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.