Most of the time, I'm a little too tunnel visioned to think something cohesive. My brain isn't able to transition outside of priorities. In the free moments; I feel my abdomen tense rhythmically.
Like I'm on the mark.
But, it's so important to find a little place in the day, perhaps from 05:40 to 05:45, in which I'm doing something non-reactive. Like, writing this is affirming that I'm not a complete stranger to myself.
I still don't have the opportunity to really expand on anything, or to edit it so that I am the perfect version of myself, but I recently heard somewhere that no one's perfect.
Also, I'll add, that no one is special.
I feel more like one of many; by the day.
It's both painful, and good. And I mean both of those plain words in all their intensity.
It's really painful to be so humbled, to be so little.
It's really good to be purposeful every single day, to be a family.

I feel like I have a soul for the first time in my life.

I never went to visit my Nanny before she died.
I had every opportunity, and I just didn't, because I didn't feel like it.
And today, I started feeling really bad about that.

I have all these people I surrounded myself with for many years.
And now, many of them look at me as though I turned into a different species when I made babies.
And in the beginning that kind of hurt, until I realized that I was never really there for them either.

Being so locked into this experience, is pretty much the antithesis of my previous life.
I find that I'm not only struggling with being a new parent of twins. I'm also struggling with my identity, my new future, and how to maintain some thoughtfulness and quality in the process.

I went to the store to pick up some formula yesterday.
The clerk was this young, hipster guy, and he looked right through me.
I remember he said, "Have a nice day."
I actually looked over my shoulder to see who he was talking to, and realized that was supposed to be for me.

It's been about thirty minutes now.
This felt good.
Hmm... I miss my boys.
Maybe I'll go upstairs and start stomping around outside their door.

A. B. and 3.

a. If you have two babies instead of one.
And they're both crying.
Never imagine how much easier things would have been if say, you could have them both but maybe three years apart from eachother.
Don't think about that.
It will get you every time.

b. (This entry was replaced by a crying baby.)

and 3. Alright, alright. I'm coming Reese.

baby brains

Reese and Elliott.
Reese and Elliott.
Go together like a horse and chariott!
This I tell you Jes-se.
You can't have a Reese without an Elli!

Dear Elli and R-Jo,

These are currently my top five favorite things about you:

1. Sometimes when I put both of you down in the crib; I'll start hearing a baby grunting and squeeking. This will go on for a couple minutes, until there's silence again.
When I come in to check on the two of you, I'll find that the baby on the right has worked his way to the baby on the left. So that one baby's head is snuggled into the other's shoulder.

2. Most mornings I like to take you on walks. You usually fall into a coma as soon as we get moving.
Every once in a while I'll peek in on you and find that you haven't been asleep at all. Instead, you're quietly watching the world go by. Often times your little mouth is pursed as though you'd like a kiss. So I give you one.

3. Reese, I love your smile, because it spreads over your whole face quite suddenly, like a surprise party.
Elliott, I love your smile, because it has such humor in it, you're going to be a very funny person one day.

4. I make prarie women of you during bath time. You are most beautiful with a wash cloth bonnett on your head and suds on your belly.

and 5. When you sleep, you gain about twenty pounds. I like to lay back on the couch and feel the weight of you on my chest. It's like we're both slowly sinking into the center of the earth.

Now that we're all home, it's beginning to catch up with me.
Here is life as it will be.
It's been a little over a month.
It's happening just as I thought it might.
I'm doing the dishes at 4a.m.
And these little bursts of weeping come out of my face.
And I'm not even enjoying the release, because I'm too tired.
So it stops just as soon as it began.
What I'm saying is,
I feel like I got shot through a worm hole ten months ago.
Life is all about the stories you tell.
There's never just one story.
And lately, now that I'm no longer in the middle of getting through it, I'm seeing all these versions of my life.
Like little movies projected all over the walls of my apartment.
I don't know which one I'm living anymore.
I mean, I'm living all of them, but which one will I retell?

Today I watched the sky turn lavender and this is what I could hear:
Coffee percolating in the kitchen.
Folk music.
A restless baby.*

I sent Jesse to bed at 9p.m. Usually he takes the night shift and I get up at about 1a.m. to take over until 8ish.
But I got a nap in this morning. And so our brilliant plan to find some structure is foiled.
As I write this, Reese and Elliott are sleeping on a blanket in the middle of the living room floor. During the eight hours of the day that Jesse and I are both awake at the same time, the going's pretty easy. Sometimes when we both want a nap, we pick a baby and separate.
Easy.
But in these shifts when we're solo, it can get pretty hairy. We've found terms to use during our debriefings.
Like melt down.
As in,
"Did you have any melt downs?"
"Yeah. Two. But they didn't last very long."

Another main concern for us would be how many shirts went down in a blaze of projectile vomit, though you never have to ask.
Many a morning I come down stairs to find Jesse in some state of undress. Mostly he's shirtless, but on particularly active nights I've found him down to his undies.
I knew it would be hard.
I even knew it would be this hard.
But I guess the reality of it is... surreal.
Like when I look at Reese and Elliott sternly and say,
"You're just going to have to cry for one minute."
So that I can run upstairs to put a shirt on after hopelessly waiting them out for an hour.
As though I've somehow taken a stand by carving out 30 seconds to put a bra on.
But as I've found in my other life experiences, you adjust.
We appreciate the few moments we have to ourselves, and of course we take plenty of time to marvel at the fruits of our labor.
At the moment I'm playing Hey Jude and appreciating that I have both the energy and the ten minutes to share a little about this place in time.
And that's so restorative.
Also, sometimes when I'm feeding them I move my head from right to left.
I say,
"Where's momma?"
And be it Reese or Elli, I watch them turn their gaze to follow me.
That's so cool.

My sister showed me this picture she took with her cellphone a week before Reese and Elliott entered the scene. I was blown away. There aren't very many pictures of me pregnant, and at the time, I had no idea I was this big.
Reese is laying across my lap right now.
Elliott rests in the crib, still in his carrier because I was afraid to wake him.
Jane, Kat and Yarrow came to visit us yesterday. They brought a lovely salad and lots of joy to our day. We shared a little about parenting, and I realized that I haven't done as much thinking about what kind of parent I'm going to be, as I would like to. Later in the evening I looked into attachment parenting. I don't know if I'll follow it rigidly, but I agree with it completely. Looks like Reese wants some attachment right now! xo

Yesterday I sat down with Dr. Patel. I asked,
"Why is Reese being treated for Elliott?"
"Why aren't they home yet?"
"What orders can you put in so that we can all get on the same page?"
I said,
"I want to approach getting these babies discharged the way we approached getting them extubated."
I asked,
"How can Reese be held here for losing less than 20mg over two days, when I know that he isn't even weighed at the same time each day?"
In my head, I said,
"GIVE ME MY FUCKING BABIES NOW! GIVE'EM! NOW!"
...
We all rocked a little more in our hospital grade rocking chairs. I congratulated Elliott for burping on my shoulder.

Dr. Patel told me that he would change their orders and start making moves on his next shift.
I guess that will have to do for now.

I don't have many regrets when I look back on how I've handled this experience, but lately I'm coming to recognize that I'm nearing the end of good behavior.
I want them home now.
I want to start now.
I don't want to wrap their wires in my fist every time I pick them up.
Or pull the curtains around us every time I breastfeed.
I don't want nurses asking me if our house is ready yet.
I want them to mind their own business.
Sigh.
This will all be over soon.
I would apologize for such a venty, dear diary kind of blog, but I happen to know that the people reading this actually care.
That means everything to me.
Thank you.