{ a photo entirely irrelevant to this post: my sweet pudgy Lucy in her first sink bath }
Here's what I've been thinking about lately:
I still have some guilt in the dusty corners of my heart. Guilt that's been there since Max and Maggie were born and that has lately been rearing its ugly head. Usually I only feel this guilt when I see pictures of babies in the NICU, their too-skinny baby bodies hooked up to monitors and wires and tubes. Even then I don't often recognize it for what it actually is; I only feel it as pain.
When our pediatrician suggested, at Max's 18-month well visit, that Max might need speech therapy, I felt that as pain at first also. I didn't understand why it hurt me; I have truthfully said several times since then {and I'll say it again!} that I'm not worried about Max. I'm not worried about his language skills or any kind of developmental delays. He's a happy, healthy, smart little boy and he makes me so proud and there is nothing about him that concerns me. {Okay, so I get a little concerned that he likes to walk around with his blankie over his head, but only because he always ends up running into something and hurting himself.} It was the phrase "this isn't uncommon for children who were born prematurely" that did it.
Because honestly, it boils down to the fact that I feel guilty that my twins were born seven weeks early. I feel guilty that they had to spend two weeks in the NICU. And oh, so much guilt that I couldn't be there with them every hour for their first two weeks of life. That I couldn't hold them close to me when they needed me so badly. That they were pricked with IVs in their hands and feet and foreheads, and I wasn't even there when it happened to experience the pain with them.
I feel guilty because I was 24 {and an immature 24} when I was pregnant with my twins. I didn't understand yet the responsibility that was being placed on me, and I didn't take seriously enough the care that I already owed my children. When my doctors started giving me physical restrictions to encourage a healthy pregnancy {no sex, no exercise, then bed rest, and eventually continued monitoring and hospitalization}, I stubbornly chafed against rules that I saw as unnecessary. I insisted that I was fine, and I figured my babes were fine. I thought they would be okay if they were born at 32 weeks, and I viewed early labor as being preferable to a four-week-long hospital stay.
I cringe when I remember those thoughts. How could I?
My attitude changed immediately when they were born. I saw them, my tiny four-pound babies, and suddenly my heart was in constant danger of breaking. I was overwhelmed by love, more love than I had ever felt in my life, but it was almost unbearable to see them struggling to survive and adapt. I was proud of my children for being so strong, but I was also so sorry; babies shouldn't have to be strong. I should have been strong for them.
If there's one thing I learned during the two weeks they stayed in the NICU, it's that my life wasn't about me anymore. It's a lesson that I've tried to remember for the past 21 months, those words that ran through my head again and again: it's not about you.
At this point, it's almost irrelevant whether Max's speech abilities are related to his premature birth. I can't blame all of the obstacles my twins will face in their lives on myself, and I can't go back and change what happened.
I'm not really sure how to end this post; I don't have a way to wrap everything up nicely or a message to take away. This post was more about working through my feelings than anything else. Thank you for reading, though, if you're still reading.
