All Is Well

33.5 weeks, and all is well.

Baby B was a bit of a pisher today for the NST test, refusing to be monitored. But a persistent nurse and much pressing on my belly finally revealed that she, along with her more cooperative sister, are still thriving in-utero.

Cedric is doing his job admirably, and is definitely relying on the help of The Stitch; he is funneled pretty much down to The Stitch, but we still have 2.5 cm of length below The Stitch, which is great for this point in a twin pregnancy.

And Ursula is doing the best she can, poor overworked gal. She feels the need to contract more and more these days, and especially at night, but they are only Braxton Hicks contractions and they are having no negative influence on Cedric. He hasn't taken up drinking or smoking, for instance, so no one is worried.

All told, a great report. So great, in fact, that as of Monday (34 weeks) I will be back on modified bed rest, allowed to sit up, and walk outside for 15 minutes a day, and cook a little, and occasionally go out to eat or go for a brief shopping trip. So, all together now: WAAAHHHOOOO!!!!

And then I have a litany of blissfully normal end game pregnancy symptoms to report:

My hands have become stiff and swollen, especially overnight and first thing in the morning. I've been knitting and on-line shopping to keep them limber.

If I have the audacity to eat a cruciferous vegetable or a member of the legume family, I pay dearly for it for the next several hours, as do the olfactory senses of any poor soul who has to be around me. And much to my and Bruno's dismay, Ratka's delicious Sarma (stuffed cabbage) is definitely off the menu until post-birth.

I am also becoming outrageously emotional. Yes, peanut gallery, even more so than usual. Case-in-point: this weekend, my father excitedly told me he was thinking of bringing me a hamburger and fries for dinner. Too much salt right now makes me swell to incredibly uncomfortable proportions, so I very rationally burst into tears because I did not want a hamburger and fries for dinner. My father patiently, although somewhat bewilderedly, waited for me to dry my tears and tell him what I did want for dinner. Which turned out to be eggs and toast.

This brings to mind a story from my childhood. When I was around 4, I found out my mother was making liver for dinner. I announced to her that I did not want liver for dinner and that if she was going to make liver for dinner then I was going to run away. My Mom, in her ever-pragmatic way, counter-announced that she would help me pack. So we went upstairs and packed a suitcase for me and a suitcase for my doll Julie, and, Julie and suitcases in tow, out the door I went. And ran away to my neighbor and best friend's house. I knocked on the door and after being told that my friend was not at home, declared that that was OK and I would be downstairs playing with the Wizard of Oz action figures.

My friend's Mom called my Mom and said, "Sandy, I've got Lisa over here. What would you like me to do?" To which my Mom responded, "Keep her." And all was quiet for a few hours, until it occurred to me that I'd better find out what this household was having for dinner. When I found out they were having eggs, I decided liver was better than eggs, and I ran away back home.

Oh yeah. And the times, they are a-changin'