We had our car seats installed by the department of safety.  Okay, not the whole department.  A cop, named Vicki who was a man.  Actually, I don’t know who at the department did it.  I wasn’t there, but I was told that an absurdly high percentage of parents have their car seats improperly installed.  So now that the two bases are installed into the back seat of our SUV, they’re there to stay.  The problem, of course, is now we’ve got visitors.  Phil is on his way to the airport right now to collect his parents, who are staying Sunday to Sunday.  That’s a longass time for anyone to stay.  And I’ll say the same thing when my sister comes too.  Though I think she and my mother are only coming for 5 days. It’s nice that everyone is eager to help, though really, they want to bond with the beans.  Who can blame them!  I’m sure there’s a lot to help with, but I’m not sure what it is.  I’m breast feeding, at every single feeding, though now, at the suggestion of their pediatrician, I’m now breast feeding only one of them at each feeding.  And I’m not following it up with a bottle, which makes one very unhappy Abigail, who is used to a full belly, pounding down ounces of milkshake.  She cries now, on and off for about an hour after she’s breast fed, because dammit, she wants the bottle.  It’s basically hell.  Lucas, on the other hand, is a breast man.  Still, I wonder how anyone can help us.  I mean, I know we need help, but I don’t know how.  I mean, it’s not like the house needs cleaning; I NEVER leave this room, except to brush my teeth or pee.  I eat salads along with frozen South Beach Diet dinners because they’re quick (and it’s the first time in my whole life to eat a frozen dinner).  And dammit, I’ve lost 4 lbs. since eating them each night.  So what, really, do I need?  Someone I guess to change diapers and hand me one of the babies to breast feed?  I guess we’ll see when my in-laws arrive.

"How are they going to fit?"
"Who?"
"Your parents."
"What do you mean?  My mother will sit between the two car seats,"
"You know you’re insane right?"
"No I’m not.  What’s the big deal?  I’ll just move up my seat so she can get in."
"Not only is ‘getting in’ impossible," I say without the use of air apostrophes, "climbing over the base in semi-motherly-now-heels, but there’s the whole ass-hips scenario.  Honey, I can hardly fit." 
"It will be fine."

Now I’m waiting for him to return with them.  I wonder who ended up sitting bitch, in that mini middle "seat" which is really just the space between the left seat and the right seat.  My guess is Ted drove with his wife in the passenger seat, with Philip riding bitch.  Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe it’s just my ass that has the problem.  It wouldn’t be the first time.