mom over 40

Bing and Doot, my dearests:

Today marks your 100th day of being my offspring, so I wanted to take a moment to review your accomplishments so far.

Accomplishment #1: You both managed to successfully stay in the womb after weeks of my uterus threatening to expel you.

You came out early, but not by your choice.

Accomplishment #2: Points for individuality, since despite being twins, you both came into the world quite differently. Doot, my brave little astronaut, you ventured out first, taking the more traditional route. “PUSH!!!!! LIKE YOU’RE TAKING THE BIGGEST CRAP OF YOUR LIFE!” the doctor, no kidding, screamed at me moments before you made your entrance. I did, and felt that otherworldly POP and then the most enormous relief I’ve ever known. Your head – who knew it was so pliable? Good thing, too because the few stitches I did need, well, the memory of them still makes me itch sometimes.

Bing, my clever little man, it was though you saw what your brother endured on his trip into the world and said, “Screw it. I am NOT squeezing my shit through there!” They cut a quick slice in my belly to get to you before, well let’s just say before the unimaginable because I don’t even want to imagine, not for a second, what could have happened had we not been in totally competent hands in the OR. But once the decision for the C-Section was made, you arrived quickly, safely and you were perfect from head to toe. No elongated head for you, no sir! I can see years ahead of you finding your own path in this world. Let’s hope most of them don’t lead to emergency surgery.

Accomplishment #3: Steady hearts, steady breaths. No NICU time. Not even for a few hours of observation. You were both under 5 lbs, but breathing and sucking superbly right away. When they said you could go to the regular nursery it was about the thousandth time that day your father and I counted ourselves among the very, very lucky.

Accomplishment #4: How about the adorable factor? Both of you, either separately or snuggled together exude enough cuteness to shame the entire baby animal kingdom. No kittens, puppies, baby seals, infant capybaras or what have you can touch the “AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWesomeness” that you two have going on. I thought maybe I was biased in my judgment of your attractiveness, but NO, definitely not. I am totally unbiased and you two are without doubt the most adorable creatures that have ever been or will ever be born. (*The author reserves the right to revoke this statement on the occasion of grandchildren. AND during the years 13-17.)

Accomplishment #5: You came home the same day I did. I began to understand how amazing this was when everywhere we went, or I went, people said, “Oh twins! How long did they have to stay in the hospital for?” But you didn’t have to stay in the hospital any longer than I did. And by nearly every measure, one could argue you were in better shape than I was when we got home.

Accomplishment #6:  You grew. And grew. And grew. I have one photo, which I promise to never post, in which I am tandem breastfeeding you. And I swear your heads are not even half the size of my boobs. Now, your heads are much larger than my boobs, sadly, and I can say largely due to the service said body parts have done you. Well done, all of us.

Accomplishment #7: You taught me the very meaning of FEAR. I was never truly afraid until I had children. This coming from someone who’s had remnants of an anxiety disorder since the 1980’s. Yet my anxiety since you’ve arrived has crested peaks I’d never dare imagine.

When I first got you two home, every little tiny new thing scared the pants off me, when I bothered to put any on. Bing had a marble sized lump in his left breast. WTF was that? (Turned out to be a common nothing thing that went away on its own). Doot had an umbilical hernia. Oh, and yes, I had a massive herpes outbreak (on my mouth – fever blisters), which manifested itself two days after you were born, and hours after I dared to bestow my first kiss to you Doot. I was TERRIFIED I would give you the Herpes 1 virus, which is quite dangerous in infants. I didn’t, THANK GOD. But I cried and cried and cried and obsessed over it, and many other things in those first weeks.

I did realize the absolute need to get over it, all that fear. So while I’ve still got plenty of it I’ve been dealing with it better, yes. Because I either get over it or I am miserable and if I’m miserable, how can I bask in your awesomeness (see #4 above)?

Accomplishment #8: Smiles. Oh Godddddd, the smiles. Your father and I fall apart whenever you smile at us.

The other day, Graham, Dad heard you laugh in your sleep! He was so excited he called me at work, and after I teared and snuffled a few times, we congratulated ourselves, thinking we must be doing a great job as parents for you to have such funny dreams. And by the way guys, I’m sure this trend of us taking credit for your accomplishments is something you’ll need to discuss with your therapist sometime in your early adulthood, if not sooner.

And Liam, holy cow, you are the smiliest baby I’ve ever known. You wake up smiling. You smile at anyone you meet. You smile at the dog. You smile at the wall. You screech, squeal, coo, belch, spit up 300 oz and then smile at the pool of spit up. You really crack us up.

Accomplishment a gabazillion: I just realized the futility of numbering your accomplishments in this way. It’s not that there are too many to list. It’s that your birth and your lives so far are so enormous a factor in my universe that breaking out the individual things like this does not come close to conveying the complete transformation of our lives.

I want you to know, I was happy before you were born. I really was. I had a sense of purpose, a creative mission, a sense of the meaning of it all. Granted, I was not so happy when I wanted to have you and couldn’t, but I knew deep in my heart that if I could never have you, I would grieve and then find a way to move on in my life and make peace with it. So when I tell you, I’ve never known happiness like this, I’m not saying this from the point of an unhappy, unfulfilled person. I’m saying that you have brought to my life a depth, a sense of purpose – the perfect mission. The reason to live at all, and the way forward.

You changed everything. Everything. Every thought I have, every hope for the future, the very meaning of life itself. My world, my body, my concept of family and my notion of priorities. All different now. I have to tell you though, your father and I were counting on that.

You did not disappoint.

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