Stick a fork in me

According to my doctor this past week, I am the "poster child for identical twins." Are you jealous? Well, don't be. Because it's not all it's cracked up to be, folks. Couldn't I have been like, the poster child for nice skin or something? Don't get me wrong--I am more than grateful that I have survived 34 weeks and that the girls are doing awesome. However, am I not allowed the occasional gripe? Even poster children sing the blues. I think so, anyway. They probably would if they had carpal tunnel syndrome and had to wear splints to bed and couldn't open boxes of Raisin Bran in the morning. Or if their fingers were so numb and tingly that they always felt like they were thawing out twenty-four hours a day. Or they might protest a little bit if their skin was so itchy that shaving their legs became this sick addiction because the razor was a good scratcher. And they might just have to mutter under their breath if they had shooting pains going up their thigh while taking reverence walks with their Sunbeams class, so much so that they cried out inadvertently and doubled over for a second, then continued walking as if nothing happened so as not to alarm the already mystified four-year olds. And might they not be a bit miffed if their stomach was stretched so tight you could bounce quarters off of it? Or what if the very act of putting on clothes was a funny joke and they wondered why couldn't nudity be socially acceptable for a couple of weeks? And do you think they would hate or love the fact that an interesting assortment of socks, wrappers, Hot Wheels cars, Polly Pocket boots, rubber bands, and food bits had accumulated on the floor everywhere due to a strict non-bending-over-for-anything-smaller-than-a-breadbox policy?!

So you see, even the glamorous life of a poster girl has its darker moments. Thank goodness I'm also campaigning for "poster child for having a sense of humor when you feel pretty crappy." Otherwise, I just don't know how I'd get up on my marshmallowy feet in the morning...