By Sarah Hauser
@sarah.j.hauser

I can tell they’re nervous. My son, Elijah, says as much, and my daughter, Isabel, sits quietly in the car. She’s almost never quiet, her silence a sure sign of apprehension. We pull into the parking lot and climb out of the minivan, my twins donning new backpacks, lunchboxes and masks. As we walk down the sidewalk, their nervousness spills over with a few tears and a thousand questions. 

What if we don’t know where to go? 
When do we eat lunch? 
Where will you pick us up?
What if we forget something? 

I answer each question and reassure them the teachers will help. No one expects them to know everything on the first day of first grade—especially after being homeschooled for kindergarten thanks to a global pandemic. Everything is new, exciting, scary. We reach the door of the school, and Elijah describes himself as “nerv-cited.”

I stand near the school entrance, next to the flagpole where I promise to meet them at 3:30 p.m., and watch them walk hand in hand through the doors. My gut hurts seeing them go, but they’re ready. After the last year and a half of chaos at home, I’m ready too. But there’s still trepidation, fear, uncertainty in my heart, and I ask myself some of their same questions: Will they know where to go? Will they eat all their lunch? Will they remember where I’ll pick them up? What if they forget something?

So many veteran parents said it would go fast; on the sleepless nights and scream-filled days, I didn’t agree. But now, I watch these two walk together into the looming red brick building, and it looks like it's swallowing my babies whole.

***

“There’s the baby,” the doctor told me as she pointed to the sonogram. I laid on my back, the paper crinkling underneath me. My husband, Colson, sat in the corner of the room, feeling quite “nerv-cited.” 

“And there’s the other one.” 

WHAT?

I wish I could adequately describe what went through my head at that moment. I think I laughed, the unexpectedness of two babie—two babies!?—catching me off guard. At the same time, from the time I found out I was pregnant at five weeks until I had my first appointment at eight weeks, I prayed for twins—a prayer I wrote in my journal but never revealed to my husband until over a year later. Why I prayed for twins, I don’t know; I just did. 

But I didn’t really expect God to answer.

I looked over at Colson, the blood draining from his face, his eyes wide. He almost looked like he was going to pass out right there in the ultrasound room. Good thing he had been sitting down already. 

My OB went on to point out there were two amniotic sacs and two placentas to support the two babies. That would make this an easier, lower risk pregnancy. They didn't have to share access to nutrients quite as much and could have their own little rooms in my belly. There would be plenty of time for them to learn to share, anyway. 

I cannot remember anything else the doctor said that day. We walked to the car, dazed by the news, and me still laughing in disbelief at the fact that God answered my prayer.

Colson called his office and told them he’d be taking the rest of the day off. We drove to a nearby takeout place, a homemade pretzel shop, trying to process the news of two babies, two cribs, two carseats, two times the diapers, two everything. And then we proceeded to drown our shock in oversized, chicken and cheese stuffed pretzels. 

***

“What if we put that old mini-fridge in our bedroom? Then we won’t have to go downstairs for formula in the middle of the night?” I ask Colson. We’ve been home from the hospital for a week, and the feeding process is … exhausting. We try to brainstorm every possible way we can cut down on the feeding time, because more feeding means less sleep.

Colson digs the mini-fridge out from the basement and hauls it up two flights of stairs to our bedroom. The shelves formerly filled with Diet Coke and copious amounts of overly caffeinated beverages now get lined with tiny formula bottles. The hospital sent us home with these precious samples that keep our five-pound babies satiated longer than I can manage on my own.

Each night when the babies cry, Colson changes Baby Number One and brings that baby to me while the other one (very impatiently) waits. I attempt (unsuccessfully for weeks) to nurse. Then I bottlefeed any expressed breast milk we have on hand while he changes Baby Number Two. Then I pass Number One over to him like an assembly line, and he supplements with formula, burps, and swaddles that child while I nurse and then feed expressed milk to Number Two. He puts Number One back in the twin-sized bassinet, and I hand over Number Two to him to get a little formula. Then, I pump with the hospital-grade breast vacuum that’s supposed to help keep up my milk supply. I glance at the time on my phone, exhale with relief, and do a mental victory lap the night we get this routine down to less than 90 minutes.

Little by little, my milk supply increases and the twins get better at nursing—although tandem nursing never works for me. Too often, Isabel finishes first and spits up all over Elijah’s head. I give that method up quickly. But eventually, 90 minutes turns into 60. We stop needing to supplement with formula. I don’t have to pump all the time. And we start sleeping for longer stretches. 

But these early days—and wearisome nights—don’t “go so fast!” as so many people told us they would. They drag on, painfully, and I long to reach the next milestone: the one-year-mark, the day they’re potty-trained, the moment they can buckle themselves in their carseats, the first day of school. I want to enjoy the season we’re in, but I’m tired. This season wrings me dry, and I ache for a time when life doesn’t squeeze quite so much out of me.

***

We’re a month into the school year, and they don’t need me to drop them off at the door anymore. Nerve-cited feelings have settled down, and now every morning is simply a mix of ordinary and chaos as we try to get out the door on time. But I still watch them walk in the school building together, these twins who used to spit up on each other, who fight often, who play together constantly, who somehow grew up so fast even though the days felt endless for years. 

“I love you. Be brave. Be kind,” I say, as they hop out of the car and wave goodbye. There are no tears, no clinging, no hesitations now.  

The first year with two newborns felt like an eternity. It was one long, arduous marathon I’m glad to have run once but would prefer to never do again. I watch my twins walk inside, gripping their lunchboxes and wearing backpacks almost as big as they are. And I feel my own tears brewing, surprising me with their appearance on a regular Tuesday morning. 

I drive away and the passing of time hits me more today than it did even that first week of the school year, certainly more than it did when I held two five-pound babies. I suppose there’s truth to what’s been said. Life, motherhood, parenting... it all really does go fast.

Words and photo by Sarah Hauser. Join Sarah in her upcoming Advent series, “The Weary World Rejoices,” beginning November 28.