I started this blog as a project to help me write, as often as I could. It’s fallen into limbo, as has my other blog, which was a more random and personal soapbox.
I’m compelled to write on a personal level right now, something beyond the Twitter-esque banalities of Facebook. I’m plopping it down here, instead of starting yet another page.
My wife and I are 24 weeks, 4 days into her second pregnancy. She’s carrying twins – a boy who is big and fond of karate kicks, and growing as he should. His wombmate is having a harder time, and may not make it. After 7 ultrasounds, this Baby “B” is still shy, and hasn’t revealed if it’s a boy or a girl.
I won’t dignify this emotional journey of highs and lows as a “roller-coaster” – that’s a cliché, and I avoid clichés like the plague. On a roller-coaster, you know where you’ll eventually end up. Not so for us: we don’t know how many kids we’ll have come Father’s Day. We avoid making plans for Friday nights because we don’t know if we’ll be celebrating or mourning. It’s a bizarre, draining experience, where hope is given and snatched away on a weekly basis. If I don’t express this stuff, I’ll explode.
I’m writing this for me, as an spigot for all this emotional energy. I’m writing for my friends, who want to know more than just the one line weekly medical updates. And I’m writing for our babies, the two lives that have been inside my wife for 6 months. We were told last week that Baby B only had a 50/50 chance of lasting the week, and a 25% chance of lasting the month; we were told 3 weeks ago that we might lose both kids. If they don’t make it through this journey, I need to have something that acknowledges they existed, that they were part of our lives: that they mattered.
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