i can hear you!!

I'm on the phone but I can hear you outside my office, talking like I'm not even there.

"This is Roya. She oversees public affairs. She's actually pregnant with twins."

"Really? You can't even tell."

Snarky laugh. "Actually, she's small to begin with. But about three weeks ago, BOOM! She just popped. You can't see it behind the desk, but wait til she stands up."

"Eeeuw, really?"

"She's going to get much bigger. I think she's only five months now, but just wait."

Gaggle of laughter ensues.

I can't turn around fast enough to give them both the stink eye, so I'll just continue eating my bagel, talking on the phone and reveling in my girth.

we need a vacation from you

Dear Boss,

I hope this note finds you well. Just wanted you to know, since I am sure you are thinking about it, that everything is fine. There are no crises threatening to derail our nearly 100-year old institution. Employees are showing up to work and even staying until late afternoon. Work is being completed on time and we are diligently handling all questions/requests in your absence.

So why the need to check email and call every day from your family vacation in Hawaii? Do you have any idea how ANNOYING and UNNECESSARY that is? Do you realize you are creating more work by forcing us to respond to you, plus also handle your work? You went on vacation last year and did the same thing, and the same thing before that. If I were your wife, I would have divorced you by now. You said you were going on vacation. Stay on vacation. Our team needs a vacation from you, too.

Love,
R

oh brother(s)

We had an ultrasound today and I couldn't bear the suspense anymore. While Dr. T (who J and I lovingly call Dr. Personality in honor of his penchant for not speaking) stared at the monitor, I blurted out, "Will we know the sex today?"

"Sure," he said. Then he continued to stare at the screen, make some notes and generally ignore me. After a few minutes he wiped my midsection and said, "Everything is good."

"So do we know?" I asked him, mildly hyper.

"We don't know," he replied. "But I know."

OMG, really? "So, Dr. T, what do you know?"

"What do you want?" he said.

Oh, we're playing that game. Okay. "A boy and a girl would be nice," I replied.

He shook his head. "This is out of the question."

Wha, what?? "Uh...is it...two girls?" I said, feeling my hands start to sweat. I'm a feminist and all but raising two girls, especially two teenage girls, might make me join the Taliban.

"Do you want two girls?"

I get what I want in this scenario? Well, well. "My husband wants a basketball team," I replied, "so two boys would be nice."

"Okay," he said, pretending to look down a list. "The preference is boy and girl, two boys, and last preference is two girls."

"Right!"

He nodded and said, "Your husband will have a basketball team. See you in two weeks."

"Are you KIDDING? TWO boys?"

"I'm not kidding. Make sure you get your glucose screen next week." And with that, Dr. Personality shook my hand and vacated the room.

There you have it. Cut and Paste, their working names, are two boys. I will share a house with four dudes. Magnus will have two little brothers to play with or beat up. I won't know the experience of raising a daughter. But I'm okay. I'm more than okay. I'm a mamma to three BOYS!

how much regressing is good?

Last week I had the great fortune of meeting Dr. Murad (THAT Dr. Murad, of the famed Murad skin care line). Our company is doing a cause marketing partnership with Murad in support of women's cancers research. The meeting was designed to immerse our team in the Murad philosophy of inclusive health.

But I digress.

Dr. Murad was kind enough to give us a tour of Murad's sprawling complex, show us his office and laboratory spaces, feed us fruit and then talk to us about his world view. All good until he discussed children and how we could all benefit from being more child-like.

Uhhhhhhhhh.....

I've heard this argument before but I decided to give it more consideration after our meeting. I fully believe that most adults are consumed by the mundane realities of life: the mortgage, car insurance, office politics, job stresses, etc. We don't laugh as much as we could or take the time to find pleasure in small things.

However, I am at a loss as to how I could become more child-like while still earning a living, raising a family and keeping my husband attracted to me. Baby talk is completely out of the question. I suppose I could stop cooking dinner and when Magnus and J look to me with hunger in their eyes, I could point to the backyard and yell, "Slide!" Or, when my boss gives me my budget and asks why I'm spending money on certain things, I could place my hand beneath my armpit and emit fart noises. Something along those lines?

I do try to make an effort as much as possible to reflect on the many positives of my life and find humor instead of looking at the negative, but that's as far as I can go without completely regressing and soiling my pants. I wonder, is Dr. Murad, who runs a multimillion dollar empire, really child-like in his views? I can't imagine the pressures of product development, research, marketing, fulfillment and customer service allowing for him to be whimsical, open and trusting.

But perhaps I'm just a battered, cynical old soul who is beyond help?

amy w

Spent yesterday replaying some of my favorite Amy Winehouse tracks. If I could drink I would toast her with a good red wine, so instead I will highlight some of my favorite lyrics.

He walks away, the sun goes down
He takes the day but I'm gone
And in your way and in this blue shade
My tears dry on their own.

So we are history, your shadow covers me
The sky above, a blaze.

I wish I could sing no regrets and no emotional debts
'Cause as we kiss goodbye the sun sets
So we are history, the shadow covers me
The sky above, a blaze only lovers see.

staving off the inevitable

Since I developed gestational diabetes while pregnant with Mags, it can only be a matter of time before I am told to cut out sugar, refined grains - and generally anything that's fun to eat - and to start pricking myself with a needle four times a day. Of course I should be cutting out the bad stuff anyway (in addition to counting how many calories I am ingesting daily, which sounds like NO FUN and WORK to me), but since I am now perpetually hungry, congested and emotional, I am going to eat whatever the frick I want until I am told otherwise.

Don't get me wrong, I still abide by the federal law that mandates five servings of fruits or veggies a day. It's just the stuff in between. Like the small plate of Cheetos (okay, three plates) that I inhaled yesterday. Normally I don't eat chips and the like but something about that overly processed cheese sensation was calling me. Or today. Two scoops of pistachio ice cream, right on the heels of a bag of organic carrots. Mmm, that's fusion.

I estimate I have about a month of fairly unrestricted eating before the hammer falls. Why not celebrate that time with pie, tortillas and more pie?

Oh, pie.

enough with the peanut gallery

Is there a sign on my head that says: "Comments About My Twins Welcome?" I didn't think so.

Since I officially pooched last week and can no longer hide my rapidly expanding midsection, I've been hit with all manner of comments from family, friends and strangers alike. Some of them very nice and positive. Like, "I always wanted to be a twin." "How fun it will be to shop." Or, "You should probably grow your hair out."

But some of the feedback has not been as nice. Like the guy I work with who recoiled in horror and said, "Twins?? I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy! And you have another kid already?" Or the woman at the pharmacy who said, "My sister had twins. At least she is young and can keep up with them."

People probably have preconceived notions about twins and they are just projecting. This is what I tell myself.

Today I was relieved to actually talk to a woman who has 18 month old twin boys. We were having a phone conversation but by the end, I was ready to jump through the phone line and French kiss her. She listened to my questions about co-sleeping, nursing pillows and spit up. She assured me that I would eventually leave the house and be able to bathe. No judgement, no pitying tone of voice. Where'd she been all my first trimester?

This afternoon I will attend a large department meeting and am bracing for the comments when I stand in the dessert line. (Because I will, probably several times.) I'm working on some retorts:

- Fuck off.
- I'm hormonal. Fuck off.
- I'm hormonal. (Dabs at imaginary tears). Can't you just fuck off?

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