Hurry Up and Wait.

Its an old saying, but it has never had more meaning for me than it does now. I am officially in my 26th week. What that means is that I probably have no more than 10 or so weeks to go, seeing as my doctor has said that she probably won't let me go much past 36 weeks, if I even make it that far.

On one hand, 10 more weeks sounds like a freaking eternity. That is 70 days. And I am starting to feel borderline miserable. First of all, I am so hot. Like on fire. I have the A/C turned down in the 60's at home and Brent has taken to wearing a sweatshirt to bed. Meanwhile, I am sleeping with no covers, sweating. My office is an oven. SOMEONE, TURN OFF THE HEAT! But unfortunately, the heat is those two little parasites living inside of me. Don't get me wrong, I love them to pieces, but they are still parasites. Aside from the ridiculously tropical temperature of my bod, I am just getting large and in charge. My proportions are bordering on the absurd and when I tell people that I am not due for at least 10 more weeks, they look horrified. When I inform them that there are twins in there, they look only slightly relieved. I was told this week that I look "like I should be strapped to a hospital bed." (END QUOTE OF INCREDIBLY INSENSITIVE CO-WORKER.)

On the other hand, as uncomfortable as I am, and as I long as 10 weeks sounds, I am terrified the babies will be born prematurely. I keep having the same damn nightmare over and over that I go to the doctor for a checkup and they make me deliver the babies that day. I beg and beg and beg, but they won't listen. And it is never because the babies are sick or I am sick, it is because the doctor is mean. I wake up feeling totally terrified and determined to keep those kids in there as long as I can. If I keep them in for 50 weeks, does that improve their chances of going to Harvard?

And on the other hand (for you sportsfans keeping track at home, that is the third hand), 10 weeks sounds like not enough time at all. I am beginning to panic about all things large and small. For one, the nursery hasn't even been started yet, and except for a few silly message T's (one says "Lock Up Your Daughters") I haven't bought a blessed thing. These babies are going to make their way into a home full of dog toys, lots of LV purses, copious amounts of sporting memorabilia and nothing for them. I was eyeing a little plastic bone yesterday and wondering if it could double as a teething ring.

Aside from the acquisition of material crap, I am also not feeling ready emotionally. Brent and I had a lovely Labor Day weekend of being lazy, sleeping late and going out to dinner. I enjoyed myself immensely, and the thought in the back of my mind all the whole time was: this is all about to end. To add insult to injury, a lot of my friends are having babies lately, and they are all bemoaning their lack of sleep. And I am downright terrified. I border on evil personified when I am tired, so I advise you to stay away from me, for oh, the next year or so.

So to sum up, I have never been more uncomfortable in my life, so of course I can't wait to get these babies out of me. Except that I am having nightmares about having them early. And that there will be nowhere to put them when they get here. And that I am not sure how the hell I am going to care for two little babies. Don't I sound serene?