If it could just keep raining, I’d appreciate it.
Unlike rainy days as a teacher (where the teenagers howl at the moon), rainy days at home make for peace, especially during toddler naptimes and lazy lunchtimes and —
— book-reading laptimes. It’s not that it’s free from interruption. It’s just that the house is a sort of almost quiet-ish where you can hear the hum of the dryer and the tapping of droplets on our porch and Carter’s breath in the chair next to mine.
The girls are four weeks old today. Their existence has given me a sense of something I can’t quite explain. One of those intangible somethings that I haven’t found any good words for. The closest thing I can come to is that I feel done, complete, and —
— full. Like I know I’m done with a part of my life, the pregnant/person-growing part of my life, and I know this is my family, my unit. Seeing into the future, just a tiny bit, has become that much more lucid for me. This probably makes no sense. Does anyone, any parent, have better terminology for this? It’s a good feeling, a calm and solid, warm and gooey feeling. Of course I am frequently warm and gooey and wide-hearted anyways these days. New baby smell will do that to a person. It’s just that —
— I’ve got this husband and this marriage that I can wrap both arms around and never get enough. I have this sweet-souled six-year old with blue-blue eyes and two missing teeth. I have a deep-voiced two-year old with out-to-there lashes, the best kissin’ lips and humongous, ever-growing feet. And now I’ve got two tiny twins, each completely different and separately wonderful from the other —
Charlotte with her balding jet-black mop of hair, her round face and her crinkled ear. Her love for laying belly-down on Dad’s chest —
— and the funny way she clears her throat and grunts in her sleep. Her olive skin. Her bubble-blowing. Charlie. Char-Char Binks. Charmander.
Elizabeth? Prim and proper. Sleeps with her hands folded, tiny button nose in the air. Megan’s namesake and eerily-similar personality. Strawberry duck fluff; pursed lips. Tiniest peanut of a baby who still swims in newborn diapers. Mom-likes-Ellie-but-Dad-votes-Lizzie. Little Bit. Marmot. Squeaker.
It’s not to say life is perfect. Life is loud and messy, and we’re flying by the seat of our pants.
If I were to point out insecurities in the hopes of recording the grittier parts of reality, I’d write about how I’m still scared of having four kids. How that seems like too many. I’d write about how soft and squishy my midsection is; how it feels like puppy skin, and how this both makes me feel proud and daunted. I’d talk about —
— my struggle with breastfeeding, and how small that makes me feel sometimes.
I’d talk about losing my temper/mind at 3:30 in the morning, about worrying about medical bills and trying to figure out how I’m going to run this roost solo once Jesse goes back to work in two days.
We’ve got newborn twins — double blessings that keep us up all night and tethered to an insane feeding cycle during the day. Jack’s a walking accident with proprioceptive sensory issues. He’s also two with a powerful set of lungs and an Irish temper. Carter wants to play computer games with pixelated blood and is all of a sudden preoccupied with natural disasters: volcanoes, tornados, tsunamis, acid rain.
It’s a never ending juggling act around here.
In wrapping things up, I’ve got to sing praises to all of my meal-makers, my conversation-keepers, my coffee-deliverers. My neighbors, my family, my friends; my people.
When I’m about to pull out my hair — with fists, from the roots — I try to think about how undeniably joyful my life is. I think about how beautiful it all is, despite my always-sticky floors and full hampers and all the other things that don’t matter.
Hey look at that — we got through this post without a tenth interruption.