My Timehop Story

There is a story that Timehop tells this time of year that makes me remember that I never really told it. Two years ago today, I posted pictures of my sons to Facebook. They were a couple of weeks old, and I posted a couple of weeks’ worth of pictures. I had not posted them previously. There was a reason. A dirty truth. One of those things that mothers rarely speak of but that many of them feel.

For the first few weeks after my sons were born, I was not happy. I was the precise opposite of happy. I was overwhelmed and broken. I felt that I had disappointed me and them and Saint Daddy and Sunshine.

I was not sure what I felt for them was love. In fact, I was not sure at the time that I would ever feel love for them.

It was something. It was awe at their existence. It was longing to feel something for them. It was responsibility for their lives. It was commitment to their protection.

But love? I do not think it was love.

That was strange for me. When Sunshine was born, I held her close and felt that immediate connection.

When Grumpy’s first cries filled the room, I cried real tears because he was real and alive and safe. I had done that.

But it was harder. Delivery was less painful but more difficult. The effects lasted for a while. I could not get out of bed. I could not hold both of them easily but I wanted to.

Feeding them was hard.

It was that last point that changed on this day two years ago. It actually changed the day before. That is the story that Timehop tells.

Neither Grumpy nor Sleepy was very good at eating. Of course I was going to breastfeed my sons. That is what good mothers do. That is what I did for Sunshine until she was eighteen months old and weaned herself.

As soon as I left the operating room and was wheeled across the hall to recovery, I was handed two absolutely perfect miracles and Grumpy latched on. Sleepy, of course, was too sleepy, but he rested his little head on my chest and we all knew that he would do it soon.

He did.

But he never did it well. It was really Sleepy that was the issue, but I did not know that. I would not know that for weeks.

Everyone told me to feed them individually at first. I was not ready to tandem feed them. But when you have two crying newborns and you are the source of comfort, the creator of the food, the pacifier, the only thing that they have every known, that is easier said than done. So I tandem fed from day one. When they cried, Saint Daddy brought me one at a time, I latched them on and waited, trying to enjoy these sweet moments with them as I had with their sister.

But they were not sweet, they were stressful. Only one position worked and I needed a million pillows. And I was sore. And I was tired. And I could not help thinking that I probably would not be able to tandem feed in public so we were stuck together in the house for the next four months or so until they could figure out how to wait their turns or could help me in the process of latching them on. And I would be sore until then because that is how long the vasospasms lasted with Sunshine.

They ate every 2.5 hours around the clock for 20-30 minutes at a time. That is what my Facebook status said two years ago yesterday, according to the story that Timehop tells.

I remember their cries waking Saint Daddy and I as we set about the process of changing and comforting, feeding and swaddling. Saint Daddy did diapers while I set up my nursing pillow in bed. I was sore from my incision and bone tired. He handed me a baby, letting me know which one he was based solely on the nail polish on his big toe. I recalled which side he had the last time and offered him the other side. Saint Daddy brought me another baby, and I latched him on too. Saint Daddy fell asleep for thirty minutes. I swaddled the first one, handed him to Saint Daddy to return to his cradle, and moved onto the second one.

That was just at night. While Sunshine slept, and I felt overwhelmed. I felt exhaustion in my soul.

During the day, this pattern took place on the couch. Except I would let them sleep on me in whichever position they landed after they stopped nursing.

Timehop showed me the picture I sent to my mom, who was in Florida at the time. Both boys curled in a ball on my lap, my shirt a little disheveled still from being quickly pulled down to cover my twin mom body.

And here is the thing, despite the constancy of it all, despite the exhaustion, despite the fact that it was all that I seemed to be doing, both boys were losing weight. Both boys were struggling with lethargy. Both boys were not eating well enough.

The nurse practitioner at the pediatrician’s office said she knew I was working hard. She held me as I cried. She told me she knew it would work. She sent me home with two formula samples and said to consider an ounce or two twice a day, just until they get up to birthweight. Then they would do it, she said. She knew they would.

I had seen lactation consultants. That is what Timehop tells me. I had seen five different ones before that tearful meeting with the nurse practitioner. They all said the same things: “They’re both latched so well. They’re little champs. Just keep doing what your doing. They’ll get it. Then it will be so easy.”

But it was not easy. If it was going to get easy, I wanted it to get there much more quickly than it was because I was suffocating under the weight of it all.

When we left the pediatrician’s office that day, I called another lactation consultant. I begged to be seen as soon as possible. It was not an emergency, but it was an emergency. I had twins. I wanted them to eat. I wanted to feed them. I wanted them to live.

And under these circumstances, how can the word be called love? Responsibility for their lives is not the same as love. I did not feel love. I felt weighed down by the responsibility of being the one who gave them life.

That lactation consultant worked with me for two hours the next morning, according to Timehop. She weighed my sons before and after a feeding. She watched me latch them (perfectly) and watched them suck. She checked for ties and felt their little sucks with her pinky.

“This one doesn’t have a very strong suck. That’s probably the issue. I bet this one is working really hard to make enough milk for both of them to eat, and it’s not working. That’s the problem. He’ll get better when he gets stronger. Birthweight will change him. But you’ve got to get him there first.”

She asked me what I wanted.

“To sleep. I want to sleep. I want to breastfeed my sons for as long as I possibly can. But right now, I want to sleep.”

Saint Daddy came back and she told him that she wanted him to let me nap. As soon as we got home, he was to let me go to our bedroom and let me nap.

She handed him formula. She said that if they needed to eat during my nap, to give them the formula but not to wake me until I woke on my own.

Then I was to pump. I should pump every three hours or so and bottle feed them when they were hungry. She told me how much they should eat at a feeding and we should supplement with the formula until my supply met their demand and in a week, if they were at birthweight, I could try to latch them or I could pump forever until I felt I had met my goal but nipple confusion is a myth and babies will latch and she knew I could do it. I was in the right mindset.

She hugged me. She gave me her personal cell number if I needed her for anything.

She sent us home, and I… I napped.

I woke up and I pumped. I fed my babies, who were finally getting enough milk during a feeding that they also slept. We slept.

And the weight, almost immediately, lifted off of my shoulders.

We did not sleep long stretches, they were newborns after all. And I needed to pump regularly. If that was the thing I intended to do, I needed to pump every three hours around the clock. Eight times a day for the first twelve weeks.

The lactation consultant did not tell me that. My sister in law, who was pumping for my niece at the time, added me to a Facebook group where I learned that. I learned all about exclusive pumping. I learned about what supplements might help and about water intake. What I really learned from that group was that there were thousands of women out there breastfeeding their babies through bottles. It was not easy, but they were doing it.

And the next day after that nap and the feeding and the sleeping? That very next day? I posted pictures of my sons to Facebook. Not because that is what new mothers do, which was the case with every picture I had posted previously, but because I felt that maybe I could love them. Maybe I did love them.

The next year of my life was filled with ups and downs when it came to breastfeeding. Saint Daddy and I bought a chest freezer to store my milk because I was overproducing by more than fifteen ounces a day for a while, but then their demand went up and I watched that supply dwindle. They needed more some days than others and I became nervous that I might not keep up. The stress of returning to work hurt my supply, and I had to give up middle of the night pumps and running and the very notion of losing weight. I pumped on work breaks and lunch breaks. I missed meetings. I pumped in my car in many parking lots. I pumped in a restaurant booth. I was a pumping mom and that meant battery backs and sanitation and labeled bags.

But the year went quickly. And exactly one year after that meeting with the final lactation consultant, I fed my sons the last bag of frozen milk. I had stopped pumping a month prior to that bag being used, but we made it to more than a year of breastfeeding.

I never thought we would. When I met with that lactation consultant, I had already told myself that if I made it to six weeks, I was a winner. But I made it a full year.

And you know what? I love my sons.

I love them with every fiber of my being.

I love the way they like to tickle my toes. I love the way that they call my name. I love the way that they stare out the window at the cars. I love the way that they laugh at each other when they should be sleeping.

I am glad to see this Timehop story each year. It reminds me of how far we have come. It also reminds me that new motherhood is harder than any of us can imagine sometimes. It is not just soft blankets and warm snuggles. It is sometimes desperation and hopelessness. It is anxiety and fear.

One of the comments that I make in my Timehop story is that my pressure was both internal and external. I wanted to breastfeed my sons because it mattered to me. But it was so necessary for me to not look like a failure to those witnessing my motherhood from the outside.

Motherhood is full of judgment. It is full of people who know how to do it better than we do. People who have never experienced our struggles but insist that they would know how to handle them if they did. People who are forthcoming with their criticism masked as support. People who think they have the solution.

Sometimes the solution is not the one we had hoped for, but it is the one we need. Timehop tells me that. I am glad that it does.

To the Man With the Plan

Dear Saint Daddy,

Before we became parents, we knew we would have tough nights. We knew that newborns cry and babies get sick and teething hurts. We knew it would be difficult at times.

We did not know that difficult might sometimes mean fantasizing about running away and leaving it all behind. We did not know that we would independently think about where our passports are kept and the best place to go and would the other forgive us for having to quit this gig altogether.

We did not know.

We did not know that it might mean two tiny boys who cannot sleep for nights in a row after lulling us into complacency for nearly two years.

We did not know.

But let me tell you something, dear husband.

Last night, when you called me into our sons’ bedroom because you needed backup during their third wakeup of the night, when you said to pat Sleepy’s butt until he fell asleep while you patted Grumpy’s, when you swore it would only take fifteen minutes because you had a plan, and I set my head down on the edge of the crib while patting that tiny tush, and you leaned over and kissed me on my cheekbone while patting our other tiny tush and the sound machine played gray noise in the background and the humidifier glowed blue…

Last night, I thought that kiss was one of the most romantic and beautiful that I have ever received.

We were in the thick of what we did not know it would be like, and I felt like I was being kissed passionately under a waterfall in Tahiti.

I could never imagine, my love, doing this with anyone else but you.

We are in it together.

Last night, when you grabbed your keys, I thought, “he has his passport.”

I asked if you were leaving us. I laughed.

But you, you would never leave. You are in for life. You are a constant in a world without consistency.

You said that you were going to the store. They had to sell something for this. Teething tablets, ear drops, we would treat it all.

“Pick up some Motrin while you’re there. We can alternate and give them every two hours.”

We realized it was Grumpy. So I went to their room and took him out while you were gone. Sleepy fell silent within five minutes.

Grumpy stared at me blankly. He was in pain. He was tired. He was in our bedroom, which is a place he rarely is.

You came back with medicines and we set about helping poor Grumpy.

Our team. It is unshakeable.

Grumpy wanted your love, so you held him until he fell asleep. You held him until the pain came back and he crawled to me and we gave more medicine.

You held him again, patting his tiny butt and singing Twinkle, Twinkle in the light from our closet at 2:38 am until he fell again into a fitful sleep.

Until the pain came again and he crawled to me.

And I thought, thank God for you. Thank God for a partner who loves me enough to kiss my cheekbone and pat our sick son’s tush all night.

In the morning, which came too soon, we worked out a plan to get Grumpy evaluated as quickly as possible. You worked. My car was in the shop. Grumpy’s carseat was in it. But he would fit in Sunshine’s, I said. And you restrung the seat to make it safe for our boy while I fed him some cereal and found clothes in the diaper bag so as not to disturb Sleepy.

You, my husband, are the best father I could have ever given to my children.

When we reach those difficult times, you do not shudder, you do not shirk, you do not fall back and insist that I take the lead while you follow.

You do this while loving my whole self. You lean over and kiss my cheek late at night while I pat one son’s tush and you pat the other and you have a plan and it will be okay. I know that in the darkest nights and the brightest days, you will be my truest partner.

I am glad it is you.

I am proud to call you mine.

Because we are a team. You parent with your whole heart. You support our children and me with your whole soul. We are, we are, we are the luckiest.

I love you.

I love you.

For lack of anything stronger to say…

With full acknowledgment of the limitations of language…

I love you.

How Sunshine Taught Me To Love Pink

Being a mother to a little girl is a lot of responsibility. I mean, the same is true of being a mother to little boys as well, but today, I want to speak of raising Sunshine.

Sunshine is my first baby. She is the one who has been teaching me to mother since the moment we decided to conceive her.

When she was a tiny, flailing newborn, she showed me how to trust my instincts. Somehow, I knew when she needed to be held, when she needed to be fed, when she needed to be rocked, and when she needed to be saved. I did not know how I knew. I just did.

When Sunshine was two, I told Saint Daddy that, at some point, being her parents had required shifting from merely keeping her alive to somehow guiding her toward becoming a well-rounded person.

And, honestly, while the keeping her alive thing was tough to do for a while, we got the hang of it. This teaching her to be a human thing is much more difficult. Every day is a different challenge. There are many more facets to it.

Sunshine loves princesses and sparkles and the color pink. She is the quintessential girl. We wanted her to play soccer, but that would involve sweating sometimes. Sunshine does not like to sweat. She has been very clear about that. She does, however, love to accessorize. She is obsessed with being fashionable. She takes ballet classes instead, and her favorite leotard has sparkles on the cap sleeves and the attached skirt.

Sometimes, I have felt compelled to explain Sunshine to people.

Yes, she loves to have her toes painted and her hair pulled into complicated updos, but she loves science, dinosaurs, and trains.

Our society has told me, as her mother, that I am supposed to encourage her to question princessdom so that she knows that her favorite girls in their pretty dresses are not realistic representations of life. I am supposed to get her outside to play in mud. I am supposed to cut back on her pink and dresses.

If I want to her to be successful in the world in which she will live, I need her to want to do less girly things. After all, girls are not taken seriously. Girls are ignored. Girls are passive and accepting. Girls do not fight for themselves.

So allowing Sunshine to love her girlness might be failing her in her pursuit of being a well-rounded person.

To that, I must ask: Why is being feminine a detriment to my daughter? Why is being feminine a detriment for any woman?

Sunshine is smart. She problem solves and works through issues. She has a thirst for knowledge. She works hard. She understands that practice is how she improves.

She gets frustrated by slow progress sometimes, but she never gives up. She is currently sitting next to me and practicing her reading skills of her own volition because she wants to read on her own and she knows that she will only get there by spending time on the process.

And she is doing this with a sequin bow in her hair, a long necklace over her pink polka dot shirt, and a polka dot skirt lined with tulle.

Does her outfit choice make her any less capable?

Before I became Sunshine’s mother, I hated the color pink. This is true. I would never have been seen wearing it. I owned nothing that was pink.

I said it was because of my skin tone, but what did that have to do with pink notebooks?

No, I did not like pink because pink is for girls and girls are weak and I did not want to be associated with weakness.

When I discovered that Sunshine was going to be a girl, I began to shift my views of the color pink. I do not know why that happened, but I knew it did. I bought a pair of pink flats to wear with my spring dresses.

Six years later, I own quite a few pink items. I wear it regularly. My phone case is pink.

Do you know why I like pink?

Because Sunshine does.

And Sunshine is not weak. Sunshine is strong. Sure, she is scared of bugs and heights, but she will talk to anyone. I will not do that. I am too scared. But Sunshine, she is fearless in her pursuit of love and friendship.

Sunshine is dedicated. She sets her sights on something, and she achieves it. She is focused and determined.

Sunshine is disciplined. She is probably the only five year old in the world who can ration her Halloween candy herself, having full access to it and still being able to eat only a piece a day.

Sunshine is loving. She loves everyone. Her heart is big and can hold a million souls within it. Her prayers contain multitudes.

Sunshine is creative. She makes plans and builds towers. She tells stories and makes up her own songs. Her illustrations have impressed me for years.

Sunshine is giving. She will give someone her last pretzel.

Sunshine is concerned. She knows what is going on and empathizes with those around her.

Sunshine is not weak.

Girlness is not weakness. We need to move away from this idea that women need to hide their feminine side if they want to be successful. We need to celebrate our daughters, even if they want to wear dresses at all times.

I mean, think about women. They bring life into the world. They pick themselves up when their worlds are falling apart. They support their children and each other. They fight every day for those the love. There is nothing weak about women.

Sunshine helped me see this. Without her, I might never have known.

I do not steer Sunshine toward or away from anything. She was born fascinated by all things little girl.

Sunshine is proof that loving pink princesses covered in head-to-toe glitter does not make anyone less of a capable person.

Sunshine wants to be a doctor or maybe a teacher. She definitely wants to be a mommy, but not to twins because that seems like it might be painful. (Her words, not mine.)

Sunshine wants to move mountains.

And she will, probably while wearing a beautiful pink polka dot dress.

As for me, I will be behind her the whole time, supporting her and being awed by her, with my pink cell phone in hand.

Celebrating the One Hundredth Day of School

I was raised one of many children in a poor household. Money was a concern at all times. We did not take extended vacations. I have not been to Disney World. My clothes were hand-me-downs and second hand. My resources were limited at times. We lived in a fairly wealthy area, and my teachers assumed that we would have internet access at home, even in 2001. We did not.

Much of my clothing fit poorly. I was acutely aware of that.

I got my first job at fourteen. I worked for a butcher on Saturdays from 8-6. I babysat on Mondays from 4-9. I cleaned the neighbor’s house on Tuesdays for two hours after school. I got a full-time babysitting job in the summer. I used that money to pay for trips to the movies and clothing so I felt better about me.

This is not a complaint, I assure you. I was raised poor but loved. My parents had little, but they gave everything. We did not travel far, but we spent at least one day at the shore every summer. Sometimes that was literally a day. We would wake before 6:00 and cram into a single minivan, children illegally sitting on the floor to fit. We would drive the three hours to the ocean, spend the morning in the sun, eat sandy sandwiches for lunch, shower off in the locker rooms of the public park, eat pizza at Dad’s favorite place, hit up the boardwalk for cheap rides and kitschy stores, and pile our sunburned selves back into the van just as the sun began to set for the ride back home. My parents could not afford much, but they could do that. There was always cake on birthdays and presents under the Christmas tree.

They had little to give, and they gave it.

We were lucky. We were loved. Other kids had things and parents who fought bitterly. Not all, of course. But we knew what we had.

We had each other. We had laughter and song and built-in friends. We had playing school on the back porch. We had an exercise trampoline in the basement. We had fires in the backyard. We had everything we needed and just enough of what we could want. Tastes of wants. Not enough to be gorged on our wants, but enough to be satisfied in knowing what they tasted like.

My parents are the working poor. They work hard. They instilled in me the value of hard work. But their hard work will not result in their getting ahead.

Saint Daddy and I are not part of the working poor. Our children wear mostly hand-me-downs, but I am more selective about what is acceptably secondhand. They also have access to more of their wants than I did as a child.

Part of this is because of my awareness as a child of not having what the other kids had. I want my kids to have everything and to feel no shame.

Sunshine is in kindergarten, and I recently became acquainted with this event known as the One Hundredth Day of School. I did not know this was a thing until this year. Specifically, I did not know that this was a thing until the Tuesday before the Monday that marked the One Hundredth Day of School when Sunshine came home with a letter from her teacher letting me know that she could wear a special homemade shirt to mark the occasion.

I took the letter to Saint Daddy where he sat in his office, finishing his work for the day. “Look! A project for me!” Because Sunshine is five, she is unlikely to be able to figure out a way to put one hundred items on a shirt. Not to mention the fact that Sunshine cannot drive herself to the store for materials. Oh yes, we had plans for both Saturday and Sunday that weekend. And, oh yes, I had two assignments due for my grad class that same Monday.

Piece of cake!

Sometimes, I think about my mom with her multitudes of children, her night shift job, her limited means, and her exhaustion. She would not have made me a shirt. She may have stopped at AC Moore to pick up a $3 t-shirt for me to decorate, but it most likely would have been puffy paint polka dots that I did myself.

But Sunshine’s teacher sent a link to a Pinterest album for ideas.

A Pinterest album!

Have you seen Pinterest?!?

Puffy paint polka dots would stick out like a sore thumb in 2019.

What would people think?

What if I am that mom? What if Sunshine is that kid?

No, I could not allow it.

“Sunshine, what would you like on your special shirt?”

Bows. Like JoJo.

Saint Daddy took to Amazon as I put Grumpy and Sleepy to bed that night. I told him to look for craft bows. He ordered them along with special fabric glue for my hot glue gun and a white shirt.

Sunshine and I discussed design. She wanted her shirt to say 100, which is one of her favorite numbers. The other being her current age.

I told Saint Daddy that I would figure out how to make it when the weekend arrived. I always figure it out. I would spend part of a morning doing it. Maybe Saturday. Although Sunshine has ballet. Or Sunday. Although I run six miles on Sunday mornings. I would figure it out.

I always do.

And I did. Sunshine loved it.

Over the next week or so, I watched other moms figure out the One Hundredth Day of School. There were capes and costumes, children dressed as their one hundred year old selves. Stress and questions. Where to buy? What do do? How much to spend?

Why?

To not be that mom. To not let our kids be those kids.

Which mom?

The mom who does not care enough to buy craft bows and hot glue. The mom who forgot. The mom who does not have it together for her kids. The mom who is not able to figure it out.

What kids?

The ones whose parents are not paying attention. The poor ones. The misfits. The struggling ones. The ones who are different. The ones who have to sit around feeling self-conscious in their regular clothes on a special day.

And, like, what does it matter?

Would Sunshine be any less wonderful on the One Hundredth Day if I sent her in her usual uniform?

Who is to say?

I cannot answer this question.

But I see you, momma. I see you with your hot glue gun and your Cricut machine, working long hours, with no need for one more thing, but doing it anyway. I see you with paint under your fingernails and a smiling kid. I see what you did when you post your pictures to your Instagram. Your kids are happy because they did the thing, but I know. I know you are the one who really did the thing.

Congratulations, momma.

You would not be less of an amazing momma without that cape on your baby’s back, but you still pulled it off and I am impressed.

Until the next time you will decide to be supermom to not be that mom.

We are in this together.

Moms Always Deserve Time Away

I am currently on a bus leaving my closest major city. I took a train to get to this bus station. I am on my way to the ocean during one of the coldest snaps on record. At the end of this bus trip is my best friend, whom I last saw in a hospital bed, and six other women who live my life in one way or another.

Saint Daddy drove me to the gas station across from the train station nearest our home this morning. I kissed my children goodbye, bought some hot tea, and boarded an express train to the city.

Before leaving work yesterday, I checked my email one last time and promised myself that I would not look at it again until Monday morning.

My friends and I have tickets for shows and plans to dance and eat and laugh for an entire weekend of limited responsibility and limitless fun.

We are all wives. We have all been married about ten years. We all have at least two kids, ranging in age from ten years to ten months.

We have spent the last eleven years supporting and loving each other from all over the country. This weekend, we meet up to celebrate life and friendship.

When I mentioned this trip to people, the resounding sentiment was “good for you” or “you deserve this.”

I never really considered time with my friends as something that I deserved, yet as a mother, the notion of me just going out for a weekend is one that seems to require justification.

Why is that?

The other question that I have been asked is “What are you doing with your children?”

Let me address that first.

I assumed that the cat and dog would take care of them. I gave the dog a pep talk about the importance of letting Grumpy and Sleepy eat their own food before eating it herself. As the cleaner of our two animals, I put the cat on diaper duty. She will be more thorough about avoiding diaper rash, I am sure. Sunshine will fend for herself like a wild animal. She will decorate her hair with bows and live on cheese sticks and rice crispy treats and the blueberry muffins she and Saint Daddy made together yesterday.

Wait! I guess I should have considered that Saint Daddy would make a viable option as a guardian for our children this weekend. I wish the dog would have mentioned something…

Since I work outside of the home and Saint Daddy works from home, he has always been our children’s primary caregiver. He is great at it. We both have our strengths. The other day, in reference to a scene from The Office, he said he is more of the day-to-day guy and I am more big picture. He does the dishes every day; I clean the windows a few times a year. He changes more diapers; I spend more time on reading skills.

And you know what? If Sunshine does not practice her sight words one time this weekend, Sunshine will be fine. Saint Daddy will feed her well-balanced meals, brush her hair, and get her to bed by 8:00. He does not need me to survive the day-to-day. He can survive just fine without me.

He wants me as his partner, and I complement him well. He is better with the schedules and details. I am better with holiday magic and childhood wonder. We parent as a team, and when necessary, we can both do it solo.

My children are fine this weekend.

Please do not worry for them.

Worry about me. I deserve this.

I am tired. These last six weeks have been difficult. Between Sunshine and my best friend being sick and work issues and deadlines and, oh yes, I began graduate classes at the beginning of January, I have had little time to process my world.

I have been overwhelmed with life.

I reached out for support and felt isolation. It is not anyone’s fault. It is probably my own. I blame no one.

I made my decisions. I chose to bear it for too long.

As a mother of two nearly two year olds and a five year old who works full time, my days are jammed. After work, I try to practice Sunshine’s reading skills, run, do my coursework, play with my sons, bathe little people, get everyone in bed at 8:00, and clean up the living room for our babies to destroy again the next day.

It is go, go, go until Saint Daddy and I get into bed.

We are tired. We are weary.

We are happy. One day, we will look back on these days that are moving so quickly and we will feel deep longing. Our lives are messy and beautiful.

But we are tired.

I dare anyone to judge that sentiment. We can love our children and be grateful for them and be the very best parents for their little souls, and still feel a permanent sense of exhaustion.

There are no breaks for parents. Not unless they give them to themselves.

This weekend, I am taking a break.

I miss my babies already. This is not selfishness. I am not pretending they do not exist. I am not shirking from my duties as their momma. I am not choosing myself over them.

I am recognizing that a tired momma is not her best self. A tired momma is not the momma my babies deserve.

In a very real way, I am spending a couple of days away because my babies deserve a momma whose mental health is not completely taxed by the constant pressure to do everything.

This weekend, there will be many fewer things for me to worry about.

I am great at worrying.

The thing I deserve is not really time away from my babies but time away from my worries.

I am halfway to the ocean. It will be cold outside but I will have friendship to keep me warm.

And when I return to my wonderful family on Sunday afternoon, I will be all the better for my time away.

We all deserve this.

Normal Twin Language Delays and Their Mother’s Anxiety

Sunshine began speaking shortly after she turned seven months old. Her first word was “duck,” but she picked up new words so quickly that it was hard to maintain a solid list. By her first birthday, she had multiple sentences under her belt. She could count to thirteen by fourteen months. She said “I love you” by eighteen months. She responded to questions. By her second birthday, she recognized twenty letters and could read her own name.

Once she knew a word, it was hers forever.

She was verbally advanced. We knew it. We nurtured her language development through talking and singing and reading with her as much as we could.

I told my oldest sister that she should not compare Sunshine to her second son, who was born exactly seven weeks after Sunshine’s birthday. It was not fair to him. Sunshine was very verbal. She understood language.

She still does. Now that her kindergarten teacher has put a few tools in her hands, she is advancing quickly with her reading.

Grumpy and Sleepy are altogether different. Grumpy spoke first. Coincidentally, his first word was also “duck.” He and Sunshine had both fallen in love with the same stuffed duck in their infancy. While Sunshine was seven months when she grabbed onto that word, Grumpy was nearly ten months old.

Sleepy did not find a word until weeks after that. It was “mama,” but he lost it. I posted a while ago about both boys calling me “dad” for months and breaking my poor mom-guilt-ridden heart.

That is another thing about my sons’ language development that separated them from Sunshine. They have lost words over time. “Dog” faced a similar fate. It was an early word for both of them, but they lost it along the line. Instead, they have used “cat” to mean any animal. They both agree that all animals are cats, even ones that do not look even slightly like our pet cat.

Timehop continually shows me videos of my very verbal Sunshine, who was born six weeks later in the year than Grumpy and Sleepy, and was therefore younger than they are when I watch these videos. Grumpy and Sleepy are not where she was verbally, and I have found myself tempted to compare, which is precisely what I told my sister not to do five years ago.

I need to take my own advice.

This post is for mommas of multiples. If your babies seem behind, do not compare.

I first questioned the possibility that twins might sometimes be delayed with our pediatrician when Grumpy and Sleepy were nine months old. They were late crawlers, especially compared to Sunshine. (There I go again, comparing them.)

The pediatrician said that many multiples reach milestones in the “late average” range, meaning that the concern is likely to be my own and not truly medical/developmental in nature. I did not find any research to support the fact that full-term twins walk later than full-term singletons.

For language, though, there is research that suggests that multiples do develop later. This issue is more likely to appear with identical twins, and may be linked to complications related to multiple pregnancies and deliveries. However, fraternal twins, like Grumpy and Sleepy, are also more likely to develop speech deficiencies than singletons.

The reasons why are so logical:

  1. Multiples spend more time with each other than anyone else. Since they speak at an underdeveloped level, they tend to mimic each other’s methods of communication. My best friend told me that she has a local friend with twins in speech therapy who was told that her sons are reinforcing each other’s poor language skills. It makes perfect sense. If language is developed mostly by interacting with people who speak it and their primary interaction is with someone who does not speak it well, children will struggle to develop language quickly.
  2. Multiples get less one-on-one time with adults than singletons do. This is actually the reason I believed my sons were late to sitting up on their own. I could not easily get on the floor and play games with them for as long as I did with Sunshine because there were two of them that needed my support. I blamed myself for their poor core development. It was not actually my fault, but mom guilt is real. However, much like the first reason listed above, multiples spend less individual time than singletons with people who do speak the language well, so the correct methods of speech are not modeled as much for them.
  3. Multiples also tend to simplify their language in the essence of efficiency. Because they get less individual attention, multiples tend to stick to short sentences. They also tend to be louder. I did not realize that was a legitimate twin thing until I began to research it. They do this so that they can say what they need to say in a way that will be quickly heard and understood. Unfortunately, it can delay their development further.

Grumpy and Sleepy also have what is called a Shared Understanding. This means that they understand each other and use sounds that they have developed to stand for objects that are not true language. Around their first birthday, they were referring to each other as “ahgugug.” Other shared understanding words that they have had include “dee” for anything that they like to throw, “guy” for sock, “psss” for star, and “guk” for boat. They both agree that those are the words that mean those objects. Shared Understanding is something that develops largely because twins spend more time with each other than with anyone else.

There is also research to suggest that the mental health of the parents plays a role in language development as well. Parents of multiples have a higher incidence of mental health problems than parents of singletons, and when parents have a difficult time taking care of themselves, they have a difficult time supporting their quickly developing children.

(Holy link share in this post!)

Here is the thing: Even with all of this information, it is hard not to worry. It is particularly difficult to know when that worry becomes something worth bringing up with a doctor. We are not at that point of worry with Grumpy and Sleepy. I feel like they will be fine. They are working on it. Grumpy is starting to pick up words more quickly right now. Suddenly, he knows that the animal that came with their Little People farm is a “cow” instead of a “cat.” He began saying “sock” the other day, which was a major turning point in the Shared Understanding department. Sleepy is always a couple of weeks behind Grumpy when it comes to language, so I assume he will catch up to Grumpy soon.

There are services for delayed children, whether they are multiples or singletons, and concerned parents should talk to their pediatricians about beginning evaluations.

I worry, though. Each time a Sunshine video comes up on Timehop, I cannot help but wonder when her brothers will get “there” because they are not there yet. It is not fair. I know it.

As with most things related to my anxiety, I have little ability to control that worry, those nagging thoughts that something is not right, that I could be doing more.

I love my sons. I love them up and down and all around. I love them from the ends of the hair on their head to to their tiny tickle toes. I read to them every night and as much as they will let me otherwise. We sing and eat dinner together as a family. We try.

But the people they spend the most time with are each other, and they are both at the same developmental age. They reinforce each other’s speech patterns.

And I wonder… What more can I do? Could I do better? Could I be better?

This is anxiety meeting motherhood. I have read the research. This is normal, natural. Twins are more likely to have a slight delay in language development. I know it. I understand it. My sons are developing language every single day. Over the last week, Grumpy picked up four new words. Sleepy found two of his own. They will be fine.

If only I could make my brain believe it.

This happens to me time and time again. My sons’ speech is not the beginning of this, and it will not be the end.

Having twins has certainly impacted my mental health. My heart is full, and my anxiety is in overdrive. I pray that it gets better.

Twin language is a story that twin mommas should hear, but this story–one of knowing the truth but struggling to really believe it–is one that I am sure that all people with anxiety can understand.

Sometimes, when I learn something that will assuage my fears, I spend time telling myself to “believe it, believe it, believe it.” Eventually, I can.

Soon my sons will say “I love you.” I believe that. They are close. They respond to the phrase now. I say “I love you,” and they give me kisses. We are communicating a beautiful thought.

One day, they will say it too. And I will cry. With joy and with relief. Because that is what I do when the thing I tried so hard to believe finally becomes a truth.

We Will Figure That Out When We Get There

If I had a dollar for every time I said that, we would have so many fewer things to figure out when we get there.

I have been thinking about this a lot over the last month. It has been more than a month since my last post. Allow me to explain…

My best friend was sick. Not, like, a little sick, but really sick. It started as a cold that would not quit. She was diagnosed with various issues that seemed to be related to a cold. Bronchitis, laryngitis, a pulled muscle from the cough. And you know what? They would not quit either. She saw specialists. They told her it was anxiety. “It’s probably panic attacks.” My best friend does not have anxiety. She has had panic attacks. She knew it was not panic attacks. “Maybe it’s heartburn.” She saw a cardiologist who essentially told her she was too young to have any real issues, but if it would make her feel better, he would run tests. It was not serious enough to rush anything. Two weeks’ wait was fine. The next day, I drove to her house to spend the night with her while her husband was away. She wailed in pain while I held her baby and felt helplessness. Three days after meeting with that cardiologist, she had heart surgery. She gave her stent a name. That stent saved her life. It deserves a name.

If I could have put into words my feelings about it when it happened three weeks ago, I would have waxed poetic about a life spared. I would have praised God above, the universe around us, and medical professionals who finally hear a young woman when she says, “This isn’t normal. Something’s wrong.” I had so many feelings. Relief, joy, gratitude. I love her very much. I need her very much. I could have lost her, but I did not. We did not.

Before she saw that cardiologist who brushed her off due to her young age, she told me she feared that she would die. She told me that she feared that she would have to give up so much about her life that she loved. She told me that she was scared. And I thought, “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

Sunshine was sick. She first became sick on the second Sunday in December. I took her to see The Nutcracker at a nearby college. We go every December. When intermission ended, she asked me if we had to stay for the second half of the play. I was surprised. She loves the ballet. She said, “I don’t feel like myself.” We did stay for the remainder of the performance. When we arrived home, however, she put herself to bed. It was 4:30 PM. She would not leave the bed for dinner. That night, she threw up in bed. She was sick for most of the next day, but that dissipated as the day progressed. She went to school the following day. She had a cold, but her belly was fine. No one else was affected.

A week later, she threw up in bed again. She spent the next day at home, but she was fine. She returned to school. At 2:00 that next day, her school called me. Sunshine needed to be picked up. She did not have a fever, but she had thrown up in the classroom. She was not permitted to return to school the next day. Saint Daddy took her to the doctor that night. The doctor suspected a lingering virus from the week before. Again, no one else was sick. She had no fever, but she was lethargic and nauseous and, occasionally, vomiting. She spent the entire day after the one when I picked her up at school in her bed. I could not get her to open her eyes long enough to eat a few bites of food.

I was scared. I was scared about all of the things that can cause nausea and lethargy without a fever or being contagious.

Saint Daddy swears up and down that this is not true, but he is a bit of an alarmist when it comes to medical stuff. He swears this because his mom is a much more extreme alarmist. She is a nurse and she sometimes diagnoses our children via Facebook posts. Shortly after Grumpy’s stitches episode, she babysat the kids while Saint Daddy and I went for lunch to celebrate our anniversary. She said she noticed that Grumpy tripped a lot and wondered if we ever considered the possibility that he might have cerebral palsy.

I truly appreciate her concern. She loves our babies and worries about them. But she is definitely an alarmist.

Saint Daddy does not consider himself to be an alarmist because he is not that extreme. But as I sat there watching Sunshine sleep, unable to rouse her, crying and praying, Saint Daddy came to me with theories. “Maybe we need to have her tested for the serious stuff.” Maybe it’s a tapeworm, maybe it’s another parasite, maybe she has… The last one is one I cannot even put into writing. It is too much.

What will we do?

We will figure that out when we get there.

That night, as I put Sleepy into his crib, he vomited all over their bedroom floor, his crib, and himself. I did not think I would ever celebrate a vomiting one year old, but there I was thrilled.

If Sunshine is contagious, Sunshine has a virus. We will never have to figure that out. Praise God. Amen.

Sunshine’s issues did not end there. Her cold remained. She felt periodic nausea over the following two weeks. We believe that Grumpy and Sleepy did as well, based on their appetites, but they could not tell us themselves.

That is when Sunshine began limping. She could not step over the baby gates anymore. Her leg hurt.

We took her to the doctor. “Maybe it’s the virus. Sometimes viruses in children can affect their hip joints.” The same virus that began three weeks ago? When do we worry that it might be something more? “Call us if it is still bad in two days.” She continued to cry out in pain and to limp around the house. She did not run around. She barely stood up at all. Two days passed. My mind went crazy places. I called my sister and she said the thing I was thinking. She did not say it, just as I would not write it, but we both thought it.

How will I live?

We will figure that out when we get there.

Sometimes, I feel like Saint Daddy thinks I do not care the right amount about certain things. I think he wants me to worry about things in the same way that he does. I know he knows that I spiral. When my best friend told me she was afraid that she might die, I told her that I refused to think about that. I could not think about that. I could not imagine that as a possibility. I would spiral. I would lose my footing. I need her to be okay because she is such a monumental part of my life. I needed to think about that only if it would actually happen, not just in case it would. The same is true of Sunshine. I needed to pray for both of them. I needed to do what I could do. I needed to drive to her house and spend the night. I needed to make Sunshine chicken soup and spoon-feed it to her as she laid down with her eyes closed. But I needed to not think of the things that could happen.

I am great at the worst case scenario. If you are ever looking for someone to tell you what the absolute worst outcome could potentially be, I promise to be that person for you. Trust me. I have imagined some horrendous outcomes to completely innocuous situations.

The last thing that I need in these situations is for someone to remind me that there are things that could go wrong. I can do that myself.

With that in mind, if I can somehow shut down that part of me that will focus on every negative outcome imaginable, I want to do that. When I manage to do that, I say, “We’ll figure that out when we get there.”

Five years ago, when I was nine months pregnant with Sunshine, I planned a major event at work. It took me nearly six months of concentrated effort. I made phone calls, organized teams, and formulated plans. It was a massive undertaking.

Whenever my second-in-command asked me very specific questions, I tried to answer them to the best of my ability, but sometimes I said, “We’ll figure that out when we get there.”

it was my way of telling her that I believed our preparation would lead to a smooth event, even if I had not ironed out every single wrinkle in the fabric table coverings. The following year, as we planned our final event together before we both moved on to different ventures, she said our motto would always be “We’ll figure that out when we get there.” Ultimately, I believe that hard work and planning can lead to it all “working out” in my favor.

I have to believe that way so I do not obsess over the details. Sometimes, I get lost in the details. My anxiety makes me get lost in the details. My anxiety tells me that I need to think about every little detail. My anxiety tells me that I need to be in control. Over time, i have been able to tell myself that I do not have to be in control. It is a coping mechanism to say these words and give myself time to deal with what will come my way.

These situations are not the end of this either.

How will we handle twins? What will we do with the dog when we go on vacation? How will we get there? What if the boys do not walk before fifteen months? What if the car breaks down? What if? What if? What if?

We will figure that out when we get there.

I promise.