bexhasbabies

Last night was magical. The most beautiful thing happened. It was incredible, in a mind boggling way. It was stunningly life changing.

Oh wait. No, that was last year.

Last night was fucking awful.

I had only recently been thinking how smoothly things had been going as of late.

First mistake.

I was in a groove. Babies were too. Nathan and I hadn’t been bickering over apartment cleanliness. I had been cooking for the babies. We had been eating meals. I had some exciting meetings and events for MomMeetUps.com.

All in all I had been feeling really good.

But as we know, all good things must come to an end.

That happened on Tuesday.

I was pumped about my week ahead. Meeting some new expectant moms. Excited for our first working moms lunch. Then on Tuesday I get the dreaded call from daycare. Kid has a 102 temp. You must pick him up. Of course I felt badly for him. But also – I had so much work to do this week. And – shit – they were just sick for the ENTIRE MONTH OF JULY.

Alas, I went and did what any good mother would do. I rushed to pick him up. After finishing my leftover enchiladas and perhaps finishing an episode of Bachelor in Paradise while rattling off just a few outstanding emails.

The week went as one would expect. Motrin. Tylenol. Motrin. Tylenol. Then two days later the fever spiked. So I did what any good mother would do…three days into their kid having a fever over 102…called the Doc.

Turns out he has an ear infection. Which is of course treatable. But he was miserable. And it was breaking my heart.

This would all have been manageable except my twenty year old cat – during this exact time frame – became entirely incontinent and, apparently, started using our rugs as his litter box. So in the course of three days. One wood floor and three rugs were destroyed. Hours were spent on the floor trying to salvage them all. Hours well spent, I must say.

But I digress. JB was pretty hysterical after his diagnosis. Hadn’t given him his Motrin because I had thought he was on the mend. So I clearly needed to get meds. And some pain killers in him. So I did what any good mother would do. I stopped to vote on the way home.

Then I got home and was in a rush, inevitably. Had two other kids to pick up. But first my phone was dead and I needed to order his meds before I left. But the order hadn’t come through. So with an hysterical baby, dog who hadn’t been out all day (because who would ever walk a dog while the baby was asleep upstairs) I was juggling calling the drug delivery company and finding the goddamn syringe – that of course we only had one of, since that very morning – the other one broke – and was currently missing – and I had to administer the Motrin.

It was nowhere. So I grabbed a cup and attempted to force him to drink it.

Bad choice.

First he choked. Then he threw up all over himself. And the stroller. And me. The floor. And everywhere. But I still had to go get everyone else, thirty minutes ago. Of course, as I’m naked and dripping – and stepping – in vomit – the phone – that’s plugged into the wall because I can’t bring it with me since it was dead – rings before I leave. The drug company is glad they got me before I left. They don’t have the meds the doc prescribed. But it’s the only med he can take because this 364 day old baby has already been pumped with so many antibiotics – this was the only one he could be prescribed. But actually – wait – they do have it. False alarm. Cool. And they will happily order it for a delivery after 6pm. Which of course is after bedtime.

Fuck. Whatever – I need to rush to get everyone else.

Finally got all the kids. Past bedtime. I’m wearing JB. Pushing M. Holding H’s scooter while she refuses to scoot and demands to hold my hand. And walking the dog. While I’m holding a cupcake.

So OBVIOUSLY H tells me she has to poop, way before we’re close to home. So somehow I get her to green grass in time. Tie up the dog so she doesn’t get the stupid cupcake. Make sure the stroller doesn’t roll away with twin a in it. I pull her pants down – hold her in the squat position, and notice that apparently the ground is not flat and the scooter is rolling towards the goddamn road. So I have to make a gametime decision. Keep holding the kid or run to get the scooter. I won’t share which direction I chose. Needless to say H did in fact not need to poop. The dog did not get the chocolate cupcake. And most importantly – the scooter did not get run over by a car.

From there bedtime was relatively uneventful. Everyone went down. Got meds in the boy while he was sleeping. And thought – ok, maybe will actually sleep tonight. As this week had been a series of 4am or 4:30 wake ups – I was hopeful tonight would treat us well.

Then I remembered I hadn’t been able to work all week – and really needed to GSD (get shit done). So I set out to work. Three hours later I called it a night hoping I’d actually get to fall asleep. Shut my computer and laid down.

Haha! Joke’s on me.

Apparently the apartment above us thinks that 11:30pm is the most opportune time to either move their entire apartment around. Or drop bowling balls on their floor. Either way. I cannot fathom why a drill needed to be involved. After calling security twice. It did not stop.

But I fell asleep. Only to wake up to “Mommy I have to pee!” So of course. Off I go. She pees. Only cries for 3 minutes before going back to sleep in her own bed…I climb back into bed yet again, hopeful.

Ha!

“Mommy Mommy Mommmyyyyyyyyyyyyy”. Screeching and screaming. I don’t want her to wake the sick kid. Or the other one. So I get her. Knowing full well this is a downward spiral. But at least I will be able to sleep a little. So I lay her next to me…

…Hahah-waaaaa.

Foot in the face. Elbow the rib. But mainly I was used as a bed while 23 pounds of toddler laid on top of me until….screaming and crying from the baby room again. So this time I get the sick one. Meanwhile I have zero idea what time it is because my 4027 year old cat decided to knock every item off my night table, one by one – at the one point in the night I was actually sleeping.

So now I have the boy in bed. My side of the bed at one point literally had the cat on my feet, dog in the crook of my knees, boy on a boob and feet of a toddler in my face.

This morning I had had grand plans. We are having a family day. I will keep all the kids home. And cook our big kid one year olds a birthday feast. Eggs. Sausage. Sliced fruit. Yogurt. Pancakes.

But man plans. God laughs. They ate a stale bagel with some peanut butter.

Somehow 17 hours of labor feels like a vacation right about now.

Happy 1st Birthday Kiddos. The days are long but the years are short. We love you with every ounce of our being. But for the love of god, just let us sleep.

I know I’m meant to feel a sense of relief that my pumping journey is coming to an end. The hours attached to a machine. The time stolen, away from my partner, my babies, my life. But I have a pit in my stomach and knot in my throat as I pack this all up. This time it’s not going on a top shelf only to be taken down again at a later date. This time it will be escorted out of my home, and will not return.

I think for me it represents something so much greater. Something I never tapped into until it was thrust upon me. It represents motherhood.

And the journey.

And the inner earth shattering, crack you open from the inside, life altering, identity shaping affect it had on me.

My life’s motto was – I don’t want kids. And now, here I am, desperate that the vasectomy didn’t take. Desperate to rewind time. Desperate to at least freeze it all.

After a year with twins I’ve often heard – “thank god that part’s over.” But I feel so very much the opposite. If I could return to 356 days ago, I actually would. Learn it all again. See it all again. Relive it all again. Do it all again.

I know my babies haven’t “needed” this pumped milk for a while. But it wasn’t for my babies that I was doing it. I was holding on to something. Something I wasn’t ready to let go of. And I’m still not. But the time has come. They turn one next week. They’re real people now. They don’t need me in the way they once did. Sure, one can argue that they need me more – or differently – now. But. It’s just. Not the same.

I’m sad. And heartbroken. And I want to do it all again. But that’s just not how life works. We cannot stop time. Relive moments.

So tonight, I will not put this pump, these bags, these tubes, back on the shelf. I will put them by the front door. And they will be shepherded out. Along with the infant clothing. And the tiny hats. And little booties. The large bouncer. Bath seats. The bottles. These are things we no longer need. And will never need again. The time has come for me to let them go, though it’s hard to catch my breath as I write this – believing, accepting it’s all so real. And final.

Many a friend has said – I can’t wait to burn my pump. But my pump feels like an arm, a limb, an extension of me. And burns are tragically and devastatingly painful.

I went back and forth on writing this post.

For two reasons.

One because no one talks about it. But I have received so many messages from so many of you appreciating my posts – because I tell it like it is, remain real, and share everything.

Two because of my friend. My friend who is kind, wonderful, good, loving, brilliant, strong, the picture of perfection – might be scarred forever if I do. So I will share it with her before I post and get her blessing.

Here we go. Balls to the wall.

This post, is about poop. Not dog poop. Not baby poop. But full on. Poop. The poop we don’t talk about. Before living with someone you cannot imagine what it would be like to share a bathroom. How? When?

Then you move in. And, silently, it all works out. Then the cat poop comes up. And the dog poop. And once you have a kid – forget it. 99% of the conversations are about poop.

But still – we never talk about adult poop. “I had a stomach bug” “stomach ache” “was sick” “went to the bathroom.” But besides the text chains amongst you and your girl friends. No one is talking about their bowel movements.

But I do.

I woke up Monday, the start of our staycation – “The Week of Us” and thought I was dying. Sharp pains and cramps in my insides. I was close to going to the ER because something just didn’t feel right. Wrote to my tried and true text group of not one single doctor friend. Shared the symptoms and we all decided I was not dying, just needed Gatorade – and life would go on. Sweet, because Nathan and I had “plans” for this week. And it was really fucking time we get to those plans. It had been far too long.

Ultimately, I’m not dead – alas, the advice was not sound. And my stomach was sour all day. And yes. That means poop. So much. The explosive kind. The kind that makes you think – well that’s it, there’s nothing left. But…ha ha – just kidding. There’s so much left – you’re never leaving the bathroom again. You live here now. So get comfortable.

Long story short. It lasted 24 hours. I woke up today (Tuesday) and thought. Ok. I can do this! Let’s go on a road trip. A few hours in a car. To a house that isn’t mine. It’ll be just fine.

Well. Some of that was true.

What wasn’t true:

⁃ It didn’t last 24, it lasted much longer.

⁃ I couldn’t do this. I stopped at every possible rest-stop/gas station-bathroom along the way.

⁃ A few hours in a car was a terrible idea.

⁃ I probably should have for-warned my friend – and gotten her go ahead.

Nonetheless. We did it. We got here and I was ready to take full advantage of the house.

And the 7 1/2 bathrooms.

And I did. Within the first hour. I hit four. Not because I was ‘hoping to hit them all’.

No. It’s because I had to run to whichever was the closest.

So. The main floor became my bitch. I am not proud. Not happy about it. But it happened. Out of respect (and possibly timing) I stayed far away from upstairs – the family floor.

What also happened. Was. I got scared. Very scared. You see. This house. Is. Perfect. I mean. Picture perfect. The kind you see in Home and Garden. The kind you see in Martha Stewart type magazines. (I presume. I don’t subscribe to any of this. I hear print is dead). But. My intestines were not agreeing with me. At all. And there were moments where I was screaming to Nathan “I can’t find the bathroom.” “Where’s the bathroom I was just in?” “Find me a fucking bathroom now!!” And running through the house over pristine white rugs and carpets – not sure I’d make it to the bathroom in time and going through that conversations in my head.

House rules included:

⁃ no shoes in the house.

⁃ be careful with red wine.

But understandably – There were no rules focused on this topic. How in the world do I bring this one up?

The night before we left for this over-night Nathan said – we’re obviously not going anywhere. We’re not leaving our home, going somewhere else so you can sit in the bathroom(s) there and shit yourself all day.

Well, my dear. We did. And I did. And here we are.

But.

I didn’t crap on my friends white floor. Or white bed. Or white bath mat. Or insanely expensive, marvelous white couch. Though it was touch and go there a few times.

And it was still incredible to get away. And be in a home. With a pool. And a hot tub. And more than two rooms. And no babies. Or dogs. Or cats.

But it sucks that so much poop was involved. And so much of what should have been involved wasn’t. Because based on Nathan’s understanding of anatomy. “If you put something up there. The pressure will make something come out of here.”

Guess that’s good news. One less bedroom to clean my dear friend. Thank you for giving us your home for 24 hours. You’re a better friend than you ever knew you’d be.

Please, please invite me back.

I promise not to poop on your floors.

A few days late. Maybe delaying the inevitable, not ready to accept what it means. Or maybe life is just insane. Either way, what I think about right now, in this final month before these two turn one, are a few simple things.

I truly cannot fathom that we’ve almost come to one full rotation around the sun. Preparing for this last month a few things strike me. And since it’s too late for me, I’ll share my own experience as unsolicited advice for any of you at the early stages of this journey. I wish a few things. Knowing now, that it all happens so fast, and knowing this was my last round of firsts. I should have smelled and stared at them just a little bit longer. I wish I pumped less and cuddled more. Not that I cleaned TOO much, but I wish I worried less and enjoyed more. Thought less, felt more. Planned less, was present more. I know that none of us are made of money, but I wish I had said yes to certain things. This is not the time to worry about money. Splurge on the newborn photos, buy the adorable bunny hat. Put down the phone (ironic, I get it). Accept help and kindness from others. Pay strong attention to your partnership. That’s the love that got them here. Massage it, spend time on it. It will get you through the tough nights.

Lastly and possibly most importantly – give yourself a break. We all do the absolute best we can with what we’re given. We are all way, way too hard on ourselves – so be kind to you and, Love Love Love.

Happy 11months to them.

And to us.

And to the best big sister I’ve seen.

I’m tired. Definitely poorer. A little less sane. But so deep in love and happiness.

The journey of breastfeeding is not one to be taken lightly, or for granted. Yes it is natural but no, it is not easy. Many of us struggle. Many of us stop. The truth is – a happy mom is the number one priority in a child’s life.

I struggled immensely with my first. There were tears, there was pain, there was exhaustion and lots of hours attached to machines. Ultimately I pushed through. 18 months with my first. Twins came two months later. And now almost 11 months in this round I’m still at it – though the journey is soon to meet its ultimate fate.

But this was not done exclusively. There were bottles and there is formula. Lots and lots of formula for the twins. I learned early on fed truly is best.

I feel lucky and honored that I was able to provide for my children but I’m also glad that I was able to resist the societal pressure of breast is best.

Happy breast-feeding week to those who choose to do it and to those who chose not to do it. Those who choose to feed their babies in whatever ways shapes or forms keep their entire family happy, healthy and sane – keep going mama!

To those struggling because of the stigma attached to not breast feeding/formula – please know we stand in solidarity.

We are all good moms.

The story begins like any other 8pm night, though this time I’m solo parenting.

In the babies room, twins asleep, singing Wheels on the Bus for likely the 19millionbillionth time. I hear a noise in the directions of the twins bed. Can’t place it. But it scared me. I ran over. They both seemed to be breathing, but something didn’t sit well with me. Sounded like a balloon (organ?) bursting inside of them. I didn’t want to touch them for fear of waking them. But I was also nervous something very wrong happened. I left the room to confer with Nathan who was at a wedding. I went back in and as I was about to lean over Jory’s bed, his head popped up and I was spotted. I quickly ran out of the room as he let out a wail. Marley was wriggling around so I knew she was safe. The noise was bizarre. But everyone was alive.

I laid in bed thinking I’d get some early sleep. But the babies kept making noises, which is abnormal for that time of night. By ten pm everyone had settled in to sleep – so I did too.

Fast forward 5am, mother fucking cat wakes me up. Babies start to stir within the hour, but we know to keep them there until 6:30.

6:30 rolls around. And we go in. As usual their bedroom smells like a large pile of crap as the babies haven’t quite regulated their poop time. After a little chat with Harper, some smiles with baby Marley, I make my way over to Jory. And OOOOO MMMMMM GGGGG.

THERE WAS SHIT EVERYWHERE.

I mean EVERYWHERE. Crib. Mattress. Arms. Toes. Back. Head. Fingers. Every. Fucking. Where.

By 7am we already had a baby in the bath. Laundry in the machine. And the “oh my god we need a vacation” internet search open.

My only saving grace is this delicious drink. I know it’s not those beach pictures my single friends are posting. And it’s not the beach houses my fancy friends are posting. And it’s not even the pool, my friends with parents close by are posting. But it’s not the first picture of the day which was us arm deep in baby shit.

Oh yeah, our dog’s pad ripped off her paw and we need to bring her to the vet. I guess this can happen tomorrow since I can’t work again – since my boy is covered from head to toe in what look like chicken pox. 🙈

I read an article, a story, a something recently, and it was just so poignant, it stuck with me.

It was a woman recounting a memory from her childhood. She reminisced about the special nights she had enjoyed with her single mom. What she remembered most were the evenings they ate together, when her food was sliced into tiny, tiny pieces. They would sit on the floor eating hot dog and chicken nugget bites, just the two of them. When she shared this memory, her mom was shocked at her retelling of those nights, as she recalled them too, but for a different reason. Those were the nights she had thought she had failed as a mother. She was so tired by the end of the day, working two jobs to support them, that she didn’t have the energy to cook. So she opened the refrigerator, found what they had, warmed it, cut it, and sat down with her daughter to finally get off her feet.

This is such an important reminder. In this day and age with social media as our dictator, we see our friends cooking their kids kale and quinoa and colorful plates of beautiful gourmet food, that in a million years I wouldn’t even consider whipping together. So from time to time, I question my abilities as a mother. “I can’t even feed my kid well. I’m failing her.” And yes, the pictures present well on Facebook, and yeah, maybe the kid is getting the nutrients they need. But, reality check, I will never be able to do that. And guess what? What the kids remember aren’t those meals.

Earlier this week, Nathan was stuck late at work. The plan had been for him to cook dinner, as he does, but now it was up to me to prepare something. Lacking the cooking gene, I asked Harper what she would like, listing off the things in our freezer. She opened the cereal cabinet and said, “cereal, with Mommy. Sit on the floor, with a mommy bowl and a mommy spoon.”

You see, there was a night a few weeks ago where I just couldn’t deal, couldn’t function, couldn’t manage, and the easiest, most possible thing for me to do, was feed us cereal on the kitchen floor. And this 2 1/2 year old’s tiny brain, even now, a few weeks later, remembered that night, that memory, and wanted to share it again with me. It made me realize what’s important. What really matters. And that’s the special time we get to spend with our kids. Sure, maybe roasted squash is better for her than Frosted Mini-Wheats, but she is still going to grow up, she is still going to get the nutrients she needs (somehow), and to me, right now, impacting her memories is the most important thing.

When Harper was less than 2 months old, I demanded that we take her to the museum (what?!). I thought it would be so good for her to be surrounded by art at such a young age. In retrospect, I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Was I presuming that by osmosis she would become cultured? She couldn’t see 10 inches from her face. To get a baby from downtown, in a massive Bugaboo stroller, to the UES, to schlep her around a museum, where she slept and shat the entire time, was a complete and utter waste of time (and anxiety levels).

When the twins were born, I tried to get out immediately with them to do things. I soon realized that the amount of stuff, the amount of schedules, and the amount of stress was simply not worth it.

Needless to say, we have not strayed far from Stuytown in the last almost 10 months. Who am I kidding? I couldn’t walk for the last half of my twin pregnancy, so it’s been well over a year.

Sometimes I get sad that my kids aren’t experiencing all that the city, all that life, has to offer. But I have to tell you: When we walk into their room when they first wake up in the morning, and they are all lying there, teeny-tiny eyes open, and they see me, and they see Nathan, and their little faces light up, nothing else in the world matters.

Harper and I are home together tonight—just us. I could pretend I’m already planning dinner, making sure the fridge is stocked. But we all know that’s a lie. We will be eating Frosted Mini-Wheats, in a mommy bowl, with a mommy spoon, on the kitchen floor, and I simply can’t wait. And I’m willing to bet, she can’t either.

Since having children I’ve been hiding from politics. Its too dirty. Too exhausting. Too overwhelming. This political climate in particular – has actually made me – a strongly opinionated and vocal person – shut down. It’s just been too much. Our environment has taken a hit. America in the global community has taken a hit. Women’s rights and advancements have taken a hit. And I didn’t speak up. I needed someone else to carry that weight. I didn’t have it in me this round. I knew, assumed, someone else would. Even knowing the severe implications this would have on life as we know it for generations and likely centuries to come – I did nothing.

But I cannot hide anymore. What is happening right now. On American soil does not have a word to describe it. It is devastatingly atrocious.

This is not the land of the free and the home of the brave.

I cannot sit idly by any longer. No, I will not, cannot listen to the cries of these children. That will immobilize me. I can hear them in my head. In my heart. I know what my children sound like when I leave them at school. I cannot fathom what cries from true separation sounds like. I cannot listen. But I can do something.

I can call my Senators.

I can donate.

I can ask you to help.

I can ask what you’re doing and how I can help.

What charities can we donate to?

Are children being fostered? How do we learn more?

Does someone have a script to call our elected officials?

Who do we vote for in the midterms?

How can I – and anyone else who is ready to rise up – step up, today.

We cannot do nothing. This has happened before and the consequences of silence were devastating.

We must. I must. You must. Take action.

These are not summer camps you fucking assholes. This is not politics. This is life. Human life. Children. Helpless children. You, however, are scum of the earth and this is not one we will let slide. This one is not negotiable. You will lose.

“First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

When our Grandchildren ask us about this awful time.

What will you tell them you did?

I never thought it would happen.

In fact, I was certain it would not. After all – I was the one who didn’t want kids. What’s the appeal? I thought. You can’t travel. You’re limited. Tired. Tied down. The diapers. The mess.

You can’t live freely.

I just couldn’t see it. Not for me at least.

Then I met the love of my life – and learned that a love so strong brings with it other desires. Other needs. And with it – the realization that those other fears were less important. When a life is lived well before meeting your partner – the feeling of missing out on what the world has to offer, is a little less clawing. Creating another life. A life we make. Together. Ours. Felt like it was already a story written.

That’s what the world would have to offer, for us. Our baby.

So we had the one. Nathan would have been content. Was content. Just days after she was born, though, I realized I experienced a tectonic shift.

I too was content. I was in love. But I was far from done. Almost one year to the day later, we were pregnant with twins.

This, by far, for sure, unequivocally, would be it. There was no other possible reality. For what was originally intended to be a family of two was already a party of five. Certainly, this was the end.

The twins came. And yes. We were done. Love was bursting through every seam. As were the diapers. And the spit up. And the laundry. And the sleepless nights. And the colic. Yes. We were done. We took all the precautions to ensure this reality. We are closed for business, as it were.

And now. A day until marking 9 months with the twins and nearly two and a half years with our first, I’m questioning everything. I want more. I think I want more. Could I possibly, truly want more?

I’ve been quietly suppressing this feeling. Not accepting it. Not acknowledging it. You see, I am the only one who feels this way in my marriage. But it’s beginning to bubble over. And it’s time to honestly face what these feelings mean.

As I sat with a dear friend (and fellow twin mom) yesterday it seems I am not alone. We both have three young children. The most recent set being the twins. We shared how different the experience is with two, than with one. There are no special cuddles in bed, just you and your baby. There’s autopilot – overdrive – to just keep everyone alive. The pregnancy is like nothing a human should endure. All in all. The twin experience is just… different.

I keep going back and forth – deciding if I should say it was less special. Because that would rub people the wrong way. And that’s never my intention. But If I’m being honest, for me, it was a little less special. More robotic. The breastfeeding sessions didn’t feel like bonding. The witching hour was doubly hard. There’s just no one-on-one mommy-baby, get-to-know-each-other-moments. It’s almost like what could have been, wasn’t.

So I’m stuck in this place. My truth. We are done. Because we have to be. For many reasons. But I don’t think I can accept it. Not yet. Not now. Though I have no other choice. And maybe I don’t really want another baby. Maybe I’m simply mourning the loss of what could have been. Or maybe now that the the twins are no longer newborns, barely even infants – I can’t wrap my head around the fact that we will have no more baby firsts.

Babies. Twins. Are life changing. You just never realize what having one, or three, will do to your entire existence. I almost can’t remember the “me” from before. In a good way, I believe.

I have never accepted something in my life I wasn’t fully satisfied with. I will fight to the death for what I want or believe in. If there is something I need. I will always figure out a way. I have never failed at this.

I think this is the first fight I must succumb to. Understand that this is it. Drop my head, accept defeat and walk right up to the finish line.

I cannot cross it, though. I am not finished.

I’m 38 years old. 39 in just a few months. And I am one of the lucky ones.

When I was born not only did I have 4 grandparents, I also had 3 great-grandparents. They all lived close by and were in my life for a pretty significant amount of time.

Like I said, I was one of the lucky ones.

Fast forward 38 years – I, incredibly, still have 3 of these beautiful humans in my life.

They left the City/Westchester a while back for the other Jewish state. I would travel to Florida multiple times a year to spend time with them. I never took for granted how fortunate I was.

In the last two years, due to goddamn Zika – I haven’t been able to visit. We traveled there in March of 2016 with two month old baby Harper.

Everyone got to meet and spend time with her.

I have not been back since.

I don’t know about you. And I don’t know if it’s only recent, but any time I hear Cat Stevens, “Father and Son” I start weeping. Ugly crying. Heaving.

Now, I’m not an overly emotional person. And maybe it only changed once I had children – but holy shit. This song gets me every. single. time.

For years I would call my grandmothers multiple times a week. I was the first grandchild – on both sides – and had a very special bond with each of them. Before I was married I had all the time in the world. Then I had one baby. Time was a little less available. But I was still pretty good about the calls. Then, as happens, life gets busy.

We all know the excuse.

It has the luxury of being true.

But nonetheless – important things become “less important” – and not that they are, but there are just so many hours in a day.

Recently – because time has a strange way of sneaking up on us – they have gotten older. And with age, comes other things. Other things I’m unable to (won’t?) write, as tears well up in my eyes.

The visits haven’t happened.

The calls happen less frequently. And when they do, they are…different.

I mean to call more. I want to call more.

I don’t.

My parents and cousins’ visit down south just last week sounded hard. Really hard.

I started looking into flights. How can I get there? I must get there. I need to get there.

But with three babies. And a new business. How? What are life’s priorities. How do we make it all work?

As I watch my babies get older. And see my age in numbers rise at a hyper-speed rate, I intellectually understand what this means. But can’t quite emotionally allow myself to get there.

I just got off the phone with my Grandmother.

The call was short. Too short.

I don’t know that she knew who I was.

I’ve not been here, in this space, before. I don’t know how to do this. I love them so much. There has never been a time in my life I’ve given myself a moment to think what life would look like without them (as the “them” I’ve always known). In my mind – we are all frozen in time, on this earth – and things will just continue to exist the same way they always have. Because. They must. There’s no other reality I’m willing to see.

How is life so beautiful and just so painful?

I don’t have a final line to leave you with.

I guess, just, call your loved ones.

If not for them, for you.