Double Trouble

Being a Mom really is hard work. I remember when people used to tell me it was, and I didn’t believe them. When I had my first son, I continued to question the “parents’ lament”. My pregnancy was wonderful, no morning sickness, no heartburn, no stretch marks ( I know, you hate me, but bear with me here). Aside from the 26 hours of “I am dying via my spine” back labor part, I was out to prove to the whole world that being a Mom wasn’t such hard work after all, and that anyone who thought so was a whiner. I really thought I was “nailing” the Mom thing. My baby boy slept through the night, breast fed like a pro, sat happily in his seat through long lunches with friends. He hit all the milestones right.on.time. We sang to him, read to him, baby Mozart-ed him, took him to culturally diverse events, convinced that even though he couldn’t see farther than 12 inches that he was being enriched by the experience. We read all the books, fed him homemade organic food, and kept evil things like hotdogs and plastic far, far away from our precious bundle. When my son was a year old, I picked up some work from home again, kept a tidy house, visited the zoo three times and week and did crafts every morning. It was all so easy in fact that at exactly the “right” time, we decided to have another baby. This next bundle of joy would be our second and last child. He or she would be a little sibling for our son, and round out our peaceful, perfectly planned little family. And of course, we would parent to perfection like we had the first time, and produce a perfect little human. (thanks for not judging me for being too perfect until you get to the end…) Hardest job in the world? Whatevah! And then it happened…the great humbler, the mighty equalizer, the biggest crow I’ve ever had to eat: I found out I was expecting TWINS, and I found out fast that 98.5% of the “success” we had with our first child was mostly just a fluke…

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