We had a really hard night last night. What had been a fine day dissolved in a matter of seconds into one of those parenting moments you wonder how you're going to get through. Without giving a boring play-by-play of the succession of crying/feeding/crying/diapering/hysterical screaming/red-faced wailing, suffice to say that I barely survived a good hour of watching my babies work themselves into a frenzy. It was completely unendurable. I talked, sang, bounced, snuggled, tried tandem nursing, shushed, shouted to be heard, used a cool wash cloth on their hot faces, grabbed bottles, bouncy chairs and boppies before it was all said and done. When I say I barely survived, believe me: I found myself shaking, nauseous and tearful after it was all said and done.
After somehow managing to get us all through it uninjured (you try holding two hysterical babies without dropping them!), I lay the boys down in our bed and covered myself in my grandma's quilt to stare blankly at the wall and recover my wits. Maxwell was next to me, looking at me all the while with his big inky blue eyes. It took me a minute to feel his tiny hand brushing my arm beneath my blanket, and a minute more for me to realize it was deliberate: my little baby was seeking out my touch, or giving me his. This contact broke my heart and I began to weep as I held his hand in mine.
Despite it all, we are in this together, and despite it all, in that moment, I felt loved.