Week 38. We’ve moved into a new phase of pregnancy that most people don’t warn you about (aside from my brother whose exact words were “if you get your wife pregnant in the summer you’ve just bought yourself a ticket to hell”). The new phase is most clearly marked by a change in how we talk to the children. For a long time, we were stuck in a phase I’ll call the Optimistic Illusion. We called them Deedle and Doodle (Amy became Dawdle in recognition of the pace of her eating). We talked about all the ways in which the twins would improve our lives. We assigned colors and clothing and areas of personal interest.
Now we simply call them squatters.
A day away from week 39 and no signs that they’re vacating any time soon. If anything, they seem to have settled in for the long haul. I assume this is good practice for that moment when they graduate from college and return home to get a job at a local coffee shop to write the great American Tweet.
If there was any question we were in the new phase, it was answered the other night when Amy got up from the couch and shouted “OUT OUT OUT OUT” down at her belly. Given the crazed look in her eyes, I thought she might be speaking in tongues … but when I helpfully offered to find a secular exorcist, she gave a look that cannot be described. I survived by locking myself in the bathroom and reminding her that we have This American Life on our Netflix Instant Queue.
In all fairness, I have to concede that I am not carrying twins. I have not gained [edited for the author’s safety] pounds. I do not have to go through labor. I do not have strange people touching me in the produce aisle of the grocery store. I’m not saying some of those things wouldn’t be interesting, but it’s beyond my experience.
I will say this … I’ve done what I could. I’ve come up with the Babies Out Program, a sure fire way to induce labor. Castor Oil? Eggplant Parmesan? Scrubbing the kitchen floor? All reasonable suggestions that failed. The BOP is so good that I’m hesitant to just give it out for free. Put simply, the BOP is a twenty minute labor induction method that consists of the pregnant individual catering to her partner’s every whim. Want a beer? Invoke the BOP. Want something more specialized, like a Fin du Monde? Have Amy bike to Florian’s and pick up a four pack and then stop by George’s for a cheese pizza, balancing everything on the handlebars. If that wouldn’t put her into labor then I don’t know what would.
Surprisingly, Amy was less than enthusiastic about this program.
