These babies are no longer infants. Seven and a half months old. I see them now, their round, happy faces. Squealing with delight at being tickled, at recognizing Mommy or Daddy, at having their hands and cheeks kissed. Sticking their feet in the air and grabbing their toes, rolling over to grab a toy, sitting up, talking excitedly, banging their spoons on the highchair tray, devouring spoonfuls of food. Apple cheeked. Beautiful.
This morning D walked into the living room, we had just put the babies down for a nap. “I keep remembering [M] in the isolette,” he said.
I knew what he meant. I also keep having flashbacks to when they were in the NICU. “She was breathing so fast,” he said. I remember. Her tiny chest heaving under the blue light, tube in her nose, eyes covered, a bit of foam at the mouth, crying soundlessly.
“I can’t believe that was her.”
“She’s so happy now.”