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As everyone in the real world knows, I’m 4 months and 1 week pregnant with twins.  Surprise!  This hasn’t run in my family for generations.  They are fraternal, measuring big for twins, and we don’t know the genders yet. 

During the first ultrasound, I saw the two dark spots and thought, “It can’t be.”  Before the technician said, “Do twins run in your family?”  I knew.  It all made sense as if some forgotten part of a story I’d already read had been remembered.  Of course, I’m expecting twins.

The ironic part is that in the OBGYN’s practice, which is not large, there are 12 women pregnant with twins.  The front desk gals and doctor agree that they’ve never seen a surge in twins quite like this.  The response I always get from people upon telling them this is that there’s something in the water.  And I really can’t help but wonder why so many women in the community are expecting twins?  Is it some kind of spiritual phenomena?  Is there really something in the water?  :)

The first trimester with twins was pure exhaustion.  I felt like I was walking around drunk.  Another mother of twins said it to me as well, that you feel like you’re living with a terrible hang over.  One of the main signs of the twin pregnancy was that I was starving even in the earliest weeks.  I was dazed and hungry and nauseous all at once. 

The second trimester looks like it’s going to go relatively smoothly so far.  While it is different in many ways from my first pregnancy, it’s a lot the same.  The main distinction is that I can feel so much more movement of the babies.  There was no fluttering or quickening, I can feel them turn over like at the end with my daughter.  The other strange event is that my back and hips ache.  It feels like they’re spreading, and God knows I don’t need any help in the hip width department.  It’s only at night while I’m trying to sleep that it hurts.  I keep pulling my husband over to me so I can lie on my side and throw a leg over him.  It helps so much.  He’s my most willing pregnancy pillow.

My biggest concern right now with having twins is taking care of my daughter once the twins come.  She’s a very active child, and she’s used to going out on her daily play dates and adventures.  I’m sure I’ll adapt to the jump from one to three children, but while the twins are newborns, this is going to be hard to pull off.  I have friends who are twins with an older sister, and I’m trying to ply them into asking their mother for advice.  This is where preschool should be my secret weapon, and I am seriously considering bumping her up to the four-day program if I can get her into it after Christmas.  I’m so glad we were able to start her in preschool before the twins come.  I’m due in March, and it is sure to be a very busy spring.

The period of time when I worked as a florist was an exquisite time of my life.  It came briefly after a series of catastrophic events in my personal life, and I think it was a gift to get me through.  In retrospect, I think the flowers saved me.

I loved it.  I worked on an elevated area where I watched the coming and goings in the storefront.  Usually, either young folks looking for corsages, happy couples planning their weddings, or families who had just suffered a death were coming in.  It was an intensely strange dynamic - as the need for flowers can be the best or worst of occasions.  It gave me an immediate and intimate look at human nature.

My hair always smelled like lilies -  Asiatic lilies remain my favorites.  They stood all around the room in 5-gallon buckets waiting to be arranged.  They have a strong scent while the cultivated roses are simply raised now for their appearance and longevity.  Somehow, most lilies have escaped that fate and remain fragrant with the ability to bruise easily.  I could make a thousand metaphors about that, but I won’t here.

There was a very experienced florist there who taught me how to care for the cut flowers.  Roses were the most demanding.  The protective petals of the roses had to be removed; the thorns shaved away, the stem threaded with wire to keep the head of the rose upright as long as possible.  The stem of the rose must be cut at an angle and immediately put into water or it will form a barrier that prevents absorption of the water solution.  She taught me the names of all the plants we used:  delphinium, alstroemeria, larkspur, statice, allium, and so many varieties of roses and greenery I can’t even begin to mention.  Soon, all the flowers were easily nameable as I related their scents and textures to their genre and names.

The calla lilies were one of my favorites.  All the pollen inside of them had to be shaken out so it would not spoil a bride’s dress in a single instance.  You cannot imagine how particular I was about the flowers for my own wedding ;)

My favorite part of the day was the very end.  On the floor below the table where we worked was a pile inches deep of discarded blossoms and leaves and stems.  No one ever wanted to sweep up, but I jumped at the chance.  I swept and swept until the entire room erupted in scent.  I always saved the flowers that weren’t quite perfect enough for our arrangements and brought them home with me for my mother’s table and my bedroom.

It still remains a passion of mine - creating that impermanent art.  I would love to go to Japan simply to study ikebana.  Floral arrangement really is an art and a gift.  In a way, I found it be some kind of community service - a gift to people in the happiest and saddest moments of life.  It still soothes me no matter what circumstances I happen to be in.

Valentine’s Day always makes me wish to be in the shop again with the hundreds and hundreds of red, pink, and white roses piled up on every available surface.  I’ve put a little money aside for Buttercup and I to decorate the entire house with flowers for the week leading up to Valentine’s Day.  I cannot wait to show her that, and I think it will be a good project for her leading up to Valentine’s Day.

So, I joined the mother’s group today.  I went to my first official meeting where we took votes on things, and the kid’s reigned total havoc in the church basement.  There was also a guest speaker there talking about mother’s issues.  I was scared it was going to be a Desperate Housewives scene, but it really wasn’t.  It was surprisingly pleasant.

Unexpectedly, I think I might enjoy this a lot.  They’re very active in the community, and they’re organizing food drives for Thanksgiving, a coat collection for children in need, and getting folks to donate toys for Christmas among many other things.  I’m actually pretty impressed with how thoroughly they’re run and structured as a non profit organization.  Recently, I’d been praying for a way to help people, to be given that ability:  this might be it.

The social dynamic is pretty good, too.  There are mothers of all different ages and walks of life.  I’m impressed with who they are and what they’re doing with their time.  I’m hoping this is going to be a beautiful thing, where I can have this surrounding group of women who are in the same place that I am.  It’s exciting in a way.  My mom always talks about a dear friend who had children of a similar age, and how much it meant to her to have someone to reflect with about the obviously challenging events that comprise raising children.  I hope I don’t get too optimistic, because that always destroys me, but I think this might be a very very good thing.

“Goodnight Moon” by Margaret Wise Brown was always one of my favorite books, as a little one. I remember the imagery and colors so clearly, the primary reds, greens, and yellows. Buttercup feels the same way, in fact, like me, one of her first words, was moon.

In the back of our copy, there’s a picture of the illustrator and the writer. Buttercup points to the picture of the illustrator, and I tell her that it’s the picture of the man who drew the pictures. She’s remarkably impressed by that, and she raises her delicate little hand to point to the pictures she’s drawn that I hang on the walls of the nursery. I say, “Yes! Just like you draw pictures!” She smiles so brightly, and I try and hold them in my hands, those two ideals of childish art and adult art. I often find myself believing that hers is greater, more real, done with more delight. My artist.

Grandpa is coming over today to start helping get the house ready for Buttercup’s birthday party. I’m very excited, and I can’t wait to have some help with it! We’re going to clear off the balcony to get it all set up to have seating outdoors.

To prepare for the onslaught of gifts little one is going to receive, I might put away some of her older toys that she’s not as interested in. It’s hard for me to do. Each stuffed animal, each block, each piece of artwork has so many memories attached to it. Recently, I went through two of the drawers in her dresser that I’ve been deliberately ignoring. In it, I’ve stuffed little bits of her childhood that I couldn’t bear to part with during her clothing archiving. Soft cotton bonnets, a few pairs of tiny socks, a couple of her first outfits… Those things mean so much to me. The delicate little onesies with their ribbons and detailed patterns - they remind me of how very far we’ve come. It’s such a journey, the first years with little one. It feels like it’s taken a lifetime, just to get here. Nothing in my life has taken as much work or made me feel as focused with my efforts. Little darling, how she grows.