Luke, I am Your Mother.

Last night I chuckled as I listened to the twins.  Now aged four years, they argued over which of them could claim me as their mother.  If they were just siblings (and not twins), I probably wouldn’t even have tuned into the argument at all.  But that they were both at one point residing in my uterus together simultaneously made this conversation so obnoxious (and actually, kind of offensive) to  me.

One child, who shall be named Baby A so as to remain anonymous*, suffered towards the end of my pregnancy with so little room left in my innards that she set up camp in the deepest, darkest parts of my digestive system–and that I’m still writing about it really reflects how uncomfortable that was.  I clearly remember finding a pregnancy message board and asking, “Is it normal to feel like I might birth a baby out of my butt?  My actual butt?  I think her foot may enter the world through my anus and I am so unhappy and uncomfortable right now.”

And the reason that the six pound girl had so little room down deep in my innards is because she was joined by her five pound brother, who was all zen like the Beach Boys and couldn’t be bothered to move head-down or otherwise respond to outside stimulus whatsoever.  As a matter of fact (FACT!  I HAVE MEDICAL RECORDS), my abdomen was tasered on Baby B’s side with the expectation that he would move and confirm for us that he was still hanging in there, waiting for the D-Backs to win another World Series.  The taser moments were slightly zing’ish, but did not otherwise compel me to turn my sonographer in to local authorities.

Whatever, my point is that nobody in my house should ever question if I am their mother.  I can’t afford to claim more than I actually birthed, and all my kids look so much like their father that even an attorney would laugh if I tried to claim that one of them isn’t ours.  Stand down, kids.  If I weren’t your mother, I would likely have sold you by now.  Though keep up the “I’m gonna light saber you, Mom!” talk and then this particular paragraph becomes a big fat lie.  Santa doesn’t bring presents for people who cut their mamas in half.

And with that, they’re arguing over whether I am the Wicked Witch of the East or the West.  So much for discreetly applying a Pond’s exfoliating face mask.  How do kids even notice this crap?  Le sigh.

*Unless you are me, my husband, my sonographer or anyone who knew me, my husband, or my sonographer or read my blog during the time period between 26 December 2006 and 26 June 2007–the era when we incessantly complained about how mobile, uncooperative, uncomfortable and moody Lauren was.  Oops, so much for remaining anonymous, baby girl.  Or boy.  Ha!  Still anonymous.  Boom.

~~~~~

Cassandra can be found on Twitter @aclevergirl.  Learn more about her family’s unique challenges and why they have hope for a cure for muscular dystrophy at byrdsforacure.org.

Comments

  1. Michelle Black says:

    Hahahaha! I just laughed so hard I peed a little (3 months pregnant and losing bladder control, already).

  2. Cass says:

    Oh, Michelle. If it’s that bad now, better unsubscribe from me by your third trimester. :)