Memories of Splits

I recently read the happy news of a friend who is expecting triplets. Triplets! Hooray! Reading his blog about how they found out they needed to upgrade to the triplet stroller brought misty memories for me in terms of my own Discovery Appointment. I think we've all had a moment of daydreaming of what the might be like, wondering how we'd find out, what the doctor would say, if it would be a surprise.....

Could it really be 7 years ago already? How is that possible when I feel like I just left that shocking appointment...

I didn't expect to be pregnant. At all. Due to Poly Cystic Ovarian Disease, my doctor had squashed any dreams of spontaneous conception for me. (Ever get a phone call from your doc telling you it was okay to "engage in sexual relations? It's just as sexy as you'd dream it could be). We had just gone through our first 6 months of unsuccessful treatment and were taking a much needed breather before starting the more intense Injectables phase of our pregnancy plan.

That's when I started to feel kinda funny.

But I couldn't be. Could I? I mean, I wasn't supposed to be. Was I?

March 18, 2004: I woke up and took that first pregancy test. Positve. I stared at it in disbelief. How is it that we had just dug ourselves $5,000 in debt when I had just achieved it without meds? For free?

My doctor was equally leary of my proclaimation of pregnancy and hauled me in for a blood test. Several nerve-wracking hours later they called to tell me "I was very pregnant" and "could I please come in immediately for an ultrasound". Very pregnant? What did that mean, exactly? I didn't know there were gradations of it, like hues of colors. It sounded odd.

First thing the the next morning found me in the office again, undergoing a very in depth (and uncomfortable) internal ultrasound. I was too nervous to look at the screen, but in all honesty that little grain of rice seemed non-human to me. It just sat there at 6 weeks. But my doctor was interested in something, hemming and hawing over what he wasn't seeing.

As I came to find out, my hormone levels were really high. Hence the "Really Pregnant" diagnosis. I have since learned this can mean one of 3 things: either I was a. further along than we thought, b. having multiples, or c. there was something wrong with the pregnancy.

Initial measurements correlated with my 6 week estimation, so we knew a. was ruled out. My doctor was now looking to answer b. Thing was, he could only find one sac. And only one baby inside that one sac. One baby. One sac. Couldn't be multiples. He kept mumbling this through the ultrasound: "There's only one sac here, and only one fetal pole", and I grew more and more annoyed at his apparent disregard to the fact that I was okay with that. One baby was fine with me. Heck, any baby was fine with me. Geesh doc, show some love. 

At the end of the scan, he retold me about the whole one sac/one baby thing (really annoyed by that point), and added that the heartbeat was much brighter than they expect to see at 6 weeks. "But that's probably a good thing". Wow, thanks for that encouragement. I left with a diagnosis sheet that had a single check mark on it: Fetal Abnormality.

I didn't realize it at the time, but my doctor was already writing this one off. This ultrasound was a test, and I had failed; I wasn't further along than expected and try as he might he couldn't find another sac or baby. Option C seemed to be the likely culprit. Something had gone wrong in the many divisions of cells.

He scheduled me for another ultrasound in 7 days. "Just to check". In the meantime (and since he already had a thought that we were facing problems), he suggested that I not tell anyone I was pregnant. He clearly did not know me. I told everyone who stood long enough to listen, and even a few people who didn't.

7 days later I marched back into the office, this time with Dan in tow. As with before, I found myself unable to look at the screen, afraid of what I'd see. Or what I wouldn't see. I was waiting for news, but there was silence. Both doctor and Dan were staring at the screen. The doctor, with a furrowed brown; Dan with an open mouth.

"What did I see before?" my doctor inquired.

"A.....baby?" was my meek response. Was this a trick question?

"Well, you're having twins."

Whoa.

 (Remember that extra bright heartbeat? It was baby B stacked against A.)

"Make that....(moving the scan around a bit)...identical twins."

Hot damn!

".....and....(there's more?)...It appears they may be conjoined."

Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.

The rest of the appointment was kinda a blur after that. Statistically, I wasn't having conjoined twins, my doctor assured us. But that scan. Looking at it, it sure was hard to tell for certain, and the fact that when one moved left, the other tugged that way too truly didn't set anyone's mind at ease. There were "things to consider", I was told by my now doom-and-gloom doctor.

This was not the way you would dream of being told about your multiples. I had only just found out about them, and now I faced losing them. I wasn't sure how to take it. Or what to think. To be happy? To be scared?

Both. Overwhelmingly, both.

Long story short (I think I've blogged about this before anyway), I was hooked up with a specialist who deals with obtuse pregnancies like this; we outliers who breed potentially connected kids. There were still more tense weeks ahead before our fears were put to rest, more scans of "not sure" before seeing a definite separate movement between them. But we did see it. Eventually. Turns out our kids decided to hold off on the whole egg-splitting thing until later in the "Splitting Phase".

Science Lesson!:
 If an egg is going to split, it will do so between days 8-12. If it splits on the early side, identical twins can have separate sacs and separate placentas, and appear to be fraternal on ultrasounds.
If they split on the later side, as ours did, they run the risk of being conjoined due to being too close together when the head/spinal cords/abdominal walls form. Ours weren't conjoined, but they are a really nifty side effect of being late splitters: Mirror Twins. They are symetrically opposite of each other.
 Coolio.

Of course, after the worry of "Were They Or Weren't They" was removed from the table, we were on to other twin issues that took up space in our Worry Jar. Lots of 'em. Keeping me planted firmly on the High Risk group.

It's hard to believe it all turned out, though. But it did. I have two (presently) sniffling, feverish  and truly delightful sprites dancing around me right now as proof. They're here. They're healthy.

 I give them props; they fought like hell to get here, running a gestational obstacle course worthy of any athlete.

It's all worth it. Every bit of it. And seeing their smiles everyday, I have to think they agree.



Starting Grounds

After much thinking and considering, Dan and I have decided to enroll the girls in an on-line school for next year. (Ohio Virtual Academy) This will be an experiment of sorts, to see how it goes.

I know what you may be thinking: as a teacher, aren't I supposed to want my kids IN a classroom? Isn't that what's better for them?

Yes and no.

As a teacher, I certainly appreciate the benefits of a classroom and the learning environment there. I do. I also love being in a classroom and working with students. That being said, I don't necessarily agree that a classroom environment is the only way for kids to learn. There. I've said it.

So we're going to give OHVA a shot and see how it goes. See if it works for us. If not, they'll be heading straight back to their current school. End of story.

And can I just say, I am pretty excited about the adventure of doing this. I can't wait. Oh the work...oh the frustrations..oh the blogging moments! But imagine the possible successes? The achievements? The new experiences, even. One my great joys on this journey of education has been in watching these two unfold into their own selves; seeing them take those first steps towards true independence as they each gain information and knowledge and make it her own. And I cannot wait to see what they'll do with this at-home experience. I truly cannot.

When we tell people our plans to do OHVA, I get one of two responses: supportive or skeptical. Hey, I'm not judging here. Everyone is entitled to his or her personal opinion.

But so are we.

This is our opinion right now. We're going to try this, give it all we've got, every day. Could it be a spectacular flop? Sure, but so could oh-so-many things that people strive for in life. On the other hand, it could be a complete and smashing success. It just might.

But it takes a first step. And this is ours.

I'm filling out the paperwork, submitting everything. Getting started.

And feeling the excitement in it. The "New" of it.

And smiling.

In Which The Van Wouldn't Start...

First off, I am not a car person. I drive them, but that's about it. I depend upon them and trust that when I turn the key, it will start; push the gas, it will go; press the brake, it will stop. As to the magic behind the scenes that allows all this to happen, well ,that's the wizard behind the curtain. The Dodge version of "Great And Powerful Oz". And today I almost caught a glimpse of his elusive person...

This morning I dropped the ladies off as usual, waiting in the playground until their class was called in. Returning to my car at a run (brrrrrr, it was cold), I hopped in to start her up. Sadly, "tickticktickticktickticktick" was all I heard.

(What the?)

Ticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktick.

(Grrrr)

I began firing phone calls off in rapid succession: Husband. Mom. Dad. Brother. (Everyone needed to be in on this).

I've never really been in a non-starting car before; my aforementioned trust has never been tested, you see. I called AAA (so this is why you join every year? Miraculous!). They were very kind and helpful, and got a tow truck out to me faster than I would have thought possible.

Hello, Roy.

With a smile, Roy attached cable-thingies (the technical term for "Jumper Cables"), and got my stubborn van started again. He left after giving me instructions to let the van run for 10 minutes and then go straight to Auto Zone (the closest place) to get a new battery.

Bye, Roy. Thanks.

My 2 mile drive to the auto store was fraught with nerves for me. I was now officially wary of my once faithful companion: my car. Every light, every stop sign, I wondered, "Is this it? Will it stall? What will it do?" (It clearly couldn't be trusted, after all.)

The folks at Auto zone were all smiles and joy when I walked into the store. (I have that effect on people wherever I go, you see). They tested and affirmed Tow Truck Roy's diagnosis of a bad battery and got me hooked up with a brand spanking new one. (Oooohhhh! New battery!)

So now the van is "fixed" and should be "okay". But I admit that I hesitate and whisper a prayer every time I go to start it. "Please start. Please, please start." Exhaling with gratitude as the engine catches and sparks to life.

As I said before, I'm not a car person. I just trust that whatever the mechanics are that make the thing go are all lined up and in place when I need them. A magic-machine. That's what it is. And when the magic falters, even if only due to a dead battery, some of the sheen of that is scuffed up a bit.

Here's to auto clubs, tow trucks, auto stores, friendly people with smiles, and new batteries.

And may the remainder of this Monday be just a bit less eventful.

When the girls were born, the first thing my husband did was look for some difference between them. Some identifying mark that would help us tell one from the other.

Anything.

He didn't have to look long before finding one. Ashlyn, our precious Baby B, had a small freckle on her right cheek. Tiny. Discreet. But there.

We were told later that it's somewhat unusual for a baby to have a freckle of that type straight out of the womb. We smiled. It was God's little cheat sheet for us.

And how we used it! The thing about babies, is that they look alike, no matter if their identical or not. Put 2 or more balding, red, squalling things side by side, and you'll be confused as to which is which. And as they grew, the confusion only got worse. Now we had two baldies on the move, scooting here, toddling there.

I've lost count of how many times I've uttered the phrase: "Thank Goodness For That Freckle".

And I think Ashlyn liked it. It has become her symbol, of sorts; part of her identity. She's always been fine with it. Never seemed to bother it or be upset about it. And she understood that we looked at cheeks when talking to both of them, sorting out who had the freckle and who didn't before assigning a name. If that bothered her, she never let on.

So you can imagine my surprise when I wake her up yesterday to find that she's effectively picked the freckle off. First off, I cannot imagine how uncomfortable that process had to have been; and second, I'm not sure why she did it.

But she did.

And I can't say the results are very good. Nails being what they are, it's not quite as nicely done as a doctor would do, you see.

So I took her the doctor to check out the sore on her face. Is it okay? Will it get infected? A thorough check of it and a prescription for anti-fungal cream. 3x a day. Don't forget. (I won't). We also were given an appointment for a bona fide plastic surgeon to have it done the right way; to undo any damage she did.

And what about that freckle? Ashlyn has already expressed a sadness that it will be coming off. She probably should have thought of that before digging it off with her fingernails. Hind sight, right?

She despaired that she wouldn't be Ashlyn anymore.
I explained that her freckle is not what makes her Ashlyn. She'll still be Ash.

She despaired that it would hurt.
I told her it won't.

She delighted that they won't use anything sharp to cut it off. Just round things.
I'm letting her go with that one.

We'll see how this turns out.

How life is without That Freckle.

Without Compare...

Happy or sad.

Smart or dumb.

Pretty or ugly.

Good or bad.

Up or down.

I suppose these groupings are best categorized as being opposites. But on another level, they're also comparisons. Don't you think?  It can be so easy to look at something and quickly assess its worth or quality based on opposites like this. When faced with a choice between this or that, how many of us don't fall back on our ingrained classification system to make the choice? I know I do.

It's scary how easy it can be to do this with the girls. Frightening, really. I know any parent of more than one child can face the impulse to assign a quick comparison onto their children. It's so easy. So quick. And so socially acceptable.

Often I'm asked to compare my girls. People will come up to us in the store and begin asking me, "Which one is smarter? Whose the nicer one? Which one is the good one?" My heart breaks a little at each of these, not because of the words they are using, but because of the words not said: Dumb. Mean. Bad.

How can I possibly answer a question like that? About my children? My precious, amazing, indescribable children?

My response is always this: "They are both amazing kids. Full of personality. Full of talent. Full of beauty. Full of potential. We cannot wait to see what they use all their gifts for in life, and are blessed to have front row seats to the show." End of statement.

I consider my number one job as their mother to be their advocate; their main cheerleader. That's me. I don't have a "favorite", and I don't think one is "better" than the other.

 God made them each exactly perfect.

Caedance. Ashlyn. Each girl is a unique bundle of wonder. Each has her strengths, her weaknesses. Within each resides the potential to do great things in her life, with her life. I can only begin to imagine the successes they'll achieve. The greatness they'll strive for, and the fumbles along the way.

And I'll be right there, cheering each one on. Through the good or the bad, I'll be there. Hands held high, smile on my face, my eyes filled with the beauty of these two creatures who have entered my life and made it purposeful. My heart's song is one of thanks for my girls.

 Exactly as they are.

 No comparisons needed.

Shrinking The Fun

Hallelujah, the girls are finally at an age where we can proceed with a project and I don't feel like pulling my hair out. It's a blessed thing when they realize that every piece of the craft does not need to be thrown on the floor, smeared on their person or the table, or catapulted across the room.

Hooray for new phases!

In celebration of their new crafting trustworthiness, today we made Shrinky-Dinks.

Do you remember Shrinky-Dinks? I think the bulk of my childhood is wrapped around them, somehow. I simply cannot begin to explain how much I liked them.

Nor am I able to explain exactly why.

What is it about coloring, cutting, baking, and observing that could possibly be so exciting? It doesn't seem like very much, but somehow it endlessly amazed me.

I'd color; always careful to do my best. I'd cut; aware of each line and curve. I'd bake; face pressed against the little window on the oven, waiting for that miraculous moment when my creations would begin the magic dance of curling, bending, and shrinking.

It all happened so fast! You'd have to be right there to witness it. Blink and it would be over.

Smurfs. Rainbow Brite. He-Man. Transformers. Scooby Doo. All colored and shrunk out of obligation and whim.

I, being the youngest (and only girl), always got stuck with the ones no one wanted. The uncool He-Man dude. Thelma. Brainy Smurf. A Decepticon. But Rainbow Brite was all mine.  I took my time coloring each form and baking them one at a time, hoping to make the joy last.

Then of course came the dilemma of what to do with these now shrunken, slightly useless, not quite so much fun items. I remember they came with a few stands to put them in , so I recall shuffling them about on a table, creating some manner of play with them. And then.......well.....who knows. I came across Rainbow Brite not too long ago, shoved in some forgotten box I'd opened. My memories were stirred.

Thus our project today.

The girls dutifully colored their forms; now on paper that you have trace out yourself on the shrinking paper. (Gone are the days of branded Shrinky-Dinks, and aren't we the poorer for it?) I did the honor of cutting, partly due to the difficulty of cutting the paper, but mostly out of the selfish desire to relive my youth. Cookie sheet in the oven, we waited for the magic to start, faces pressed against the oven window. Well, face pressed against the window. The girls were not nearly as excited as I was about what was going to occur, and had skipped away, returning only in response to my squeals of girlish delight and calls of, "They're shrinking! They're shrinking!" (I'm not proud of my zealous response, nor am I ashamed. I also jump and clap at the mere sight of a Hot Air Balloon. Love me despite the faults.)

I may have gotten more out of today's craft than they did. That's okay. There is something indescribably perfect about sharing something cherished from my childhood with them. Even if all they ever do is roll their eyes and think I'm slightly mental, I'm sharing a piece of myself with them. Reaching out from across the span of time,  from my childhood to theirs. They may never latch onto any of it, but the connection is made and the circle made full when we do it together.

Indescribable.

The other day, Ashlyn was excited to tell me about a new word she'd learned.

"Mommy! Guess what? I know a new word!"

"Do you? And which word might that be, my love?"

"Indescribable"

"Oh my. That's quite a mouthful, isn't it? And a good word to know."
(I suspect I have "Aladdin" to thank for it too. They've been watching it lately and I know this vocabulary-stunner is used in the song, 'A Whole New World'.)

"Mommy, what does Indescribable mean?"

I hesitated before answering, envisioning the word and gathering its meaning; thinking of the plainest way to present it to my curious 6 year old. "Something is indescribable when there are just no other words for it. When other words are just not big enough. Not good enough for it.  If something is really really good, it's indescribable, but bad things can be too."

"Oh. I see."

A few minutes of quiet lapsed, during which I could almost hear the wheels of her brain turning.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, love?"

"Am I Indescribable in the good way?"

(Oh). "Yes. Yes you are, Ashlyn. You truly are."

In the best way.