When you first heard that you were having twins you were ecstatic. The thought of 2 babies was overwhelming and amazing.  After losing 3 babies to miscarriage you could not have asked for more…except sleep. Be warned in those first oh… 6 months, you WILL.NOT.SLEEP. Just get used to it now. Just as soon as you settle down each night and think “ahhh finally sleep” a baby WILL start crying. You feed, burp, change, rock, and lay down again. Then guess what?? Another baby will start crying! There will be many a night that you will want to cry with the babies, and you just might. But, it is ok… it does not last forever. It does get better…eventually. It may seem like forever though.  Of course if you breastfeed this is harder. What? Didn’t think you could breastfeed twins? Well you can. And it is not easy!  And if you use a breast pump you just might want to throw it out the window after a few months.

You should know that breastfed newborns really sleep only 2 hours at a time. That is not enough time for Mommy to get a nice deep sleep.  However it is just enough time to tease Mommy with sleep and drive her crazy.

My advice to you is when one baby wakes for feeding, wake up the other as well. At least that is what the experts say. The truth is that you will try your best to feed that one baby as fast as possible and then lay down again yourself. It is a vicious, vicious cycle. You may just fall asleep while feeding a baby.

What others say is true – you need to nap when the babies nap… that is if you can get them both to nap at the same time. Some of the best naps will be had during the day on the couch, when you think you are watching the news. Or sitting up in a recliner, rocking chair, or wherever else you might rest your head.

You will wonder just how many dang diapers two itty bitty little babies can go through. You will wonder how a 6 pound baby can cry so hard. You will wonder if you will EVER get a full night’s sleep. Yes, they are super cute, but it is hard work!

If others offer help TAKE IT! If they want to come bring food, say OK! If they offer to come and rock a baby, let them! Every little nap that you can sneak in at any time is awesome, even while friends visit.

Just remember, it does get better and it is worth it in the end.

Kris Cain is a Chicago area mom to 2 sets of twins who balances her busy life blogging about technology at LittleTechGirl.com. She stays sane by running a social media business, a photography business, doing web design and more.

You are not an assembly-line worker. You are a mother.

Though you may swear you can hear the echoes of rhythmic machines, chug-chugging, whir-whirring and clank-clanking as you work through a routine of feeding, rocking, soothing, diapering, laundering, washing, retrieving and so on, and you wait with baited breath for the sound of the work-day whistle, something you long for but never hear – you are not an assembly-line worker.

You are a mother.

As the mother of premature triplets, you will find there is little gratification in the early months of parenting. Newborn snuggles are like no other, but the impending doom of another round of laundry, another diaper change, another load of dishes – it will all seem to stare at you from respective corners of the house, warning you of how you’ll never catch the tail you constantly chase.

Those tiny moments of gratification will give joyous moments of relief and purpose, and they keep you moving forward.

The constant care, the constant work, the constant changing of puked-on shirts (both yours and your baby’s) – these are not constants in the life of an assembly-line grunt. They are the rookie hazing you and your child face together in your new lives with one another.

What they say is true – the days are long, and the weeks are short. The never-ending list of tasks is daunting, and you may face your child, someone who seems more like the dictator ruling your every breath, and say, “GIVE ME A BREAK, KID,” and they will.

Without expecting it, that whistle marking the day’s end will blow, and that tiny dictator will intentionally turn toward you, dressed in cozy pajamas and decked out in sleepy eyes and yawns. He or she will seek your arms and rest a tired head on your shoulder. You’re the person to whom they’ve trusted their every need, which you’ve obligingly fulfilled. They have been watching, learning and remembering the love and care with which you’ve worked.

Without realizing it, your unending work will slip into the background of the day, pushed from your attention by giggles and squeals. It won’t be check marks on a to-do list that steer you through a day, it will be hugs and kisses, games and laughter.

You’ll no longer question what on earth you signed up for.

You are not an assembly-line worker. You are a mother.

- Jenny

Jenny is a stay-at-home mother of triplets. Once a journalist, Jenny now writes in between loads of laundry and games of Chase The Babies. You can find more of her writing at What the Blog?

You’re not going to be ready. Your whole life you’ve been ahead of the game, planned your life out carefully. But you can’t plan for this. You can’t plan for preeclampsia. For a disease that could kill you if the baby doesn’t come, but the baby’s still not supposed to be here for five more weeks. Your crib hasn’t even arrived yet. You have work you thought you were going to get done. “Things” you were supposed to do still.

You won’t think rationally. You tell the doctors you’d rather risk yourself and let the baby incubate longer. They’ll calm you down by making you think there’s a chance you could go home and be on bed rest if everything goes well. What they don’t tell you is that the baby’s not going to grow anymore.  The preeclampsia hasn’t just weakened your organs, it has stolen your child’s nutrition. You will not leave the hospital pregnant.

The pitocin drip will start to induce labor.  You’ll be given magnesium sulfate for the preeclampsia. It will make your tongue feel thick and you won’t be able to talk or think right. You’ll have to keep reminding yourself that you are a successful career woman and it’s the medicine making you feel this way. You did not just drop into a mental rabbit hole.

And then will come the only humorous moment in this whole episode — the epidural.  While it’s no longer the scariest part of the delivery, you listen intently when the doctor tells you not to move because he’s inserting a giant needle into your spine. You do as you’re told. You hold perfectly still. Even when you get sick.

And puke all over your husband.  Even he will laugh though, because what else can you do? You’ll feel marginally bad about ruining his new shoes though.

With everything in place and more monitors running than are used to launch a space shuttle, you will labor through the night.  Fortunately, you’re totally out of it and the epidural blocks the pain.  You will never feel a single contraction.  Which is why it won’t come as a surprise to you when you wake up in the morning and are told it’s not working. Your cervix will not dilate.  You will have to deliver by cesarean.

Five weeks before your due date, you’ll be wheeled into an operating room to have your tiny baby forcibly removed from your stomach.  Like I told you in the beginning, you’re not going to be ready.

You won’t be ready for the tilting operating table that dumps you backward so the new epidural will run up your spine faster.  You won’t be ready to see your less than five pound baby be born. Or your husband nearly pass out when he accidentally catches a glimpse of your splayed open stomach.

And at the end of several days — the exact number of which you’ll eventually forget because the medicine makes things a blur — you won’t be ready to leave your baby behind in the NICU.  You won’t be ready to walk around Target, shopping for baby supplies, knowing your child is still in the hospital.

But you know what? You’ll get through it.  Because that baby will be “small but scrappy.”  She’s a fighter and you’ll be bringing her home before you know it.  Of course, you won’t be ready for any of that either.

You won’t be ready to wake up when the alarm goes off at 3 in morning. But she’s a preemie and she MUST eat every three hours, come hell or high water.

You won’t be ready to become obsessive about baby poo.  Has she gone today?  Is it enough? Too much? The right color. Should we give her some more Karo syrup in her formula? No one warned you about that.

And you won’t be ready for how much you love that baby girl. Because you’re a new mom and you won’t know how much love your heart can hold until you hold that child in your arms.

So expect the unexpected and have the good sense to let things happen and know you’re in good hands. You won’t be able to change how your baby is born, but you can control how you react to it.

Jessie is a wife, mother of two and an appellate attorney.  Her young adult mythology novel, DESTINED, debuted Nov. 17th. You can find her on her personal blog or website. She’s also on twitter, facebook, and goodreads.

This isn’t exactly what you thought it was going to be, huh? When you imagined, at age seven, that you would grow up and have a little boy named Ethan, you had no idea the emotional rollercoaster it would put your body and brain on. People told you that having a kid changes everything, but you really didn’t know what that meant until now that you’re in the thick of it, and now that there’s no turning back, you aren’t sure you like it so much. The same baby you shopped for, and talked to in utero, and spent hours sitting in his soon-to-be-room dreaming about, is here now, and the whole idea of him actually scares you to freaking death. All you can think about is what you’ve lost, not what you’ve gained: your freedom, your sleep, your figure, your hair, the list goes on. Instead of gushing over this beautiful new little being with ten perfect fingers and toes, all you want to do is curl in a ball at the sound of his cry because you can’t imagine how either of you are ever going to survive this.

Guess what?

All this is normal. And believe it or not, it will pass.

It’s called post-partum depression, and you have it in spades. It doesn’t make you a horrible person. The fact that you can want this little person so badly, only to feel like the most selfish person in the world for wanting some semblance of your old life back once he arrives is actually incredibly common. It doesn’t mean you don’t actually love him, or want him, or that you’ll be the poster child for the Joan Crawford School of Parenting. It means you’re being forced to grow up, to acknowledge how selfish you are, and to learn that sometimes you really do need to put other people first.

Don’t be too proud to admit there’s something going on you don’t quite understand, and accept help. Everyone around you is more than willing to lend a hand, and seize every opportunity you can to do things outside the house with friends or family, including the baby, to prove to yourself that you CAN have your life back, just in a 2.0 version.

Though it’s impossible to believe, the day will come where it will just suddenly click. It will come at the most bizarre time of all – when someone else is holding him, and he cries, and something inside you churns and reacts and knows that he needs you, and you need him. Suddenly, you realize that this helpless little being looks to you to nurture and love, to soothe and comfort in a way no one else can. You will be transformed, as if by magic, to a tigress, willing to protect him from anything and anyone.

There will come a moment where you look back on the first three weeks of his life and are mystified how this incredible little man who fills your heart with so much love and joy it physically hurts could ever make you go fetal, and you will, more than once, replete with fingers in ears and tears streaming down face (yours, not his) and you will feel guilty for all that you denied him, and yourself, in the newness of the experience. But forgive yourself, and accept that that too is part of the experience. It’s just not the one you had planned.

Perhaps it’s because you planned to have a regular delivery, and ended up with an emergency C-section after 11 hours of labor. As a result, they never laid him in your arms after he was taken from you because you were orbiting the planets on painkillers, and never got to hold him until nearly two full hours later. All those books stressed the importance of that immediate bonding in the moments after birth, and you were denied it. You might feel like you failed somehow. You didn’t. These things happen. And just like we can prepare for the death of a loved one, and when it happens we learn that you truly can’t prepare for such things because there are so many other layers to it, so it is with birth. There are so many super-charged emotions that no one else can tell you about, that are all your own. It’s an awesome responsibility to bring a life into this world and help mold and shape him/her into a great human being. How can you really do this when you’re still trying to figure all that stuff out for yourself?

You can.

I know you’re not real big on change, and this is a pretty big one. I know it seems like the end of the world, your world, and in some ways it is, but it’s also the beginning of something new – the best chapter of your life so far. This little being will grow up into a phenomenal young man, and much of that will be owed to the love and devotion and support you show him in these early years. Just as you’ll help him grow, he’ll help you grow too. So, try not to be so scared of him. You’re not going to break him.

And FYI? He really doesn’t need so many clothes, no matter how cute they are. He jumps a size every month. Just sayin’….

Hang in there. It’s totally worth it. Besides, you need to save your strength (and your sanity) for when he’s a teenager!

XO

The Seasoned Future You Mom

Robin Reul is a contemporary young adult author who lives in Southern California with her husband and two incredibly amazing kids. Though being a Mom scared her to death the first go-around, she quickly learned it may have been one of the best things she’s ever done in her life, and liked it so much she had another one. You can follow her writing blog at http://robinreul.blogspot.com or on Twitter @Robinreul.

Wrong.

Rewind…

Two young sons, ages four and one, wait with their grandparents, while your husband rushes you to the hospital to deliver your third son. Baby number three is born on that crisp November day. And to your utter astonishment, you deliver a happy, healthy baby girl, not another boy.

Elation drips over you, melting like warm butterscotch, oozing in and out your pours. There is nothing you wouldn’t agree to in that moment of Heaven, even a procedure, ending the possibility of future pregnancies. With two beautiful sons and now a baby girl, it would be selfish to ask for more, wouldn’t it?

Fast forward…

Life moves onward, but you don’t.

Can’t.

Something is missing. A piece of you—that piece which God put there connecting you to the miracle of creation and which one of your close friends doesn’t have. You’ve seen her tears over her infertility. You took your gift for granted and simply threw it away.

Guilt replaces what should be a joyous time. Regret. You can’t sleep, torn. But you have all you can handle, raising three children under the age of five. You seek solutions through friends and the passing of time. There is no comfort. So you do the only thing you can think of to find peace.

After months of testing for both you and your hubby, and countless ways to raise money, you undergo a Tubal Ligation Reversal. Not so much to have another child, but to be open to the possibility, the natural cause of events. The procedure is far more risky than most people think.

You survive. Eight weeks to recover. It’s hard and long. Most people who know you think you’re insane for doing this. But you have your peace. And another surprise. Two short weeks later, you become pregnant with baby number four.

Only there are problems: Placenta Previa, Pre-eclampsia, and bleeding. Too much of it. The doctor says ‘miscarriage.’ OMGosh!! Miscarried???

The word won’t enter your brain. Or your heart. You’ve had three healthy pregnancies. You did this. You had the surgery. How could this happen?

You go to the office for an ultrasound. You lay back on the table. The gel is cold against your belly, still bloated with the appearance of life. The doctor rolls the scope over your skin. Your eyes glaze over. You stop breathing. Mournful tears trickle from the covers of your eyes.

The doctor stares at the monitor. His eyes widen, lips separating. You want to slam your palms against your ears, not ready to hear the truth.

“All be damned. The baby is right here,” the doctor says as he turns the monitor towards you.

There, in all glory, is your tadpole-looking blob on the ultrasound. Your baby. You didn’t miscarry. The doctor shows you a strange tear inside your placenta, which apparently healed on its own. Unexplainable, the doctor thinks out loud.

The following months are excruciating. Bed rest. Bloating. Cramps and constant fear the bleeding will start again.

On an eerie night of an eclipse, your water will break. Over two weeks early. You’ll be passing blood. You’ll be terrified. You will crawl back into bed, telling your hubby you’re not going.

You won’t breathe, your only thought: I can’t lose this baby.

The labor will be quick and strong. Your mother will be there, telling you you’re doing a good job. But you’ll know something is wrong.  She won’t listen, neither does the nurse. Until your contractions stop.

The baby will be posterior, face up and stuck and struggling. On hands and knees, you’ll move to free the baby from your pelvis. You’ll be exhausted but determined. It will work, only the baby will be coming. Right now. Something will still feel wrong.

Your hubby will hold your hands as you bare down to push. Your mother will wipe your forehead with a cool towel. The nurse will step out of the way as the doctor arrives. A moment later your new bundle of joy will be lying prostrate in the doctor’s palm.

He won’t move. Or breathe. His coloring will be gray.

The doctor will be still. You’ll beg to know why your baby is not crying. The look on your mother’s face will be horrifying. The grip from your hubby’s embrace will disappear.

“We have a true knot baby,” the doctor will say, his face downcast.

You’ll have no idea what this means, other than your baby is not making any noise. “What?” you’ll hear yourself ask, but it doesn’t sound you.

The cord will be cut. The baby still won’t move. Mumbling will rumple the doctor’s lips, as he gently rubs the baby’s newly-born chest. You’ll scream. Your mother will weep. The doctor will grow frantic. Then, another surprise.

The baby’s chest will warm to a soft pink color, deepening and shooting to his limbs. He will fill with a vibrant glow. And finally, cries.

The doctor will stare at you. “Your baby tied a knot in his umbilical cord, cutting off the oxygen and sustenance you supplied. True knot babies are usually stillborn. I believe we just witnessed a miracle.”

Your emotions will un the gamut from joyous to fear to awe. But the one thing you will be certain of, you have one heck of a little fighter in your life, now.

You will wrap your miracle in your arms. You will be changed forever.