My Birthday Wish: Innocent Bystander for a Day

I wrote this post a couple of months ago, but didn't post it because I thought it was maybe an overshare. But I feel like the more I edit myself online the less interesting this blog becomes. I hate boring more than I hate embarrassing, so there you go.

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I really want a day off. It's my birthday in T minus 9 minutes (as of typing this sentence) and all I keep fantasizing about is a day off. I don't mean a day "away" from my kids or a day in the Bahamas or anything. Having my kids with me would be great, if I could just... not have to do anything. But it's a fantasy. I know that no matter how hard Jared tries to give me some rest or relief, he does not have boobs, he does not have superhuman abilities to be several places at once, he cannot, without duct-tape, quiet the sounds of my children calling for me (or the sound in my head, even, if they were elsewhere, which is duct-tape proof), and he does not have the title, "Mommy." And so, no matter how good a Daddy he is, he can't become Mommy for a day, leaving me to be an innocent bystander.

There comes a point, in a mother's foray into motherhood, that she realizes what she got herself into. Having a baby is kind of like planning to run a marathon with little to no training whatsoever. You know you're about to run a marathon. You know there are things about it that will suck. You know you will be unprepared and your body and mind will be in pain and you know you might break down at some point. But you also realize it's a big, fun adventure, and you'll get to push yourself to your limits, test your mettle, and accomplish something really awesome while you're at it. But a Marathon is 26 miles, and that's exactly how far you brace yourself to run. And... you all know the feeling more or less... when the finish line is in view, somehow you have only exactly the number of steps left in you to make it there, afterwhich you will collapse, dehydrated and toenail-less, into a panting heap of quivering muscles. I think having a baby (or two) is a little bit like this. You brace yourself for the onslaught, but when the finish line - and the end of your stamina - approaches, you realize that you will not actually get to stop then. That you not only have to keep going, but that you n.e.v.e.r. get to stop running. ever. in your life. You are now doing this every moment, of every day, permanently stuck doing this painful thing you don't even know if you can physically do for the next 10 minutes.

This is the point where you curl up into the fetal position and have a good cry. It's the point where you wonder what you were thinking, get angry at the world and all your friends with kids for not warning you about this, start wishing you'd be involved in a horrible accident and be forced to go to the hospital for a while just to get a break (yes. It's sick. I'm just sayin'). This is also the point where you start to have an inkling of understanding the level of gratitude you should have for your own mother (which thought you immediately banish from your mind, lest you feel even more guilty than you already do, if that is possible).

Perhaps I overstate this. After all, it could just be me and my sick and selfish self that experiences this level of dismay over the realities of motherhood. Admittedly, I struggled with postpartum depression after my first. And my second and third, well, they arrived at the same time, so that's a whole different ball of wax. I think having twins requires you to be somewhat crazy, so if it doesn't drive you there of its own accord, you will pre-emptively adopt it as a coping mechanism. There's just something about the absolute, relentless, never-ending, constant need that is incredible. You never finish one urgent thing but that there is another urgent thing. I read a twins-how-to-book before I had the babies that talked about this in terms of those whac-a-mole arcade games you find at Chuck E Cheese and stuff. You stand there with your knees bent, poised, aiming, ready, muscles twitching in anticipatory heightened awareness, trying to whack every mole that pops up its head as fast as you can for however many minutes. Having twins is like a constant, relentless game of whac-a-mole. You don't even get to sleep without being on duty. Of course, I know this really won't mean much to you, the reader, because I read this book before I had twins, but didn't really get it until several months into it. In fact, the twins were both sick recently, and I had twins for 9 months before I understood what it was like to have two sick babies at the same time. Unfathomable. Like nothing I could have imagined (and I already HAD twins, so you'd think I could imagine). So it's ok, I know you don't know what I'm talking about (excepting Amy, Chelsea, Tara, Tamara, Lauren, Natalie, of course). Just send sympathy flowers my way. Or birthday ones. Whichever cause moves you the most. Waa.

Ok, so now I'm filling this post with pictures of my cute kids because I feel like I'm being kind of a whiner, even if a tongue-in-cheek one. I don't mean to whine, but what's the value in super-glossing everything? Life is awesome and crappy at the same time. There. And as for the awesome, I will confess that having twins is a lot like having your cake and eating it too. I just get so much delight from just LOOKING at a cute baby doing cute things, especially my own cute baby doing cute things. But the minute you pick up the baby to cuddle and kiss it (which you inevitably want to do while observing it being cute) you can't see it anymore. In fact, with Seville, I used to kiss her in front of the mirror so I could watch her giggle. Anyway, with twins, you can cuddle and kiss a cute baby and watch a cute baby SIMULTANEOUSLY! It's the awesomest thing. Not to mention watching two babies being cute WITH each other. Two babies is seriously some of the cutest cuteness you can ever experience (my brother's kids excepted, of course, who are triplets. No competing there, on any count).

So, yeah, I like twins. And my life. Really, I do. I will adjust sometime. Or maybe the sun will come out and that will help. Or maybe I have a Nanny Godmother out there somewhere who's waiting for me to cry on an animated garden bench for her to come (my bedroom, the kitchen, my car, and the bathroom, were perhaps all the wrong places for Fairy God-Nannies). My fairytale is surely just getting going.