By: Brandy Black
The twins are almost 8 months and suddenly life has changed. I wrote a blog a month ago about how having three isn’t as difficult as I had suspected. In honoring the promise I made to myself when I began writing intimately about my life, I vowed that I would always be as honest as I could; I must admit the recent discovery of a new truth. It’s hard, it’s gotten really hard. This weekend has been the most challenging yet. The twins are both moving quickly, not quite crawling but scooching around, inevitably one goes one way the other the opposite. My 4-year-old is so over watching out for the twins, as she’s been doing it for months now that she can no longer be held responsible. The babies are eating which I thought would be the highlight of our meals but in fact is exhausting. When I feed the twins, I don’t eat and my daughter makes a request for milk, butter, whatever, every couple minutes so by the time it’s all over I’m still hungry and ready to go to sleep. The stress level is so high over here that Susan and I have begun fighting about measurement of formula and the state of our blender. It’s insane. I woke this morning ready to go to the Dodgers/Cubs game, I’ve been craving baseball all summer, but when I played the three-hour excursion out in my head, it was depressing. I’m tired of our double stroller that I can’t turn worth shit when I go into my new favorite little breakfast place. I can’t stand the “you’ve certainly got your hands full” comment and am afraid I might actually hit someone next time they say anything to me. I don’t want your help! Yet, I totally want your help! I feel insane and my usually sane wife has lost her cool too.
I did yoga today (thank you Susan for making me go), but the entire time I was focused on whether S. was having fun in the “playroom” by herself since there were no kids there when I checked her in. I didn’t go in the much-needed jacuzzi because she seemed lonely in that little room on her own. My escape is blaring “Call me maybe” in my car and feeling like I’m 20 again. That lasts a couple minutes and then my mind wanders off to how we are going to afford three kids. I’m so intimidated by the notion of it all that I sometimes can’t breathe.
We got invited to a BBQ this weekend and had every intention of going but when Susan had one set of plans and I another, I couldn’t stomach bringing three kids to an afternoon party. “Hi everybody, hope you don’t mind the three-ring-circus I’ve brought along with me, do you wanna hold a kid while I kick back a shot of tequila?”
This is my state, it’s not pretty. When I asked parents of three what to expect, I wanted the dirty, gritty details. I have a demented way of playing out the worst so that when it actually happens it’s not so bad but they kept telling me I’d get through it and some days would be harder than others. Well here I am, here to tell you that I’ve hit my wall. I’m at the 20 mile mark counting to the finish line, the only problem is, where the fuck is the finish line? I remember literally saying that to Susan through blurry eyes when we ran the marathon, it felt endless running in slow motion, feet feeling pulled down by tar, eyes glazed and mind so numb I could only listen to her words talking me through each step. Well ladies and gentlemen, I’ve hit my wall and so I put my head down and pray that we all make it through intact.