Last week the twins turned a year old. There have been huge changes this year: M and E’s birth and our move from New York to Pittsburgh being the biggest, plus all the smaller changes that those precipitated.
I can remember so clearly when we first brought them home from the hospital, looking down at their little sleeping bodies swaddled in the crib under the window. Their tiny, perfect faces, the hats they wore though it wasn’t cold. I remember that feeling, sleep-deprived, vibrating with nervous energy and wonder. My mom had come for the summer to help, and I remember those hot days we spent camped out with the babies in the bedroom, the one air conditioned room of the house, talking. I remember buying preemie size diapers at Target.
Still, so many things about those first few months are a blur. How many days until the NICU nurses let me hold them? How long did I keep pumping breast milk so that we could offer them a bottle first and then breastfeed after, until they got the hang of it? Until we were confident they were growing. And did we really feed them every three hours, getting only three non-consecutive hours of sleep per night, and for how long? No wonder those months are a blur.
Now suddenly they are a year old and two tiny individuals: eating cupcakes, waving and saying hi, taking little baby steps with help, climbing the stairs, getting the giggles. It’s hard to believe they’ve only been part of my life for a year. They have accomplished so much, and I am so incredibly proud.