This may sound dramatic. It does even as I write it.
But, it’s real, from the depths of me.
I am not strong. I am not tough. In fact, today, I am crushed.
They are five months young.
How can I send my two tiny babies away every day?
How can I have someone else raise them morning, noon and evening? Why can’t it be me? They need my warmth. My love. My heart.
People say “you know it’s good for them.”
This isn’t about them.
This is about me.
I can admit that.
Until I had my own I didn’t understand the pull another human can have on your entire soul. Being separated from them already seems too heavy a cross to bear.
I’ve been in denial.
Haven’t organized the milk they’ll need, milk my body creates, every day. In bags. With dates. Frozen for months. In preparation for this day. So someone else can give them sustenance.
Haven’t filled out the required forms (a reminder call from daycare prompted me to accept, the time has come). Don’t know where their crib sheets are. Didn’t even bring the forms to the doctor that need to be turned in – in order for them to start. (Which will now be an expedited $50 each).
It’s 9:30 the night before they leave me – and nothing is prepared. I am not prepared.
It’s just not fair.
I pride myself on being the strong one. But right now, I can’t breathe or pick myself up off the floor.
I know it gets easier. I’ve been here before. But that doesn’t make me want to walk them through those doors tomorrow in my arms, and leave empty handed.
My heart is broken. My breath is short. I want to hold them tight now and forever.
I don’t want to go to sleep. Sleep brings the day I’ve been dreading. They leave me tomorrow, and there is no stopping time or turning back the clock.
This is me. Torn apart. Heartbroken. Behind the mask.