I hear this often. When I tell someone I have twin newborns, I get sympathetic, earnest looks and encouragement: “It gets easier.” I believe this must be true, that it will get easier, at some time, some point in the future.
Wait, no I don’t.
I was told it gets easier when the babies get to be three months old. Well, that was a couple weeks ago, and I’m still waiting for the “easier” to start. Our guys were born a little premature. So when we brought them home, all they really did was eat, sleep and fart out mustard-colored poo. They were just mushy-faced little dudes in those first few weeks.
Dave and I high-fived each other, because it was pretty easy. Sure, we had to get up and feed them every three hours. But all they did was eat and go back to sleep. Easy! I heard people say it gets easier, and I wondered how hard it was for other people. Because it wasn’t that hard for us in the beginning.
But now. But now. Now, they are “waking up.” They are no longer little mushy faced premature dudes. Now they are bright eyed and starting to smile. They no longer want to sleep all day. They want to stay up and be cute. And are they cute? Holy shit, yes they are.
Now they watch me enter the room, and smile, which melts my heart. I feed them, and they want to hang out after. I cuddle them and they bob their heads and look around. They want to chat and coo and tell me stories. It’s wonderful.
However. If I put them down, they fuss. If I’m holding one guy, the other invariable needs something. They are adorable, but now they actually need me. They aren’t just little blobby dudes anymore. They want to be entertained.
Yes, I realize this is parenthood. But it’s not really getting easier. It’s getting harder. Right now, in the moment I am writing this, it is mid afternoon, and I have not showered. I have been alternating rocking one boy or the other in adjacent rockers. Sometimes, they scream at the same time, which is fun for me and the neighbors. I have to sing song to the guys and try to explain that I can only take care of one or the other at a time. But they don’t give a shit. They are completely unreasonable. They have moments where they scream until their heads turn into little red tomatoes and I wonder if there is such a thing as babies popping blood vessels in their tiny little brains.
Don’t get me wrong. These babies are ah-door-able. I love them even when they scream like little psychos. I love them even when my back is turned and I hear one of them let off a tremendous, liquid poo. And I turn around and they both look guilty. Changing twin diapers is like a shit shell game. You have guess who’s cooking the beans.
You know what I’d like? I’d like to read a book. I’d like to eat breakfast before 10 am. I’d like to shower, maybe. I’m such a goddamned whiner.
Okay. It gets easier. I’m waiting. I’m waiting over here in my own unshowered stink cloud.