Eight

Eight years ago, I was a bewildered, scared brand-new mother. My family had lurched from two individuals to a family of four. In math terms, that's two-squared. In psychological terms that's too-scared.

I briefly held my twins, just a few scant minutes, and then they were taken to the NICU. Weighing in at just 4 lbs. 6 oz. (Amelia) and 4 lbs. 10 oz (Heath), my sweet twins were tiny and not yet ready to go home. It took them 20 days to gain weight and learn how to take in eight bottles a day. Even then, when given the OK to come home, they were still wearing preemie clothes and diapers.

Amelia at just 21 hours old.

Sweet Heath, also 21 hours old.

During those 20 days, I was panicked that I wasn't spending enough time with them. I had convinced myself that just a two-hour daily visit wasn't enough and I knew that they wouldn't recognize me, my voice, or my scent. I had brainwashed myself into thinking that these precious twins would come home and not want me.

OK, seriously? Somebody should have knocked me over the head and told my inner drama queen to shut the hell up. Because these are the sweetest, most loveable kids and those 20 days? Smaller than a blip in the grand scheme of their lives.

Heath, P., Amelia, B., and Jarrod. PARTY TIME!

They play hard, love fully, laugh loudly, and drive us crazy. But we wouldn't have it any other way.

We love you, Heath and Amelia! And, no, I'm not at all freaking out how fast these eight years have flown by and that it's only another eight years until you're both driving. Nope, I'm cool.

(Please? Someone? Get me a drink!)