You would think having twins would be an exciting phase in life after all the failed methods and miscarriages, yet for me it was more or less scary. By the time I had reached thirty-six weeks of pregnancy, one baby was breech, meaning a C-section delivery was required along with several weeks of recovery. The doctor looked straight at Trevor and told him I would not be able to lift anything, or even use the stairs, and that I would need a lot of assistance. Trevor said he had everything under control.
But four days before my schedule C-section, Trevor walks in smiling and tells me that his mates have organized a five-day holiday on the beach. He says he wants “one last break before fatherhood.”
All I could do was look at him. I had to remind him that the surgery was in four days. He thought I shouldn’t get mad since it was just one more getaway before things got crazy and said I could always call my mother if things got heated. The morning he left, I cramped on the porch and almost fell down while he was backing his car away.
As soon as I called my mother, she came to me, and the next day Trevor sent me a photo of him relaxing under a sun umbrella saying, “Living it up before diaper duty.” That message was certainly not worth responding to.
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