November 10, 2008

Dear Cole and Owen,

I thought long and hard about whether or not I would write you each your own letter or combine them. But if you take small amount of sleep that I have gotten over the last month (and frankly well before that because that whole sleeping with twins in your belly thing? Didn't really happen.) and multiply it by the number of minutes I have free each day you get a freakishly small number. And thus my rationale for only writing you one letter.

To document your first month of life without mentioning your birth would be silly, although the whole experience, right up until the moment that you were rolled in by your Dad together in a little cart, was challenging. And when I say challenging I mean the crummy kind of challenging, not the "rise to the occasion" kind of challenging. We went to the hospital on Wednesday afternoon knowing that you were going to be induced. We got up at 5AM because we were supposed to call then to check on whether or not there was room for us to come in first thing but there wasn't. And so we waited. And waited. And it was such a weird day with all of the waiting. Finally, in the early afternoon they called and told us to come on in. We arrived, got hooked up to all of the monitors and drugs and waited. And waited. And waited. We watched the Sex and the City movie. We chatted. We waited some more. I wasn't allowed to have anything to eat. They put in an epidural early because I had a low platelet count. We waited some more. There were many moments when I wanted to quit. Needed to quit. Your Dad was unflappable and supportive. We waited. Finally, at midnight on Friday (yes, do the math, we started on Wednesday) the doctor called it quits. I had dilated to 8cm but it wasn't going anywhere. I arrived in the operating room for a c-section without having anything to eat for 36 hours and nothing to drink for 24. I had a fever of 105. I was terribly uncomfortable, in pain and scared. My epidural was no longer working (turns out it hadn't been for quite some time - who knew?) and I could feel them marking out on my stomach where they were going to filet me like a salmon to get you buggers out. I needed you out so desperately that when they told me that they had to sedate me, all I could think of was thank goodness they will get them out safely and I won't be flailing about harming them in any way. And then it was quiet. And then you were here.

You came down the hall in a metal cart. I will always remember the noise that cart made. Your dad pushed you into the recovery room. I couldn't believe that you were okay. Not okay. Perfect. You were calm but alert and I was able to hold both of you. I was so scared that I would drop you because I was covered with wires but I didn't drop you. You were so small, so compact, so beautiful, so identical but so different. Cole, your face was smaller and your features more defined. Owen, the bigger baby, (a feat you will be able to lord over your brother as you grow up) you were more mellow. Gazing but not moving your eyes around as much as Cole. The whole experience wasn't what we planned for you but it was what was right for you. It wasn't what I expected but it is what I will remember.

You two have an uncanny ability to only have one of you completely melting down at one time. Don't get me wrong, you do the whole twin thing where if one of you is crying the other one whimpers in sympathy. But, typically when one of you is having a tough day the other one seems to be able to handle this whole "being on earth thing." This makes things easier for us and it also means that whoever is our "favorite boy" changes from day to day. Just kidding. Kind of.

We are really trying to get used to the whole sleep deprivation thing. Your dad is doing a much better job of it than I am. The inability to sleep more than 70-80 minutes at a time is debilitating to the core. At this point, you go between two and three hours between feeds every night. It takes about 45 minutes for both of us to feed, burp, change, re-swaddle, re-settle and put to bed the two of you. When you're up again two hours from the time you started eating that means that we sleep for about 75 minutes. This is not enough for Mama. Your dad makes sure that you get fed all of the time. Thank goodness for him. I know that God doesn't give twins to women with incompetent husbands, but you guys really lucked out with your dad - he's a star.

Your amazing tricks are impressive. You poop like troopers, at least you used to. About five days ago you went on pooping hiatus. Evidently this is normal. But it is amazing how much you miss little things like poops when they don't happen anymore. You're growing up already! You hiccup. You burp fairly easily. You nurse with gusto and you also happily drink bottles. You are happier together than apart and you are becoming more alert every day. I have to say, it was creepy when you started waking up. I was so used to seeing you asleep in the hospital and at home that one day after you had been fed I peered into your bassinet and there you both were. Wide stinking awake. Little beady eyes looking right at me. Yes, I know you can only see things that are between 9 and 12 inches away. But you were staring at me. I know it. Anyway, your little eyes were peering out at me, your features so similar yet so different, and I just knew then that it would be a long, strange and wonderful trip ahead.

While your birth and homecoming were the most pivotal events in our lives this last month, the election of an African American man to the highest office in the land was also a big big deal. That you and your sister will grow up in a world that doesn't know what a big big deal it was gives me great hope. Generations of people came together this month to stop a cycle of bigotry and racism that has been passed down from one generation to the next. For the first time in my life, I really care about what a decision like this means for young people. More importantly, I care about what it means for my young people.

Cole and Owen, together with your sister, you are our magnum opus. There will be no more important work that we will do moving forward than be your parents. You will indubitably challenge us in myriad unknown ways. We will make mistakes. Small mistakes and big mistakes. But know that we waited for you for a long long time. The journey to October 10, 2008 was filled with blind turns, false starts and at times overwhelming anxiety. Somehow though our family of three became a family of five when your dad rolled your little metal cart into the recovery room. And then you were here.

Love,
Mama