I killed time in between doctor appointments pounding away at the pages of one of my riveting twin books. I've decided a new approach for the homework of reading books on multiples I've ladled out for myself: divide, conquer, and shoost those suckers into the closest library deposit slot as quickly as possible because I'm kind of tired of breaking out in sweats from perusing non-fiction.
These books are one part rest-assured and nine parts crap-your-pants. I honestly feel like I've crammed for an exam. Baby weight numbers and when feedings can be stretched to three hours. Tandem feed holdings. Must have items for nursing. Witty comebacks for cliche questions people will likely be asking (and most of them I've already heard). How to ask, beg, and direct people for help. The four different approaches to nighttime feedings with a spouse. Pregnancy weight gain projections. Averages for gestation. NICU know how. Symptoms of post partum depression. All the reasons why you've chosen the wrong names for your twins. It's quite enjoyable.
Seeing as we all have a little crazy in us... [Wait, you don't?]... I find myself reading within these books personal testimonies of women you have lost themselves somewhere amid the finances, fatigue, or feeding of twins and I think to myself, "Oh, but I'll pull this off. I'll think logically. I won't need an intervention." And turn the page and read on I do. And yes, I get frantic over all there is to do and know and prepare my home and heart for, and yet the crazy part of me is excited for the challenge.
And I say crazy part because I've got the credibility to say so about myself. Tonight, I came home with my son and weathered the storm of a boy who is sick and would like nothing better than test his vocal cords' ability to produce whiny, high-pitched indecipherable noises. I gritted my teeth when he accidentally spilled the sugar cinnamon I reassured him when he pooped in his diaper. I took a deep breath, literally three minutes later, when he tip toed suspiciously into the hearth room and admitted, "Mommy, my poop fell in the closet." And I whipped up dinner quickly so that I could cuddle him on the couch for some much needed read-with-mommy time.
I kept my cool until dinner. Interrupted in what I've waited all day to do, talk to Paul, by Thomas terribly distraught over not finding his "utter boo" (which is some interesting way of naming a toy weapon), I pull a fake smile and my eyes widen across the table from my handsome husband as I tell him, "it's your turn." I may have added some melodramatic maxim like I've hit my limit or I can't go over there. Essentially, some kind of concept of me hitting my head against a wall.
The reality of twins is something a book will only marginally prepare me. If my good sense serves me right, my wall of I-can't-take-any-more will have no choice but to be torn down and rebuilt farther down the road over and over again. But just as my patience and love for Thomas wasn't overnight, neither will my ability to gracefully whisk two newborns to my chest sans help, complaining, cursing, or tears.
Too bad for that. Books 1, 2, 3 & 4 of Run & Hide: You're Having Twins make one thing very clear. I don't have time to allow for gradual, incremental additions to my bounty of love and ability.
These babies are coming, and for the 1st month, the most critical, their mission is to leach on to take, take, and kill. Or so I've read.
Stay tuned. It's gonna get real up in here.