Let your handsome husband talk you into a “back rub” when you know you’re ovulating. (Even though you’re of ‘advanced maternal age’ and theoretically should not be ovulating or left alone with a handsome husband)
Laugh good-naturedly when your doctor says, “So…there’s more than one and it appears the little jerks are sharing the same sac. I know you’re a researcher. Please do not Google this. What? Four children and 2 high risk pregnancies weren’t enough for you?” Then dry-heave, let your mouth fill with saliva and run to your car to spit and Google.
Read 367 books on twin pregnancy and birth in the following three days, scare the shiz out of yourself and vow to live on 1,713 grams of protein a day for the next 217 days and swear off Dr. Pepper and Pink Snoballs, of which your first child is created from.
Refuse to discuss your pregnancy with strangers. You will cause them to spontaneously combust.
‘Are you pregnant?’ Nope. I have metabolic syndrome. 🤯
‘Awww. Is this your first baby?’ Nope. This is 5 and 6. 🤯
‘Are you due like, tomorrow?’ Nope. I have 124 days of this torture left. Oh, and there’s two in there. 🤯
‘Oh my gawsh. You look like you’re having twins!’ I am. 🤯
‘I always prayed for twins.’ Oh yeah? 🤬
Eat at least 4,000 calories a day. But, be aware you’ll still be hungry. Make sure to wake up in the middle of the night to eat kielbasa with a side of liver and onions and drink a quart of chocolate milk. Pack a snack if you’ll be more than 20 feet away from the fridge. If you have to drive somewhere, pack a cooler.
Either get a catheter or procure a bedpan or chamber pot. Your bladder now only holds 1.5 mL at one time. Speaking of bodily functions, you won’t be able to poop unless the babies kick your butthole. Which is a thing.
Practice sleeping for 33 minutes per night and then run around the block barefoot with two pirhanas attached to your nipples and your hands tied behind your back.
Warn your children and husband that food is a holy, sacred artifact and to please not touch it if it belongs to the Mommy or they risk pulling back a mutilated, bloody stump. Assume anything leftover in the fridge is Mommy’s.
Prepare yourself for the high likelihood of crying and emotional meltdowns over such things as, food, going to the bathroom, boxes being thrown away, coffee commercials, reading of children’s books, giraffes, buttons, puppies, diapers, food, lack of bathrooms, storage containers, blankets, food, pants and sharks.
About 1/3 of the way through gestation, stop wearing pants. If an activity requires pants, do not participate.
Utilize wheelchairs, scooters, wheelbarrows, carts, gurneys and large animals whenever possible. Walking on your own two hooves will prove dangerous and extremely tiring.
Become comfortable with every single hole you own being touched, poked and pulled on for the duration. Also become accepting of the fact that you are, in effect, building a two-headed ‘ship in a bottle’ and the bottle opening may not be agreeable to two watermelons being squoze out of it, so you’ll likely have a 10th hole sawed into your abdomen to extract the babies. From here on out, when you touch your stomach, you’ll either register the sensation on your back or feel nothing at all. Don’t ask me to explain. I have no idea.
You will either have the worst time emptying your bladder or you’ll randomly pee all over yourself.
One of your nipples will be an inch longer than the other. Just let it go and look forward to ruthlessly tormenting the twin that used that boob from ages 8-39. Also, you will become an expert at tight-rolling like you did to your pants in the 90s. But it won’t be fashionable and it won’t be your pants you’re rolling.
Prepare yourself to, for the rest of your natural life, simultaneously experience pure, unadulterated joy and total, unmitigated horror every time you gaze upon the two ‘ships’ you built in one ‘bottle’ as they make weapons out of everything they touch, eat the cat puke on the porch and lick the rash cream off each other’s butts.
