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Today’s a rough one. I found myself multiple times today asking the forbidden, unspeakable question: Was this worth it?

I feel guilty thinking it, I feel guilty asking it. Hell, I feel guilty typing it. Because I know how lucky I am to have my two babies. I understand how lucky I am that they are here. Today. But I think it’s natural to think occasionally about your old life-your old self. I think it’s rather unhealthy, in fact, to pretend we are happy all the time as mothers and that we know with 100% certainty that this was “the life we were meant to lead”. I don’t know how certain I am of that today. Yesterday? Yesterday while sitting on the porch with my own mother enjoying a Spring breeze while watching my two babies play with one another’s hands and eyes and noses? Yes, that moment I was certain. This is the life I was meant to lead.

But today? Today has been challenging. Today I dealt with two babies that wouldn’t nap. Today I changed multiple poop diapers that ruined freshly washed sheets and outfits. Today my dogs, dogs that used to be the receivers of all of my love, howled at a group of pre-schoolers walking by the house and scared the kids and the babies. Today I put on a pair of pre-pregnancy jean shorts that only recently fit again and yet when I looked in the mirror, all I could see was my saggy tummy, my hollow, tired eyes and wrinkles. I look older. I feel older. I feel exhausted and empty and drained and it shows on my face and body and in my spirit. Was it worth it?

Today I found myself dreaming of a day when I took a 3 hour nap without anyone noticing-when I could take a book and a blanket to the park and read for as long as I wanted-when I bought an outfit that made me feel like a million bucks. When I felt good about myself. That’s not today.

Today I put the babies in a stroller and took the whole crew (dogs as well) for a walk. A walk that I thought might calm me down-might calm them down. And it didn’t. They cried and kicked and squirmed and screamed and the dogs whined and howled and tugged and pulled. And I was sweating and cursing and my lip was quivering and everyone I passed by just looked and stared apologetically. I wondered for a minute what would happen if I let go of the leashes; if I put the brake on the stroller and simply…walked…away. Gone would be the screaming and the whining and the howling and the pulling. Gone would be the constat, never stopping need for me to do something. Gone would be the responsibility and the finality of it all. I would be free.

I’m not going to lie and say that soon thereafter I came to a cathartic realization that my babies were my real home and that the thought of leaving them reminded me how much I love this life. Because I didn’t. And I really think that’s ok. I know that I am a good mother. A damn good mother. I work my ass off to take care of them, to make them happy and healthy and I know that I am a fantastic dog owner who cares for my pups and walks them when it’s raining or cold. I know that I am a good wife who is doing everything in her power to lose the weight, to get out of stretchy pants, to clean the house, to be supportive and loving-to be everything I was or that I see in magazines or on tv shows. I am trying and I don’t think I could try any harder.

I am going to be honest here and I feel guilty saying it and those who are reading it may judge me and say I don’t deserve to have these babies. But the truth is, today it doesn’t feel worth it. It just doesn’t.

Everything changes with a little time. A few minutes standing in the driveway with the door closed to the crying and whining and wanting rejuvenates my soul and reboots my system. I come inside feeling like a new person and those things that made me struggle before-that made me question this huge, life-changing decision-somehow are the same things that confirm it.  Until then I will take a deep breath and wait.

Hi there. I feel like a total jerk for not blogging in so long. I’m not sure what’s kept me from this site. I just haven’t felt inspired I guess. And I’m lazy. Very very lazy.

So this weekend was different. I attended a Bachelorette party on Saturday that made me feel 87 years old. I mean seriously, why do people go out? It’s so horrible I don’t get it. And it’s not because I’m somehow above it now that I have kids. Hell, I wish I still went out-I wish I did anything cool-but the truth is, I’m tired and grouchy and the last thing I want to do is put on ill-fitting clothes and uncomfortable shoes and stand in a crowded bar holding a 9$ vodka soda that is already giving me a headache while a group of size 2 blonds next to me scream loudly into their iphones “wait WHAT? Where are you guys?! I’m by the bar. BY THE BAR”.

What do I want to do? I’d like to eat a nice meal and drink 2-maybe 3-glasses of Sauvignon Blanc while wearing my target yoga pants and one of my husbands large tee-shirts, watch “Kim and Khloe Take Miami” (or any other combination of K’s taking various cities) feel a little buzzed and head to bed around 10:15. Yep. I’m old.

So the Bachelorette party was in fact quite fun. The girs I was with were awesome and we all enjoyed laughing at the drunken messes around us. I noticed that a lot of people at the bar shoved me unapologetically. I felt like I had a giant arrow dangling above my head with a sign reading “Somebody’s mother. Definitely not any fun”. To make matters worse, I kept remembering that in just a few hours I would have to get up with two screaming babies who did not care if I was hungover and tired. I pushed through however and downed several vodka drinks in hopes that I would miraculously become more fun. Around midnight (god help me) we headed to a club around the corner. While waiting in line politely, a handful of skinny blondes pushes past us and the bouncer and walked towards the door. This pathetic, nerdy bouncer sheepishly said “no. wait. stop girls. no.” to which they laughed and kept walking. I felt exactly like Leslie Mann’s character in “Knocked Up” when she gets rejected by the bouncer for being too old. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FmiVlyAfTnw)

Not to be super annoying and if I read this in someone else’s blog I would definitely roll my eyes, but I looked at these girls-not women-and thought to myself “they have no idea what it is to be a real woman”. I know that’s super lame and maybe I’m just saying it to make myself feel better for not wearing adorable sequined shorts with sky-high heels and a skin tight tank top, but the truth is, I thought it. Here were these girls with pre-puberty looking bodies-bellies that had never grown a child-breasts that had never fed a baby-and all I thought to myself was that I was happy to be me. Me in my out-of-style mom dress, comfortable and practical “going out” shoes, cell phone in-hand in case of emergency, me.

I took a cab home around 2am and watched out the window as a generation-one that was no longer mine-flirted and danced and smoked-and I couldn’t have been happier to go home to my new world, one that was a good bit calmer and absolutely less cool-but one I’m in now. At least until the next Bachelorette party

I’ve wanted to write this post since the day the babies were born. Maybe even before that frankly. I’ve always struggled with living in the moment-experiencing the present. I either dwell upon what could or should have been or worry over what might be. I practice yoga regularly and one of the best parts of the practice for me is the focus on the now. Right now. In fact, written on the floor in front of the studio it reads “Be here now”. I love that and I am committed to living a life that follows this mantra.

It’s been really hard with babies because every second feels like it’s flying by. I cannot tell you how many people have said something along the lines of “Before you know it, they’ll be grown” or “Enjoy every second it flies by” or “Just wait, in a flash you will be watching them get married”. I told my husband that I felt like I should never use the bathroom, or sleep or go for a run for fear I may miss these precious, apparently short lived moments. Of course the truth is, time is time. One minute is one minute. The four years after college stretch the same length as the four years out of high school, or when I was first born. Time is relative-sure I know that. One hour working out at my boot camp feels like a lifetime while an hour spent with a friend in town feels like only a second. Regardless, I have a hard time with the constant influx of commentary from obviously well-intentioned friends. I don’t know how to solve this issue and I’m sure as these babies grow older, people will continue to remind me of that fact. My mom, who is my role model in all shapes and forms, told me that I should counter these comments with “Well, before you know it, we’ll all be dead”. It reminds me so much of the movie “The Departed” when someone, speaking of his sick mother, says to the Jack Nicholson character, “Oh she’s not well, I fear she’s on the way out” and he says “We all are, act accordingly”. Is that a little rough to hear? Sure, but hell it’s that truth right?

Someone said the other day that the days with the babies feel like years and the years like days. In a lot of ways, that’s very true. Our daughter had a stomach bug this week and the days felt long and never ending and incredibly challenging. And yet, to think that my babies are six months old! Half of a year has passed since I delivered them?!

Which brings me to my last point. I have touched on this before and if you know me, and knew me while pregnant, you can confirm that I was not a happy camper. I complained pretty much non-stop. And yet, I long to be pregnant with these babies again with almost all of my heart. It feels good to have my body back and to be able to workout and build a sweat again, but I ache to rub my hands over my stomach and feel these little lives moving around. But then I look up and see them here. Actually here in this world in front of me. And I can’t believe that what I’m wishing for is to have them back inside. I hate to sound cliche, but of course hindsight is 20/20. I don’t think I took time while pregnant to really reflect upon the profound thing that was happening inside of me. I never had that moment of clarity and awe. I was too busy being sweaty and annoying and eating cheeseburgers. Why do I wish for the past? Why do I fear the future? Why oh why don’t I focus on breathing in and out of this moment and enjoy what is right this very second? This is a common human struggle and one that pisses me off to no end.

My maternal grandmother, one of the biggest badass women I’ve ever known, used to say to my mother “Never look back”. While she stopped there, I believe she also meant to “Never look forward” either. Look at what is here right now and dwell in each second that makes up the present. Delivering these babies and becoming a mother has made me so aware of the shortness of life and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t scare me-didn’t keep me up at night. But we have no ability to stop time or to press pause. Just as we have no ability to fast forward and skip ahead past the really tough times or rewind to an easier time. All that we can do is to live in the moment we are in. The choice we have is how we choose to experience the moment. So while our daughter continues to scream and our son continues to projectile vomit, I will aim not to dwell upon what is in front of me or miss what is behind me, but celebrate what is right that very second. Here’s to today.

Well, today is one of those days where I don’t especially have anything to say, but I haven’t blogged in awhile and feel guilty. Please indulge me. What’s new?

Babies are good. They are sleeping from about 8pm-7am with a few blips here and there. They are both mobile and I’m shocked each morning when they have moved, while still swaddled, from one side of the crib to the other. They are incredibly interactive and want to smile and giggle and study my face. They are also WIDE AWAKE. They rarely nap during the day which can be super draining but also fun. I’ve found myself laughing more with them and that’s good for everybody.

What else? Last week was hard. I know I say that a lot and those reading this blog (Hi Mom!) probably think all I do is complain. I don’t. Well maybe I do. But hell, it’s hard! Last week I attended a play date with two friends of mine with babies. I had been looking forward to it for some time. One friend has a precious six month old girl and my other friend has the sweetest little 3 month old boy. It was really interesting to observe them both as our babies are smack dab in the middle. The six month old was SO ACTIVE! I couldn’t believe what crawling looked like. She was on the move. She picked up everything she saw and put it in her mouth-including trying to steal pacifiers out of the babies mouths She was so lovely though and I thought to myself how fun, albeit tiring, that age looked. The 3 month old boy is like a little Zen master. He is so so so chill. He kind of sat back on his mamma’s lap and watched my crazy train roll into the station. While it was really fun, and great for me to get out and interact with adult humans, I left feeling completely defeated.

First and foremost, it was exhausting to bring them over. I can hardly carry them in their car seats anymore and once we actual got into my friend’s house, I moved back and forth without stopping from one crying baby to the other barfing baby. My friend, on the other hand, seemed like she had everything together. Her house was pristine, her baby was clean and in matching clothes, she had this great mat set out for us to play on (our boy promptly puked on it upon arrival), her stroller snapped open and had all the appropriate hand wipes and buzzing toys. In other words, she looks to have her SH*T together. My other friend was equally organized. Oh and by the way, both of my friends have totally lost their baby weights and look like super models.

I, on the other hand, felt like Octomom walking in that house. I had puke on my shirt, I was wearing maternity pants, one baby had soaked his shirt with drool, the other started crying and didn’t stop until we got home, my stroller is so big I feel like I’m driving a truck down the street, I forgot bottles and formula and had to use my friend’s, and by the first thirty minutes of the playdate, I was really sweaty. In other words, I do NOT have my SH*T together. We went for a walk in her neighborhood and I literally  had to walk IN FRONT of my friends because my damn stroller took up the whole sidewalk. They suggested stopping for yogurt after-something I was really looking forward to (even though my Weight Watchers points were nil after I gorged myself on conversation hearts that morning). Before we got to the yogurt shop, however, my crazy train started screaming crying and I politely excused myself. I watched them walk away in their adorable skinny jeans with their children who didn’t seem like monsters and I started to cry. As I wiped the snot from my nose and tried desperately to lift my mack-truck stroller into the car, I dropped my purse and spilled everything on the ground. I put both babies in the car, slammed the stroller in, got in the front seat and felt EXTREMELY sorry for myself. I came home and used 5 more points on a glass of wine.

I know that everyone else doesn’t have it together. I know that their babies cry and spit up and poop their pants and that they feel unsure as mothers, wives and friends. And I know that they have days like mine. But it’s so easy to feel like I am the only one failing at this. Or rather, struggling with this. And I don’t want to be that annoying friend who’s all “I have twins, it’s so much harder” because truth is, a new baby is hard as hell no matter what your situation. Each day is different and today has been really good. It’s important for me to remember that and to reflect back to days like today when I’m covered in unspeakable baby fluids.

I have to tell you something. These past few weeks have tested me like no other. Honestly like nothing has testing me before. Our twins are 4.5 months old-almost 5 months old now. So much has changed with them recently-all wonderful and thought-provoking but still a change nonetheless. In the early days, they ate, pooped and slept. Literally. Now they sleep through the night (fingers crossed that continues). What that means, I’ve realized, is that they don’t sleep during the day. Not only are they awake, they are engaged and interested and curious about the world. They can see me-from across the room. They get jealous when I spend time with one over the other. They cry ALL THE TIME. They cry to manipulate. The second I come over to address the situation, a big smile covers their face and I realize it was all a gimmick to get me over there. I don’t know what do do with them when they aren’t sleeping. They’re too little to sit up straight in a bumbo or some other crazy contraption but they’re too big to just lie in their bassinets either. I put them on the stimulation mat: they cry. I put them in their swings: they cry. I put them in their buzzy magic chair: they cry. I put them on my lap and interact: they smile.

And that’s the really hard part of this. They are happiest playing with me. And that feels really great. But listen, it’s also exhausting. The day starts around 8:30am and I do not sit down until around 11am when they both fall asleep (site: right now) for about 15 minutes (btw: the girl just started wailing as I was typing the words “asleep”). Then I make bottles, then I feed everyone, then I burp everyone, then I get puked on, then I change diapers, then I put one on the floor while she wails and try to play with the other. Ten minutes pass, I put him on the floor and play with her. He wails. I just feel like I’m reaching a breaking point.

And then something else big happened this week. I debated blogging about it because it felt personal and like I was crossing a line in terms of privacy vs. sharing. That said, those of you who read this blog (IE: blood relatives) have praised me for being brutally honest about this whole journey. So I guess I’ll share. I have been nursing the babies since they were born, supplementing with formula because I never made enough milk. In the past few weeks, however, my milk supply has decreased significantly. I spent an hour on the phone Monday with the lactation specialist at my Doctor’s office and she essentially told me, with twins, to rebuild a supply I would have to nurse one, then give a bottle, nurse the other, then give the bottle, then pump for 20 minutes. And even then it isn’t even guarrenteed that it will work. There is no time for me to do all that. Once one finishes eating, he/she starts wailing and wants to play. Then the other starts crying. Oh and for me to increase my milk supply, I need to be eating all the time and drinking gallons of water. Where I am supposed to find the time to make food? Much less put it in my mouth. And water? For that to work, I need an IV drip in my arm. Anyway, after hanging up the phone, I decided I’d give it a go.

I tried to nurse both babies at the same time and neither baby was interested. Then they started wailing-I mean WAILING. About that time our baby boy grabbed hold of my insulin pump tubing (by accident of course) and ripped it out of my stomach. I had put the new set in just five minutes before (something I hate to do and dread each time because of the pain involved in inserting the needle). He yanked the cord and blood spilled out all over me and all over him. Almost exactly at that moment, he leaned over and threw up all over himself, myself and our girl. I felt this bile moving up in my throat-this PMS style rage and frustration and exhaustion and sense of failure and I could taste it in my mouth before it came out. I screamed across the room at the top of my lungs “FUCKKKK!”. Both of my babies looked up at me with their perfect innocent expressions and their mouths turned down and their little chins began to wobble. They were so scared of the person who, since the moment they were brought into this world, was warm and cuddly and comforting. They cried. Not an angry wail but a sad, frightened wimper. My heart broke, as it is breaking again right now, and I just sat there with my shirt up and my pathetic failing breasts hanging out and blood and spit up smeared all over my pants and I just bawled my eyes out. The three of us just sat there and wept for several minutes.

I need to accept that the breastfeeding journey is over. I have mentioned several times on this blog how important I think it is to listen to your body. My body directed my decisions through much of my pregnancy and I feel it is doing the same now. I am sad to stop nursing them and I will sincerely miss the connection we have but I need to let it go. Having children is the single greatest lesson in letting go. The need to control is moot. Children dictate what is or isn’t these days and my need to control and manipulate each move is futile. There is something peaceful in acknowledging this chaos-in accepting the fact that these two little beings will dictate what will or will not happen for the time being. It is cathartic to exhale my breath and accept life for what it is. And you know what’s really funny? What reminds you how interesting and magnificent life can be? As I sat here typing this I-feel-sorry-for-myself soliloquy, our daughter rolled over for the first time. I looked up from my whine fest to see that she was no longer on her back but instead on her tummy with her big beautiful eyes wide open studying the fabric of our rug. Moments like these kick you in the ass man. They say “This is life. This is now. Be HERE. Be present”. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Go.

If I’ve learned anything thus far, it’s that some days are significantly harder than others. We are about eighteen weeks in. That translates (for those who are tired of all things pregnancy and kid related being calculated in weeks) to about 4.5 months. Remember though, these kids were seven weeks early so we are really looking at about 2.5 months old. Anyhow, as I was saying, some days are beautiful, perfect, God-affirming days. Others challenge me as a mother, as a wife, as a friend and frankly as a person.

Take today. It’s Monday. This past weekend my husband and I went away and left the babies with my parents and sister. We took our two hound dogs (our original children) and headed to a relaxing weekend get-away. I was nervous going into it. I wasn’t sure I could spend two nights away from my babies. That said, we scheduled massages upon arrival and the moment my head touched the massage chair I remember thinking, “Yeah, I’m pretty certain I can do this.” That night we had a romantic dinner followed by a horse and carriage ride home. We drank wine and wore robes and turned off cell phones. As we were falling asleep that night, I began to have a little panic attack and felt desperately, maternally like I needed to get home immediately. Instead I rolled over, took a Tylenol PM and slept like a newborn baby.

The next day we had a leisurely breakfast and took a long hike with our pups. We napped, we went to a beer garden, we ate another yummy dinner, hell we played Croquet! That evening we watched a movie and roasted s’mores by our fireside. Again, cut to me sleeping like a newborn. We came home Sunday fully rested and missing our babies like crazy. I felt certain that I had a renewed sense of patience and that I would be calm and collected for the week ahead.

Wrong.

Today has been brutal. In the early days of our babies, it wasn’t so bad. Essentially, they ate and slept. On the same schedule. Now when one falls asleep, the other immediately wakes up. No matter what contraption we put them in, they cry. They want to interact with me each waking minute which is wonderful and fascinating but also exhausting and all encompassing. Guess what? Right now I am sitting in the guest room with the two dogs and the door shut. The babies are howling in the other room but I needed to get away. I don’t feel good about that. They are crying and they want their mamma and I know that if I go in and pick them up and play with them, they’ll be happy. But I am tired and overwhelmed. I’m wearing a gigantic tee-shirt and my husband’s boxers. It’s the middle of the afternoon. And yet I don’t know what to do. On the one hand, the thought of getting out of the house each day and going into work sounds wonderful. On the other hand, and weighing slightly heavier, the thought of handing my babies over to a daycare instructor and missing giggles and eye contact and sneezes breaks my heart. I am depressed sitting in my pjs at 1:26pm on a Monday afternoon while the world continues outside my window, and yet I’m not sure I’m ready to give up this time with them. I want to be a good mother-one who doesn’t lose her patience and doesn’t raise her voice, but I swear this is harder than I thought it was.

I told my mom the other day that the best part of my weekend away was that there were 48 hours where nobody needed anything from me. Here at home one baby needs a pacifier, the other kicked their blanket off and is cold, the dog needs to pee and the other one wants water. Once all these tasks are completed and I finally sit down to work, a baby decides to wake up, another wants to sleep but has just spit up everywhere, the dog starts barking at the mailman and the second baby gets scared and starts crying. It’s never ending madness. And yet I’m not sure I could live without it.

I know I am being hard on myself. I know that I am doing the best I can. I know that we-my husband and I-are doing the best we can. I also know that our babies are fine. If I don’t read Shakespeare aloud each afternoon, enroll them in baby French lessons and breastfeed them until they are ten, they will still be positive members of society. Hmm. On that note, I just realized it’s silent outside my door. Looks like everyone fell asleep-pacifier, blanket, spit-up and all.