Five years ago, when I first became a mother, I found myself in awe.
Without trying to sound too cheesy, it truly was a miracle. I had waddled around for the better part of nine months, carrying a baby,who would squirm about, kicking my ribs at the most inconvenient times, or send me running to the bathroom repeatedly throughout the night. It was a miracle alright, but that isn’t what this story is about.
Everyone has heard a new parent anecdote at some point or another. We all know someone, who knows someone who has just entered their new role as a mother/maid/servant/on-call nurse.We also know people who have become new parents to twins. My story lends its hand to a different experience, that of the Irish twins.
The term ‘Irish twins’ describes two siblings which are born 12 or less months apart. Ok, so my pair have just missed the cut off by a month, but that title just wasn’t as interesting.
Becoming a new mum was hard, there were a lot of inconsistencies between what I had imagined and the reality of the situation. I spent my entire pregnancy watching video blogs about having a baby. I longed to be the mum who cooked homemade baby food, packed with nutrients or caressed my sweet angel to sleep in a luxurious feeding chair.
Instead, I bulk bought Heinz jars in every flavor and ruined my mattress by bouncing on the edge for hours on end just to send ‘said angel’ off to sleep. Months passed, the baby began to grow and at four months old, his slightly delusional mother was beginning to bounce back and get a handle on this whole baby sleeps, she-sips-coffee-in-the-shower thing.
At the time my husband and I were also running a café. Ok, he was running the café and I came downstairs for a free coffee every few hours. I entered the kitchen, excited for another meal I didn’t have to prepare myself and slipped straight off the stairs, fracturing my ankle. Sh*t! What have I done? I screamed in agony, until the ambulance came offering me a hit of morphine till I was right as rain.