The last two weeks or so have been interesting. No sooner did I become comfortable with Baby Charleigh than my body decided it could get pregnant again. Don't misunderstand: I'm not pregnant again, but my body has recovered from its ordeal and is functioning, again, as though waiting to get pregnant. As is typical for me when my body resumes its normal pattern, my hair has begun falling out by the fistful. What is atypical for me is that I have been in the dumps day after day...even though nothing overly negative has happened, and despite my rational mind's knowing that I have everything in the world for which to be profoundly grateful.
The good news is that--while I am bluesy--I am really enjoying the babies. I enjoyed them even today, which involved an average amount of breastmilk but an excessive amount of poop and puke. At one point, Charleigh threw up so much that I had to bathe her and change her clothes, wash the bouncy-seat cover, and wipe up the kitchen floor. Still, she didn't seem particularly "sick" to me, and I decided that the babies and I should meet Jim for dinner.
On the drive to Short Pump, I heard a vomiting sound behind me. I assumed, initially, that Charleigh was making the noise but discovered upon glancing into the rear-view mirror that Clementine had just thrown up an unchewed orange slice, a fist-sized portion of Kraft macaroni and cheese, and half a peanut-butter sandwich. I pulled over into a bank parking lot, wiped her and her car seat off best I could, and changed her clothes. As I proceeded to the restaurant (wearing make-up but smelling like puke), I realized that--in a zombie-like state--I had changed three dirty diapers for Clementine earlier in the day, which involved way more poop than usual.
Dinner was nice enough, and the drive home was quiet. I felt a little bit cheerier than I had, earlier, and my mind turned with gratitude toward the conversations I'd had on this Thursday: with a friend gifted in pastoral care, a good friend from high school, a close friend from college, my mom, and my husband. I realized with a start that I'd talked with all these but not with God! I started praying aloud, and there was a point in my prayer at which I said something about being a light...after which little MeMe (whom I'd assumed was asleep) chimed in: "Light! Light! Light!"
And what more is there, really? Nothing is easy, nothing is perfect, and there were three more dirty diapers after the "point of light" in my evening. (Two belonged to Clementine, who required a bath and Pedialyte for what is obviously diarrhea.) Charleigh is even now, at 2:37 AM, cooing, making baby pig noises, and staring at me with big, bright eyes. But I love them--and my boy, who went to sleep under his dad's roof, tonight--with a love that overwhelms and shatters me. I would not trade places with anyone in this big, old world because the hormonally-wrecked person writing this is the only one who gets to be their mom. There are people who really love me and make time for me...even in my moodiness. And God is right here and awake with me at 2:48 AM, although Charleigh has finally drifted off to sleep.