Pumpkin Soup and Scones

Maybe it was because I didn’t have their cribs next to me during those initial days.  Or the fact that when first born, I only had them on my chest for a brief moment before they were placed in humidicribs, to be whisked away to the nursery.  Perhaps it was the fact that the first two weeks of their lives, they were under the care of midwives and doctors helping them get stronger and bigger in the nursery instead of being at home with us.

With an offbeat start , for perhaps the first six months –  being a mum to twins – was surreal.

Despite being positioned and locked in the famous rugby hold for their breast feeds (in the end, it was almost like riding a bike…almost) I would often have to pause.  I would look down at that blue breastfeeding pillow and confirm that yes, indeed there were two helpless little faces staring back at me.

Even during these moments of obvious reality, I would turn to Hubby and in a daze would say, “You know, it still doesn’t feel like their my children.  I still think I’m just baby-sitting.  Waiting for the real parents to come and pick them up.”

And for those first six months it was all about keeping two little beings fed.  Keeping them warm.  Making sure they didn’t get sick.

The days of routine and fulfilling basic parental duties blurred into each other.

Hence, the need to start this blog.

I would wonder when the Groundhog Days would be over.  Yet, while busily pondering, the shift seems to have already happened.

Somewhere along the journey, the lift in change carried us through what was mundane and into days of bubbly interaction, lively jibber-jabber conversations and involuntarily sweet butterfly kisses.

Arriving into this new season of pumpkin soup and scones, we have also indeed nestled further into family life – filled with colour, variety and a different, even more delightful joy.

Last Saturday, the twinlets turned 16 months.  It had completely slipped my mind.

I laughed remembering my distorted thoughts of who the twinlets belonged – or didn’t – belong to.

I’ve stopped pinching myself.

It’s definite.  It’s real.

No one’s coming to pick them up.

No one’s relieving me from baby-sitting obligations.

Because yup, they are mine.

Both mine.