You were unexpected, to say the least. We walked in the door of my doctor’s room, and I felt hopeful, even though I tried not to, because we’d just lost a baby, your sister, and I really just wanted to know that you were still alive and still developing and still a promise on the calendar, marked in pencil this time in case…
And then the doctor said there were two, and I laughed hysterically and your daddy almost passed out with the fear of it, and we didn’t know what else to do but call our family and tell them the shocking news: a family of five would become a family of seven.
Two babies. What would we do with two babies? Those were the thoughts that chased us home.
And this one: Please don’t let me lose one.
After losing your sister, I was terrified that I would lose one of you, because when a mama loses a baby, it doesn’t take her long to believe that’s all she’s ever going to do.
You grew, and your growing was a roller coaster, every day a precious gift. I could feel you moving inside, and I thanked God that you were still there. And, just when I’d allowed myself a small glimmer of hope, the bleeding came rushing, and we raced to the hospital on an anniversary trip, because we thought for sure we’d lost another one—or both—and I couldn’t bear it, I couldn’t. I sat on that cold hospital bed while the technician checked everything out and your daddy looked at the screen, and I did not even dare to look at the screen, because I would not survive it if you were gone. But the screen showed two hearts beating, and your daddy held my hand and smiled, even though I could hardly see him, because of all the tears.
You were okay, you were just fine, you would continue your growing. I spent the rest of that nine months on modified bed rest. You bent my back toward the end of it, because both of you never stayed put, always fighting, even in the womb. We passed the safe barrier, and then we passed a few weeks after that and then we neared the end of it all, and I started settling into my new reality: I would be the mother of twins.
Then you were born in a flash of cramps and water and effort, and you were pink and tiny and perfect. Your lungs were perfect and your heart was perfect and all of you was perfect, but you had to stay in the intensive care unit so you could learn how to eat. You spent twenty-one days there, the only ones of my babies I’d ever left behind when doctors discharged me from the hospital. Every night we’d leave your older brothers with someone, and we’d drive up to the hospital to visit you when the unit had quieted, because we never knew which skin-on-skin touch would be the one that would make you eat enough so you could come home and our family would be complete. It was traumatic, that leaving you, putting you back in those incubators every time we needed to get back so we could wake and do it all over again the next day.
And then, of course, you came home, and I had no idea just how hard it would all be. But it would not take me long to learn.
That first night, your daddy and I didn’t get a single minute of sleep, because you were in a new place, without the heart-beeps of other babies, and neither of you wanted to sleep. We spent the whole night on pins and needles, trying to make sure you didn’t stop breathing in the middle of the night. Of course you didn’t, and we felt the foolishness of our fear the next morning, when three other boys came knocking into our room asking for breakfast and the two of you looked at us and screamed for your own breakfast. It was night after night after night of much the same, and we were so tired we didn’t know what to do with ourselves except keep moving, because as long as we kept moving, we probably wouldn’t fall over and die.
It was but an introduction to what life would be like with the two of you.
This year has been a hard one, hasn’t it? We haven’t gotten along so well at all for a full three hundred sixty-six days, because you are both curious and intelligent and relentless, and it’s made life a whole lot more complicated and crazy. But I want you to know, dear sons, that in spite of all the misbehavior and all the attitude and all the complication you bring to our lives, you are deeply loved.
It’s not easy to come at the end of a family, especially when there are two of you. Your daddy and I don’t often get to snuggle with you individually, because there’s not enough time for anything but sharing. We aren’t often able to listen to what you have to say, because your brothers are always talking about something or the other. And I hope you understand that this doesn’t mean that what you have to say is not as important as what your brothers have to say; it only means that we are stretched a little too thin, at this point in time.
I’m afraid that we haven’t spend as much time with you, as individuals, as we possibly could have, and for that I’m sorry. It wasn’t easy to feel like the bond between us was as strong as it should have been when I spent twenty-one days without you, and then you came home and life turned so crazy I barely knew what I was doing or who I was anymore. And then life just kept snowballing, because you learned to walk and then you could get into everything, and then you learned to take your diapers off and it was every other day that we’d open your room to a brown masterpiece painting the walls and then you learned how to escape from your room, and we could never rest, ever.
And there were always two of you.
There were always two of you, and that made it never easy. There will always be two of you, and that means it will probably never be easy. It’s a miracle and it’s a hardship. I still cannot separate one from the other.
I made myself feel guilty about that for a time. I wanted you. I got you. And now I was complaining that I had you?
I felt guilty that I didn’t have the time, that I didn’t have the energy, that I didn’t have the patience to mother two at a time. I felt guilty that while it was wonderful, at the same time, I hated it, because it was too, too, too hard. But here’s what I’ve learned in my life: Nothing worth doing is ever easy. The most transformative experiences in our lives also happen to be the most difficult.
It’s not easy to raise twins to be who they were made to be, individually. That also means it’s worth doing. More than worth doing. And you have transformed me in your challenge. You have deconstructed me. You have remade me.
So here we are. Year four. I know who you are. I know one of you likes to play with the light sockets when you think no one is looking, because you’re curious about what happens in there. I know that one of you likes to try to sneak out that puzzle when my attention has been turned to washing the dishes, because you want to dump out all the pieces and try to figure them out on your own. I know both of you will grab those treats and shove them into your mouth if they’re left anywhere near the counter you can reach.
I love you anyway. I love you because.
I know that in this next year of life, you will do greater things than you have already done. I know you will become more of who you are. I know that our love will continue blooming so that it becomes a fragrant offering between the walls of our home.
Welcome to four, my loves. You are exceptional. You are wonderful. You are beloved.
