In case you haven’t yet gotten the picture, life with Irish twins is darn near impossible, and it’s hard not to question my decision to travel this path. But then, it’s not entirely my fault that I ended up here, is it? I mean, how was I to know that I’d get pregnant after doing the pull and pray? I guess that’s what I get for being agnostic.

I’m kidding, of course. He never pulled out. We intentionally chose this fate.

In any event, my life these days is characterized by the type of mindless activity that leaves one wondering whether they underwent a c-section or a lobotomy. Mental stimulation is few and far between and comes only when I’m faced with the sort of existential questions like, “Why are there 2 yellow cups in the rainbow stacking deck?” It’s a real thought-provoker. Which is why it should surprise no one that I’ve decided to soon reenter the workforce — a decision that I had a shockingly difficult time broaching with my husband. How could I relay my feelings to him without seeming like a bad mom? How was I to explain that this privilege I had been afforded felt more like a jail sentence than a benefit, and that I was in desperate need of something more? I felt like I had to choose my words wisely. Should I tell him that I was feeling depressed? Deflated? Like a New England Patriots’ football? I wanted to speak his language.

Read More

When Blake was in the NICU, I desperately wanted her to come home. Life at the hospital was filled with worry and unease, and I was eager to develop a relationship with my baby and establish a routine with some semblance of normalcy. I promised the Gods above that I would embrace every newborn-period-inspired struggle if we could just make it out of the hospital alive. I wanted to change diapers. I wanted to wake up to feed in the middle of the night. I wanted to rock her gently whilst she cried for no apparent reason.

I wanted to huff glue, evidently, because that’s the only thing that would make any of the foregoing make sense.

Or maybe it was the painkillers that I was still enjoying in the wake of surgery; either way, I was clearly a few cards short of a deck.

Read More

If it’s possible for an age to be both the best and the worst simultaneously, this is it. There are some moments where I look at Brooke in complete and utter amazement at the gorgeous person she’s become. And then there are times where I want to hang her over a balcony in my best Michael Jackson impersonation — and not in a “I’m an adorable child molester” kind of way; in a “I kind of actually want to throw you” kind of way.

On the plus side, her communication skills are improving every day, and her love for both mom and dad is at an all-time high. She’s now doing this precious thing where she screams at the top of her lungs if I don’t hold her hand while driving the car. She knows how to make a woman feel loved (and deaf). So I contort my body in the most natural of ways and dislocate my own shoulder, so that I can reach behind me, extend up and over the back of her rear-facing car seat, and find the hand she’s flailing wildly above her head in search of my own. Of course, as I’m doing this the other day, a cop pulls up alongside me; so I gave him my best “I serve soup to the homeless” smile and slowly reeled my arm back in until it was resting at 10 and 2. No quick movements. Steady hand. After all, outside of the fact that said position is insanely uncomfortable, I have to imagine that it’s also incredibly dangerous. Plus, it’s my texting hand. I know, I know; don’t text and drive. Don’t be a clown, put your phone down. Send that text, your funeral is next. Browse the web, you’ll end up dead. And so on and so forth. Unfortunately, the only lesson I’ve learned from this little exercise in rhyming is that I have a tremendous future in marketing. But I digress.

Read More