I had another doctor’s appointment today and all is well with the babies and me! Lefty keeps freaking me out because I can’t feel him moving unless I really push down and poke at him, but I know he’s there and growing, so that’s good. Righty, on the other hand is constantly trying to crawl up and into my ribs. It feels fantastic.

My doctor is scheduling me another in-depth ultrasound for this week or next to make sure the babies are still growing at the same rate, there isn’t anything going wrong with their umbilical cords or placentas, etc. I’m looking forward to another good peek at my little guys. I go in again to see my OB next week because he’s going on vacation, then I’ll be seeing him every week beginning in August. I’ll also be sent to the hospital for weekly NSTs (non-stress tests) to make sure the babies are doing well.

I was talking to my OB about how people are trying to guess when the twins will arrive and many are saying around 36 to 37 weeks. He said he wouldn’t be surprised to see me make it all the way to 39 weeks since my body is handling this pregnancy surprisingly well (blood pressure, no contractions, etc.). That is amazing and so wonderful and of course would be best for the babies.

But…

I couldn’t help but feel an eensy weensy depressed at the thought of going all the way to September 7th. Though medically I may be handling this pregnancy well, it has taken a huge toll on me physically and mentally. Already, at 31 weeks, I feel like I’m at the end of the pregnancy, and it is a bit depressing to think I may very well have 8 weeks to go. I’m not one of those people who *loves* being pregnant. Don’t get me wrong, I cherish all these kicks and bumps and I am trying to soak up as much of these last weeks as I can, but I really prefer holding my babies in my arms.

I want my body back. I want to be able to shave my legs and see my feet. I want to indulge in an alcoholic beverage here and there. I don’t want to have morning sickness anymore (yes, even in the 3rd trimester, I am nauseated). I want to be able to think clearly without all this baby brain and know that “chocolate milk” isn’t interchangeable with “hot chocolate.” I want to write again, to be creative. I miss that so much. I want to sit on the floor and play and wrestle with Bug and Bean, or run around at the park with them. I love love my little twins, but I don’t love being pregnant with them.

Horrible, aren’t I?

Yes, I know.

I know this is my last pregnancy and I should be cherishing every moment of it. I know things are going to get more difficult when my child load goes from 2 to 4 in the blink of an eye. I know things aren’t going to be any easier when they’re here. I already have two kids, trust me, I know.

But I’m ready for the next chapter in our lives. I’m ready to do this baby thing, snuggle and love them, and watch our soon-to-be big family grow up, go to school, and take vacations together. I’m ready to take on the challenge of raising this crazy little breed called twin boys.

Still, complain as I might, I am trying my darndest not to take it for granted. I take video of Bug and Bean playing or the twinkies moving around. I take pictures almost daily of the kids or my growing belly. I write down the cute things the kids are doing and I write letters to the twins telling them how excited I am to meet them. I know this won’t last forever and I know one day I’ll need these videos, pictures, and letters to remind myself of how precious this time is.