The Hard Parts

Sometimes it feels like nobody understands.

Isn’t that a cliché? “Nobody understaaaaaands, waaaah!” That’s what I hear in my head when I say it out loud... I feel like the world’s biggest, most self-indulgent whiner. Because of course people understand; there are countless people in the world who have experienced what I’m experiencing, and worse too. So I guess what I mean is that no one important understands.

I’ve heard it all. In words and heavy implications.

 “It must be nice not to have to work.”

“You’re kind of on vacation!”

“You have it easy, your babies sleep through the night.”

“It must be quite comfortable to get to sit at home every day with your girls.”

“You’re so lucky!”

“Don’t even talk to me about being tired, I had the longest day at work ever! At least you got to be at home.”

“You have such easy babies.”

…I could go on.

And I understand where people come from when they say these things; I understand why they say them, with the best intentions, without any comprehension that what they’re saying is tactless, not to mention belittling and offensive. But I can’t help it. Despite understanding, I do get offended; perhaps (no, probably) I’m over-sensitive, but when I hear those things this giant rage dragon rears up and breathes fire in my chest and I feel like asking every one of those people to spend a day in my shoes and then consider if they want to stand by their statement.  

I have to start by saying that I love my life. And I am so insanely, disgustingly, thankful for it. And I don’t like to complain about it because to complain to me seems ungrateful. Not many people that I know get, or will ever get to experience the crazy blessing that having twins legitimately is. They don’t get to see those moments when the girls hold hands for an hour while they’re playing, or talk to each other from across the apartment, or stare adoringly into each other’s eyes. They don’t get to see the way Scarlett worships her “older” sister, and always has to seek her out when entering a room after her. They don’t get to see the way Olivia is, and always has been protective of her minute-younger sister (even in the womb). They don’t get to experience the way that alone time with one baby becomes a rare and genuine joy because it’s so uncommon.

But that also means they don’t get to experience the fact that every day is an utter gong-show. That two babies means twice as many bottles to be made and consumed. That three solid feeds become six. That when one is crying and wants to be held, nine times out of ten the other one does too, but mommy’s back will break if she tries to pick them both up. That there is never any time to wipe up the puke that’s all over my lap because the baby who didn’t regurgitate their food needs me too. That the amount of head-butts, scratches, and smacks to the face from an irritated baby double as well. That because they’re identical their growth is too, and this week I had to cope with 4 teeth cutting at a time, and frustrated screaming that accompanied it. That the only luxurious part of my life right now is whether or not I get an opportunity to shower. That every day is an overwhelming juggling act, and more often than not, things hit the floor.

I hear it time and time again from other twin parents: you really don’t get to leave the house much at all in the first year. And it’s true; going anywhere with the babies is nearly impossible. Not only are our girls severely premature and therefore at greater risk of getting sick, but they also almost always bawl in their car seats, making even short drives unendurable. And don’t get me started on their dependence on their schedule; these babies run on a strict routine and when it’s deviated from they lose their shit (and guess who has to deal with it?) Contrary to seemingly popular opinion, two babies at this stage doesn’t mean they always have someone to entertain them, it means twice the amount of cries for mom when there’s a problem.

But I’m optimistic. I take time for myself when I can, because I know it’s the only way to stay sane.

I run, because it’s better than therapy, though it usually has to wait until 10pm or later when the girls have gone to bed (by which time I am entirely drained from the day).

I read, but only when the girls sleep (if they’re asleep at the same time), or for the half an hour that they can play by themselves without wanting something from me. Or at midnight, after my run, and stretch, and post-run workout is done.

I write, because creating fiction and enveloping myself in the lives of other people and their problems helps to transport me into a world far from my own.

But then there’s bed, and it doesn’t mean sleep, it means hours of insomnia where I dwell over mistakes of the day and how I can be a better mom in the one to come.

This is my life. No, in truth this only scratches the surface of it. And I wouldn’t change it for the world. But that doesn’t mean that it’s easy or tolerable or I don’t have days where I shock myself with thoughts of leaving the house and never coming back. See, like other stay-at-home moms, I don’t get to clock out at the end of the day and come home. My work and my home are one, and rarely do I get a day off. Even if my husband is available and watching the girls so I can have time to relax, caring for them is a tough thing to do alone, and I find I am unable to shut off; I hear every cry with rising agitation, and unconsciously watch the clock to make sure things are moving according to schedule (because, as I said, despite frequent advice from singleton parents to “just wing it”, with twins no schedule means chaos.)  

I can’t make plans impulsively. I can’t leave, sleep, eat, shower, or do anything when I feel like it; my freedom is entirely dependent on 2 little people who need me desperately. Often I have to cancel plans to go out simply because one or both of the girls is having a rough time; being born at 6.5 months can do that to a baby. And no, unless you have toys or jumpers, highchairs and baby food, I can’t just come to your house for the day; my girls can’t and won’t crawl around and entertain themselves, and eventually they’re going to need one of their 3 solid feeds and a nap (did I mention they usually refuse to sleep anywhere but their own beds?) And yet after all of this, there are still the ordinary, un-baby-related challenges; bills, laundry, cleaning, cooking, groceries, overtime shifts, popped tires on the vehicle, and the fact that both my husband and I are still recovering from surgeries.

So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that being a twin mom is hard. Really, really, really, sometimes overwhelmingly, impossibly hard. I have become an expert at giving the impression that it’s easy, or no more difficult than one baby, because I don’t want to seem unappreciative of this enormous gift. But my life is so full of them that there are days, weeks even, where it seems like there is no room for anything else. And people drop like flies when they are unable to wrap their heads around that.

And so, I come back to it. No one understands. Hyperbolic, of course, but when are emotions ever completely rational? Perhaps I am complaining undeservedly; after all, I’m not a woman in a third world country trying to balance twins.  However, I’m not entirely sure that someone else’s suffering invalidates my own. And as it stands right now, my heart is full of love but my lungs are full of water; I’m desperately trying to find my way up into the air. I’m sure one day I will learn to tread, but until then I must deal with the mad and panicked scramble to keep my head above the current.