The Need to Feed

So there are a million entries between the place-holder announcing the birth of our girls and this one. There is the birth story, detailing Ursula's heroic, picture-perfect behavior and Cedric's easy compliance. That same story tells of how, with Dr. R calling the shots, I felt the comfort of being an enlisted man under the command of an expert general; I asked no questions, followed orders, and played my part in the victory in the O.R. that early morn.

Next comes the story of the time in the hospital, the exhausted, exhilarated time with nurses and doctors and lactation consultants and pediatricians flowing in and out of the room that held all we needed in the Universe. The feel of child on breast for the first time and the sharp learning curve of diapering and feeding and soothing. Of family arriving at 4 in the morning to meet their newest kin at the earliest possible hour. Of being awake for 48 hours straight and feeling like you could go that way forever if that was what it took. Of Facebook congratulations and flowers, and hospital meals and Grammy's supplemental picnics and two new parents who were still getting used to the idea that questions addressed to "Mom" and "Dad" now were posed to them.

And the story of leaving the hospital, of a new Mom who imaginedn illness in order to try not to get birthed into the real world quite so soon. Of the slow, careful car ride home, the savored moment of crossing the homestead threshold, babes in arms this time. The small, quiet moment of triumph: two babes in two car seats and two awed, silenced parents. And the hilarity of the hour that followed, when all hell broke loose as the babes woke up and demanded feeding and changing all at once, and the phone rang and the doorbell rang, like some predictable sit-com episode. And how there was nothing to do but laugh and laugh as the chaos descended and settled in for a long comfy stay.

So many stories in the days that followed, of learning that, despite the strongest wills the world, humans cannot function on only 1 hour of sleep at a time. The designing of schedules for ourselves that we used to laugh at in other families. Of learning to nap at the drop of a hat and wake at the drop of a hat. Of diaper changes and outfit changes and appetite changes. Fights, scathingly with each other, futilely with the girls, unkindly with poor Grammy, who dropped everything in her world to temporarily come take care of us and our household while we learned how to take care of our children.

Stories of doctor's appointments for the girls, of weight lost and plans to regain it, and more weight lost and new adjusted plans, of blocked tear ducts and anti-biotics and eye massage, and mittened hands to prevent scratching. Of our first stroller ride in the park, which lasted 10 minutes, and healing grown-up bodies and growing brand new bodies. And amongst all the sleeplessness and worry, uproarious laughter at a facial expression or a well-timed toot, delight and heart-melt at the sight of two babes sleeping by our bed, the locking of eyes and the smelling of scents and the birth and bonding of a family.

Which takes us to now, and the relentless unending nursing. Which I don't have time to write about, because now the monitor on the mantle is squeaking and glowing blue, and the need to feed is once again upon us.