I’ve always been dismayed at those bloggers who invite you into the most personal moments of their lives, and then suddenly disappear without a word. So rude! So abrupt! So unsettling. And after letting more than a year lapse since my last post, I became one of them.
I’m so sorry!
It was never my intention. I’ve started writing so many posts in my head, but life has been one big glorious, messy, chaotic interruption. I left my job when I went on bedrest at the hospital, so I no longer even have those moments to steal away for a few tweets or updates.
I’m hoping this time I’ll get to hit “publish” and give you all the long over-due update about what happened after we escaped from the NICU and brought C & S home.
It’s all been so much harder and so much easier than I expected. Easier because C & S are the sweetest babies with such sunny temperaments. Easier because they continue to “graduate” from their specialists, with clean bills of health. Easier because big sister loves them like no others. Harder because big sister at age three is a tough one. Harder because after surviving infertility, five weeks of hospital bedrest and two months in the NICU, there’s the joy and burden of Appreciating Every Single Miraculous Moment.
Sometimes when my three-year old is having a tantrum and screaming so loud that the walls are trembling and her sisters start crying in alarm, or she needs help going to the potty just as I’ve buckled all three girls into their car seats, I marvel how much I went through for the privilege of being in this moment, of being a mother of three who all need me so much. I’d do it all again just to be in this unpleasant moment of wiping poop while everyone is crying.
Though to be honest, in these particular moments I want to tell them, “Hey kids- I’ve already gone through hell and back to have you here, can’t you just give mommy a break now?”
Of course, for each of those moments, there are other moments that make my heart explode with joy: hearing the girls laughing together as big sister pulls a blanket across the floor with her little sisters running to catch her and go for a ride. The twins feeding each other cheese and Cheerios across their high chairs. The girls all dancing together and clapping as the littlest sister learns to twirl. The twins giving each other kisses, waking up from their naps talking in their own little language.
I watch them and marvel that C and S were frozen in a dish for over two years. That they were born at 29 weeks and 6 days, weighing just 3.5 and 2.7 pounds, spending the next two months in a warm little box until they were strong enough to come home. That my determined little C almost didn’t make it that night she was born.
During those days in the NICU, I consoled myself with the thought that my babies would never remember spending their first two months of life in a hospital. That they wouldn’t remember being on morphine, needing breathing support and IVs. Being too fragile for even their mama to hold them until they were three days old. That they wouldn’t remember the pain, pokes and pricks and procedures. Then someone told me that preemies feet “remember.” They are more sensitive to touch, as their tiny feet were used as the point of blood draws and IVs.
The days leading up to the twins’ first birthday this year were so difficult- I couldn’t help but relive each day from July 10th when I went to the hospital to their birthday on August 12th with dread. The details I wanted to forget were still there; how it felt to prepare again and again for their premature birth and the possibility that they might not be strong enough to survive. Fearing I might not be strong enough to survive if they did not. The dire predictions and statistics from the neonatologists who reminded me that even if my babies survived, they could have severe cognitive impairments.
I kept their birthday simple. Just a small family dinner and cake. We sang to each of them, and then let them have the little smash cakes I made. They dove into those cakes with such delight, devouring the whipped cream frosting and giggling with glee as they smeared it all over their faces and trays.
I still smile to think of it. As they smashed those cakes, they replaced my traumatic memories of their birth day with the happy memories of this first birthday.
C and S are 15 months old now. They still have appointments with the pediatric development team every four months to assess their motor skills, language and cognitive development. They are meeting the appropriate developmental milestones for both their adjusted and actual ages. Their pediatrician said that if it weren’t for their diminutive statures (S is only 16 pounds and C is 18 at 15 months) he’d never even know they were preemies. Their lungs are clear, their vision is fine. Their PDA’s and PFO’s (holes in their hearts, normal for preemies) have closed.
And my heart is healing too. I tickle the twins’ feet now and they giggle. Whatever memories may be in their little feet, they can’t be all bad.
This may be the end of my blog, so I’ll say goodbye for now. Thank you for supporting me through so many difficult, scary days. I wouldn’t have made it through with my sanity (somewhat) intact without you. Your stories and encouragement will be part of me forever. You’ve made a difference in my life, more than you could know.
With so much gratitude- Jess