Happy Mothers’ Day to All Our Modern-Day Harriets (That’s All of You:))

A proud mama. One who doesn’t need a La Croix but rather a coffee infusion.

I haven’t spoken in public since my son disappeared from supper at Disney World.  Then, I was calling his name across a couple hundred people enjoying a meal of their own.  That was six years ago and I was pretty nervous.  (Fortunately, our separation from our son at the Happiest Place on Earth was brief; he had taken himself to the bathroom and knew where he was the entire time….)

I had the honor of speaking at one engagement in a series called Durango Diaries sponsored by our local newspaper.  The topic was Mothers’ Day and speakers chosen to share their stories about their experiences…funny, sad, worst…being a mother or about their own mothers.  I chose to share a lighter tale, from when my twins were babies.  Here it is:

It wasn’t the Ozzie-and-Harriet moment I wanted it to be. It was supposed to be idyllic, but with a modern twist: instead of me in heels and flowered apron, cradling a martini, it would be me in Lululemon yoga pants sipping a lemon La Croix. Call it a delusion with a capital “D”. I was a brand-new mother of twins and clearly the sleep deprivation had flogged my brain into having hallucinations. Mommy-chic yoga pants six weeks post-partum? Not a chance. A hip, fizzy beverage? I was so exhausted I couldn’t figure out how to pay for diapers at the local Target much less track down La Croix, or at least a decent knockoff, at the local grocery store and pay for it. Needless to say, I was out-of-touch with reality.

But happily so. My husband and I had two beautiful little boys. Yes, it was initiation by firestorm into the world of wipe warmers, onesies and two babies going from 0-to-60 crying in no time flat.  But all this chaos was a miracle for a couple who thought they couldn’t have children of their own. I was exhausted. I had no time for myself. I had no idea what I was doing. I couldn’t figure out if this cry a hungry one or a wet-and-dirty one.  I couldn’t get the babies to nap at the same time.  And I was tearing my hair out trying to get Baby B to burp ALREADY!  (Of course, he can burp on command now, so that problem resolved itself.)  But none of that mattered because I was still a contemporary, one-for-the-new-century Harriet.

Prefers sleeping to burping.

Now, my husband and I were lucky to have had six weeks of help after our boys were born, so that first day of caring for twins solo during the day was pretty scary. But given my sleep-deprived baby bliss, I honestly thought that evening I could pull off an idyllic scene for my husband to come home to. I had it all planned out: the boys would have full tummies and when my husband walked through the door, the three of us would be content and giggly, playing on a carefully laid, clean blanket in our living room. Lovely, no?

Totally wrong, yes.

That first day actually went well, no hiccups (not even from the babies). We ate, we slept, we played. My confidence was building and rising above the swirl of postpartum hormones and I felt like Super Mom. Of course I’m a natural. Of course I can pull this off. My husband will come home and see that I totally have this.  I patted myself on the back for my precision-timing: I fed the boys just bit early so that when Daddy walked through the door, the boys would be burped, diapered and cooing happily at the jingly, crinkly toys I held before their baby blue eyes.

Well, the feeding went well.  And Baby B finally burped! Perhaps Karma was on my side? Then came Baby A’s turn. As I’m swaying and patting his back, his tummy gurgled a little. Then a lot. Then up came his entire dinner, splattering us both, the couch, perhaps even the dog, for all the force behind the volume of stomach contents. It looked like Jackson Pollack had had a temper tantrum in our living room.  Baby A began shrieking.  His brother, likely thinking huh, that’s a great idea! began doing the same. Somehow I got Baby B into his baby seat, noticing he needed THAT kind of diaper change. He bellowed.

But his sick-tummied brother, not to have his thunder stolen, outdid him and bellowed even louder.  I took Baby A into the nursery and peeled off his milk-soaked sleeper. And I’m wondering:  How had things gone so terribly wrong?  A beautiful day can turn on a dime? Six weeks into motherhood, I had my first lesson in parenting.  No matter the best-laid plans, there would be twists and turns and ups and downs on this journey.  It’s the greatest challenge in the hardest job we’ll ever love.  But at that moment I wasn’t ready to be schooled and just started crying.  It was then I heard the front door close.  My husband was home.  

I can only imagine his confusion. I’m not sure what he thought but he is sitting in the audience so feel free to ask him tonight. He arrived home not to domestic bliss but to a domestic apocalypse. Rivaling stenches competing for attention, outdone only by the heart-stopping cries of not one, but two 6-week-old infants. And providing the exhausted, third-part dissonant harmony was a crushed, would-be-modern-day Harriet.

Thank you.

Happy Mothers’ Day!

Wow, you can cry really loud!!!!