Every night, either Mike or I go into the twins' room to cover them with their blankets. Mike's been traveling this week, so I slowly opened their creaky door (babe, you gotta fix that), tiptoed in, and - whiff, whiff - the dreaded smell of poop at 11pm. Damn it.
I leaned over Owen's crib (it's ALWAYS Owen), but no poop. I leaned over Eliot's crib, and found the culprit - my beautiful girl sitting in a pile of dirty diaper. I picked her up carefully, and half asleep, she snuggled her curly head of hair into the nape of my neck, and she hugged me. I lost it. I mean, I freaking lost it. There I was holding this stinky, sleepy kid, and tears just kept streaming down my face.
I honestly thought that after two years the trauma of the twins' birthday would subside. I thought that all of the wonderful memories our family has made in the past two years (and there have been SO many) would one day override all of the horrors. But it hasn't happened yet. I still remember. I am definitely not one to dwell on O & E's premature birth, but at this time of year - especially this day - it's too hard to hide from it. Their birthday was not a good day. It's like I remember it all in Hi-Def - the sounds, emotions, stress are still so vivid. But thankfully, I'm always welcomed "home" to the good old fashioned movie reels of a year full of crawling, walking, talking, EATING, and laughing. So much laughing. So much good. And with that, we keep moving forward . . .
Happy Birthday twinsies. I don't think you will ever realize how much I love my life and the fact that you are both in it. May all of the December 17th's in the future be more about the beautiful memories we make together, and less about my breakdowns. :)