The other morning I dropped both kids at camp. My mom was home with the twins and I thought about just driving to Laguardia Airport and getting on a plane to Paris.
I could imagine reclining the seat and just sleeping for the seven hour flight. Once arriving, I would check into a hotel and rest some more. Then I would spend my afternoon wandering around Paris, eating chocolate croissants and drinking espresso.
Now there are several reasons why this scenario might not pan out for me, most obviously because I think you have to go to JFK to get a flight to Paris.
And of course, my four children.
Worried that perhaps this daydream signaled I was about to pull a Marie Osmond, I called my husband.
“I was just fantasizing about driving my car to the airport and escaping to Paris.”
“Were you alone on the plane? Or was I with you?”
“I was alone. How could you be with me? You’re at work.”
“Well, if you do this, I’d like to come with you.”
I didn’t expect this to be so hard. I mean I knew it would be hard to have newborn twins. Just not this hard.
Twins are much more challenging than one baby. Logistically, it’s difficult to take them anywhere. And wherever we are, they always want to be held at the same time. So I end up like this….
There is so much guilt. I don’t spend enough time with the twins. I don’t spend enough time with Dylan and Summer. The time I do spend is me running around like a crazy person. And I’m starting to think I have the parenting skills of Betty Draper.
I try to describe my life to others as one big never ending groundhog day but I’m so tired, I just always end up saying, “It’s like one long Greyhound day.” Those poor people walk away thinking, “What is a Greyhound day exactly?”
I want to be enjoying this more. I want to lie here and gaze into my babies’ eyes and I swear I will once I get Dylan’s lunch packed, the dishwasher unloaded, give Chase his reflux medicine which still isn’t working and on and on. And I want to enjoy a laid back afternoon with Dylan and Summer and I absolutely will as soon as I nurse the babies, change the babies, hold the babies, repeat, repeat, repeat.
There’s never enough time. There’s never enough of me. Yes, I have help. But there is still only one of me.
And at some point, we will turn a corner. And this phase will be over.
And I will look back and I’m sure I’ll miss it.