But...

I don't remember when Michael and I first discussed our future children but I imagine it was fairly early in the relationship.  We dated long distance for the first year so we were on the phone a lot and talked about some pretty serious topics in a short amount of time. 

I remember telling him I thought I wanted kids.  I wasn't exactly sure but they sounded nice.  And if we had kids, I wanted two.  A boy and a girl would be fun.  And did he know I thought twins sounded great?

When we went on road trips I always forced him to play this stupid game where I'd give two examples and he had to pick one.  "Do you want to live in NYC or Portland?"  "Cats or dogs?"  "Hamburger or pizza?"  It was harmless until one day I asked, "Five kids or none?"  He said none.  And in that moment, it hit me.

I desperately wanted kids.

It took a silly game to make me realize I did actually want kids.  Fast forward a few years and we were overly blessed with exactly what I thought sounded great: boy/girl twins.

We were done.  Everyone told us we were done.  We sold all of their baby gear.  Their clothes.  My pump.  Their carseats.

However.

There is this voice in my head that keeps saying, "But..."  And when I try to pinpoint it, I end up confused and a little sad.  I look at our family and think, "What more could I want?"  I love our family of four.  I love that Jude and Sloane are healthy and happy.  I love that we can fit in our car or in a booth (one day), and that if our children need us, they each have a pair of arms that would love to hold them.

But...

The thought of being done.  It hurts.  I never knew I would love being a mom as much as I do.  It is the most rewarding, exhausting, demanding, breathtaking gift I have ever been given.  Whether you have one child or five, whether you carry them in your belly or adopt, whether they come one at a time or two... when you become a mom, everything changes.

I want Jude & Sloane to understand they are enough.  But I also want them to know my mixed feelings on having more kids are because of them.  They changed me.  My life is better because they are a part of it.

So the next time you ask me if we're done and I pause, it's because I'm thinking about Jude's laugh or Sloane's hugs and I'm wondering if it's even possible to love another baby as much as we love our two. 

But...

What if it is?

It Gets Easier

When Jude & Sloane were newborns, I was constantly stopped by fellow twin moms who offered words of encouragement and wisdom.  But, to me, they also offered one huge lie:  It gets easier.

I remember smiling politely and internally cheering.  Easier than this?  WOW!  That's not to say I thought the newborn stage was easy, but at that time my day consisted of watching, feeding, and loving on two babies who stayed in the same place and cried for very predictable, correctable reasons.

I look back on those days with nostalgia and a bit of jealousy.  In my personal experience, those days were a breeze compared to what we are going through now.  It does not get easier.  It gets harder.

I don't want to scare you.  Please read until the end and you'll understand why I say absolutely everything gets harder.

Our once immobile babies are now running, jumping, and flying across the room.  Always in different directions.  Always.

They don't just cry because they're hungry or wet.  They cry because they want you to put one sock on their foot.  Or because you only let them watch The Hot Dog Song three times in a row.  Or because you want to change their dirty diaper (how dare you).

They want to help.  "Help."  This includes emptying 150 megablocks onto the floor... directly after you finished picking them all up.

They don't want to leave your side... until you're ready to go somewhere and then it's impossible to get them near your side.

They play together well, but sometimes playing is "pretend biting" the other's finger, which turns into a real bite, which turns into crocodile tears.

They just want to dance.  On the table.  On the chair with wheels.  On the unstable pouf.  Never on the safe, carpeted floor.

They don't want to eat anything you just cooked or the expensive organic fruit you nicely cut up for them.  Refried beans in a can?  Delicious.

But guess what?  It gets harder for other reasons as well...

I miss them desperately when they're asleep.  I spend the evening looking at pictures I took of Jude & Sloane that morning.  Being away from them for any length of time is tough.

I get frustrated for them when they can't do something they so badly want to do.

I want to scream to the rooftops how proud I am of their sweetness, their intelligence, and their beauty.  But I keep it to myself and graciously thank others who tell me these things. Humility is hard but so important.

I realize they are watching me all of the time.  I must be mindful of what my little ones see and hear.

I have to understand that when they prefer to hug their grandparents over me, it is a gift that a lot of kids will never experience.

When I watch my son play alone in a sea of kids, my heart cries out in pain.

When I watch my daughter find my son and play with him so he's no longer alone, my heart cries out in love.

I will never tell a new mom it gets easier.  It simply doesn't.  It gets harder.  For one million different reasons it gets harder.  And thank God for that because I know it means my connection to them is getting stronger. 

So to new moms reading this post: It doesn't get easier... but it keeps getting better.  

A Promise To Myself

Last week I was reading yet another Huffington Post article that made its way to my Facebook feed.  The twins were eating their afternoon snack and keeping each other company while I sat on the floor with my back against the wall, worn out from a long day with two toddlers.

And in the middle of reading an innocent post on breastfeeding, I started crying.  Not the watery eyes cry, which has become a trademark of mine, but a sobbing mess on the floor.  Jude and Sloane stopped eating their blueberries and looked at me with wide eyes.  They'd never seen their mom cry like this.  It was in that moment I realized...

I stopped too soon.

I wasn't ready to stop nursing when I did.  I knew it then but I pushed the thought away. 

When you're pregnant, the breastfeeding questions begin.  When you're pregnant with twins, the questions change from "Will you" to "How will you."  I never minded the questions and instead used them to fuel my desire to breastfeed.  I was blessed, so blessed, to nurse my babies for 15 months.  We had the common issues in the beginning but what I once considered excruciating work became second nature. 

What I find so strange about nursing is you receive encouragement and praise from everyone...until your babies turn one.  Suddenly, what was so incredible becomes weird.  It's gross.  It's unnecessary and now I've made you uncomfortable.  I saw every raised eyebrow.  I recognized every side-glance.  I felt every pause.  And little by little, it broke me.  The girl who didn't have an issue nursing in public suddenly started hiding again.

I constantly made excuses as to why I was still nursing.  (Why did I feel an excuse was necessary?)  I told people I would stop by a certain date and when that date passed and I continued to nurse, I felt guilty.  And in typical fashion, I poked fun at myself for still breastfeeding.  I made a joke out of the sweetest gift I have ever been given.

Let me make something clear: I am not blaming anyone but myself.  I am the one who messed up.  I know Jude and Sloane are perfectly fine drinking whole milk out of sippy cups, but I failed as a mom because I let others' thoughts override my own.  Because their shame became my shame.  And I want to make it clear to myself (and to my kids if they ever read their mom's blog) that I will never let that happen again.

Jude & Sloane's Mom

Not long ago I was catching up with a friend I hadn't seen in awhile.  She asked how I was doing and I replied, "The kids are great.  They are into absolutely everything."  It didn't even dawn on me until I'd already replied that she didn't ask about the kids.  She asked about me.

My response was probably pretty typical for a stay-at-home-mom.  Look at my Instagram account.  My facebook account.  My blog.  Michael and I include ourselves in pictures every once in awhile to prove we still exist, but the majority of our pictures and stories are of the twins. 

This is not a sob story.  I love my life.  My messy, crazy, diaper-filled life.  But something finally clicked.  I realized it doesn't make me a bad mom if I allow myself to have a life outside of them.

And it was like the sun came out after too many rainy days. 

One of the first things I did after this realization was submit a few articles to TWINS Magazine (yes, writing an article about parenting right after I decided I could be more than "just a mom" is quite ironic).   Being published has always been on my bucket list but I never felt I had anything important to say.  I figured I'd give it a shot and when I didn't hear back for a few months I decided they were not interested.  Bruised ego for sure, but not hearing anything led me to pursue something I've been wanting to do since I was pregnant, which I will explain more in the upcoming weeks.  Last week they released the 30th anniversary edition of TWINS Magazine and I found out they published one of my articles!  I was so excited.  (Still excited.  Too excited.)

The article is a blog post I wrote last April. 

So there's a tiny tidbit of my life right now.  I have more to share and I plan to do so more consistently.  I love being Jude and Sloane's mom.  I love being Michael's wife.  I love being a life group member and an amateur photographer and a casual writer.  And I love that I don't have to choose just one.

 

I posted this news on Instagram last week and was overwhelmed by the kind words.   Thank you, thank you, thank you for taking the time to say such nice things.  Means more to me than you will ever know. 

30 Minutes

The twins were right in the middle of their morning nap when I realized I needed to use the computer.  I tiptoed up the stairs and quietly sat down at the desk in our living room.  I softly tapped the keys and finished my task in record time.  As I was standing up to head downstairs, I heard her.

Sweet Sloaney was awake.

It'd only been 45 minutes and their morning nap typically lasts several hours.  I peeked in the nursery and there she was, sitting up and looking right at me.  I turned on the sleep sheep and backed out of the room.  She immediately started whimpering.  I knew if I let her cry she'd wake Jude so I did something I'm not sure I've ever done before.

I walked to her crib, picked her up, and carried her to the rocker.  She was so warm and had a little red spot on her forehead where she'd been sleeping.  She had tired eyes and a soft smile.  I used my finger to draw her face.  Her jawbone, her cheeks, her perfect nose, her tiny lips.  I kissed the top of her head and inhaled deeply.  And then I took the blanket I've used countless times in the middle of the night and wrapped it tightly around us.

I let her fall asleep in my arms.  I was supposed to go to the post office and drop off several packages.  I desperately needed to clean the house since my parents would be visiting in a few days.  I'd just made a batch of pumpkin muffins and the remaining batter was sitting on the counter.  But all I heard in my head, over and over again, was this: "Babies don't keep.  Babies don't keep."  And so I stayed with her.

I looked down at my beautiful girl and watched her dark eyelashes flutter and then become so still.  Her hand slowly lost its grip on my finger and I felt her entire body relax in my arms.  At that moment, I realized she felt safe and secure and loved.

And for 30 minutes of an otherwise ordinary day, I felt safe... and secure... and loved. 

On My Current State

Jude and Sloane are about to turn one.

People ask how I'm doing.  I put a smile on my face and tell them about Jude & Sloane's birthday party, about their recent discoveries, about their hair or lack of hair.  I talk about each of these things because I won't--I can't--talk about the fact that my babies are no longer babies.

I'm not handling it well.

When Michael and I decided to have a baby, each month went by so slowly.  Once I was pregnant, time seemed to pick up a bit, back to the "normal" I was so accustomed to.  But once I held Jude & Sloane in my arms, someone hit the fast forward button and I've spent the last year trying to keep up.

When you have one child at a time you have a chance to take a breath and celebrate each milestone.  While it may be bittersweet, you know in the back of your head you will revisit this milestone with his or her sibling in one year, two years, three years, etc.  For us, we get two or three weeks and then... it's over.  Both rolled over.  Both crawled.  And as of today, both have taken steps.  Every first is a last.  Every sweet moment is over before I have the chance to let the newness sink in.  And while I'm not complaining--I am so grateful my kids are healthy and developing on track--I just want to hit the pause button.  Just for a moment. And maybe replay a few moments that were gone too soon.

I want my babies to sleep in my arms again.  I want to see them discover their hands, their feet, each other... for the first time.  I want to hear their sweet cries in the delivery room.  I want to see Jude's baby penguin hair stick straight up.  I want to see Sloane smile after being so serious her first few months. I want to watch my husband hold his tiny son and daughter in the crook of his arm.

I'm so grateful I was given the opportunity to experience each.

And now, I will continue to enjoy the small moments, push through the tough moments, and celebrate the big moments. I will make sure Jude & Sloane know they are loved through each of these moments.  I will make sure they understand how easy that is for me to do.

Who knew two tiny babies could change my whole world?  It's been the best, most refreshing surprise of my life.