For the first time in over a month, we got a "babysitter" (Van Wagoner dictionary: impose on one of the very few people we trust with our kids, Maury Bevan) and took the twins to their nine-month check-up. Yes, they are 11 months, thanks for noticing. We finally got around to calling the pediatrician during office hours a month late, and the earliest they could get us in was a month later.
So, we get everyone all ready and out the door. This takes an hour and a half. But we are pleased with the results; the babies look cute in their coordinated, but not exactly matching outfits, Mia is full of all her breakfast, clean faces, bums, and hands, diaper bags packed, only two aggravated miscommunications between Mom and Dad, and we're out the door on time.
We sit in the waiting room for about twenty-five minutes, the twins beaming at all the congratulatory passers-by, and spend a couple of minutes packing everything back into the stroller when we get called back into the office. We get Anya half undressed by the time the nurses bring up the fact that we are supposed to bring them in less than a month for their 12-month check-up. Oh, and no- we aren't late on our immunizations- they don't have shots at nine months.
They kind of look at us with pained expressions, waiting for us to be frustrated at having come all the way out with our two bundles of joy. We just kind of felt stupid out loud. So they paid for our parking, and we went to breakfast. Hey, date night- can't complain!
Oh- and tonight Zach called his mom and told her we were pregnant again. "Nooooooooo!" He let her in on the joke before it got too bad, though.