Motherhood.

With mother's day this past week, I've spent a lot of time reminiscing on the day that changed my life.

Go ahead, say it.

I've been remembering the aches and pains, the fatigue, of the final weeks. But far more vivid is the joy, the excitement. The gift. The gift I am wholly undeserving of.

I was blessed with an easy pregnancy. Complication free, steady weight gain, comfortable. For having all that with twins, I was thankful. And I loved every part of it.

Around week 34, no matter how busy life was, each day, I swear, became 72 hours long. Each week, 12 days. I remember thinking I could keep waiting up to 40 weeks if I weren't so enormous. (We googled images of Octomom for comparison). If my belly button weren't exposed in all maternity tops. If I didn't need hoisted out of bed. If I could eat at all, sleep without waking to use the bathroom more than 3 times a night, take a sip of water without my bladder being full. Walk down the street without feeling like I'd finished my first triathlon. Then week 36 came and my babies each weighed 17 pounds. I was sure of it. I didn't leave the house for nearly a week. Or maybe my bed. I'd gained over 45 pounds. "I am the biggest woman alive."

But I loved it all. I savored every kick, every moment, of carrying our twins. I was thankful. It didn't have to be me. I could have been given one child, like most mothers. Or none. For a reason entirely unknow to us, I was chosen to carry not just one, but two children. And through the long days and uncomfortable nights I was reminded the days were numbered: every baby is born.

37 weeks, my mother and grandmother arrived. At the hospital, contractions came hard. Labor was short but tough. My baby boy came first, no clenched fists, hands and arms flailing. Screaming at the world. He rested on my chest, I sobbed. But I was only half through.

Fathom how extraordinary is it to work, to fight, through childbirth, to hear your own child's first cry ever uttered, to hold that child, smell it, drink it in, and to be just halfway through. Unbelief. Gratitude.

I braced myself. Tried to relax, breathe deep as if the room had energy to offer me at 3:50AM.

Then my daughter, 21 minutes later. The one doctors were worried about. I'd pushed her out, I knew it, but not a scream, not even a wimper. I asked if she was okay. No answer. Why isn't she crying? Why isn't she crying?? I could hear the crew scurrying about the operating room. I don't even know what they did, but then we all heard it, and smiled. Relief.

I cried tears of joy. That fresh, groggy, newborn cry. All from those tiny, new-formed lungs. A second cry, my second child. Miraculous. Peter cried, our firstborn son in his arms. They brought our daughter out, Peter lowered her to my face and I kissed her soft, wrinkly, brand new skin.

My babies were born, not 17 pounds, but just over 5. Perfection. I was a mother. I lost 42 pounds that day and gained a new title. And I thought, I would do it all again in a heartbeat. My life is totally new. It's a miraculous thing, this love. This through love, creating life, growing life, giving birth to life. Raising, training, nurturing.

And in their eyes, I'm the greatest mama-singer. I'm a bumped-head-kisser, a cuddler. I'm here to teach them of original sin and redemption, study each and every cry, know what they need. A Catechizer, a nurturer. A diaper-changer, dinner-maker. Teach them right from wrong, kindness, gentleness, love.

What more could I ever ask for? I am a mother.