We went to the mall last night and of course stopped to see Santa. There was a family ahead of us with newborn triplets! They were the smallest babies ever! The girl looked to be about 6lbs and the boys were much smaller than her. They were all dressed up in Christmas clothes, looking like porcelain dolls. As I watched the Mom (and the useless/helpless/confused Dad) I got butterflies in my stomach. I remember those days so vividly, that watching them made me feel more anxious than nostalgic. Each baby took its turn crying, as their mother bundled and packed them in the car seats. She was like a robot, going from baby to baby taking care of each one before moving on to the next. The Dad stood there looking flustered; holding a diaper bag, Mom’s purse, a blanket over each shoulder, a pacifier and his wallet. I recognized “The Look” in the mother’s eyes. She was in the zone… her happy place, if you will. It’s the only way to survive those first days/weeks/months of new multiples; when time stands still, yet races by at the same time. She wasn’t frantic or hurried. She just kept doing what she was doing, without looking up, and without distraction. 

When she was done, she glanced at me and then the girls and asked if they were twins. I said yes, and she replied “So you know how this is.”, gesturing to the caravan of strollers; hers and mine. I gave her a sympathetic giggle and nodded, then told her that it won’t always be this tough. She smiled and walked away, looking slightly comforted. I didn’t have the heart that to tell her that it would get worse before it gets better, then it would be great; but then it would get so hard that she’d long for the days of back-to-back feedings, sleepless nights and endless diapers. She’ll learn that on her own.

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