“Please, babies, stay, stay…”
That’s what I wrote to you on Thursday, March 11, 2010. One scared and elated newly-pregnant mother.
Your dad and I had just learned the news that we were pregnant, and we were thick with emotions. We didn’t know we were having twins yet, and yet, we knew. (When I sat down at my laptop to write this very first of what would become many letters, I addressed it plural, “Dear Babies…,” so, I knew.)
Stay until our next blood test…
Stay until our first ultrasound…
Stay nine months throughout a healthy pregnancy so I can hold you and smell you and kiss your tiny pink heads a million times over, and then a million times again…
Stay, stay, stay…
…You guys are three years old now, and I want this age to last forever.
You are so sweet.
You are so innocent.
You are sunshine.
(I mean, look at this girl, tell me she is no fun at all!)
You’re into your “boy” stuff, Baby Boy, superheroes and what not, but you’re still into Mickey Mouse. You still let me kiss you in public, and right on the mouth (to you as an older boy reading this: sorry).
The other night, Baby Girl, you shot up out of bed so excited and asked “when it’s summer, I can wear dresses with no tights or pants?? I can I can?! OH BOY!”
And my heart swelled at the thought of that was what was racing through your mind on your tiny nighttime conveyor belt. Dresses without tights…dresses without tights…!!
And I had the thought, on my big, scary conveyor belt, I just want to put one of those big ol’ bell jars over you guys and keep you this way forever and ever…
I beg of you, please, babies, stay, stay…
Only this time, I know, it’s not going to happen.