You're Having Twins!
The Bottom Line
Courage is not afraid to weep, and she is not afraid to pray, even when she is not sure who she is praying to.
—(Makataimeshekiakiak) Black Hawk
At some point during a long night with our newborn twin boys, Jack and Henry, I sat on the floor—in the same pajamas I had been wearing for four days—and thought to myself, “It would be really nice if twins came with an operations manual!”
While I was pregnant with the boys, I read some books that beautifully detailed the medical aspects of a twin pregnancy and others that laid out basic logistics for the all-important and hectic first year. Unfortunately, I could not find a book that addressed how to survive the first year with multiples in a girlfriend-to-girlfriend manner.
I wasn’t looking for someone to sugarcoat the experience. I was happy to read a book written by someone honest enough to proclaim, “Raising twins is hard!” Most of the books on the market communicate that very well. What frustrated me—after being reminded (again) that the experience would be hard—was waiting for the author to say, “But here’s how to make it easier (and laugh while you’re doing it).” I waited...and waited...and waited.
And then I waited some more.
I longed for a humorous book that told it like it is and also gave strategies for getting through the “how it is.” I hungered for an author daring enough to write, “It’s true that you’ll hear over and over again not to microwave formula, but it’s okay if you do—provided you follow some basic rules and do some safety checks.” However, after searching and searching, I realized that such a book did not exist. At that point I decided that I'd write it—just as soon as I came out from under the piles of diapers, bottles and laundry.
The first year with twins is crazy, humbling, amazing, frustrating, confusing and miraculous, and it goes by all too quickly. What initially does not seem survivable will make you laugh hysterically years later when you reminisce. I occasionally bump into a new mom of twins, and I can’t help but say, “Congratulations! You have such an amazing adventure ahead.” Some of these women smile and say, “Thanks!” Some look at me like I’m crazy (I’m sure their response is caused by pain medication, extreme exhaustion or extreme hunger—I can't imagine it's because they think I'm a complete wackadoo). Some say, with great trepidation, “Really? I sure hope so!”
Mothering a set of twins is an indescribable experience. It’s already miraculous to be a mom. To bring two children into the world simultaneously, raise them as their unique selves and watch them grow and develop into the people they are meant to be is simply astonishing. It’s a hard road, but nothing worthwhile is ever easy, right?
Expectant moms of twins are too often told (frequently by people with absolutely zero experience) how hard the journey is going to be. I think that’s terribly sad. Of course it will be hard—some days, getting to the dry cleaners before they close is hard! The difference is, this experience will be the most rewarding kind of hard you’ll ever face.
The secret to your success lies in your perspective and attitude. Of course, there will be days when you will think, “Screw attitude and perspective; this sucks!” But those days will be few and far between. You will get past them, I promise!
I meet mothers of twins left and right these days. I swear, they're everywhere. Even if you've never before seen a set of twins in your town, the moment you discover that you're expecting them they will suddenly seem to be all over the place. Many of the moms I meet have older twins (meaning, they're able to dress themselves, put their own dishes in the sink and find it fun to retrieve the mail for you each afternoon), and they comment that raising twins gets more fun every year. Only about one percent of all the women I’ve met say something stupid like, “Oh, it only gets harder as they get older.” I’ve never understood those women. Even if that were their perspective, what benefit does it provide either of us to communicate it? So if you run into that lovely lady, just smile and keep walking. Or, start bawling and wail, "I'm not going to make it!" and wait for someone nearby to come to your rescue.
One wise mom I met perfectly summed up the "how" of it when she said, “People without twins make such a big deal out of how you do it. You just do it! You have a sense of humor about it as often as possible. And you take it a day (sometimes an hour) at a time.”
Some people will comment that God never gives you more than you can handle, and you will respond, “Yes, but unfortunately, I think He’s confused me with someone else.” Then, the baby you’ve been praying would sleep for at least six minutes will sleep for an hour and you will get on your knees and be thankful and probably fall asleep there for an hour yourself!
A finely tuned sense of humor is critical. If you don’t have one, get one—fast. After all, few situations in life are true catastrophes, even though they may initially feel like they are. When you smile at or laugh at a situation, it passes almost instantly. When you cry or yell, it sticks around much longer. Yes, occasionally you’ll start laughing and then stop mid-way through and stoically profess, “Okay, but seriously, we have got to figure this out,” or not laugh at all and, instead, yell, “We need to fix this right now!” But if you try the former approach as often as possible, it will help tremendously. As writer Kurt Vonnegut once said, “Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.”
David, father of twin sons Jonathon and Jake, remembers, “At one point, our boys were having a particularly bad night. My wife and I were in the middle of changing the fourth diaper in one hour, plus two sets of sheets—and it was 3:00 a.m. My wife said, ‘At least it cannot get any worse!’ We got back in bed, and our two-year-old daughter promptly walked into our room proclaiming she did not feel well. Within ten seconds, she vomited all over the four loads of freshly washed and folded laundry. All we could do was laugh. The alternative was simply too depressing!”
Start this moment to realign your expectations. I recently heard that it takes approximately 196 hours per week to raise triplets. What’s the problem with that? There are only 168 hours in a week! If you divide the 196 hours by three, and thereby presume that the tasks associated with each baby require approximately sixty-five hours, it could be reasonably estimated that raising twins takes approximately 130 hours per week. I’m certain that the third baby does not, in and of himself, take up the whole of those additional 66 hours. Therefore, I’ve concluded that raising twins takes somewhere between 130 and 196 hours per week. That’s a lot of hours. Clearly, a few lifestyle modifications are in order.
If you are a person who needs your house to be spotless day-in and day-out, invent a twelve-step program that breaks your need for a completely clean dwelling all the time (unless you have a full-time housekeeper). I remember an evening when David arrived home from work. I was sweating, unshowered, hungry and unable to find Jack’s pajamas that I had just set out. Poor guy mentioned something about a major sale on speakers he’d waited years to buy. My retort was simple and straightforward. Through clenched teeth, I said, “Money does not grow on trees and neither do housekeepers. Look at this place! Now give me some help!” I think I actually scared him because he didn’t waste any time. He went straight for the vacuum cleaner. Whether it was my appearance or my demeanor that frightened him into action, I’m not entirely sure.
Accept that you will not dine on a gourmet meal every night unless you can afford a personal chef. In fact, there are still many nights when I find a bowl of cereal absolutely delicious and, as I mention later, I continue to rely on the power of a good multi-vitamin.
Accept that your holiday cards may not go out until March—or learn to love the idea of simply Facebooking your holiday wishes to everyone! (Facebooking is an official verb at this point, isn't it?) As David frequently commented, “There aren’t enough hours in the day or adults in this house!” If you allow it, you will have seven-mile-long to-do lists—and that’s okay, provided you train yourself to prioritize three or four to-dos in a week instead of in a day, as might have been your practice in the past. Accept that, in most cases, having uncompleted to-dos at the end of the day is not the end of the world. Most parents of twins marvel at how flexible they become. As innately organized and efficient human beings, they never would have imagined they’d choose to spend an evening watching a movie before they cleaned the dirty dishes. Or that, pulling out of their driveway to go meet Santa Claus, they’d switch gears—literally—because one of the babies’ diapers exploded all over her brand new Christmas outfit (the white one). For most parents, this shift in mentality is as much of a blessing as the arrival of their children. They have a newfound awareness of the truly important things in life versus the merely peripheral details.
If you weren’t organized before, I guarantee you will be soon. If you were organized before, you’re going to “kick it up a notch,” as renowned chef Emeril Lagasse would say.
I was unexpectedly admitted to the hospital in pre-term labor when I was 32 weeks pregnant, and I came home for only 24 hours before I went into unstoppable labor and delivered Jack and Henry at 35 weeks and two days. The boys were in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) for sixteen days before we were able to bring them home. What the boys’ little vacation in the NICU gave us was the extremely welcomed opportunity to get things as ready as time permitted. But to be perfectly honest, the best way to organize is simply to live it and see what works for you. It won’t be more than fifteen hours before you’ll have some high-priority challenges that need solutions. Fast. And you’ll come up with them just as quickly as does every other mother of multiples.
Remember, you would not have been blessed with multiples if someone didn’t have complete and utter confidence that you were up to the challenge.
Have empowering mantras at-the-ready. One of my favorites is "Breathe. Smile. Love."
Breathing always helps. One, you need oxygen to live through the challenging moment. Two, deep breathing lowers your blood pressure and helps you calm down. One breathing exercise I recently learned is, take a deep breath, and on the exhale quietly say, “Ahhhh.” Say it almost as a whisper. For some reason, this exercise provides a subtle release of frustration, which is helpful during moments of extreme stress.
A smile—even if forced—dulls the most agitated psyche. It sounds insane, but in your most harried moment—whether dealing with crying babies or a stranger who captures that parking spot you’ve waited on for five minutes—a simple smile relaxes you.
As for the Love portion of the mantra, true peace comes down to our ability to love in all circumstances. I will admit that I simply cannot love the idiots who steal my parking spaces, but I can accept that it's important to love myself in those moments. It's helpful to choose an approach that prevents me from losing precious moments being angry with someone who is not directing an ounce of positive energy in my direction.
I had the good fortune of meeting seven amazing women through a Marvelous Multiples® birthing class at our local hospital a few months before our babies were born. We hit it off as though we’d known each other in a prior life. Together, we went through pregnancy, bed rest, hospitalization and, finally, parenting. The hospital staff still marvels at our group, often referring to it as the Multiples Sorority because we bonded so quickly.
There was a point when four or five members of our group were in the hospital on large amounts of drugs to stop pre-term labor (I still have a visceral reaction to the term "Mag," short for Magnesium Sulfate). After sending our husbands to the snack room to make us yet another Sprite and cranberry juice concoction, we wondered where these fine men were when they didn’t return after twenty or thirty minutes. Turned out, they were talking football or basketball or dilation in the hall together. They got along as well as we did. That support was possibly provided for each of us early on because a higher power didn’t think any of us would make it without the others. Have faith that the universe will provide what (or whom) you need to make it through this journey.
Barb was one of the first friends I made through the class. I received a voice mail from her the day after our third class.
“Hi, Liz? This is Barb. From the multiples class,” she began. “I know you don’t know me very well, but I’m getting conflicting information from my OB group—our OB group, I think we go to the same one—on the whole bed rest concept. I thought I’d see what messages you’re getting. If you have a moment, would you call me back?”
I returned her call straight away. The next hour was right out of a sitcom.
“I know I’m two weeks further along than you are, but are they saying you’re going to be put on bed rest?” she asked.
“No. No one has said anything to me about bed rest,” I replied. “What is the rationale for putting you on bed rest?”
“Yeah, there doesn’t seem to be one,” she replied, clearly miffed. “That’s the real problem. Oh, and every time I waddle into their office and see a different doctor, I get different direction on whether I’m going to be put on bed rest, not to mention what bed rest really means. Do you think I should just lie down for the rest of this pregnancy? Because I don’t like to lie down. I’d rather go running.”
The running comment threw me. I don’t run unless one of my kids is headed into oncoming traffic. And, given that I had a very active soon-to-be two-year-old, the idea of being forced to lie down sounded great. Barb wasn’t nearly as excited about the prospect.
We discussed her possibly impending lifestyle change and its potential ramifications (no running, nothing good on TV between 1:00 and 4:00—Netflix and Hulu didn't yet exist; no, I don't know how we did it either—limited food-delivery options, etc.) in more depth than any two people should discuss anything so seemingly insignificant, especially given that we weren’t sure it was even going to happen. We researched independently, reconvened via phone to share the findings of our research and pretty much became each other’s ongoing secondary medical consultant.
From that phone conversation on, ever so slowly, our lives began imitating each other’s. Barb did get put on bed rest—finally all doctors in the practice agreed that it was non- negotiable; the next day I was put on bed rest. I sort of enjoyed it (my mother, who was thrust into the roles of full-time grandmother as well as mom and stand-in nurse to the couch-bound beached whale, probably didn’t enjoy it quite as much).
Barb’s major complaint was, “I drink so much water I have to pee every fifteen minutes, but I’m only supposed to get up once every hour or two. Which is worse, getting up every twenty minutes to pee or having my extra-full bladder either explode or cause even more contractions?” We spent two hours discussing that challenge because, honestly, what else were we going to do?
When I went into the hospital at 32 weeks in pre-term labor, I called Barb while the Magnesium Sulfate coursed through my system. I wanted to let her know that, should this happen to her, it wasn’t that bad. But, that phone call was placed only two boluses of Magnesium Sulfate into the evening. (A bolus is a large dose of medication given to jump start the desired effect; in this case, the doctors were trying to relax my uterus so that my contractions would stop. After the bolus is completed and your body is responding properly, the medication is infused much more slowly, thank God.) My body wasn’t real interested in responding to the first two boluses and, therefore, over the next thirty minutes or so, I required two more. After the final one, my opinion on the experience being “not that bad” had done a one-eighty, and I was nearly comatose. This was unfortunate because, two days later, Barb was right across the hall with her own Magnesium Sulfate drip—expecting it not to be horrible, per my earlier reassurance, but learning the hard way that I’d spoken too soon.
Four days later, Barb’s contractions became too frequent and she had to have more Magnesium Sulfate. Three hours later, so did I. By this point in our pregnancies, Barb and I had revisited our college days and once again become addicted to Days of Our Lives (we had to find something to watch between 1:00 and 4:00). The magnesium had rendered us nearly blind, and we were devastated when we couldn’t visually keep up with the story line. So we listened and chatted via phone during commercial breaks about how we thought the scenes might be playing out for those watching with the full spectrum of their senses intact.
To put it mildly, by the time Barb and I delivered our babies, I knew more about Barb than I did about people I’ve known for twenty years. We were notorious among the nursing staff for engaging in “unnecessary and unproductive” phone calls with one another at least once per day.
“Did you see the doctor yet? What did they tell you today?” she’d ask.
“You mean they came to see you?” I responded incredulously. “No one even came to see me today.” We had become quite dependent on our doctors’ visits as a not-to-be- missed event—an opportunity to get an update on when the babies were going to come out, when we were going to go home or both. It was preposterous.
At one point, I had an obstetrician tell me on a Monday that I was dilated to four centimeters. On Tuesday, a different obstetrician from the same practice informed me that I was dilated to only one centimeter. I realize that a measurement of dilation is somewhat subjective, and that doctors with big hands might declare you one centimeter dilated while one with teeny fingers might declare you two centimeters dilated. But there was positively no way, in my opinion, that this kind of differential was normal.
I dialed Room 512 to give Barb my morning report. Her response: “Yeah, you know, there are a lot of things I’d research or otherwise do to help you receive clarity on an issue,” she said supportively. “But this is one I ain’t touching—and I mean that in every way. But hey, it’s only twenty or so hours until whoever’s on call tomorrow might come see you. Then you can get a tie-breaker assessment!”
When I actually delivered my babies, I told the nursing staff they might as well set up the second delivery room while they were at it because I expected Barb to show up any minute.
One particularly challenging morning when our babies were three or four weeks old, I received a “just checking in” call from Barb. We could barely hear each other, as all heck was breaking loose in the background of my happy home. Jack and Henry were screaming, and I had no idea what was wrong; I had been feeding them around the clock.
“They are probably suffering from nothing more than extreme exhaustion,” I thought, but while I tried to convince them that falling asleep would be easier if they’d just stop screaming, they weren’t listening.
I sat on our loveseat; Jack balanced on one knee and Henry on the other. I was trying to bottle-feed them simultaneously while waiting for one of them to do a back flip off of my knee or sit straight up and ask—in clear English—how on earth I, their mother, could not figure out how to make them happy!
“I’ll tell you what,” Barb said. “My mother-in-law is here. Why don’t I come over and give you a hand.”
“What?” I answered incredulously. “No. You have two babies of your own over there. I’ll be fine—I think.”
Too tired to argue, she replied, “Well, call me back if you pass the point of no return. I’ll come right over.”
I thanked her, hung up and returned to my attempt to comfort the babies.
Fifteen minutes later, I heard a tap on the front door. “Oh, this ought to be good,” I thought. “I cannot get up, I have not showered in days and there is intense screaming going on in here.” Then I saw Barb looking in through the front door sidelights. I could not believe it. I managed to get up and open the door, and she said simply, “I knew you wouldn’t call.”
She entered the foyer, looked around and asked, “What exactly is the problem here?” Of course, the moment Barb walked in the door, both boys stopped crying. The only thing that saved me from being seen as a drama queen in need of major attention was the fact that she’d already heard the decibel level of their screaming. Barb stayed for about thirty minutes (the boys made nary a peep during her stay), walked out the front door and the screaming began again. Still clueless, I prepared two more bottles, thanked the gods of true friendship, said a silent prayer to the gods of calm and quiet and plugged the bottles into their wide-open mouths.
In the early weeks, David’s and my families helped a lot, but they all lived hundreds of miles away and couldn’t take up permanent residence with us. I’ve purchased books about getting through challenging times, only to find out on page 12 that the survivor had two nannies, a plethora of family members living nearby and a bottomless bank account. None of those luxuries applied to us.
Our neighbors kindly brought dinner four nights in a row, and I truly believe the only thing that kept several of my out-of-state friends from coming to help was their responsibility to their own children. We were on our own. It didn’t make sense to waste time thinking or talking about how easy it might be if we had parents living a block away, or a live-in nanny or a plan to clone ourselves. Our reality was our reality, and we had to find a way to make it work within the boundaries that applied to us.
Enter this adventure with your eyes wide open. Remember, you will have good days and not-so-good days. Respect and reflect often upon your blessings. Many mothers of multiples were not completely shocked to see more than one heartbeat on ultrasound (my friend, Mollie, who conceived fraternal twins while on birth control, being an exception).
Mollie and I met in the Marvelous Multiples class; for whatever reason, we didn’t get the opportunity to chat much during or after class. My friendship with Mollie began on Day 15 of my three-week-long hospital stay for pre-term labor.
After two weeks of being confined to bed, I was permitted a short wheelchair ride around the Labor and Delivery Unit. Our friends, Paul and Holly, had two-week-old triplets, and they asked us to visit them in the NICU. On the way, the nurse paused in each of my incarcerated “sorority” sisters’ doorways. Mollie’s room was the last stop.
I looked in and saw Mollie sitting up in bed, staring out into space. Her husband, Gary, was sitting in a chair nearby, fixated on a televised football game. Mollie didn’t realize I was there, and I cautiously said, “Um, hi there!” I wasn’t sure at what stage in the labor-stopping process she was, and I knew that if she was at the point I was a week earlier, she might respond with a curt, “Hi. Get out.”
But she didn’t.
She looked over and with an ear-to-ear smile so bright it was like the sun had just come out, said, “Hi! Ohmigod, how are you doing this?”
“How am I doing what?” I asked.
“How are you convincing them to let you out of bed?” she asked, but still with a smile that made me feel confident she didn’t hate me for being out of bed. She genuinely wanted to know how to get them to let her out of bed.
It didn’t take long for me to learn that Mollie is all about collecting information: What’s the healthiest food to eat while pregnant with twins? What’s the safest position to sleep in while pregnant with twins? I know you can’t feed honey to babies under one year old, but can a pregnant woman eat a graham cracker if it has honey baked into it? And how do you get out of bed while hospitalized with twins (provided there’s absolutely no chance that getting out of bed will cause any harm, or even mild disruption, to the babies)?
When she found out that she was pregnant, Mollie was terrified to tell Gary. They were not yet planning to start a family, and she was concerned about his reaction. Once she told him, he was thrilled, and they vowed they’d make it work. And then, when she was twelve weeks pregnant, she started having mild cramps. The doctor had her come to the office first thing the following morning.
The nurse wasn’t able to find a heartbeat, but she wasn’t terribly concerned because a baby’s heartbeat is sometimes not heard until just after twelve weeks. To mollify her concerns, they did an in-office ultrasound.
“Okay, this baby looks just great,” said the doctor. “Here’s the heartbeat, here’s the placenta. Looks great.” Mollie and Gary were as relieved as any expectant parents would be after receiving such positive news.
“Your uterus looks normal,” comforted the doctor. “Should I be alarmed by what I felt last night?”
“Well, let’s talk about that in a minute,” said the doctor. “I think what’s happening is, you’re growing very quickly, and you’re feeling your ligaments stretching.
“And here’s the reason you’re growing quickly: there’s another one!” exclaimed the doctor.
“Another what?” asked Mollie with trepidation. “Another baby.”
Because the mood in the room had been pretty light to that point, Mollie actually thought he was joking.
“Doctor, this really isn’t the time to joke,” reprimanded Mollie.
“I’m quite serious,” said the doctor.
“Um, okay, how do you know that’s my uterus?” asked Mollie. Not being familiar with the way an ultrasound machine works, Mollie thought that perhaps the doctor had inadvertently pulled up the ultrasound of a woman who’d been scanned the day before.
“Because I’ve done this before,” reassured the doctor, with an emerging grin. “I’m trained. I went to medical school for a few years.” He then showed Mollie and Gary each baby’s distinct sac.
Gary grabbed Mollie’s hand, and Mollie honestly thought he was going to fall over backward. It took Mollie and Gary a while to acclimate to this newfound reality (in fact, Mollie claims she’s still acclimating).
With the exception of Mollie, many of us resorted to whatever methods were necessary to become pregnant. We didn’t find ourselves in the doctor’s office saying, “Now, I’m really hoping this procedure works, Doctor, but just so you know, I’m only willing to carry 2.8 children at once.” There’s not a lot of time to wonder how you are going to do it. As that wise mother said, you just do it. You remind yourself that the challenging times will be infrequent compared with the joys, triumphs and miracles you experience as a mother of twins.
In your darkest, most sleep-deprived moments, remember, it could be worse. In fact, “It could be worse” should be one of the sanity-saving mantras you store in your proverbial back pocket. Think of it this way: during those moments when you are dealing with two unhappy campers, there are parents dealing with newborn quadruplets, quintuplets or sextuplets.
I got perspective the night I watched a documentary on the Denny quintuplets in California. The parents already had two young children when the quints were born, and not long thereafter the husband lost his job and, with it, his health insurance. Nevertheless, while admitting to great stress and concern over meeting daily needs, the parents commented that, at the end of very long days, having seven healthy, happy children was all that mattered. They talked about their amazing children with such joy—even when they didn’t know how the next month would play out—that it was truly inspiring.
Shortly after I watched the documentary on the Denny family, David saw a story on the evening news about a family who had two singletons and then triplets, all with the assistance of infertility medication/procedures. Then they had natural quadruplets. The real kicker: they lived in a one- bedroom apartment. If those families can do it, I would argue that anyone can.
Whether a new mom or dad dramatically changes her or his role during weekday business hours, welcoming children into a household creates a fundamental shift in its operation. To raise our kids full-time, I chose to give up a career in corporate America. I gave up many of the friendships that came with the job but were clearly rooted in our corporate roles. I gave up variety in my life (outside of the variety that occurs each day in my home-turned-zoo), the ability to travel on a moment’s notice and the practice of eating three solid meals per day—consisting of more than Rice Krispies or Nutri-Grain bars. Although no one else seems to realize it (or care), I believe I am now far more capable of controlling corporate chaos than some of the world’s most esteemed business leaders. After all, if you have multiples, you can multi-task with much greater skill than the best of them.
The truth: I have never been happier in my life. I have experienced tough hours and tough days. But the rewards are so much greater than anything I ever imagined. My days are crazy and my nights are way too short, but my life has more meaning than ever.
As Jenna, a mom of twin boys I connected with through e-mail, stated beautifully, “Parenting twins is not for the faint of heart. But we’ll take it all: the good (the most beautiful smiles and laughs from your babies you can imagine), the bad (Want a laugh? Try arguing with your husband while hooked up to a breast pump) and the ugly (I swear, some of the poops are of Biblical proportions!).”
One day, when Jack and Henry were thirteen-months-old and Grace was three, we were in the process of moving to a new house. Jack was scaling the newly unprotected fireplace of our old house; Henry was screaming because Jack was doing something “bad”; Grace was running around pretending to paint the dirty walls with at least one hundred Swiffer cloths; and some unsuspecting potential buyers were coming through the front door amidst the chaos (we hadn’t yet sold our old house when we were forced to close on our new one).
At this moment, the “what” of what makes it all work dawned on me. It’s three things (in no particular order): perspective, a sense of humor and faith. I’ve already discussed perspective and a sense of humor. Regarding necessity number three, you must have faith in yourself, your spouse, your partner, your friends, your family, the universe, God, some other higher power, chocolate—whatever makes you feel confident and capable (I believe the power of chocolate is highly underrated).
You simply must have faith that you are meant to be these babies’ mother; that you will make it through each day; that everything happens for a reason and that it’s all just one big test you’re going to pass with flying colors. Not every day, mind you, but at the end of the race, you will cross the finish line still standing.
The “multiples” sorority sisters and I have been living this whirlwind together for quite a while now. We’ve all had our up and down moments. We’ve all faced challenges, and we’ve all found solutions. I hope with all my heart that at least one of the many solutions we’ve utilized—possibly invented on-the-fly—will benefit you. I wish you supportive friends and family, restful nights and late-starting mornings. And, of course, a cupboard full of chocolate.
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*This content is an excerpt from Holy Sh*t...I'm Having Twins! The Definitive Guide to Remaining Calm When You're Twice as Freaked Out. Copyright 2017 Elizabeth Lyons. All rights reserved. Express permission required from the author to repost in whole or in part.