Home Place: Portland family doubles parenting pleasure, pressure

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Readers, do you know what time it is? It’s time for another chat with eldest daughter, known best as MacMama.

Me: In June, the MacFamily departed Seattle, finding the grass was definitely not greener on the wetter side of the fence.

They journeyed back to their beloved Portland, where numerous grandmothers converged on grandboy Macalicious with open arms and a new job waited for my son-in-law, MacDaddy.

MacMama: Then came the frustrating house hunt. And let’s not mention the three-month renovation that tested our wallets, our energy and our sanity much more than we would have preferred.

Me: So we were headed west to lend a day of labor to renovating the sweet 1922 bungalow. I planned to paint while Camo Man wrestled with a dryer and the little sisters filled in everywhere. It was important to help, we felt, because MacMama was newly pregnant. I wanted her breathing the least paint fumes possible and the new house is — how shall I put this — stinkin’ huge.

Plus, the first ultrasound of the pregnancy was planned for that morning. I couldn’t wait to talk about it in person.

We were still loading the car, however, when my daughter called ...

MacMama: MacDaddy and I expected nothing less than a calm, easy second pregnancy after our first had been relatively comfortable. Naturally, I was champing at the bit for that first six-week ultrasound, where we would hopefully see the miraculous little flicker of a heartbeat and check that all was well with that little pink tendril of baby-to-be.

Lying on the ultrasound table, however, was a worrying experience this time around. The doctor frowned slightly.

“There’s some shadowing here,” she informed us. “I can’t see the sac well. You’ll have to go down to radiology later today.”

MacDaddy and I were gripped with fear. What if there was something wrong? What if something terrible had happened to this little seed of ours?

Me: Hang on here.

MacMama: When we made it to our date with the super high-tech ultrasound machine, we got our answer. That shadow?

It was a second embryo, nestled cozy against its sibling.

“Two? Are you sure?” we gasped, and when the tech nodded and smiled, we started a string of nervous giggles lasting for hours. All day long we just looked at each other — how could this be reality?

Me: Here’s how the phone convo went down on my end. MacMama said, “I have some news to tell you when you get here.”

I said, “Tell me now.”

She said, “No.”

I said, “What if I die in a car accident on the highway?”

She said, “Fine! We have news from the ultrasound.”

I said, “Like what? Like you’re having twins?”

She said “Yes!”

And there was the sound of loud and prolonged “squee-ing” on both sides of Oregon. When I stopped to take a breath, I reminded MacMama of the tradition of twins in the family, from her cousins to her own sisters. The fun part is when people ask MacDaddy if twins run in his family, as well.

“No,” he replies.

“They do now!” we all shout with glee.

MacMama: Despite all the excitement and joy over the thought of welcoming two new babies into our home this spring, the news has brought its challenges as well. Here we were, smugly assuming we had nearly all the things we’d need for our second baby. I also expected that my first trimester would be peppered with the occasional afternoon nap, cravings for salsa and lots of beaming — just like last time.

Instead it’s been a rough ride of nausea, utter exhaustion and back pain. The thought of caring for a 2-year-old as well as two newborns strikes terror in my heart. The warnings about prematurity and drinking gallons of water, as well as a thousand other special “twin” fears, nag at the corners of my mind.

Me: The only thing I can do is pray and make shopping lists in my head. Oh, yes, and dig up all the past twinisms I was so fond of, such as twinions, twinsters, twinnies.

“Gross,” she tells me.

MacMama: So far the twins are healthy, active little people. At our last ultrasound, one was prodding the other to wake up and wiggle with his teeny tiny feet. So I hold on to that and avoid Internet horror stories when I can. Maybe I should be more worried about my new moniker. MacMama just isn’t going to do anymore.

Me: Right! And that is where you come in, readers! We are opening the polls to choose from three possibilities:

1: ThreeMom

2: MommaTres

3: TripleThreatMama (which will be long to type out, Just sayin’.)

4: Your own idea goes here. None of mine exactly sing.

Email your answer to me at the address below. And then figure out what we’re going to do about “MacFamily.” For the record, I am never changing MacDaddy. Because who would?

Sheila Hagar can be reached at 509-526-8322 or sheilahagar@wwub.com.

Comments

clarkfamily89 5 months, 3 weeks ago

el amor mamatres that would be my choice. You are so so lucky Grammie!

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