welcome to the family

So, I'll warn you. This post has a lot of pictures...like, it's excessive. But there were so many great ones that I had a hard time paring it down. I so badly wanted Maggie Dehart to take pictures of the twins' birth. I really, really love birth photos. No other event gives you the raw emotion that a birth does. How could we not capture that? Unfortunately, our hospital doesn't allow photographers in the operating room for c-sections. I was bummed out by this, but thankfully, our doula is a rockstar with an iPhone camera and got great shots of the birth.

We opted to have Maggie come to the hospital to capture photos of us when the boys were about twelve hours old, plus pictures of our families meeting the babies. I'm so glad we did this. These images are priceless to me. She did an amazing job. Here are a few (or a ton) of my favorites.

Gus getting all clean and ready to meet the fam.

I was getting so excited to introduce Harriet to the boys that my heart rate monitor kept going off. 

snuggling with Lou

The boys were born about eleven hours before our scheduled c-section. My parents had asked us to call that morning so that they could pray with us over the phone. But instead we called to tell them that the babies were already here. They were shocked. Such a fun phone call to make. 

We decided that Harriet would be the first to meet the boys, so Andrew brought her in before everybody else for some sweet family time. I had to include all of the pictures from this series because they're way too precious. I knew she'd be excited, but I didn't know she'd be this excited. 

the absolute best big sister

love this expression

Trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I have three children...still trying to wrap my brain around it. 

And here comes the rest of the family! They didn't know anything about the babies beyond the fact that they were here and healthy, so the next couple of pictures capture the grandmas' reactions to Harriet's announcement, "These are my brothers!"

My mom is on the left. Andrew's mom is on the right.

Harriet picked out special gifts for the babies.

Andrew's dad with Gussy.

Uncle Brad (my brother) and his girlfriend, Alyssa, who is now his FIANCE!!!! Woohoo!

My mom had to unwrap the babies and check out their little arms and legs.

Papa and...somebody.

Harriet's gift from the babies - Clifford and Clifford books.

Watching the birth video.

I wasn't sure whether nursing would freak Harriet out, but she was totally fine with it.

Big helper.

Harriet calls her Sasa. Soon she'll be Auntie Sasa. 

Welcome to the family, beautiful boys. You can't even imagine how much you're loved.

how the brothers were born

The day before the c-section, we spent some nice time at home...just the three of us. Well, and Murph.

last picture taken of me pregnant...note the HUGELY puffy hand

One of the hardest parts of this pregnancy was the fact that for nearly nine months, I couldn't play with Harriet the way I wanted to.

"Sorry, hun, Mom can't fit in that fort."

"I can only dance for a little while because my tummy makes me tired."

"Dad will chase you, but Mama can't."

At one point, Harriet told my parents, "Mom can't do anything with me anymore because of her big tummy." Stuff like this always made me cry. I hated it.

So the evening before the c-section, when Harriet asked if she could run at me from across the room, jump to me and have me lift her in the air, I said, "Sure!" These babies were going to arrive in less than 24 hours so I figured I could handle it. Plus, I knew that I wouldn't be able to do anything like that for quite a while after the c-section. We played her running/jumping/flying game for a while, then Andrew and I swung her in a blanket. A few minutes later, I used the bathroom and found a huge chunk of mucus plug in my underwear. I'd been losing pieces of it all week but this was more than ten times the size of anything else I'd passed so far. I figured the lifting and playing probably dislodged it.

We put Harriet to bed just like any other night, trying not to think about the fact that these were the last minutes we'd be parents to just her. I put my pajamas on, took a Benadryl to help me sleep and brushed my teeth. Andrew came into the bathroom, put his hand on my shoulder and prayed for me - for a good night's sleep, a still mind, a stress-free morning the next day, and a smooth birth.

"Amen."

Gush! My water broke in a flood. It just kept coming and coming and coming. "Well," I said, "I guess we're going to the hospital."

Andrew called my mother-in-law to come stay with Harriet. I called my clinic's after-hours line, specifying that I had breech twins and this was my third pregnancy. I had previously been instructed not to labor at home because my doctors thought these babies could come quick, making for a very dangerous situation. The woman on the other end of the line said that I should stay home and the doctor would call in about twenty minutes. "Nope," I said. "We're on our way."

The doctor called while we were driving to the hospital. She said that they'd examine me when I got there to make sure my bag of waters had actually ruptured. I told her that there was no doubt in my mind that my water had broken. This was not a leak. It was a flood. I had a towel folded in my pants. Andrew drove pretty quickly to the hospital. I had a few contractions on the way, so I just breathed through them. They weren't too bad though. It was nothing like our drive to the hospital before Harriet's birth. That night, I had been in agony the whole way. I remember not being able to think about anything but my breathing and the intensity of the contractions. This time, my eyes stayed open and I could talk through the contractions so I figured I was dilating maybe to one or two centimeters. Still, Andrew and I were both a little bit afraid. We didn't want to get into a situation that necessitated a breech delivery. One in one hundred breech babies die during birth. That number was just way too high for us.

It took forever to check in. The woman at the desk was clearly new and the person training her in was really annoyed with her. They couldn't find our chart because it was in the stack for the next day. I had a couple more contractions while they got organized. I just held onto the desk, dropped my head and breathed. They were uncomfortable but nothing crazy.

They brought us back to the maternal-fetal assessment center where they had me pee in a cup...not easy at this stage in pregnancy. Kind of impossible not to pee on your hand, but whatever. Then they weighed me. I had been hovering around fifty-eight pounds gained over the last few weeks, but that night, the scale showed that I had gained exactly sixty pounds, which was kind of funny because I gained exactly thirty pounds with Harriet. Apparently my body likes the idea of thirty pounds per baby.

The nurses placed the fetal monitors, took labs and gave me an IV. Our doula, Sarah, arrived. Right away, she started to rub my feet. I just remember feeling incredibly cared for in that moment with four nurses devoted to the care of me and these babies. (There were two nurses assigned to me, plus my husband and our doula are both nurses.)

Andrew, suited up and ready for action. 

Dr. M eventually sat down beside my bed and started to explain the procedure so that we knew exactly what to expect. I had about three contractions during that conversation. The intensity was ramping up, but only a little bit. They were still rather mild compared to what labor felt like with Harriet. I just closed my eyes each time and breathed slowly through my mouth. I asked Dr. M how long it was going to be before we met our babies. She said it would be about two or three hours, that they'd be born around midnight. Apparently there was another family in front of us. I asked that she make sure that our babies have the same birthday and she smiled and said that she would.

I was a bit bummed out when she said we had to wait two to three hours. The contractions were becoming more bothersome...although still not painful. It's one thing if you're going to have a vaginal birth - under those circumstances, bring on the contractions! But I was going to have a c-section, so I had very little interest in putting up with a few more hours of these pesky things. I also sort of felt like I had to have a bowel movement. I was a little embarrassed to say it out loud but also realized that now was probably a better time than after the c-section, so I asked Dr. M if I should try to go.

"You saying that makes me think I should check to see whether you're dilating," she said.

She checked and her eyes got really big. "Okay," she said with calm intensity, "things are going to move very quickly."

I didn't know it at the time, but I was dilated to nine centimeters and she could feel Gus's butt. She later told me that she also found out that he was a boy during that cervical check. (-: But the scary part was that his cord was prolapsing. That's what turned our planned, non-laboring c-section into an emergency c-section.

Dr. M told me at my follow-up appointment that watching me go through the contractions, she never would have guessed that I was nearly complete. I was even more shocked than she was! I do have a high pain tolerance, but seriously, these contractions were nothing. Any woman could have handled them without breaking a sweat. I'm still amazed that I dilated from zero to nearly complete in about ten easy contractions. And most of all, I'm so glad that we got to the hospital right away.

About twenty seconds after my cervical check, the anesthesia team was in the room asking about my anesthesia history and I was being wheeled to the operating room. While I'm really grateful that I had a spinal instead of an epidural, I have to say that the actual process of getting the spinal was awful. It felt like he was poking me over and over and over with the needle. This tingly pain shot down my right leg, then again, then my left leg. Each time, I cried out and he asked which side I felt it on. I was apologizing for being so noisy about the dumb spinal, but the nurse anesthetist was really nice and said that it was so painful because they had to hurry.

By the time that Andrew and Sarah got to the OR, Dr. M was already cutting. I felt no pain, but the pressure was intense. It felt like she was pushing the air right out of my lungs.

"What a rush!" Sarah said. And it really was.

He was sooo not grossed out.

Andrew videotaped the whole thing. I didn't watch the video for about a week and a half because I wasn't sure I could handle it. But after watching it, I'll tell you this...c-sections are serious surgery.  The doctor was elbow deep in my abdomen. Her assistant pried open my stomach with a massive, metal tool that looked like one of those chuck-its that you use to throw tennis balls for dogs. They popped Louie's bag of waters like a huge water balloon. She took my uterus out of my body and laid it on top of me while she stitched it up. This was a violent process requiring lots of muscles on the doctor's part and lots of blood on mine. Throughout the procedure, I was grunting and groaning. At times, it was hard to breathe because of all of the pressure. I thought a c-section would be a passive process, but I was wrong. It was actually hard work!

I'll spare you the really gruesome pictures in favor of this mild one.

Only minutes passed before Dr. M reached in and brought the first baby into the world. "It's a boy!" Andrew said.

It's a boy!

Our Gus was here. The Gus we'd been waiting so long for. Ethan would have been a Gus if he would have lived and now Ethan's little brother gets that name...a name we've loved forever.

We both started sobbing. When you ask people what gender(s) they're hoping for, they usually say, "Doesn't matter as long as the baby's healthy." And of course, we felt the same way. But deep down in our hearts, we so wanted a boy. In fact, we wanted two boys. Really, really bad. So just one minute later, when our Louie was born and Andrew announced in joyful disbelief "it's a boy" again, we completely lost it. How could this be? Jesus, Jesus, Jesus...how generous you've been.

Louie, meet the world.

Both boys cried immediately. But Louie screeched. It was the most beautiful, most hilarious cry I've ever heard. The boys went to their warmers and Andrew found himself spinning about the operating room from me to his son to his other son and back to me again. He eventually took both of the babies skin to skin against his chest. They rooted and rooted...that miraculous instinct.

Some of you might remember that prior to these boys being born, I was pretty bummed out by the idea of a c-section. I was even bummed out by the idea of birthing vaginally with an epidural. I researched for hours upon hours. I emailed and chatted with probably forty twin moms with a wide variety of birth experiences. I carefully crafted a birth plan (which we forgot at home). I was very, very serious about the requests in my birth plan, but it's funny how it all played out.

eye to eye with sweet Gus

meeting precious Lou

I had requested to not have my arms tied down to the operating table, but after they started the procedure, I wished that my arms were tied down because they kept falling off of the arm rests. For much of the procedure, I just held my arms in the air. I had asked that the babies' warmers be kept in my line of vision but all I wanted to do was close my eyes and go to sleep. I didn't even want to look at them. I remember saying over and over, "I feel like the worst mom ever but I just feel so sick. I have to close my eyes. I just want to hibernate." I asked to have the babies brought to me so we could have a little bit of skin to skin right away in the operating room, but when they brought the babies to me, I nearly threw up on them and asked that Andrew just hold them til I felt better. Despite the changes of heart I was having in the moment, the surgical team was great about following my wishes.

Lou, weighing in at 6 pounds, 13 ounces

Gus, weighing in at 6 pounds, 2 ounces

Gus, enjoying the warmer

Lou, getting his head measured

It took a while for Dr. M to get me stitched and stapled. When she finished, they wheeled me to the post-anesthesia care unit where I got to really see the boys close up for the first time - touch them, kiss them, celebrate them and feed them. When Gus started nursing, I started sobbing. I had been so focused on the birth that I totally forgot about that part...how much I had loved nursing Harriet, how much I grieved that sweet connection when I weaned her and how much I feared never being able to do it again. I asked when I would get a chance to nurse them both at the same time. "Whenever you want," the nurse said. So we went for it. And they did great. Gus stared at me with intense eyes wide open and Louie contentedly dozed...foreshadowing of their personalities...at least the parts of their personalities we've witnessed so far.

I couldn't believe how much I loved them. Right there, just seconds after meeting them. I loved them like I had loved their sister when she was pulled out of the water and flopped onto my chest like a slimy, purplish dream come true. The love I felt for those boys was so, so big and in that moment, any fears about my heart not being big enough to contain them disappeared.

The brothers' birth looked nothing at all like Harriet's. But it was just as perfect. Just as joy-filled. And those images, those sounds, those smells, those sensations will stay with me forever. I will never forget the night my boys were born...never, ever, ever.

brothers

I never knew a single heart could hold so much love.

Meet my boys...

Gus Allen and Lewis David

They were born on April 17th at 10:52 and 10:53 in the evening. Gus weighed six pounds, three ounces and Louie weighed six pounds, twelve ounces. 

I can't wait to share their birth story with you and give more details about life with these darling boys, but for now, I'll just share a few pictures.

Louie on the left, Gus on the right

Gus on the left, Louie on the right

Harriet meeting her brothers for the first time

the Grandmas finding out that they have two grandsons

they already love each other 

upon the waters

Last summer was a hot one. It's hard to imagine it while waiting out this everlasting winter, but the end of July and most of August were scorching. So every morning, before the heat set in, I threw on my running shoes, strapped Harriet into the jogging stroller with her breakfast, and we took Murphy for a good run. I'm not a runner. I ran because Harriet only has so much patience for the stroller and because it's a better workout for the dog. I listened to music for inspiration, playing it from my iPhone without headphones on so that Harriet could hear it too. A little Katy Perry, some Miley Cyrus...upbeat stuff to help me keep my pace. But oddly enough, there was one song that kept me running more than any other - a slower song, nearly impossible to dance to, not the typical workout playlist staple. It's called Oceans and it has gained lots of popularity in churches and on the radio in this last year. As I ran, I contemplated the words...

You call me out upon the waters,
the great unknown,
where feet may fail.

The song refers to that miraculous story in the Bible where Jesus is walking on the water in the midst of a storm. His friends are in the boat, terrified for their lives. He welcomes Peter to step out of their vessel and onto the waves - the ultimate test of trust. Peter does it - not without fear or second guesses, but he lifts himself over the boat's rail and places his feet on the water's churning surface, his faith in his Savior keeping him above the treacherous waves. As I ran and listened to the lyrics, I pictured myself in Peter's sandals and wondered whether I would have trusted enough to do the same.

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders.
Let me walk upon the waters,
wherever you may call me.
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger 
in the presence of my Savior.

The singer repeats these words over and over again, and as my feet pounded the solid, dry paths, I visualized a "trust without borders" and I wanted that. I imagined where Jesus might call me, how He might stretch my faith. And slowly, carefully, like Peter stepping out of that boat, I began to make the words of that stanza my mantra. I began to beg that of Jesus - that He would make my faith borderless, infinite.

This was terrifying.

I know that I serve a God who is completely and utterly good. A God who loves me endlessly. But I also know that sometimes He makes choices that my finite mind never would have made, choices that cause me pain because I can't even begin to comprehend them with my limited scope. I knew that He would answer my request to grow my faith but I didn't know how. I was fearful of what my "great unknown" would look like. I imagined awful things - an illness, an accident, a loss - you know, those unspeakable events that wound us nearly beyond repair but are, in the end, supposed to make us better, stronger people.

But then...I was pregnant again, against all odds. And there were two babies, against all odds. I remember in those first days and weeks, people asking me how I was feeling about the news. Of course, the most powerful emotions were elation and blessing, but there was also a part of me that felt sobered by this new development. I felt, in some ways, like I was going into battle - a private, miniature battle against gravity and time and anxiety. And as I've walked through this pregnancy day by day, I have realized that this is it - this pregnancy (and assumedly motherhood afterwards) - is God's answer to my request for trust without borders.

Really? While He has others wait endlessly and suffer unimaginably, He grows my faith through joy and blessing? Not that I have been completely unfamiliar with struggle and not that there isn't more of it in my future. Of course there is. But for now, He seems to have chosen to gently stretch the borders of my trust with a priceless gift rather than ripping them away like I foolishly expected Him to. To say that I am humbled by this...no words can express how much.

This journey over the past thirty-seven and a half weeks has not been easy. That's for sure. The discomforts get worse by the week - swollen feet, arthritic joints, trigger finger, nausea, back pain, pulled muscles, difficulty breathing, extra weight (a full sixty pounds), limited mobility, restless legs, and insomnia...oh, the insomnia! At my final OB appointment today, I burst into tears while telling the doctor that I got two and a half hours of sleep last night and three and a half hours the night before. Even with Benadryl and a homeopathic sleep remedy on board, I can sleep for maybe an hour at a time. It's making me feel crazy...and rather anxious because I was so hoping to go into the birth feeling well and well-rested. It's not going to happen that way. And I feel silly saying it, but it's true - these little discomforts have stretched my faith more than I would ever have thought.

While I have had many aches and pains, there have been no complications. Not one. Not even a close call or a test that warranted repeating. Nothing. These babies have surprised me and the doctors by staying put in my very short torso for a full thirty-seven weeks without even a hint of dilation, not a single contraction. I am so, so grateful. I am clearly not a medical professional, but I really wonder if part of the reason that they have stayed so solidly put is their breech positioning. While I have had a bruising type of pain in my pelvis for about a month (feels like a did a hundred-mile race on a road bike yesterday), I have absolutely no pelvic pressure. These babies' heads are right up under my bra line and their butts are high too, so although I've bemoaned their breech status and the fact that I have to have a c-section, perhaps this should be more a matter of gratitude than complaint. Perhaps if these babies were vertex, those little heads (which a growth ultrasound recently put in the 89th and 98th percentiles) would have pushed themselves out much, much earlier. Again, a reason to trust that His plan is far greater than mine.

Every once in a while, I feel sad about the idea of a c-section. I feel sorry for the babies. I feel worried about the recovery. And I feel...oh how spoiled this is going to sound...even cheated. It sort of feels like running the majority of a marathon, only to hand the baton to someone else at the twenty-six mile mark and watch them cross the finish line for me. Is there part of me that's a little glad to be done at 26 miles? A bit tired and relieved that someone else is tackling the final fifth of a mile? Of course. But deep down, I want to do it. All of it. Even the messy, excruciating parts. Maybe even especially those parts. I have done it before and I know I could do it again. Even with twins. Even in an operating room with lots of people watching. So yes, sometimes it bothers me to be finishing this way.

But lately, I have become much more content with the idea of a c-section. I think this is partly due to the fact that I have tried and tried to flip these babies. I saw a chiropractor several times. I visited an acupuncturist who did moxibustion. (I tried very hard to believe in both of these practices, but when the acupuncturist in the Hawaiian shirt commented that holding the moxa stick felt like holding a crystal wand due to the energy pouring out of it, I nearly laughed out loud. All I knew was that it smelled really, really, really bad. I bought four of the sticks anyways, fully intending to use them at home...but then my dog chewed them up, so that was the end of that.) I laid upside-down on a board that we rested against the couch and nearly died of a coughing fit when the babies came crashing into my diaphragm. I put icepacks where their heads are, hoping that they'd turn to escape the cold. Nothing worked. And although some of these things were a bit miserable, I'm glad I did them so that I can at least say I tried. Baby B is bigger than Baby A anyways (sizes roughly estimated at the growth ultrasound to be 6 pounds, 5 ounces and 6 pounds, 14 ounces), so even if they flipped head-down, the doctors still wouldn't want to deliver vaginally. They like the first baby to be bigger and pave the way.

And as with anything, even the less attractive option has a positive side. A friend recently told me that when she had her c-section, she felt so grateful that she could come out of it feeling fresh and ready to mother her baby rather than dog-tired and in desperate need of a long hibernation. I can absolutely identify with that, especially given my recent lack of sleep. So again, perhaps this c-section is a gift - another gesture straight from Jesus, beckoning me to trust His plan and join Him amidst the waves.

Another area that brings me anxiety is my daughter. She is going to be a fabulous big sister. I know that for a fact. But every time I think of expanding our family, of stretching my love to include other children whom I have not yet met, I want to cry. Often, I do cry thinking about leaving her behind as we head to the hospital. We are desperately grateful to have both families nearby and I know that she will be fully loved and entertained during the four days that I am in the hospital, but the thought of nuzzling and nursing and loving on these babies while Harriet is across town breaks my heart. She is more resilient than I give her credit for and she will be just fine sharing her mama, but I am already grieving that time with just her and I. Most mornings, I go into her room and hold her and bury my face in her neck and tell her that she is my best girl in the whole wide world. And she adamantly disagrees, saying, "No Mama, you are my best girl in the whole wide world." Can we still say that if there's a little sister? I am so grateful to my wise, wonderful doctor who, without me having to even bring up this issue, randomly warned me that it would be very normal to feel a little bothered by the possible lack of love I feel for the twins at first in comparison to the adoration I have for Harriet. Normalizing is always helpful. And even more than that, I know that this is another area where I am being asked to trade my fear in for faith and to trust even my daughter to His capable hands. Because He loves her immeasurably more than I do...it's hard to even fathom that but wonderful to believe it.

So those are my final thoughts on this twin pregnancy. Just a few more days and we'll step out of our boat and into a wholly fresh and even frightening lake storm - parenting these tiny twins and their big sister. But the best news? Our Jesus is already there, walking those waters and gently calling us to join Him - right there in the midst of the toss and spray. And as intimidating as it may look, nowhere could be safer than where He calls us.

I'll leave you with a few pictures of me and my belly (measuring 52 weeks today) - some of the last ones before we meet these precious babies face-to-face.

murphy

Andrew and I had been married for about two years. All of our married friends seemed to have dogs and were always telling us that we should get one. So I did what I do best...researching, more researching, and overthinking. We decided we wanted a boxer, so I spent hours upon hours scouring the internet for the perfect breeder, the perfect puppy. I got us on four waiting lists and agonized about which litter to go with. (Sidenote: we will rescue our next dog...not sure what we were thinking at the time.)

Then one day while searching online yet again, I found a family with a litter of eight-week-old boxer pups. I called her and she said we could come pick one up. Unlike the others, she didn't need references or a downpayment or a formal contract. She didn't expect me to wait six months for a dog. I called Andrew and we rushed to her house.

When we got there, the pups were hanging out in the front yard. Most of them were dozing on the steps or stumbling around aimlessly...except for one. That little rascal was gnawing on his mama's lip, pouncing on her head, batting at her tail. He was barking the toughest bark he could muster and was racing around in dizzying circles. Yep, that was our dog. 

The family called him Hook and when the dad told his two daughters that we were taking him, they cried and cried, "Not Hook!" I wondered if I should see this as a sign and back out, but Andrew was already in love, so we scooped him up, took him home and changed his name from Hook to Murphy. He was adorable and snuggly and clumsy in that perfect puppy way. We picked up the essential supplies and did our best to puppy-proof the house.

That's when everything fell apart. 

The next year...maybe two years...were rough. That crazy dog refused to be caged. We tried one of those big metal crates but he broke free...twice. Just collapsed the entire thing and somehow got out alive. So we tried barricading him in the kitchen with a baby gate while we were gone. (Now let me clarify, I'm talking about times when we were gone for maybe an hour or two. When we went to work or were away from home for any length of time, we brought him to my parents' house. He was spoiled from the get go.) The baby gate proved no match for him. He just climbed over it. So we got another baby gate and put it on top of the first one, creating a five-foot barrier. He scaled that one too...like a tree frog. 

That's when we gave up. 

Every time we left home, we just shut the bedroom and bathroom doors and prayed that everything else would be safe from this little devious creature. 

That's when he destroyed everything. 

He wrecked two couches. Several pillows. Probably ten pairs of shoes (including my wedding shoes). He crushed a few pomegranates on our carpet. And a few avocados. And a potted plant. He chewed a hole in our wall. He ate countless loaves of bread and countless bags of tortillas. He chewed up the cases to over half of our DVDs. He ate books, books and more books, including my Bible. He turned our Christmas tree into a Charlie Brown-esque mess. I could go on and on...endlessly.

Also, dogs are gross. As in, beyond disgusting. In his first week with us, he killed a baby mouse, a snake and about ten frogs. And okay, those of you who are runners - I get the fact that sometimes when you go for out for a run, especially a long one, your bowels can catch you off guard. And I realize that sometimes you have to take care of business in the bushes. But if you do that, my dog will find it. And he will eat it. Every time. 

And then there was that one time when I was pregnant with Harriet and walking him on a frozen lake...sounds dumb, I know, but I was staying very close to the shore where I knew the water would only reach mid-thigh if I fell through...well, that was until he found the head of a northern pike and pranced around me with it for twenty whole minutes, refusing to let go of his prize until I chased him into the middle of the lake and distracted him with some other gross object. He's done the same things with random deer legs and other unrecognizable animal parts. He just loves that kind of stuff.

Having a puppy is not easy. Some people will tell you that it's like having a kid, and I think there's some truth to that. They turn your world upside-down. They swallow all of your free time. They completely defeat the purpose of cleaning. The week after we got Murph, I fell into a post-puppy depression. I'm not kidding. I was so incredibly bummed out and regretful about getting this dog. I honestly remember hoping that he would become ill or get hit by a car or that someone on the street would ask if they could have him. I fantasized about our life before Murphy and would have given anything to get it back. It was a seriously hard time for me. 

But then, when he was almost one, he really did get sick - pancreatitis. He nearly died. If you have a dog, you know that stuff like this only happens on weekends when you have no choice but to take your dog to the emergency vet...where they charge about three times the regular price and treat you like crap...at least that was my experience. Andrew was asleep after working the night shift and I couldn't get ahold of him, so I literally dropped thousands (as in several) of dollars to save this animal's life. Whenever I tell this story, the person hearing it says that they would have put him down. But you can't know what you would do until you're standing there in that echoing, cement room with your dying dog who could have a full life ahead of him if you'd just hand over your American Express. We had lost Ethan a few months before and my grandma a few months before that...we couldn't handle another loss, so I swiped my card and didn't look back. Well, I tried not to. 

Murphy is needy. He has really great life, but if you spent an afternoon with him, you'd never know it. He constantly sighs, whines, cries and makes all sorts of mournful sounds. He doesn't tolerate rain, leather couches, or wind. If there's a heated seat in your car, that's the seat he needs. And he insists on being on top of us as often as possible. If we lie down on the floor, he will sit on us, most often right on our heads. He plants himself on my lap any chance he gets. Or he'll just get as close as possible and stare me down with his nose mere millimeters from mine. This canine barnacle issue is much, much worse when I'm pregnant. It feels as though he never leaves my side. He just follows me from room to room and adheres himself to me whenever possible. He loves to rest his chin on my belly, and of course, I kinda love this. Andrew thinks Murphy is worried about me and is trying to protect me and the babies. I have to wonder if he's just trying to squeeze every last bit of attention out of me before the babies are born. But either way, he's there...right there...all the time. After Harriet was born, this continued. He had to be there, right in the middle of whatever we were doing with her.

But here's the thing - Harriet loves him. They're true siblings in the sense that she doesn't always feel love for him though. Sometimes she wants him to leave her alone, get out of her way, that sort of thing. But most of the time, she calls him "my gog" and says "I love my Murph." When we ask who is in her family, he often gets top billing. 

And he's teaching her lots of great stuff. Like how to be gentle, how to be patient, how to forgive. Because sometimes he's still a bit mischievous...he ate half of her birthday cake and a wall off of her gingerbread house a few months ago. But she took it in stride because it's not the first time. Won't be the last. 

And it works the other way around too. Murphy has sacrificed so much for our kids...the born and yet-to-be-born. When we were thinking about getting a dog, we promised ourselves that we wouldn't do it unless we could be good dog owners. And for the most part, we've done that. Until Harriet was born, he got at least one, usually two or three walks per day, even in ugly weather. Now that Harriet's here, that's sometimes harder, but he still gets to come with us almost any time we're outside. Harriet knows that if the weather is nice enough, the first thing we do in the morning is take Murph for a run. And she also knows that when he needs something - food, water, a potty break - we stop what we're doing and make it happen. I'm glad that she's learned how important it is to be respectful and caring towards animals, to put her needs and wants aside for a moment in order to do something for somebody else.

But this pregnancy...and this freezing, endless winter - has been rough on Murph. He has made lots of sacrifices in the name of letting me rest or letting Andrew work an extra shift in preparation for the babies' arrival. We're so grateful for my parents who often take him to the dog park for us or keep him overnight for a couple days in a row (even though he insists on sleeping in their bed and pees on their deck because he's too much of a diva to go in the snow). But a lot of the time, he's just chilling in the house with us, listening to us read a book or watching us eat our meals with the most pathetic, hungry look on his face. His patience amazes me and challenges me every day. I want that kind of patience. I want to be able to handle disappointment with such grace. 

This post was supposed to be titled "Why Kids Should Have Dogs." And I really believe that they should. But the more words I type on this screen, the more I realize that the true title of post should be "Why I Need Murph." Because I do. I need him every day...to remind me what true patience and selflessness looks like. To remind me the importance of slowing down and snuggling with the people you love. To show me how important it is to ask for exactly what you need rather than expecting others to read my mind. To show me true, unconditional love even when I look like crap, or just stepped on his toe, or haven't showered in a day and a half. To remind me that stuff - even expensive stuff that I was really hoping to hold onto for at least a few more years - is just stuff. And to show me what it's like to find deep, deep joy in the little things - running fast, soaking up the sun...eating poop.

He is a good dog...a great dog...the best dog. 

And in about ten minutes, I'll probably be trying to sell him on Craig's List.

Totally kidding.

Sort of.

a little update

Yesterday marked 32 weeks! It's hard to believe that just six weeks from now, we will be making last minute preparations for the babies...if they don't come before then, of course. We had a growth ultrasound this past Monday and everything looked great. The babies are four pounds each, placing them in the 63rd percentile (for a singleton at this gestation). They did all of the little "tricks" the tech wanted them to do - practice breathing, big movement, little movement, etc.

The only bummer is that Baby A (the one who's lowest in my abdomen and will be born first if it's a vaginal birth) is breech. I've really been hoping to avoid a c-section but each day that goes by without that baby flipping makes it less and less likely that my wish for a vaginal birth will come true. Since my last post about birthing twins, I have been doing lots of research. Many of you have been excellent resources for me, and I've also found quite a few knowledgeable women on Facebook who have shared from their wisdom and experience. Thanks to all of you for your help! I'm trying not to feel like it was all wasted energy if I just end up having to have a c-section. Plus, there is still some time for the baby to turn. Come on baby!!

This pregnancy has been so much fun. The babies have been very active, and it's a thrill every single time they move. It's also been fun to plan for the twins - from names to the nursery - we've really been enjoying this adventure and are starting to get so excited for the real adventure to begin when we welcome these children into the world. Although I have to say that I feel so very unprepared...especially if they're boys. We have about five articles of clothing that they'll have to share between them. We have no bedding. We have maybe two bottles. We do have our carseats, a double stroller, and a twin nursing pillow (a gift from a college friend and twin mom). Point is - we have some shopping and setting up to do. Plus, I have three or four books that I want to read before they get here - books about nursing twins, getting twins to sleep, etc. It's highly unlikely that I'll actually finish these books, but I'm going to try.

As fun as all of this is, I have to be honest. These babies are taking quite a toll on me physically. I got plantar fasciitis in my foot a couple weeks ago. It was so painful to walk, but I'm learning that wearing tennis shoes around the house makes a world of difference. I recently developed carpal tunnel in my arm, so it's often painful and tingly. I have a mystery muscle problem in my upper abdomen. It feels like a pulled muscle but worse. I'm still dealing with restless leg syndrome at night, although not every night, so that's a big improvement. My head cold came back for the third time, so I'm coughing a lot, my voice comes and goes, and I can't breathe through my nose. Carrying around fifty extra pounds makes everything more difficult and exhausting.  And speaking of exhaustion, my longest chunk of sleep in the past two weeks was two and a half hours. Then there's back pain, that random sick-to-my-stomach feeling, and the overall swelling...not to mention the stuff...that I don't really want to mention. When I read through all of this, I have to laugh! Every week it's something new, but as the next discomfort arises, an existing one often goes away...or at least I get used to it. 

Harriet is getting pretty excited for her little siblings to arrive. The other day in the car, she said, "Mom, I need some babies so I can be a big sister!" She often hugs and kisses my belly and says, "I love my babies." Yesterday, she decided that the babies needed a little extra pizzazz. I'll leave you with some pictures of her artwork.