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.
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