I hoped hiring an organizer would force me to take it seriously I remember the cool gel, the slippery feel of the ultrasound?s transducer, the crinkling of the paper below my body, but most of all the feeling of terror that crystallized into one undeniable conclusion: It was time to get my shit together.
?Oh!? the doctor said, smiling. ?Two heartbeats!?
Two heartbeats" I looked at the monitor, then caught my husband Stephen?s shocked expression. Two heartbeats meant two. Freaking. Babies.
Suddenly Stephen and I were laughing. There?s something darkly comedic about having twins. When one baby is on the way, you can hold on to the delusion that life won?t change much. But with two" Those delusions shatter instantly.
The first of many pressing issues was our home life. Our ?charming? (in real-estate-agent speak) third-floor walk-up with its exposed outlets and splinter-ridden flooring would not be conducive to the keeping-babies-alive stage of our existence. But the crappy apartment was just the window dressing on a larger issue. I?m a complete slob. I goosestep over clothing on the floor, mountains of books are stacked up on every open surface, half-empty coffee cups sit on the nightstand, and I don?t even see the mess.
My husband is better, but only slightly so. His lesser evils include leaving clothes near the hamper but never in it and piling dishes in the sink until one of us breaks down and cleans them. We?re both bad, but I?m worse.
I?ve tried to...