This Post Got a Lot More Intense Than I Intended

I know, I haven’t been blogging. Shame, as my grandmother would have said.

I’m tired. I’ve been working a lot, mostly at night, and staying up much later than I’m used to. I’ve been working while sitting on an old, uneven couch, which is killing my back and shoulders.

I’m stressed. About the house. About money. About feeling overwhelmed — kids, house, money. What to make for dinner. Laundry piling up and spreading disease and pestilence.  You know, typical stuff.

But mostly, I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out because my daughters are going to turn one next week. I’m having flashbacks of where I was, what I was doing, this time last year.

This time last year, I was spending most of the day on the couch, having contractions that I didn’t know were contractions.

This time last year, I was shuffling down the street, trying to walk myself into labor.

This time last year, I had (gestational) diabetes.

This time last year, I had a 50-inch waist.

This time last year, I knew what day my daughters would be born.

This time last year, I didn’t know what my daughters looked like.

This time last year, I had no idea what I was in for. I had mentally checked out. All I needed to know, all I needed to do, was give birth to healthy twins. I didn’t know about the worry, the ignorance, the fear, the sleep deprivation, the protectiveness.

The hopes and dreams. The smiles. The laughter. The pride. The love. My god, the love.

***

I don’t know these folks. Haven’t interacted with them prior to their loss — a loss I truly, truly can’t imagine (happy birthday, little one). Even now, I feel that all I can do is leave sympathetic comments. But I think about their family often, especially in times like these when I get caught up in the charade that being a parent can bring on.

***

Now, typing all of that, I feel ridiculous for worrying about a fucking party. Fucking streamers and fucking balloons and the fucking idiotic Dixie plates I bought at Walmart, worrying that they weren’t fancy enough and theme-y enough and that people would judge me as an uncaring mother because I didn’t pay $5 for eight paper plates.

I love my daughters. I love my daughters.  And that is what’s important — to them, to me, to us.