This is us right now. Our days our busy; sometimes chaotic, always loud. There are six of us in a small rented house we’ve made our home. We’re always on top of each other, limbs tangled in a pile on the floor. We talk over each other. We never agree on dinner.
You’re my third and fourth babies, you were born into this commotion. It’s all you’ve known. You are resilient. You thrive. You don’t get the same attention that a first baby does. Sometimes I can’t pick you up straight away, I can’t always hold you as long as I’d like. I hear your cry but have to finish patching up your sister’s skinned knee or wiping your older brother’s face.
Together you are comrades, built-in best friends. You bicker, in your own way, when there’s only one of a particular toy. You smile at each other in a way I suspect only twins would understand. There’s magic between you, we all feel it.
Our days are long, one leans into the next like siblings falling asleep on the couch. We can never quite trust our memories, did that happen yesterday or a week ago? Our brains are fogged. We get by.
We are not rich, but we’re okay. We have privilege. I will always do my best to make sure all my children are aware of their immense privilege, the responsibilities that come with it. I will teach you the best I can.
The work of a parent is never done, and it can feel daunting. An enormous job, a job I chose and will keep choosing every day. I am proud of the work, of my motherhood, this path I’m leading us down.
You are my third and fourth babies, likely my last. This is our life, our love, our journey. Our reprieve on the busiest of days, our calm amidst what can sometimes feel like a storm, are these moments in between. Whitley’s spilled milk on the sheets from a slack, sleeping jaw. August still in that lineal state between sleep and wakefulness, eyes half mast. Dream nursing.
Here’s where I’ll be, the happiest place I’ve been with all of my babies. I’ll remember these moments, their sweetness, the most.
By: Emily Bonia