I feel like I’m in this new club, this club of mothers and moms and variations thereof.  Co-workers have sent me “Happy Mother’s Day” emails and cute little pictures and cartoons or whatever and I actually find myself remotely more patient with those irritating “FW:FW:FW” forwarded type messages.  Remotely.  

Save the obvious of two kiddles reminding me that I’m officially in da club of mommyhood, is my Mom Boobs.  The first Mom Boobs I ever noticed (clothed, of course), besides my own mother’s, were those of Mrs. San Martin, my third grade math teacher.  They were saggy and droopy looking and me and my classmates would giggle and call her Mrs. Baggy Boobs.  Mrs. McKenzie had them, too, but her fire engine lipstick was more distracting.  Well, that, and the fact that she had once put a kid up against the wall by his neck.  That was the rumor anyway.  And before our culture of litigation. But I digress.  So I have Mom Boobs.  But outside the confines of my home, they’ll be in a sling of well supported bra-ness.  Good reason to go shopping.  If I ever get to do that again.  My sister warned me about how they would deflate from any residual perkiness of my twenties.  With a dark tan, I’d fit right in on a National Geographic special of sub-saharan tribes.  

For now, my full-time job is feeding babies, preparing bottles, changing diapers, burping, soothing, holding and loving, and in those rare moments where both are sleeping at the same time, I go to the bathroom, remember to drink or eat something, pay a bill, or take the dogs out to pee.  It’s hard work but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  The Beloved and I were talking about it the other night, about how NOTHING prepares you for the work of newborns.  Not people telling you what to expect.  Not reading about it.   Nothing.  I mean, you can KNOW what it’ll take, and we did, but nothing prepares you for the – for lack of a better word – the “toll” it takes on your stamina.  Not even those books that purport to be “what they didn’t tell you about pregnancy/newborns”.  You know how I know this?  Because there were no chapters on the BIG things.  So when I write my own book about this stuff, I’ll be sure to include a chapter on Sleep-Training The Parents: Enter Navy SEALs Hell-Week…For Several Months, another on Wear Crushed Onions Around Your Neck To Get Your Tear Ducts Prepped For The Crying You’ll Do, another on Run Your Nipples Through A Cross-Cut Paper Shredder For Breastfeeding Twins Practice, another on The Overnight Transition of Your Home: How Your Dining Table Will Become A Baby Changing Station, and another on If You Don’t Already Have A Sense Of Humor To Maintain, Buy One.  And, of course, one on Mom Boobs, with before and after illustrations.  Yep, it’s tough work, but I’m blessed to get to do it.

Speaking of hard work.  That would define the fabric of my own mother, starting with raising three kids who were completely different in personality and activity and have since grown to love one another immensely.  My Mom was an ANGEL the first two-and-a-half weeks of the RJBs lives.  She was there for their birth, and stayed with us, taking the night shifts with the babies BY. HER. SELF. so that the Beloved and I could sleep. She cooked and she cleaned and she hugged us and wiped away my tears when I had to let go of the idea of breastfeeding, she watched the kids alone so the Beloved and I could get something to eat, she took our phone calls, she held the babies and fed them and changed their diapers.  And because of all this, I just know she’s left an imprint on them of tender love that they’ll have etched into their own fabrics forever.  

It was hard to see her go.  Probably not unlike how she might have felt when I left the nest some sixteen years ago.  Or wait, maybe she was thrilled.  Anyway, I guess even in these three and a half weeks that we’ve had the RJBs, I look at them and the feelings I have for them and the way I want to care for them, I can’t help but have a whole new appreciation for all that my Mom did and DOES for me – for my two siblings and our family – and my heart just swells with a newfound Love I’ve discovered just underneath the surface of parenthood.  So thanks, Mom, and Happy Mother’s Day.  

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