How could you?

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How could you already be facing the seven-year mark, the milestone I dread and embrace in one breath?

How could you be the twin babies whose expectation and arrival shocked us, filled us with awe, thrilling your young parents’ hearts?

How could you be looking at me now with eyes of understanding, different from the eyes of helplessness I saw in your infantile need?

How could you be the tiny babies handed to me seven years ago, as I still can’t fully believe I’ve been so blessed to be your mother?

How could you be the two little babies who rested, cocooned in blankets, enveloped together in my arms?

How could you have been the ones with little heads so small that they fit loosely, softly in the palm of this hand?

How could you be the babies we brought home with nervousness, driving slowly through downtown, vehicle laden with dual infant seats?

How could you be the ones who would look up from your blankets, watching your older brother, unable to speak, yet taking in his every move as you grew?

How could you be the ones who as babies slept in one little crib, and while each night we placed you at separate ends, somehow every morning you were found side by side?

How could you be the babies who were actually easier and more content when together than apart?

How could you be the little twins whose pacifiers seemed so big, as if to engulf your face as you slept?

How could you be those little ones who stole our hearts, changed our days, and added a little extra spark to our already happy, busy life together?

How could you be what we hoped for, whose love we didn’t know we needed even as we waited for it?

How could the time be slipping away, too fast for your parents, who want so much for all 3 of you, our little family?

How can it be that these pictures can make me feel so happy and so unbelievably sad in the same moment?

How is it that tonight, when I opened the back door, ready to call you in, I saw two young children laying in the verdant spring grass, pointing up at the deepest blue of the sky? How can it be that those two young children are the little babies I remember? The quiet boy who loves to listen to the constant happy chatter of his twin sister. The energetic girl who thrives on the gentleness shown by her twin brother. How can it be?  I watch you reclining in the grass, weary from a happy day of outdoor activity.  Your shirts are dirty, your eyes are tired, and your hair is long past the point of neatness. I see a tiny spot of chocolate frosting on Nora’s lip, a remnant from your happy day. A sense of wonderment and emotion tightens my throat.  I take the camera , and lie down in the grass with you.  I ask you to just roll onto your stomach, so I can grab “just a couple really quickly, okay, kiddos?” And I don’t ask you to smile, or say cheese, or make a funny face.  I just say, “Look at me, ‘kay? There’s some good light for a picture, but it’s almost time to eat.”  And then you look at me. Really look at me. And I know that I got you. I know right then that the picture I’ve just taken is going to be a favorite, because I saw how you looked at me.  I know that I got it.  That quiet, loving part of each of you that I see every day, the look that tells me I’m your mom, that you’re mine to love.  That little piece of each of you I still recognize, still remember from those two little babies I held for the first time seven years ago. With thankful, bittersweet tears, I remember.

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