Widow With Twins

I feel a finger poke my left arm that is supporting my head on my sweet, precious pillow. I pretend I don’t feel this poke, hoping it will go away and let me rest. Just ten more minutes, that’s all I need, honest.

I feel another poke, this time a double,  just above my ear, through my hair. This one is a little more urgent as in, ‘Hi, I am standing here and I am ready for your attention’. My brain is half tuned in and the other is still lingering somewhere along the rem cycle, wishing the other half would come back to join it. I stay still, eyes closed, still holding out hope for just ten more minutes.

This time, I am jabbed by two small hands that reach my back and press firmly, as in, ‘you need to wake up, now, mom’. I let out a sigh as my brain fully switches on, bat my eyes open, knowing this is a losing battle.

I roll over and see him, blond hair, big blue eyes that you could dive into, and something that looks like foam dripping from the corners of his mouth. I immediately sit up, this time, rubbing my eyes to get them to focus, needing to be awake to figure out just what was going on.

“Mommy, I tried to brush my teeth but I couldn’t reach my toothbrush” Charlie says as I stare down, eyes wide at him in pure wonder.

“Charlie, your toothbrush is in the same cabinet as the toothpaste” I say, still in shock at what I was looking at. My four year old standing at my bedside, without a single article of clothing on, and toothpaste - literally - from his head to his toes. “How did this happen?” My eyes begin to wonder and I feel my face contort into the look. The one I’ve mastered over the last 4 years of experience of raising twin boys. My brow furrow, the left one slightly raised. My eyes are a bit narrow and my mouth is shut tightly, but not noticeably tight.

“Charlie, where is your brother?” I asked, now out of bed and realizing that toothpaste had been trekked from the bathroom in the hall into my bedroom, little toothpaste footprints as evidence on the hardwood floors. My mind begins to go through all of the possibilities of scenarios I’m about to stumble upon, questioning whether or not I need to call poison control because my child or children have possibly ingested an absurd amount of toothpaste. Charlie enthusiastically grabs my hand to lead me down the hall with his sticky toothpaste hand. I don’t even flinch, as though this is a normal, everyday occurrence. 

We arrive at the hall bathroom and I can’t even put into words what I see. Charlie’s twin, Jack, is in the bathtub, apparently using the toothpaste to wash his hair. He is also fully naked and covered in toothpaste. 

“What were you two trying to do here?” I ask, trying to understand as I glance around at the toothpaste that is covering every surface of the bathroom. I need coffee, like, now. Or maybe, it might just be a day to skip the coffee altogether and go straight for a bottle of wine.

The boys are both grinning at me, proud of their toothpaste artwork. Charlie has joined Jack in the bath and is now smearing toothpaste on the white tile. I cringe, but I stay still, unable to do anything, at a loss for words and no ideas as to where to even begin to clean this mess.

“Mommy, don’t you like my new hairdo?” Jack asks and begins to giggle along with his brother.

What possesses children to do such things, I wonder to myself as I finish scrubbing the last bit of toothpaste off the wall, and how could there possibly be this much toothpaste in one tube. It took me an hour to bathe both boys, scrubbing every bit of toothpaste out of their thick hair. It’s been at least another hour since I started cleaning the bathroom and mopping the floors. The boys are entertained, for now, with popcorn and their favorite movie. I’ve peeped in on them- several times- to ensure they aren’t scheming their next mass destruction or hurting each other or breaking something. I gather the sheets from my bed where sticky, dried toothpaste hand-shaped stains remain from Charlie attempting to wake me and take them to the laundry. I start the washing machine and let out a long, deep breath, rest my head on the lid of the washer and begin to cry. 

You see, my husband died in a terrible car accident when the boys were only six months old. Since then, I’ve been on my own. I never planned on being a single mother, let alone a widow at 29-years-old. I never considered the possibility that I may have to raise two boys who grow into good men- alone.

But, here I am.

Sobbing in my laundry room.

We have good days and we have bad. We fight, we yell, we laugh and play like any normal family would. The boys have asked about their father many times throughout their short lives, and I answer them as best and as appropriately as I can, but it’s hard to explain where he is and what he’s doing, why he isn’t here to play with us. I pull out pictures I have of our wedding day and they giggle at my ridiculous updo and their daddy’s weirdly patterned tie. I show them the photos of him holding them both, just hours after they were born, beaming with intense pride.

I allow myself two more minutes of good, hard crying. Sometimes when I start, I can’t stop, and then I find myself crying for an entire day. Crying is good for your soul, but, when you have two high energy, adventurous four-year-old twin boys to chase around, you can’t be crying all day. So, every now and then, when the urge comes, I set a time limit and just let it all go.

I walk back up to the living area where I find the boys, arguing over the remote and what they will be watching next. Jack puts Charlie’s head under his arm and the wrestling match ensues. They’re grunting and rolling around on the floor, giving each other wedgies and pulling the other’s hair. I watch, amused and, of course, monitoring for bloodshed or when things get “too rough”.

“Who wants to go to the park?” I shout over their angry bantering and roars.

Suddenly, the two are up, off the floor, quicker than I can blink, running, yelling “Me, me, me!” and “I do! I do!” I watch them run to the room they share and come back with their tennis shoes and jackets. The way their eyes light up,  the tiniest yet most kindled sparkle yanks at my heart, and I reminisce on the boy I met and fell in love with, what seems like a century ago now, who used to chase me up and down these same hallways and around these rooms. The longing for him to witness his children grow yanks at my heart strings. I feel the ball of tears rising in my throat, but as I take a deep breath, I swallow it down- this is no time for tears, it’s time for fun.

We spent a total of three hours at the park. The sun beaming down onto our skin and the fresh air turned out to be everything the three of us needed today. The boys had ran around so fast and hard, climbed, and slid down every slide. They played in dirt that caked their small nails and played hide and seek with a few other children they recognized from their pre-school. I could watch them all day- playing so carelessly and free, my absolute favorite part of motherhood.

When the sun began to sink and the stars slowly began to twinkle in the darkening sky, I helped them get into their pajamas and supervised as they brushed their teeth, emphasising on the appropriate amount of toothpaste necessary. The boys ran back to their bedroom and we gathered in Charlie’s bed for a bedtime story. 

After the story came to an end, I tucked each one into their beds tightly, “as snug as bugs” we three chimed out together and I kissed them each on the tops of their heads, taking in an extra breath, smelling their sweet, baby boy smell that still lingered from the day they were born. I walk towards the door and as I reach to turn the corner lamp off before saying my final ‘good night’, Jack sits up and asks, “Mommy, does Daddy ever miss us?”