Motherhood Infidelity

The absolute hardest thing about having twins is the cheating.

At least that’s what it seems like when I am holding one baby, but smiling and cooing at the other one over his shoulder. I feel like a married woman who’s flirting with another man.

The other day I sat on the couch with Finley to my left and August to my right. I rubbed their tummies, massaged their little legs and talked to each of them, alternately bobbing from side-to-side like a crazed metronome. It was exhausting.

Yesterday, I smooched August as he was lying on the bed learning to roll from his tummy to his back. “Yay! Good job!” I said to him and planted enthusiastic kisses on his big round cheek and soft neck. I clapped and smiled at him. He smiled back happily cooing at me and making me feel like I just lit up his whole world.

I was beaming – for a moment. Then Matt, who was holding our other son right next to me, said, “You have to hold Finley now. He’s looking at you with August and he’s crying. He needs your attention, too.”

I am constantly aware of trying to spread my affection equally between my two boys, and of generally failing. When August and Fin were in the NICU, I’d sometimes end up holding and feeding Finley twice in a day and not spending any quality time with August, or vice versa. I’d go home that night feeling guilty and vowing to focus on August the next day.

This concept of splitting my attention equally is not new. I am an only child. While only children get the benefit of all their parents’ attention, we also have the burden of trying to please two parents.

I remember vividly going on a walk in the Sierra Mountains with my parents when I was about 12 years old and being hyper-aware of the amount of time I spent with Mom and Dad. If I pointed out a particularly beautiful wild flower to Mom, I tried to then share a moment appreciating the stunning view with Dad. I was utterly exhausted by the effort of keeping track of and maintaining equal contact with both of them.

At some point, I realized I can never slice myself perfectly down the middle. My relationship with each parent is separate, but not equal. Still, each Christmas I make sure to buy both parents the same number of gifts. They each get one “big” present and several small ones that all equal out to be roughly the same cost. I even make a list comparing Dad’s gifts to Mom’s: he gets a CD, so she gets some bubble bath etc.

With August and Finley, sometimes at the end of a day I feel like one of them has been deprived of his mommy time. Part of my parental fatigue is caused by keeping a running tally of what I did with each boy. How many times did I feed August vs. Finley today? Did I spend more minutes doing tummy time with one of them? Who got more hugs, kisses, cuddles?

Matt often jokingly asks me, “Which baby is your favorite?” I quip back, “Whichever one isn’t crying.”

In truth, I am determined not to favor one baby over the other and I’m devastated knowing I will surely fail. I take solace in the knowledge that as they get older I will have a unique relationship with each son. And for now, I’ll keep trying to match a kiss for a kiss.

I Think We're Alone Now

When I was a teenager I babysat to make spending money, but I had a secret: I was afraid to be alone with the kids I was minding. Now, I am alone with two babies many hours every day and that old fear still bubbles up.

In the mornings as Matt leaves for work and the night nurse heads off into the sunrise, I think, "Don't leave me alone with these babies! What am I going to do when they wake up?"

Of course they always wake up (thank god) and I overcome the fear long enough to do the things you're supposed to do with babies: Pick them up, cuddle them, kiss them, feed them, change them, sing to them, love them. But under the surface the anxiety looms.

I'm not scared of an accident happening. I'm mostly just terrified that August and Finley will cry loudly and uncontrollably. Which they sometimes do. I’m scared they'll cry so long and so loudly that I'll start to cry too, that I'll just sink onto the ground saying, "I can't do this!" or that a neighbor will call child protective services and the three of us will be discovered wailing on the floor of the babies' room and be hauled off by the authorities.

There's also this: Part of it is a fear that I lack the leadership skills to helm a family.

Let me tell you an embarrassing story. When I was in the sixth grade, I was elected class president for the second half of the school year. This was a huge deal because I'd just moved to town at the beginning of the year, so the fact that my new classmates liked me enough to make me their president was really an honor.

But then when the class president from the first semester – a supremely confident and popular girl -- announced my name, she said, "Well, come on up to the front of the room, Marla." She wanted me to take over the rest of the election process, which included taking nominations for vice president etc., and writing the candidates' names on the chalkboard. I have always had awful handwriting and been a terrible speller, so I was petrified to write on the blackboard. I thought everyone would suddenly realize I was not worthy of their votes. I was so scared that I told the teacher I didn't want to be president after all.

It may sound silly, but that decision is one of my biggest regrets. Of course, I should have faced my fears and just gone ahead and been president. I mean, if George W. Bush can be president of the United States, I could handle being president of the sixth grade, right? Anyway, sometimes I still feel like that little girl who doesn't want to be class president. All my self-doubt comes out and I think, "Who left me in charge of these small babies? I'm not qualified for this. There must be some mistake. What if I mess up?"

But the deed is done. I am the president of mommyhood for August and Finley. I can't step down. So when that door closes in the mornings and I'm alone with them, I acknowledge the panic then move on. I'm even starting to enjoy our alone time because of the other feelings it occasionally brings out like confidence, peace and flashes of joy.

Showdown in the Afternoon

I know I recently gushed over motherhood, but yesterday certainly tested my commitment to that sentiment.

Most days I manage to keep the chorus of crying – mine and the babies' – to a minimum. But yesterday turned into crymageddon when August and Finley simultaneously woke up from their naps upset and angry.

My usual strategy with two crying babies is to console one first, give him a pacifier and then put him into whatever baby-holding apparatus is available. Next, I start the process again with screaming baby no. 2, and soon everyone is back from the brink.

But maybe the babies have gotten wise to me. They do not want to be soothed and then dropped into some swing or Boppy pillow. They want to be with Mom – and not just near me, but ON me, in my arms, cuddled against my chest at all times. Believe me, I have tried to cuddle two infants in my arms, but it's basically impossible. Or at least it is for me. With their little unsteady heads bobbing and waving, I need both hands to secure one baby.

Yesterday afternoon, every time I thought I had one baby calm and tried to put him down, he'd start howling again. After a few minutes of this, I realized there was no way I'd get both babies to be quiet at once. I thought I might just have to live with this gut-wrenching, ear-piercing wailing forever. What the hell was I going to do? I considered running into the street and yelling "Help!" in the hopes that some passer-by would come inside and hold a baby. Or just running out into the street and leaving all together. Instead, I decided I would keep Finley calm and I would leave August, who was absolutely apoplectic, in a bouncy chair in his room alone.

"I'm going to heat up the bottles," I said, then walked out while he yelled at the top of his lungs.

As the bottles warmed up, I cuddled Fin in the kitchen and let his brother scream the kind of scream that sounds like it means 'I am dying! I am on FIRE! The world is coming to an END!' I tested the bottles, I heated the water more. The whole processed seemed to be taking an age. All the while, August was yelling like he was being tortured.

Finally, I couldn't listen to that awful cry anymore, so I walked into the room. August had his eyes wide open and was staring at the door looking horrified, as if he thought he'd been abandoned. When he saw me, his cries started to subside. He took some deep breaths. I did the same. I sat on the couch, put my foot onto the bouncy chair and started to bounce August. He looked up at the little stuffed birdies attached to his chair and stopped crying all together.

If August was an adult, we both would have felt a little embarrassed by the scene we'd caused and would apologize to each other. "I'm sorry I got so upset and yelled at you," he would say. "I'm sorry I stormed out," I would say. Then we'd hug. Without that kind of reconciliation possible, I moved my foot so I was touching August's leg and bounced him a little faster. He stared at me quiet and unblinking.

"I love you and I will never leave you," I told him. He sniffled and furrowed his brow like he was about to wail again, but then decided not to.

We sat like that for a long time. Me bouncing August in his chair. Him coming to terms with just being near me. Finley asleep on my chest. In that quiet aftermath of the crying storm, it felt like we were making a pact to stick together, try our best and accept that none of us are perfect.

My So Called Life

Since giving birth, I have missed out on a lot of things.

For instance, I haven't seen the last Harry Potter movie. I think I am the only person in the world who doesn't know who wins -– Harry or Voldemort. I may never know (but please don't tell me!). I'm going to miss a fabulous party in Palm Springs this weekend. For months I haven't been to the gym or a store that sells anything other than diapers or groceries. I have missed birthday parties and barbecues. Hell, I have missed this entire summer.

But, here's the crazy thing: I don't care.

I feel like I shouldn't be enjoying life as a mom yet because right now parenthood consists of cleaning up crap, doing laundry, washing bottles, being screamed at by tiny humans, having an aching back, getting little sleep and essentially being a prisoner in my own home. You know what, though, I totally love it.

August and Finley, to me, are the most divine creatures ever to be made. When I had my first "conversation" with August as he learned to coo, it felt like witnessing a miracle. When Finley smiles at me with his huge gummy grin, it's so much better than Harry Potter. Watching them kick their legs in absolute delight at the stuffed octopus that plays an annoying tune is worth missing a million brunches.

That's not to say that I love motherhood every minute of every day. There are some very dark moments. There are times when Matt looks at me and I know we are both thinking, 'What the hell have we done?' We've done something irrevocable. We can't give these kids back. They are our responsibility for the next 18 years at least. That idea can stop my heart. How will we ever manage that emotionally, physically, financially? I can't go there.

But I can think about the daily sacrifices -– about how one year ago I was in Hawaii on vacation and now I'm lucky to go for a walk around the block. About how my hands are dry and cracked from washing dishes and poop stains. I feel seasick from fatigue. My stomach is fat. My old clothes don't fit. I don't know when I will ever see my friends again or break a sweat at a great aerobics class or savor blueberry pancakes during a leisurely brunch or sleep in past 6 a.m. It could be years. But so what.

Now I have what it took me years to even know I wanted: A home filled with love and noise and chaos and real hard, trying, amazing life.