You come home from the store to find your husband holding one baby at an arm’s length, headed for the changing table.
“We’ve got a poop here!” he exclaims.
He then goes on to tell you that in the short while you were gone, you missed a piano concert and an assault with a turtle. The details of the turtle assault are cut short by the realization that we’re not dealing with just any old poop. No, what we have is a POOPSPLOSION.
And because you know that your husband would much rather be watching the Packers game in the other room, you dive in willingly to clean up after the fallout. But you soon realize that there’s no way those tiny clothes are going to come off without smearing poo all over this baby’s smiley, not-so-little head (88th percentile). So you tell your husband to start the bath water. This diaper change is going to require more than a few wipes.
It’s a bit early for the bath/eat/bed routine so you take your chances, get both baths out of the way, and hope that the babes have at least 20-30 minutes of happy time left in them. But of course they do not. And meltdown immediately ensues. Dad does his best to get bedtime bottles prepared but he’s just not fast enough. Luckily you’ve (finally) had enough practice with this type of situation and you’ve got it handled before he can place the nipple on the first bottle.
One baby lying across your lap, nursing away the tears. The other, his head resting assuredly on his big brother’s lap, relieved that mom has not one, but two boobs. Before you know it, they are both fast asleep. Your heart soars. This is one of those moments you want to burn in your brain forever.
And in that very moment, you realize that it’s this.
This is the thing.
Of this one thing you are sure.
Completely, absolutely, one hundred million percent sure.
You’re sure that you were meant to be a mother. Their mother.
If you are sure of no other thing in this entire, uncertain universe, it’s this thing of which you are sure.
In fact, this is the thing of which you are surer than sure.