. But we don’t want to overshare, either.

I was supposed to be in a wheelchair in both airports, but have decided I will probably try to walk in Country A. This means I can go alone through the citizens immigration line with the babies and TMD can go through the foreign nationals line. Hopefully no one will want to fuck around with me too much, as I will have two babies and a giant ass twin stroller (we need it for the car seats!).

We shouldn’t have to have conversations about whether we should split up or go through as a family. We shouldn’t know that to go through as a family is inviting questions at best, TMD being detained or deported at worst. We shouldn’t be planning all of the documents we will need – including TMD getting a letter stating that she has a full time job over here and is due back at work on 5 January.

TMD shouldn’t be crying because she is scared that somehow, the unthinkable will happen and she will have to spend Christmas alone. (Incidentally, we would fly back with her…assuming they would make provision to find the babies and me seats…but why would they, if they were already fine with not recognizing us as a family?)

I shouldn’t be angry about the fact that only a few years from now, the babies won’t be babies any more and we’re going to have some tough discussions about why immigration is so different here in our home as compared to Country A.

While I know it’s very unlikely either of us will be questioned that much, and that there is no way they could stop her entering – we have a life in this country, a mortgage, full time jobs, she’s clearly not looking to make an illegal and lifelong move to The Country That Time Forgot – it’s still upsetting and scary. I won’t get my wheelchair, true, but what’s a million times more important is that we are going to be treated as less than a fully human family.

So fuck you, Country A.

It all goes back to your mother.

December 2, 2009

Turns out Freud was right: you can blame everything on your mother.

Last night I was in the bathroom and called out to TMD. ‘Can you come in here and look at something?’

‘Is it your poop?’ she asked, a tired note in her voice.

‘Nope.’ I stood up, turned around, bent over.

‘Your piles?’

‘No. Look.’  I pointed to the backs of my knees. Sure enough – red patches, itchiness, hard skin.  ‘I’ve got fucking eczema.’

I stood up again.  We looked at each other. Her eyes widened.

‘Of course you’ve got fucking eczema! You’ve never had to work a day in your life before the babies came. And now you are washing your hands fifty times a day.’

(It’s true. In between my fingers have gone bright red, extremely itchy, and leathery dry.)

Like a detective, I stepped closer to her and almost got into a two woman huddle.  ‘You’re right. And how fucking itchy my legs have been?  I’ve been taking a bath like every night, and you aren’t supposed to use hot water or soak in long baths with eczema.’  I said, then  turned to run the bath water. Eczema or not, my ass is having my nightly escape from parenthood with hot water and a good read.

‘You remember the “alligator skin” you sometimes get on either side of your nose? Eczema.’  She ticked things off with on her fingers.  ‘And the clown lips you got as a child? Eczema. Fucking hell, Existere.’

I nodded slowly.  ‘And the bumps I got all over my ankles during and after pregnancy? And – oh my god – THAT FUCKING RED SCALY BEARD THING I got in the first trimester?’

We paused, then said together, ‘Eczema.’

For about a week now I’ve been half seriously considering contacting the clinic and saying, ‘I think you should know that one of your sperm donors is creating very itchy babies, and you might want to warn people about this shit.’  TMD now pointed out that she was considering calling the clinic to apologize to the lady who got pregnant with my egg, as I was apparently the cause of the itchy baby shit going around town.

Wow, right?

I’ve never ever had dry skin. I am an oily motherfucker. But it is true, a few times in childhood the sides of my lips got red and thickened and sort of extended my lips, making me look like Jack Nicholson as The Joker. And I do get alligator skin on my face regularly. It just never occured to me that it was eczema.


Sorry, Snort my boy. (At least with family history perhaps he’s not allergic to shit. I slathered his face and neck in cream constantly – literally constantly – yesterday, and it is looking better. Today I’m not going to put a vest on him, just keep him in his romper babygrow thing, so I can keep unsnapping and coating his chest and tummy as well.)

And, for the record? I tried cream #4 on the backs of my knees, in between my fingers, and in a certain other crack where I developed bad dry skin during the final trimester of pregnancy, and that shit STINGS. Bad. Hardcore. I guess he got his aversion to quality skin care treatments from me as well.

I’m growing up.

November 18, 2009

Allow me my tiny moments, my tear filled eyes, my swollen heart. As I hold one, look into eyes, giggle at a goofy smile – and the other at my feet, full of sounds and kicks and laughter. I bitched throughout pregnancy. People came here to leave me comments, and more than one person emailed to thank me for not looking at things through rose-coloured glasses.

I, too, rolled my eyes at all the women who were trying to get pregnant – as we cheered each other on, they did it with blinkie signature files and I did it with telling people how my wife stuck pessaries up my vadge. As I tumbled through pregnancy, I wrote about not being able to walk, about throwing up in the bathtub, and, yes, about the tiny sweet kicks that rapidly turned into thunderous wrestling matches in my stomach.

I told the truth then, unvarnished, so you can trust that I tell it now.

Motherhood is so sweet that sometimes I am filled up, up, up with adoration for my children, for myself, for my wife. I sing to them and am amazed to feel wetness trickling down my cheeks. We hold whispered conversations, we are a daytime team of three, we can conquer the world.

Sometimes I am so tired I can barely pick my feet up. There have been two occasions when I have sobbed uncontrollably and felt like I couldn’t take it anymore. But the real seed of truth in the middle of it all? I often have an uneasy feeling, a wondering where all the terrible days are. As I read twin blog after twin blog, I read of women sobbing on the floor, sitting between their two babies, not sure who to help or how.

Me? I feel like the motherfucking baby CHAMPION, a woman so capable and strong in this new way, this fulfilling way, this way where I am talking back and forth to these two little people. She with her face that lights up, that tightens and tenses her whole body in a tall sort of happiness, her funny chewing face and sometimes solemn eyes. He with his conspiratorial glances at me, his wide mouthed and uneven smile, his laugh so powerful he surprises me every time.

We are getting the hang of it, and sometimes it’s lather-rinse-repeat of the same tasks over and over, but more and more it becomes a joy, a moment I want to live deeply in, a time I can already feel slipping away and so I concentrate on remembering every instant. Really paying attention to what it feels like to have her sleep with her right arm tucked around my back. Loving every time I change his diaper and he chats chats chats until we are both filled up with new thoughts and ways to be.

I cheer her on as she holds onto a toy and gnaws its face. I apologise to him for the ridiculous scratch mitts that are back in the game, as his poor face oozes and reddens. They reward me with their patience, their independence, their sweet baby snuggles and wide eyes as they watch the trees bend and sway in the wind.

For them, I walked this evening on my own to the doctor’s office, my legs still so weak and sore from months of being unable to walk. I almost gave up and came home, and then I kept going because I want to take them on long walks, I want to stomp in crispy leaves with them. I want to watch him feed the horses. I want to lift her up and point out the trains whizzing past.

I don’t need to look at my mornings through rose coloured glasses, because life is just rosy. I have a daughter who looks so happy and amazed just to be awake, just to be hanging out with me in our home. I have a son gulping his bottle, sitting on my leg, so strong, busy looking at everything. I know their rhythms, their likes, what it means when they move their faces just so.

Motherhood makes me feel like I am the first woman to have done this, the only one to really understand what it means. Motherhood makes me deepen myself, makes me feel a fierce love and determination to create a life for these two little people to unfold in their own ways, at their own pace, in their own directions. I want to be there in the background, my arms and heart ready to catch them when they need it, but giving them the space and freedom to make mistakes and try new things and be their own selves.

I want nothing more than this cycle of life to carry on, to continue, to grow older as I watch them grow up.  I’ve been thinking of my grandma a lot lately. How she held my mother, how my mother held me. Here we are altogether, linked by this business of being alive, of doing things that are no different than what has happened for thousands of years for billions of women.

But in here, in my heart, in this house, it is our little team of three that laugh together, that experiment with what it means to have a brother, a sister, a mother, two children. We smile when TMD comes home, their eyes widen and bodies jerk when the post comes, the cat streaks to the door on both occasions. I sing them Christmas songs, we dance to rap music, I curl up with one or the other and we read. I take naps with little baby bodies held close, their heads turned in toward my heart. I touch her smooth, soft cheeks. I rub lotion again and again into his funny chapped skin, loving that he loves that so much. We live in a world of touch, of taste, of kisses and space.

Sometimes we all do our own thing, in our own ways. Other times the three of us look at each other, burble, talk, smile. They look at each other when the other one is not looking, and sometimes they get a little worried and look at me to make sure everything is okay.

And it is.

Better than okay.

Over and over and over again, we get repeats and do-overs and try agains. Through it all, I feel this time, this babyhood, as something so painfully sweet and slippery. Every day they grow up and into themselves more, and I find myself thinking of them as teenagers – and then I yank my attention back to right here, right now, because where else would I rather be?

It all happened, and it was better than I thought.

October 30, 2009

Originally posted 29 June 2008, title ‘I’ll think of you these months, while I wait.’

I’ve wanted you in my life for years, you and your sister, your brother. I will be exasperated when you ask for a dog, we will make pudding messes together, you will be allowed to fingerpaint on canvases large enough to paint our lives on.

I want to know you so well, before you are born and afterwards. I can’t wait for the moment TMD holds you in her arms, my hair lank with sweat. I will thank god for every stretch and tear in my vagina, every mark on my body from carrying your weight, my chapped nipples. Sometimes I will be exhausted, sometimes I will weep, sometimes I will wonder if I am up to the awesome job of being one of your mothers. Throughout those times there will never be a moment I wish you were not here, with me, with us, together.

I want to hold you and make up little songs in the middle of the night. I want to drop with the need to sleep, and TMD to come hold us both, even though she has to wake up in two hours for work. I want to hear you squeal as you splash water all over the bathroom floor. I want to read you the book I will write, just for you, about how you came into this world and became part of our family.

I want my heart to break when you go to your first day of school. I want my little sister to take you on wild adventures that I really don’t want to hear about. I want to buy you that camera, those ballet shoes, that baseball glove. I want to encourage you and remember what it was like to be young once, the world shining and huge and open to possibilities. I want to read you the same book again and again, to the point of skipping words or pages in the hopes you will not notice; I will be pleased, and tired, when you DO notice.

I want you to fill my belly, my heart, our life. I want to go to antenatal classes and trade endless boring stories with other pregnant moms. I want you to be there, to talk to the next one through the thin layer of skin as he/she stretches my body once more. I want to teach you how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I want to give you lots of time alone with your imagination, I want you to never doubt that I love you – even when you are fifteen and think you hate me.

I want to argue about how well you are/are not learning to drive. I want to visit you at university and take you out for really expensive meals – you and all your friends. I want to completely fuck up braiding your hair, or figuring out how to top n’ tail. I want to fear giving birth and look forward to it at the same time. I want to watch you figure out who you are, and I want to be there – in the background – when you realise that you are who you are right now…who you are does not come at 16, 18, 21, 50, 80.

I want strangers to stop and say how cute you are. I want presumptuous people to feel my belly. I want you to kick them away. I am ready for you; I’m sitting in your room right now. You get the last of the evening’s sunlight. Your window looks out onto this quiet little street, where you will ride your bike and make friends with other scabby kneed kids. This will be your first home, and every minute of looking for that home included reserving a special space just for you. Your room has rose-coloured carpet and curtains – it came with the house, but we sort of like it. There’s room for a little pop-up tent, or a chair with a blanket over it, or a rocking chair.

We’re not rich, but we’re not poor. And when you come, when you emerge into this world, I want you to know that I wanted you with every fibre of my being, that my soul has waited for you this immensely long time, that you were loved before you were even conceived.

I’ve made an appointment with your other mom, to see the doctor who is going to help us make you. It’s for the day after I turn 30, and the best birthday present I can imagine having will be seeing the day that your birth day comes.

I love you.

The one where I reveal the depths of my craziness when pseudo medical people freak me the fuck out.

October 29, 2009

Tonight a woman told me I needed to call the national swine flu helpline in regards to Snort. My stomach clenched and I felt I was going to abruptly eject The Shit Of Fear all over the couch.

I’ve been sick this week. Headache, poopy times, tired. TMD is now sick as well, which is odd for her. Last night Snort threw up a few times. I hesitate to say it was vomit as who can really tell the difference between throwing up and a violent spit up? But there were three occasions where huge amounts of milk shot from his mouth across rooms.

Today they have both had very fucked up feeds, him more than her.

The thing is, we switched from the easy digest back to the normal milk yesterday. And they are also 11 weeks old, near growth spurt time. Both are feeding less than every three hours – which is fucking shocking after getting used to much longer stretches, I can tell you…like having newborns again – and not having as big of feeds as usual. But is this a bug, a growth spurt, new milk? Who knows.

Then Snort felt warm. Okay, quite warm. Hot?

We put one of those forehead strips on him. Said 37/38 degrees C. Our fucking nutso health visitor is always banging on about temps of 38 and how YOU NEED TO SEE A DOCTOR IF YOU DON’T WANT YOUR BABY TO COMBUST. So I called the doctor.

And the fucking receptionist said to call this hotline. I was crying and shitting myself, even though I knew he did not have the Swine Flu. I thought, at most, he was just fighting the bug TMD and I have had. This phone number began with the recorded message, ‘Welcome to the national pandemic hotline.’

I handed TMD the phone and hightailed it to the toilet.

Now, bowels empty and head more clear, we are still waiting for the doctor to call. I refuse to talk to him/her. Because I am apparently just as crazy as that fucking health visitor. I told receptionist lady that I really didn’t think there was anything to worry about, and the tone of her voice was like, ‘Okay, then. Risk your child’s life.’

Twenty minutes after this whirlwind of hysteria, including me saying, ‘Fuck, I don’t think I can handle having children,’ Snort was lying on a blanket smiling away at the Taggie I was dangling over him. Ten minutes after that, I was reading him and Coconut a story and realising this was all the most fucking ridiculous thing in the entire world.

It was scary, though.

I can’t imagine how scary it would be to actually feel that something was wrong with your child, as opposed to just freaking out because some crazy bitch was playing it safe. (I thank her, whilst calling her a crazy bitch.) I like to think I would storm the doctor’s office….anything to avoid the huge wait at A&E.

I think the thing is that these people trigger my worst fears. I may doubt my own instincts, because I am a bit of a worrier when it comes to their health (I got this from my mom, who is always fake diagnosing me with various diseases.). But when someone utters a phrase like ‘Swine Flu’, I start off on a train of crazy thinking.

What if this IS the start of the flu? God, should we have gone to the doctor yesterday? What symptoms am I watching out for? Google says mortality is highest in babies!!

Thankfully Google also said it had the symptoms of being flu like (well, yes), unresponsive, a rash, coughing, etc. Snort is about as alert as he’s ever been.

And he doesn’t feel hot anymore.

Our couch is littered with various thermometres, where TMD made us take the temp of every member of the household in two ways just to compare. She wasn’t doing it in the crazy way I would have, though: she was using it to prove the point that forehead strips are fucking stupid and inaccurate.

Anyway. If I believed in God I would be very, very thankful tonight that things appear to be just plain ordinary. The status quo is a happy place to be when it means you have two alert, playful, and calm babies on your hands.

Thank you to my twitterful twitty type friends who provided instant support and love. I needed it.

My family matters.

October 26, 2009

What do you want me to say? I could write a right on political statement about why gay rights are worth fighting for, but it’s nothing you haven’t read before. Nothing you don’t already agree or disagree with.

Step into my life for one day, one morning, one instant.

I stare down at my two ten week old babies, and I pause. My heart aches. My family matters. We are worth it. My children have two moms, and I believe they are all the luckier for it.

I can’t believe that people are fighting in courts, running campaigns, debating civil rights. It just doesn’t make sense to me. What’s NOT to embrace? Our babies poop, we like to tickle them, we all love each other.

Yet we aren’t recognised in the country I was born in. My children and I are citizens of that country, and yet we couldn’t move there and bring their Mum with us. We are nervous stepping off the plane when we arrive there, and it makes me feel small and nervous and ANGRY.

We are living on the other side of the world from my family, and this is because I choose our family over the family I was born into – and there shouldn’t have to be a choice.

My children deserve to grow up in a world where all people are celebrated. Fuck acceptance or tolerance – we ARE all different, it’s stupid to pretend we aren’t, and it’s even stupider to not realise how powerful that makes us as people. How much we have to learn, how much we have to experience. How much stronger our own communities could be, and how much stronger we could all be if we joined together.

As that country debates gay marriage, laws that could impact immigration, people are angry…on both sides. While the storm rages on, people are embarassed, outraged, empowered, impotent, strengthened, saddened, surprised.

And here I sit, with two babies who laugh in their sleep, have full tummies, light up when they see their Mummy is home from work, who watch everything we do with intense concentration. I look at these two little people and my heart clenches. They are worth being brought up in a world that won’t make them feel awkward or afraid. We are a family, and we are worth it.

My son and daughter may be gay, straight, trans. They may be rock stars, scientists, musicians, perpetual students. They may choose to be single, or to be with someone from a different race. And you know what? I don’t care, because I love them.

If this world had a little more love, we’d all be a lot better off.


One small step for other people, one giant leap for me.

October 26, 2009

Yesterday was a banner day. (If you had told me a year ago this would be considered a ‘banner day,’ I would not have believed you.)

We drove up to this store we’d heard of, and it was like heaven inside. No, I’m not talking about the awesomeness of the contents of the store, but the fact that I walked around inside WITHOUT CRUTCHES.

I brought the crutches along, but decided to leave them in the car. I ALSO PUSHED COCONUT AND SNORT AROUND!!! It was quite painful, and we had to stop and  hang out in the cafe for quite some time so my crotch could have a rest, but it was oh so worth it. We walked around like a real live family, I told TMD she had shit taste in curtains, random members of the public kept making comments.

I have lived for the possibility that I would one day be outside and hear these comments. Oh, yes, they did not annoy me. I am a twin mother relishing disgusting and twee comments about my twins.

It was fucking amazing to be out with them, pushing them. I felt so proud to be their mom. And fuck did we have fun. I love TMD because even the most mundane thing can be enjoyable with her. She also has my back times ten, making sure to take the pram when it needed to be lifted over curbs, etc.

I’m feeling really positive about my recovery. Last night was a bit bad, but my back is pretty okay this morning. My crotch? Still a wee bit sore, but who’s counting?

I pushed my babies around! I got out of the house! We bought some stuff! I had a cheese toasty that made me shit uncontrollably when I got home!

This is my definition of a good day.

More news on the smiling front.

September 29, 2009

This morning Snort has been smiling and smiling away – at the side of the tv. The leg holding the tv up, to be exact. Both Snort and Coconut have been strangely obsessed with this, turning their heads to stare for huge chunks of time at the tv stand, entranced.

This morning Snort was having quite a detailed conversation with it – frowning, smiling, smiling, laughing (!), burbling, staring. TMD sat down by him in an effort to see if he would smile at her, but he refused to break eye contact with the tv. I got some great pics. (Of course.)

Neither of us has chatted about the fact that our son appears to be in love with a mechanical object, while his two moms are busy dancing their hearts out, smiling, and making lots of eye contact. Nothing compares to the shiny metal. Half human, half crow. (Crows are the ones who go for shiny things, or is that magpies?)

End of summertime, and the living is (?) easy.

September 20, 2009

Think I have emailed or facebooked everyone who wanted old blog/baby name stuff. If I forgot you, please kick me in the ass in the comments section. I’m sorry.

Things going well today – such a relief to have a day at home with TMD and the babies. I have officially decided on bloggy names for them, and am also working on a new introduction page. Exciting stuff. I wanted to unveil their blog names with an entry for each of them, and pics for each, but fuck if I have time for that! (Don’t say ‘f’, you GD idiot.)

Baby Girl (aka Torre) = Coconut

Baby Boy (aka Mano) = Snort

I am fairly certain all this name chopping and changing means I am officially crazy, but again. Who cares. I probably AM crazy. I woke up sometime last night (must have been fairly early as TMD was still in the kitchen.)…

I was absolutely positive I was holding Snort. I could feel him breathing in my arms, could feel his feet, etc. Problem? No head. I was gingerly feeling around in the covers for his face, getting more and more freaked out because it was not there, until I started keening for TMD in a panic-ridden voice. She ran in and tried to reassure me – apparently – that Snort was in the cot, and Coconut was still in the lounge. I – apparently – kept feeling for him, mumbling, ‘He’s here, I know he is. Where is his head? The blankets are smothering him.’

This is about the level we are both functioning on most of the time, but especially in the nighttime. Last night was also special because we had our first fight in about 432523 years. It was an interesting thing, happening everytime we got up for Baby Nighttime Funhouse Of Horror. It was mainly me sobbing about her mother, and being ravingly crazy lady mad that TMD had not uninvited Mil from being here.

TMD called Mil today to uninvite her for the final week, and lo and behold, Mil was already on side. She planned to ask tomorrow if we minded if her hubby came up that final week, and they would catch the train into the city, troll around our local area, etc. Essentially leaving me, Coconut, and Snort alone except when popping in so Grandpa could see them again. Hopefully she won’t feel all wounded and hypersensitive that we called her first, but jesus. I actually have had nightmares for the past two nights in a row about her being here. It’s not her, per say – though the obsessive baby winding is making me FUCKING CRAZY INSIDE – I would probably be this way about anyone being here so long.

I am officially my mother, who got freaked out about people being in ‘the family space.’ While I thought she was obnoxious and crazy, I am now a fully paid member of the Family Space Club. Emphasis on immediate family only.

Hope you all are having a good weekend. We are – Meg and Nic came to visit yesterday (we heart them hardcore), and we also got their baby passport pictures taken. Country B is reasonable about baby pictures, but Country A wants babies alert, eyes open and staring right at the camera, head straight, no hands supporting them, in a natural expression. Yeah. That being said, we got the pictures – and I managed to push their pram for the first time ever!!! My crotch is not thanking me for it today, but it felt amazing.

I also got my nicey nice gift from TMD for carrying and birthing the babies – I will have to take a pic and post it as it is gorgeous. And, actually, every mother, pregnant woman, or woman who hopes to be pregnant will want a link to the company website.

Both babies asleep now.

I am still in my nightgown (it’s 4:16pm) – I have to wear clothes as I am still leaking? Wtf? Leaking being not only my still-bleeding vajayjay, but my left boob. I had a dream last night that it was shooting as hard as a firehose. (Last night was eventful, you see.)

I think I am going to go beg a bathtime, read, and shower. Tomorrow we have to leave the house practically before dawn to drive into the city – we have to go to the Embassy to do all the Country A-related things. I am going to have to really live up my cripple status and work my crutches to ensure TMD is allowed in. Afterwards, we may drop into Operation Fingerpaint to have Joy meet the babies.

Busy, busy.

Why can’t I stop writing? I miss it.

Love to all.