Dear Lydia and Zadie, I'm starting to like you. Just a little bit.

Dear Lydia and Zadie,

Today you turn nine months old.

It feels like such a milestone. For all of us. Where some people have their first and go right on living, our story is a bit different. We were in no way prepared for the arrival of two tiny, noisy little grunters. I always thought I'll just take it as it comes . . . then I realized why mothers of multiples are encouraged to join support groups BEFORE the multiples pop out. It all came so fast and we were standing motionless, frozen in our underwear and mouths wide open. Speechless. Frantic. Trying to reach into the passing time and grab a hold of sanity, reason, something normal that wasn't covered in sour milk and baby poop.

People always look at the two of you and say I couldn't do it. Would we have said that before you were with us? One of many things that your Paw Paw will teach you is that "can't" is the ugliest word a person can say. Then he might spank you for using it. But probably not. Because grandkids get ice cream and trips to Toys R Us. Not spankings. My philosophy on life is that you do what you have to do. Because, well, you have to do it. You CAN raise twins. If you grow them inside of you and one day they come out. You take them home. Feed them. Love them. Hold them. You stop sleeping. You lose your mind. Maybe, if you are lucky (like me), you will gain a bit of that sanity back by the time they are nine months old. They will be easier. They really will be easier.

At some point I realized that you were my best friends. Some people might think that is terribly sad. Because they have a separate agenda, a career, lunch breaks where they poop in silence for as long as the poop takes to come out. They don't stop mid-poop, carelessly wipe and run back to their children to make sure they have not crawled into the living room, selected a DVD (we'll go ahead and say Sesame Street because, honestly, we're all a bit nauseous of Baby Einstein), pressed "open", waited seventeen minutes for the piece of shit birthday present that your Mama bought your Papa to read the signal and follow it, insert the disc, press "play", crack open a couple of beers and spill three quarters of them on your front. Let's face it, that's just one skill that you haven't perfected . . . yet. But, alas, I always rush back to find you in a different, more dangerous place, but smiling and beyond excited because your Mama IS BACK!! after leaving for a solid forty-seven seconds. You light up, booty-bounce on the floor and rock forward and back while slapping your hands on your bellies (a.k.a. clapping your hands). If I'm lucky, I'll get a squeal from Zadie and/or a moany/grunty/scream from Lydia. This is what I live for. It makes the endless crazies so much more manageable. It makes busting my ass from seven to seven worthwhile. It makes me happy to be home with you. It gives meaning to life and it just makes sense. When nothing else really does. When faith is too blind and existence is a confusing certainty, the two of you are the heart and soul within me. What else is there? I don't even care. It has no power or importance to me. Because you. are. real. My purpose is to be your mama. While I have other roles that are neglected and a total loss of identity, I am not concerned. It is there. It will be there when I can come back to it. Being your mama is why I am here, now, and it is beyond rewarding. Your papa and I gave life to you beautiful, brilliant, red-headed little girls. We are teaching you, loving you and hoping so much for you.

I am constantly blown away by you.

I am always grateful when we wake up and have another day together.

I miss you every night and fight the urge to wake you up and hold you while you scream and cry because your selfish bitch of a mother thought that cuddling was a better idea than sleeping.

I love every night when I walk into your room to make sure that you are covered and your smells are thick in the darkness. That is my favorite.

You are unique, hilarious, amazing individuals.

My life couldn't be more complete.

Love,

Yo Mama