Recently, a woman in the Facebook group I've joined for mothers of twins posted a question regarding what sentiments would have helped the pregnant or new mom of twins.
She talked about the two poles: those who are "squee," (I love this term ... squeeee!) i.e. over-the-top happy for you and all about what a blessing it is; and those who are gloom and doomers, stating the obvious challenges/sleep deprivation/lack of personal time ahead and how full your hands will be, literally and figuratively. Like, duh. Thankfully, I've never been particularly enraged or hurt by comments on either side of this fence. At most, I am occasionally annoyed by the addition of noise to the already raucous chaos party in my head, but I generally like the acknowledgement that this is a big deal, and the special attention that comes with it. But, talk to me in three months when I've been slapped with an assault charge after someone helps themselves to one of my daughters in her stroller, which I'm told happens constantly in public, among other boundary violations. And thankfully, I've only ever had one person who I can think of, a nurse, who really got to me with her nightmare-sharing. And she especially deserves compassion for what she went through and once I got out of there without passing out (she was drawing my blood while telling me about her three pregnancy losses and a stillbirth), I sent her much love and understanding.
Anyways, this is a real thinker of a topic and generated a lot of excellent comments. For me, this is why I join a Facebook or other online group like this – to hear what other twin moms are thinking and garner some great comfort when one of them articulates something I've thought. This usually has the effect of making me cry with relief and gratitude, and also helps me to feel less like an a-hole.
*Note: Nobody who reads his should be thinking "Oh crap, have I done/said that to Kate or another mom of multiples?" Listen. My head is so full of discord, I have no idea who said what and if it upset me or not, or if I was upset, was it more because I was just hungry. I do, however, remember the cards, emails, texts, visits, gifts, treats, books, links, resources, introductions and calls of support I've received. Every. Single. One of them. So, suffice it to say that those who are in my circle have done an exceptional job of caring for me in this crazy time of my life. And the following is just for discussion's sake, not to make you feel guilty. But if you do feel guilty, go ahead and channel that energy! Come change a diaper or 12 in the coming weeks and months and we'll call it even.
So, here are a handful of my favorites from this discussion, with key concepts in bold for fun.
"Validation of how it sucks to have your birth choices restricted, to have to worry more about complications and preterm birth, and validation that I'm not worrying an excessive amount about how on earth I'm going to care for TWO BABIES. That I'm not an awful person for being really really pissed off sometimes, because this isn't what I wanted."
**Talk about restricted birth choices! I'm not birthing in Hudson, Wisconsin, just because I'm a Packer fan. Which I'm not. Nor do I care for sports in general, unless it's mens' Olympic swimming. And yes, I never "wanted" twins. Some women really do want twins. They dream of twins and are thrilled to bits when they get them. And more than not wanting them, it's that I never considered them, nor thought of myself as even remotely capable of caring for them. I want these twins, for sure, but the spoiled American in me has once or twice thought "Excuse me, but this is not what I ordered! I wanted the single, perfect auburn-haired sister for my toddler to play and grow up with. No biggie, though. And my compliments to the Chef."**
"I think it's best to incorporate both stances. Yes it's
scary and overwhelming but yes it's possible and amazing and wonderful while
being one of the hardest things you'll undertake. It seems like you get one or
the other: doomsayers or people thinking twins come from unicorns lapping up
rainbow pools of starlight...but arming them with proactive advice of what
works for you now, even if it's only barely working will help most."
"I heard a lot of "This is the easy part, it will be much
harder soon" when I was pregnant, then when I had newborns, and now when I
have new toddlers. Whether you think it's true or not, I never found having
people tell me that I should be enjoying the thing I was struggling with
because things were about to get much harder to be a productive form of advice."
"You've got two routes: 1.) It's magical (which it is) and
2.) It's REALLY hard (which is also is). I'd briefly acknowledge both truths
and then just listen. Ask how she's doing, actively. Normalize her experiences.
Only give advice that's specifically requested. Oh, and tell her that she looks
great, and big is the new black."
"Be totally open to people who maybe never wanted twins, and
who are feeling brutally intimidated by the concept - like I was. Everywhere I turned, people were super excited for me, and couldn't wait to tell me how
wonderful it was and how much they always wanted twins, or how it was so great
with their own twins... but all I wanted to do when I found out was cry. I mean, I love my kids for sure, but I didn't want twins and I didn't want to
hear how fabulous it was, I wanted someone who could sit with me and my sense
of loss and be ok and supportive of it. I needed realism, and practical
advice... "
**Oddly, surprisingly, and to my own disgust, there was indeed a sense of loss. It seems counterintuitive that when you're getting more than you asked for, you would feel grief, but there you have it. It's the loss of the "picture" you had in your head, the loss of perceived control you thought you had over your life and family planning (Ha! "Planning."), the loss of enjoying a relaxed and low-risk pregnancy, the loss of the idea that you'll be less scared this time around because you've done it before (you old pro, you) the loss of any confidence you had built up that you could care/provide for two kids ... because now there's three, as in my case. For me, this feeling subsided/became manageable and turned into joy, but not before it did a number on me emotionally and made me feel undeserving and panicked.**
And this whole discussion, and my coming back to it again and again ever since, came from the original poster having read the following excerpt this from this:
"You know, when I became pregnant, everybody said
congratulations, great, great, great, great, great. When I had the baby,
everybody said congratulations, great, great, great, great, great. Nobody tells
me that I had, at that point, mortgaged my heart for the entire rest of my life
because my happiness now depends on this baby being well and healthy and
nothing bad happening to it. Nobody tells you that. They don't say when they
hear — they don't say, 'Uh-oh, you know, brace yourself.' They say — they say,
'Congratulations.'"
I think that right there, the bit about the heart mortgage, has been the hardest thing about motherhood for me. I never anticipated the absolutely inextricable nature of my child's fate with my own. Sure, I could speculate from afar, before my daughter was born, that I would be 100% driven to protect and care for her. But like so much in life, you don't know what's really in it until you're, well, in it.
My parents shared with me that the worry and the drive to protect never goes away, when trying to explain their infinite advice-giving to me, their, at the time, 32 year old daughter. And I still didn't get it until I became a parent. I probably still don't get it entirely yet. I was warned, but nothing can prepare you. And I am still astounded, blown away day after day, by how desperately I love her. I still can't accept, somewhat selfishly and as if I had a choice, how we're tethered together for life, because she came here through me and because my purpose, among other things, is to make sure she continues to exist. I was knocked down early, and kept down for a bit, thanks to a brief shot of PPD upon my return to work, by the realization is that if something happened to her, I'd be finished. Even though I've seen incredible resilience when this happens, I'm not sure I'm capable of it. And the whole spectrum of extremity is there. If she gets a cold, I feel every sniffle. And if she ceased, I'd cease. Plain as that. So for me, and for most mothers I'm sure, it's not just that my happiness is tied to hers, it's that my very survival on earth feels like it's tied to hers. And this is how it's set up – intelligently and unapologetically – so that we do our jobs without fail. Fine. I get it. But it sure hurts a mom's heart on a daily basis. And the fact that it's for life is both a comfort and a profound burden.
I often see Luciana off when she and her dad pull out of the driveway in the morning to go to grandma and grandpa's house a couple of times a week. She is going to the only place on earth that's out of my sight yet causes me very little worry. She's safe and meticulously cared for and adored when she's with her grandparents, who love her like we do. And yet, the wind is knocked out of me every damn time she waves and smiles through the car window as they pull away. Her sweet, bright face is instantly 10 and 20 and 35 years old, smiling and waving goodbye to me. It's like that Subaru commercial in which the dad is talking to his daughter through the car window before she drives away. She's a little girl and then a teen, just like that. They should take that $hit off the air, because it hits home too hard. And I don't even have a teen yet, which I can imagine is some of the greatest discomfort a parent can experience. This commercial doesn't make me want to buy a Subaru (though I know they're awesome). It makes me want to make sure she never rides in a car again, let alone drives one.
So this morning as I waddled back through the garage and our yard, I thought "You know, I need to stop seeing P.J. and Lulu off, because clearly I can't handle it, and I'm starting yet another morning in tears." And then another voice came into my head and said "Yes, but it's your job to see her off, over and over again. It's your job to wave and smile as she embarks on every next big and small adventure in her life. It's also your job to have faith in what you have taught her (Hot! Don't touch!). It's your job to believe that she is held and cared for by the universe, and meant for fullness of experience, hard lessons, accomplishments and true love. But first, you gotta let her leave the driveway. And yes, you have to wave and smile as she goes."
Then yet another voice comes in and says, "Go put some Nutella on toast and write about this. Also, you're not wearing a bra. Go inside, dirtbag."
I suppose the upside is that this speaks to my bond with my daughter. That she waves and smiles at me with full joy when she leaves the house – secure in her home, but ready to spend the day away from it, too – and that I cry as I walk back into the house, are signs that we are tightly connected in the way that mom and daughter should be.
Then the crushing downside, which is also another upside – such is the endless and dizzying dichotomy of motherhood – occurs to me. That there are two more young women coming to me in mere days or weeks, two more souls who I will hold in my arms and let violently smash to bits whatever is left of my heart after Lucia came here and blew it up with her wonderfulness. How will I remain whole and upright with three daughters out there in the world? Not to mention all up in my house until they're 18 ... or 20 ... or you know, whenever they launch?
The quick answer: pinot grigio and TurboKick, perhaps in that order.
The longer answer: I'll have to nurture an extraordinary amount of faith and draw upon the same innate wisdom with which I will birth and care for them to sustain and still me. There are no guarantees. Only moments. So take a deep breath, stop freaking out, and enjoy.
And seriously, put on a bra.
I'll leave you with this, thanks to another FB friend and from The God Academy (which I haven't vetted for cray-crayness, but this passage is lovely regardless).
"Allow every event and each new circumstance to wash over you, to come and go as softly as a butterfly resting on the back of your hand. As you walk across life’s bridges, try to resist inspecting every piece of rope, the integrity of every knot, and judging every step you take. Make a daily practice of trusting the events unfolding before you, and their proper place in the universe of your experience. The bridges of life are not composed of bamboo, or knotted ropes, or steel or anything else susceptible to the corrosive powers of time. We are suspended by a robust latticework of trust and faith interwoven. Enjoy the view, knowing fully that the bridge will hold you."
I really struggle with "enjoying the view." Heck, I closed my eyes and cried like a toddler all the way over the Bridge of the Gods. I mean, not only did I not enjoy the probably/hopefully once-in-a-lifetime view, I missed it almost entirely, while thinking "Gods? What kind of gods? Gods we're about to meet? Angry gods who throw borrowed and very small, Daby Family-issue Pontiacs over the sides of seemingly sky-high bridges?"
Again, I am not a great adventurer, but I'm trying every day. Don't wish me luck. Wish me courage.
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