Last updated on August 8th, 2024 at 02:52 pm
They spent 34 weeks in my body. They listened to my heartbeat, me sing terribly off key and heard my voice from the inside. I told them all my darkest secrets and fears. I shared my food, my blood and my tears with them. I hated every single second of it. I hated the lack of control over my body and I despised going to the doctor twice a week. I had to stop working and at the end didn’t fit behind the steering wheel of my car. I felt like an alien. They kicked and punched all my organs. There wasn’t anything sweet or romantic about it. I peed my pants regularly and I am pretty sure at least one foot was wedged in my vagina for the last week.
My fear that something was wrong seemed overwhelming. For a person with anxiety, not being able to take my medication turned me into a walking bundle of nerves. I worried about everything. I was miserable and it showed. My husband started calling me the Hulk. Most of my friends and family didn’t see me until my baby shower because I became a shut in. Just me and the boys. The exact reason I was so miserable. I wasn’t supposed to become a mother. I wasn’t cut out for the round the clock feeding, vomiting, and selflessness that comes along with motherhood; At least that’s what I thought.
As week 34 began, it was pretty unremarkable. I had another appointment and everything was moving along as expected. Both baby A and baby B were happy little five-pound expert boxers using my internal organs for practice. I scheduled a C-section for 38 weeks. I had one month left. My friend went into labor and had a beautiful baby boy and I was busy washing the truck load of clothes from the baby shower. Clothing so tiny that it was scary to think I was going to be responsible for the humans that would fit in them. That’s when it happened. A pop. A pop and then the water. The water then the panic. We hadn’t even finished our baby basics class yet. Twelve hours later, the two aliens that provided me with so much misery were out and headed to the NICU.
We’ve come a long way from that day in 2011. This fall they enter Kindergarten. Why am I so sad? I am going to have my life back, sort of. A full eight hours of working uninterrupted, to clean and make actual progress. Oh my lord, I may actually be able to shower without the curtain flying open. But I am sad. I am so much sadder then I thought I would be. It makes me long for the days when we had nothing but time. Time to discover, to snuggle, to learn together. In those moments, I wished for the day that they would be grown enough to learn on their own; the day when snuggling was a gift, not survival. I wished for the days that when discovering meant doing it on their own.
Well it’s here now, and I want them to need me just a little bit longer. I want them to hug me a little longer. I want them to hang on to my every word just one more year. I know I can’t. I know this is important. I know they are growing and one day, before I know it, they will be graduating college. This wasn’t supposed to be sad. I wasn’t supposed to be sad. After all, I wasn’t ever supposed to be a mother.
As I write this I must inform you that both boys vomited on me. As I am writing this. Picture a woman in an oversized tee shirt, leggings, and computer. Now picture one little boy walking up and puking all over that oversized tee shirt. Now picture the second little boy walking up and vomiting all over her leggings. One right after the other. We are knee deep in stomach flu season and I suppose there is a time when you will always need your mother. Now I am ready for them to go to school. Like right this very second. I’m ready to clean them up and send them out into the world because I just realized that I still don’t like being vomited on. I especially don’t like getting puked on in a rapid-fire style. Yup. My sadness is cured.
Laura Birks is a freelance writer and essayist. She lives in New Jersey with her twin boys, a dog, a couple of cat and a husband. When she’s not doling out medicine or cleaning up vomit, she is writing. Her house is in a constant state of disarray and the laundry is never put away. She likes to pretend she is superwoman but the truth is, she is a mere mortal with a messy house. Find her on Twitter, Instagram and Pinterest.
