Aaah....Sugar, Sugar

If you've read the previous post by my dear husband (and if you haven't, do so immediately), you know that he can make any situation funny. Too bad he wasn't with me for my 30 week appointment. The whole fiasco actually began at home 45 minutes before my appointment time when, after fasting since midnight, I got to drink an entire bottle of Sunkist-flavored glucose. Then I got to hop in the car and be driven down Overton Road to 280 then to Brookwood Hospital. In case you've never taken this route, please be advised that it presents the ideal conditions for severe motion sickness -- a constant serpentine route punctuated with hairpin curves and unexpected stop and go traffic -- I'm convinced the Army Corps of Engineers laid it out for just this purpose. Now try to imagine it from the passenger seat with your previously empty stomach constantly threatening to expel the huge amount of syrupy sweet orange gunk you just chugged in under a minute. And the day has just begun.

Immediately upon arrival, I informed them I was loaded up on glucose and ready for my finger stick. In the mean-time blood pressure (normal), weight (5 more pounds, just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic at this point). Finally, glucose level *dun, dun, DUN* 209. Instinctually, I know that isn't good, I'm not sure what it should be, but 209 just has an ominous look about it. Sure enough, it's supposed to be under 140. So I haven't failed the test in an "oops, missed it by that much" kind of way, but in more of a "shot down in a blaze of glory" style. I carry this little black cloud of information with me to the ultrasound room.

The ultrasound goes well in that all the babies' heartbeats look good, but they are now packed as tightly as sardines, and don't provide much of a show. From the looks of them, they are as ready for September 25 as I am. In case I failed to mention it before, this is the almost drop-dead, probably definite date of my c-section.

On to my consult with Dr. Robinette. In addition to confirming that I failed my 1-hour test "real good", he informs me that I have to come back for the three hour fasting glucose test. I opt to do it next day, just to get it over with. He then adds insult to injury by letting me know that I can now stop gaining weight. Not that I don't appreciate his permission to stop my uphill climb to morbid obesity, but what I would really like to know is HOW exactly I'm supposed to keep the pounds at bay. After all, I am on bedrest and burn approximately 3 calories per day. Maybe I'm supposed to start waving my arms around a lot, or aggressively kicking off the blankets three or four times a day. Points to ponder on my way home.

I arrive bright and shiny next day to complete my 3-hour ordeal. First they take a baseline blood sample from my arm -- no sweat, Miss Lida hits it first stick. Then I get to drink another truckload of syrupy-sweet, flat Sunkist drink. Mmmm...Mmmm. And so the wait begins. Some skinny girl has the only love seat staked out already. I immediately decide to hate her. I've brought a book, and attempt to read away the first hour. It's a little hard to concentrate because I'm so thirsty I can't think straight. I ask about some water, and am told I can't have it yet. Apparently water can throw off a glucose test. I'm really unclear on how this works, since I thought there was nothing in water but...well, water. They're all for the stuff on Weight Watchers. Maybe someone should tell them about this? At last, one hour down and the real fun begins.

I go for my second stick. One in my arm, much twisting in search of the vein -- no go. I point out a big vein on the inside of my wrist. This time she breaks out the butterfly -- this is a really thin needle attached to a tube which I now know represents real desperation on the part of most phlebotomists. Much sticking and twisting, and still not a drop. Apparently, I'm too dehydrated because of the aforementioned water embargo. Long story short, they track down a Dr. to place a hep-lock from which to do the remaining three draws. In the process, I bleed all over the cuff of my pants, and almost make some poor girl faint with dread over being next in line. Take a number, sister. If anybody's earned that kind of drama, it's me. At least they feel guilty enough to give me some ice chips and tell me I'm a real sweetheart. Good thing they haven't heard a word I've been thinking for the last hour.

Somewhere after hour two, skinny girl disappears, and I take over her loveseat. Only a hugely pregnant woman can accomplish the ugly sprawl in which I finished my final hour. Thankfully there was a really nice lady who is pregnant with twins sitting next to me. I give up pretending to read. I'm so hungry, none of the words make sense anyway. So we just talk about being pregnant, what we're naming our babies, and whether she's going to get a regular or a jumbo sized Frosty from Wendy's once she leaves. Finally, it's all over, and I leave looking like a poorly wrapped mummy from all the needle sticks. I resign myself to a diabetic diet and try to catalog all the low-carb food in the house. It's a short list.

Today, I received a call from Nurse Debbie telling me that the results of the 3-hour test were completely normal. I can't explain it, but am glad to hear it. I decide to celebrate with a bowl of ice cream. I always was a blaze of glory kind of girl.

The Daddy's Perspective

It is well known that I am not as creative as my lovely wife, but I thought it was about time that the father's voice was heard in all of this.

I'd like to answer some of the most common questions I get asked:

Q) "Do triplets run in you family?"
A) No...but short, bald people do.

Q) "Were you surprised when you found out?"
A) Yes...somewhere between "Happy Birthday!" and "Oh no, ninjas!"

Q) "Were fertility meds involved?"
A) Despite the suggestion from some of my friends that I should take this opportunity to boast about my potency, I have to be truthful and say, of course not.

Q) "How's your wife feeling?"
A) This question must be answered carefully. I usually respond with, "she's coming along day by day" or "hangin' in there." I do not say "imagine three angry squirrels or small badgers have taken up residence in your innards...something like that."

Q) "How's the nursery coming along?"
A) You did not just ask me that.

Q) "Are you getting a minivan?"
A) I will admit that I was one of those people who swore I would never drive a minivan. Since I have purchased an Odyssey, it dawns on me that minivans are SEXY! The only problem is, I think we may still have trouble fitting four car seats in it...I probably should have gone with the church van(NOT sexy).

Q) "Names?"
A) ME: Huey, Dooey, and Louie
Jodi: No, be serious Jason!
ME: Trip, Trey, and #3
Jodi: (frown)
ME: Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego
Jodi: Shutup.
ME: (Shutting up) Unknown to most people, Jodi packs a mean right cross and I have a glass jaw.

I look forward to putting some pics of the new ones on the site in a few weeks. I don't think you can be fully prepared for the chaos that this change will bring but, it certainly will be the adventure of a lifetime.

Ode to My Coccyx

It has been brought to my attention that I have failed to make a new blog entry in about a week. For this gross oversight, I place the blame squarely on my coccyx. That's right, the trusty tailbone. The one part of the human body you are guaranteed to pay no attention to whatsoever, until it hurts. And once that occurs, my friends, there's really no room in the average brain for creative thought or for any other thought really besides, "Ow! Ow! @#$%!@ Ow!" Let's call it Heightened Coccyx Awareness -- I'm sure there's a chapter devoted to it in some orthopedic text somewhere.

At times like this, I really wish I'd paid more attention during human anatomy in high school. Maybe then I'd have some clue as to how three babies jutting a foot and a half in front of me can possibly be causing that much discomfort in the opposite direction. But since I was raised by a mother who hid her medical encyclopedia to guard against the possibility of impure thoughts, and whose idea of sex ed. involved simply observing the mating habits of the feral cats in our back yard, I think I spent the whole time waffling from slightly embarrassed to outright mortified. I certainly wasn't learning anything that might help me understand my current dilemma.

I have to admit, my present state of "coccyx awareness" is not an entirely new experience. Remember the 90's when absolutely everyone knew that the greatest form of outdoor exercise known to man was rollerblading? I put aside any bad memories of elementary school visits to Skate Galaxy in Jasper, and convinced myself that with age came coordination. This was a painfully incorrect assumption. Mainly because a) I weighed more, and b) had at lot further to fall. Also, I chose to make my first attempt in an ill-kept, abandoned parking lot. Not that there's ever a good place for falling, but landing butt-first on concrete would be pretty high on my list of really bad places to fall. But I was young and healed quickly. I also was smart enough to sell the rollerblades and take up yoga. Has anyone ever heard of a yoga related emergency room visit? I thought not.

I've had time to contemplate my current tailbone problem, and have developed my own theory based on...well nothing really. Nevertheless, here's what I think. I've heard multiples will work together to create mischief, so why wait until after birth? All three babies are head up and roughly back to back to back -- just like the heroes always wind up in spaghetti westerns or old kung fu movies -- and seem to have devised a plan of escape. A and C are facing front and will simultaneously push to the right and left sides of my stomach (creating a really bizarre ditch down the middle). At the same time, B, who is facing backward, is pushing out against my spine. Here we find the root of my coccyx pain -- officially making baby B a pain in the butt and strengthening my resolve to name him after my dad.

It's a flawed tactic, in that none of them are going to get out that way. However, it is also brilliant, in that I no longer have any intention of arguing with my Doctor's deadline of 34 weeks. By making me so miserable I can't eat or sleep, they've guaranteed themselves early release.

When you think about it, they identified a problem, created a plan and are working together to carry it out. So what if I can't sit upright or walk without holding on to furniture, *sniff* I'm just proud to be their mom. I wonder how early Harvard will take an application?

28 Weeks!!! Our Biggest Milestone Reached!

We've done it!!! Our little boys have been incredible troopers, and we've made it to the 28 week mark. This means their likelihood of survival outside the womb is very, very good. Of course, we would like at least 6 more weeks before we actually let them out in the "real" world, but this does take a lot of pressure off.

A quick synopsis of today's visit:

A is 2 lbs. 10 oz./57th percentile
B is 2 lbs. 13 oz./64th percentile
C is 2 lbs. 10 oz./57th percentile

Although everything is looking great, my Dr. still feels a delivery at 34 weeks will reduce the risk of a uterine rupture. And at the rate these boys are growing, he feels confident they will be over 4 lbs. at that point. That would put our target date for delivery on or around September 18. Hopefully, they will only be in the NICU a week or two, as I have already received steroids to help their lungs develop a bit more quickly. Also, triplets tend to develop faster than singletons, so that's another mark in their favor.

I've been measuring 34 weeks at the last 3 visits; however, I'm told not to worry as the babies have found a way to stretch out sideways rather than straight up and down. Dr. Robinette tells me this is a very good thing, as it gives them plenty of room to grow over the next 6 weeks. And all this time I've thought having the rib cage of a professional linebacker was a BAD thing.

Six more weeks, six more weeks. Six more weeks!!! I just have to keep repeating it, because it seems like such a short period of time. The most unexpected thing about this pregnancy (other than the triplet aspect, of course) is how incredibly quickly the time has gone by. And there's still no nursery!! Jason is convinced he can get the whole thing together AFTER they arrive, but BEFORE they actually need it. I suppose since I'm not preecclampsic this time, he's looking for other ways to raise my blood pressure.

Thanks to everyone for your prayers and concern. It means more than you can know. Check back soon, as I hope to have the ultrasound pictures scanned in this week. We finally got a good look at baby B, and I'm pretty sure the Burrus genes have made a clean sweep of my offspring. Not a problem, as you can see from the picture of Jack in the upper right corner, Burrus genes make a really pretty baby.

Jabba the Hutt -- Post-Atkins Diet

We had a fun visit today from our friends Ashley and Mel. I haven't seen their son Jay in a while, and received a shocking reminder of how fast kids grow as he entered the room wearing a pair of big yellow crocs and an even bigger smile. Despite his incredible growth spurt, it was reassuring to know he hadn't outgrown his sweet temperment, and we were gifted with many more smiles before his visit ended.

Speaking of unexpected growth -- or lack of -- upon entering the room, Ashley blurted, "Oh my gosh! You don't look nearly as uncomfortable as I thought!" This struck me as funny simply because it's what I've heard from everyone including my own mother. Apparently, friends and family alike are picturing an unrecognizable lump of flesh encasing three squirming babies. I have to admit, it's a huge ego boost when they find it's not quite as bad as their imagination led them to believe.

With this in mind, I've decided it's time for a belly pic. I generally avoid this kind of thing, because 40 extra lbs. does nothing for my supermodel status -- as is evidenced by my chipmunk cheeks. Cheeks that are mine to keep in both feast and famine, but are definitely more impressive in the feast phases of my life. I hope you all enjoy marveling at the size of my tummy. Not even chipmunk cheeks can make my head look quite big enough to balance out a belly this size. And where are the enormous boobs I asked for??? But all in all, it could be a lot worse.

Virtual Grocery Shopping

I simply cannot keep the unexpected joy of virtual grocery shopping to myself any longer. It all began with a phone call from one of my best girlfriends, Chrissie, who hails from Tulsa, Oklahoma. She's one of those tried and true friends who understands that sometimes the best medicine for the bedbound blues is sharing e-mail pictures of our adorable offspring and dishing about a mutual acquaintance who is eyeballs deep in a Jerry Springer-type escapade. It is difficult to find words for this sort of spiritual uplift. But everyone out there blessed with one or more terrific girlfriends knows what I mean.

Our conversation covered a lot of ground -- both topically and geographically -- from one errand to the next with car trips in between, winding up in Chrissie's local grocery store. She asked my opinion on a fruit and cheese tray she was putting together. My comments included saying no to Brie (as it's much better hot than cold) and going with a nice white cheese for the kids (cheap mozzarella is always a good choice because the little buggers care a lot more about about quantity than quality). Chrissie interrupted her shopping to rearrange some strawberries that seemed to be on the verge of falling in the floor -- only to realize too late that *oops* it was actually the handiwork of some overachieving Kroger employee. What seemed like a landslide waiting to happen was actually an "artful arrangement" designed to make you yearn to purchase strawberries. Oh, the pitfalls of produce.

Now, all of this may sound like small potatoes (Hah! produce humor) to those of you free to roam through the grocery whenever you like. But I must remind everyone that I have been confined to my house for the last 7+ weeks. This brief narrative of the world outside was worth more to me than gold. It brought back the smell of fresh fruit -- admit it, our noses are every bit as involved as our tastebuds in making us buy all those peaches and strawberries at this time of year. Ooh, and summer tomatoes. You can't describe it, but you know the smell of a vine ripened summer tomato. They make those mealy, tasteless, hothouse things we settle for in winter seem almost sacrilegious. Best of all is that wonderful chill you get when you leave the oppressive outside heat and mosey toward the refrigerated section. I am willing to bet that there are statistically more people lingering over the lunchmeat section in summer months than any other time of year -- and it has nothing to do with the allure of bologna.

I have to admit that this imaginary shopping trip I took with Chrissie was far better than any real grocery buying I've ever done. No fighting with the plastic produce bags. No detouring up and down an entire aisle because some moron, entranced by the salad dressing samples, has blocked all traffic both ways. No dealing with other people's screaming kids. No hateful glances because your kid is the one screaming. Just the good stuff -- the parts I didn't realize I appreciated about a mundane task to be accomplished weekly...or every other week...or sometime before we starved.

Maybe this is the start of a trend. When I'm free to move about again, I'll appreciate being able to go to the post office and buy the cartoon stamps -- not the boring ones that some nice errand runner picked up for me. Instead of heading straight for diapers at Target, I'll browse the accessories on my way. And at Home Depot, in addition to ant killer, I might just pick up a flat flowers for my border. Who knows? With my newfound awareness, the possibilities are endless. Let's hope I don't lose sight of this epiphany once I'm overrun by bouncing baby boys. In fact, I'm designating you to remind me.

A Room with a View (right)

I could use lots of obscure adjectives to describe the view out the patio doors to my right -- verdant-as it is very green, sylvan-in honor of all the trees -- or I could just label it wooded, but that's a bit dull considering the way I feel about it. I think I'll choose beatific. I was pretty sure it fit, but looked it up just to be on the safe side. Sure enough, it means producing exalted joy or blessedness. There's just something special about sunshine falling on a patch of green -- especially when it's your very own patch of green -- that tends to be uplifting.

Because our lot is sloping, this side of the room looks into the treetops that cover the distance from the house to the river. Only when the water is muddy from fresh rain can I distinguish it through the thick leaves. I'm told the winter landscape is quite different. Once the leaves are gone, I suppose I'll need new adjectives, but I admit I'm looking forward to it with some anticipation.

Since I'm flat on my back most of the day, I look out on the balcony and amuse myself by imagining what I might see below. Chipmunks for certain, since I hear they've burrowed holes throughout the flowerbeds. I mentioned to Jason that there were certain things that would deter the little striped rats from taking up residence in our yard, but he's not interested. After more than a decade trapped in city dwellings, I think he enjoys all the little lives that teem outside -- the obligatory chipmunks, rabbits and frogs as well as a huge raccoon that politely uses the walkway to travel through our front yard rather than treading on the grass. Jason's even grown fond of a giant skink that has taken up residence in our garage. After rescuing the jumbo creepy crawly from a sticky mouse trap put out by the pest control man, he washed off the sticky goop, released the critter (which quickly skittered behind a cabinet in the garage), and immediately threw away all the remaining traps citing the fact that they hadn't caught any mice anyway. I chose not to mention that the traps had only been placed a few hours earlier. It suddenly seemed like a harsh way for anything, even unpleasant looking things, to meet their end. So now there is an occasional skink sighting heralded by a blood-curdling scream from my mother-in-law. I feel bad for her, but it does add a bit of excitement to the day.

It isn't all imaginary, as there is a quite healthy looking vine growing over one side of my balcony. Since the day we moved in, I've convinced myself it was on the verge of blooming. I could almost smell the heady scent of jasmine blossoms as I waited. More than 2 months have passed now, and I'm convinced that one of the following must be a true statement:

1) It is an early blooming jasmine, and I missed this season's blossoms.
2) It is a very late blooming jasmine, and I just need to be patient.
3) It is a weed.

While I believe choice number three is the most likely candidate, I still hold out hope for choices 1 or 2. And I'm not the only one. At least three days out of every week, I am visited by either a sorely misguided or deeply optimistic hummingbird. At first he was primarily interested in examining the same vine I've been fixated on these past few weeks. Gradually, he began to spare a glance my way. Today, the whole of his visit was devoted to peeking through the glass doors at me. I knew I had a room with a view, but up to now believed I was the one doing the viewing. If the skink shows up with a squirrel in tow, you will not hear about it from me. A padded room wouldn't suit me nearly so well as this one.

A Room with a View (left)

Apparently, from the instant we saw our new house (on a Friday) to the time we found out our contract had been accepted (the following Monday), the lot next door was snatched up by an enterprising builder with the intent of building a "spec" home. Spec is short for speculative which in this case alludes to the fact that some guy has borrowed a ton of money to build a lovely home in hopes it will be immediately bought by a family willing to pay a ton more money than it actually cost to construct. I wish him the best of luck, because if he does sell it at a shameful profit, I'm pretty sure my home's value automatically goes up. And if it benefits me, generally I'm all for it.

If I look out the windows across the room on my left, I can just see the tip of the cleared lot, some piles of supplies, and the occasional construction worker coming to wash his hands at the makeshift faucet they have on site. My 18 month-old, Jack, takes time every morning to wave and say "Hello, men!" and again every evening pauses his play to wave once more and say "Bye, men!" Both obvious signs of a genuine affection for his fellow man as well as pure genius when it comes to vocabulary. My mother-in-law glances out almost as often to try and anticipate what job will be accomplished that day (today they're working on the walls for the second floor), and to wonder aloud about the possibility of stretching a 200 foot hose from their faucet to our pool under cover of night, thus reducing the ungodly water bill we've been footing lately. Also genius, but of a slightly darker nature.

The fact that this builder's success means more equity for me should make this nothing but a win-win situation. All that changed with a visit from the very nice lady who runs the homeowners association. (For a mere $35 per year, we are enrolled in the River Run Homeowner's association. However, there is no community pool, tennis court or walking trail -- so while membership undoubtedly has its privileges, I'm really not at all sure what those might be.) She needed our vital statistics for inclusion in the neighborhood phone list, which really is a helpful little document. A quick examination of the last phone list let me know the names of all my neighbors, whose kids baby-sit, pet-sit, house-sit or mow lawns, and let me know that former Governor Don Siegelman lives in my neighborhood. All things that are helpful and/or good to know. Since I'm completely confined to my room, her visit was with my mother-in-law. Long story short, she confided that her husband sold the lot to the builder. And both she and my mother-in-law spent the better part of the conversation lamenting the fact that we hadn't bought our house sooner, because we could have bought their lot as well and had a nice play area for the kids.

This is a real downer for me, because it's absolutely true. Now every time I look left, instead of seeing dollar signs, I see the incredibly cool swingset/jungle gym that will never be. I see enough area for our pitifully bored dog to burn off some energy. Instead of a lovely 2-story house, I see a blocked view of the woods. My only hope for regaining some good feeling about the house next door lies in the hope that a really nice couple with kids in the birth to 2 yrs. age range will pay a horribly inflated sum to move in next door. If you or someone you know fits this description, please head for River Run immediately.

That pretty much sums up the left side of my room. If I'm still this bored tomorrow, look for a complete summation of the view from the right side of my room. I'm sure the anticipation is maddening.

26 Week Visit -- July 25

We had been looking forward to this visit for weeks on end because of the promise of getting baby measurements. Lo and behold, I make it into the ultrasound room, and the incredibly nice tech, Paula, informs me that Dr. Robinette has decided we only need heartbeats -- no measurements. Not that I'm terribly tactful on a good day -- as we used to say during performance reviews, it's an area where I have an "opportunity for growth" -- but this visit was truly a low point. "You go tell him that he promised me measurements today, and I've been looking forward to it for six weeks." Paula, obviously recognizing a pregnant woman at the end of her rope, dutifully did just that and returned saying, "Dr. Robinette says if you want measurements -- you'll get measurements." Mission accomplished, but I did ask Paula to please pretend I'd asked really nicely. I hope she has a good imagination.

The results of the ensuing scan could not be any better, plenty of fluid for each baby, A & C head up, B head down. Let's not forget the all important measurements. A & C both weigh 2 lbs. 1 oz., putting them in the high 50th/low 60th percentile when compared to singletons at the same gestation. B is super-chunky at 2 lbs. 4 oz., putting him in the upper 60th percentile. I am assured that all three are huge for triplets. This stands to reason since I am huge for a pregnant lady. I'm measuring 34 weeks -- a full two months ahead of my actual gestation. I have no intention of revealing what size t-shirt is now required to actually cover my belly, just believe me when I say I'll be donating my pregnancy clothes to charity at the earliest possible moment -- anonymously!!

Just as soon as I can figure out how to get our ultrasound pictures scanned and included on this blog, I will be sure to do so. Once again, there is no doubt as to the identity of "my baby daddy" since you can already see a distinct Burrus profile in even the fuzziest ultrasound photo. Only Baby B has remained camera shy, so I still hold out hope -- o.k. faint hope -- that some of my genetic material will show up in at least one of my offspring.

We go for our 28 week visit on August 8, so keep us in your thoughts and prayers. Making it to that point is our most critical milestone and we're anxious to have it behind us. Check back soon, as we're trying to keep things updated weekly.