You know how they say, “Never say never”? I realized today that the last post I wrote had the idiotic statement, “Twins never go to their official due date.” That is just asking for trouble.
I am beginning to think I may be one of those women who carry their twins to forty weeks.
We went to church yesterday, where I was greeted with all manner of sympathy and distress at my being there, twins still intact, feet shoved into men’s brown slippers two sizes larger than I normally wear (but their indoor/outdoor soles make them appropriate for worship, right?). If “cankles” are when your calves and ankles are the same size, what do you call it when your thighs, calves, and ankles are the same size? Cedars of Lebanon?
I look ridiculous. I have one pair of pants that fits, and that is only because they are made of a super-stretchy material and the waistband elastic is shot. And it’s not like I look *good* in them, just presentable. Sort of. Think, “pair of pants on a beach ball.” All my other pants/skirts/shorts? Either the waist is slipping over the top of my belly, at which point I feel like wearing loose support stockings around my ankles, a peach-colored cardigan, and smacking my gums; or they are slipping down under my belly, at which point I feel naked.
My children mock the way I walk. “Mama walks like this,” they say, and then they do this Lollipop Guild waddle while they giggle. I would make them stop, but that would involve lifting my excrutiatingly heavy belly so that I could sit up from this reclining position on the couch. And even then I’d need their help to stand up so I could scold properly.
ANYHOO. I was looking at some pictures we took over the last year, and they made me smile. I’m so glad we got to spend time in Montana. I will always have a soft spot for her mountains and lakes and flowers and wildness. And I hope my children remember the time we spent there.
And I hope they DON'T remember the way I waddle.