Lynnette woke me up at 3 in the morning. She was having contractions every 10 minutes. “What do you want to do?” I asked. Lynnette’s doctor told her to check-in to the hospital if she experienced contractions that frequently. “Just go to work and I’ll call you after I drop Madison off at school,” she said. I did go to work. I printed out all of today’s work and wrote up instructions for the teachers covering my classes. I rode all that adrenaline into the morning and as you probably already know, the twins didn’t show up at the hospital even though we did. I want to fight them, already.
This is the second false alarm that the twins have pulled on us. This conjures memories of college, when some rogue would pull the fire alarm for no reason, then the RAs would scream at people wearing clothes, some clothes, little clothes, or no clothes and a comforter. Obviously, today was not as fun as that. The attending nurse looked a printout and told Lynnette she was having contractions every 2-3 minutes. Lynnette’s hopes were high that she’d be able to make good on the eviction notice she’d sent the twins over the weekend. “Maybe they just want to be here in time for the World Series,” she said earlier in the day. Guess what? They don’t. They’ve cried wolf and led us on a wild goose chase. There are only two possibilities: Lynnette’s water will break tonight or it will happen during a possible World Series clincher for the Mets, precluding me from witnessing a World Series championship. This is how my life works – a thousand little victories and a thousand petty defeats.
I forgot to pack portable entertainment (other than my phone) the last time the twins pulled stunts, but I was ready this time. I packed my iPad so I could play Knights of the Old Republic (YES, AGAIN). I didn’t think I would use it all that much considering I was expecting Prima Donna Higa and Humbug Higa to be born today. To be completely honest, I was spent when we got home. As I said earlier, I rode that adrenaline in the morning. My anticipation built when the nurse noted the frequency of Lynnette’s contractions. I started looking hours ahead. Would it be the 26th or 27th? How would I get my work done for tomorrow? Harvey vs. Volquez, Game 1. My mind raced. I had allowed myself to believe that at some point in the following 24 hours, I would have two brand new bundles of joy screaming at me to feed them or clean their crap. And then Lynnette’s doctor told the hospital to discharge us. It was deflating and disappointing and I took a three-hour nap when I got home.
The lone silver lining is that we were home to receive the stroller frame we ordered from Walmart last week. It’s one of those carseat drop-ins that meant to make my life easier since our other stroller lacks the carseat compatibility, and we likely won’t use it until the twins are a little bigger. You know, if they can be troubled to introduce themselves to the world. If you are concerned by the tinge of bitterness pervading this entry, don’t be. I am frustrated and disappointed, but those emotions have only manifested themselves in guilt trips directed at Lynnette’s stomach. “Nah, just do whatever you guys like, already,” I’ve said. “Why do you guys hate me?” I’ve said. “It’s OK, the is only the first time the Mets have made the World Series since 2000,” I’ve said. “I mean, if your goal is to make sure every time I look at you guys that I’ll remember you robbed me of the chance to watch the Mets in the World Series, you guys are doing a great job,” I’ve said. “Look at what you’re doing to your mother,” I’ve said. This is when Lynnette groans and/or nods. “Her bellybutton looks like that part of the banana that no one wants to eat,” I’ve said. This is when Lynnette hits me.