My husband and I had an agreement, that anything said between the hours of about 11pm and 6am was to be disregarded, not taken personally and instantly forgiven and forgotten. Because let me tell you, people sure can get irrational at 3am when they have woken for the 6th time and you are arguing about whose turn it is. Not that we could even take turns. It was all hands on deck for feeding time. And God save us if they got off sync with each other. There were a few nights where they would feed alternately (we tried like drill sergeants to keep them on the same schedule) and that was just awful, an endless night of 45-90 minutes in bed at a time.
I am writing this all in hindsight, as I am catching up on 18 months of was-gonna-blog so maybe at least in part, there might, just might be a shade of rose colour to the story, but I do recall thinking at the time that newborns, even two of ’em, really are a piece of cake. I mean, yes there is the night feeding and the not much sleep, but really, they are pretty low maintenence. It’s just low maintenance, high frequency. It is not until the toddler years of high maintenance, high frequency that you really start to feel like you are living some sort of circus act.
There were times in the early days when I went out with my twins and I felt like I had some sort of triumphant achievement in the pram in front of me. People would look and go awwww…twins, and I would think, yeah, check me out with my twins! I was still amazed (and still am today) that I did this. Well, my husband was involved but the over achieving ovaries were all mine. I fell in love with them the day they were born, and it just grew from there.
There were of course many low points in the first few months. Times when I felt like if I didn’t get just half an hour to lie down with nobody screaming, my brain would literally fall out. On these days I would think not of a triumphant achievement, but more like what the hell did I do to deserve this? One day, after really losing my shit, I remembered that I still had some Endone left from the hospital. Feeling like I was losing my grip, feeling guilty and secretive, I took some, just because I knew they’d make me feel good. And they did. In a morphine-like happy haze, I sailed through the rest of the day, calm and peaceful, back in love with my boys and not regretting dosing up for one minute.
I threw the rest of the Endone out that night.