Twinapalooza

Yesterday was Memorial Day. On many fronts. Most of you are Zuckerberged to me through the magic of The Social Network and so were party to my minute-by-minute account of the twins' arrival. Unlike Dillon and Reese, there was an actual labor. And though with Reese, we rushed to the hospital to avoid the Snowpocalypse, we had plenty of time before she arrived.

But yesterday, Eva's water broke around 2 p.m., and we found ourselves once again racing for the hospital. And we made it just as they were putting in the epidural. We'd barely arrived before Baby A was crowning - and subsequently born with one gentle push. And four-and-a-half minutes later, Baby B emerged feet-first.

Elyssa Anne arrived calmly, delicately, small-ly. Under six pounds, her features are doll-like. Her hands tiny with miniature fingers. Her feet, however, are long and thin and capped with monkey toes. Ethan Carter worked himself around into breech position, requiring the doctor to pull him out feet first and squalling for all he was worth. And while his sister basked peacefully under the heat lamp, he wailed himself fully red as a beet.

When Reese was born, I felt awe at the miracle of life, delivered in an instant into the room and the world. With Elyssa and Ethan, I felt awe at the magnificence of Eva, a determined vessel that nourished 13 pounds of baby. She was in the hospital on Sunday after straining a ligament under her belly, and I started to worry that her dedication to keeping the twins until late in her term was going to tear her to pieces. Yesterday, with quiet strength and grit, she delivered two lives into this mad world. She lay spent on the bed, listening to the music of two cries, and I thought, "Wow, what a woman."

Dear Stupid Heart:

Why, when you know it's not in the best interest of either us, must you always fall in love with men who do not love you back? You and your cursed unrequited pursuits, borne on a wave of saltwater. I would think you'd learned your lesson after repeated smashings, so many pieces to knit together again. And I know that we always do that - find the way with the needle of time and the thread patience to determinedly put you back together.

But this time - these latest times - I wonder why we must always go through this routine of reckless abandon. Of throwing caution to the wind and exposing you to devastation yet again. Of allowing - nay, being willing - to sacrifice you to the great unknown of What Could Be. Those naive hopes are piling up into an altar to What Never Will Be.

Oh, Stupid Heart, to be here again with you is excruciating. Gathering the pieces, wondering if I have them all, wondering if this is the time that maybe, just maybe, parts of you will go missing all together. Will the brokenness be such that it's too much for us to patch? And even if the pieces are found and the mending complete, we both know you'll never work quite the same. These bruises and tears never heal perfectly. Instead, you'll be tattooed with new scars of our failures.

I know, I said our. I blame you, but it's my fault, too. That's why I'm here, kneeling beside you, carefully sewing, trying not to cry when I catch my finger on the needle.

Love (Oh, Misbegotten Love),
Ash