it has been months.
since i have had the heart to write.
words bubbled within my stomach
but immediately got washed down.
for the first few months after their birth, i was stuck inside this nicu bubble. trying desperately to cling onto things that i should feel grateful about. i washed over the trauma that clung to my body, my heart, and the emptiness inside my uterus.
my babies weren’t there.
there were in these tiny little-isolated beds 15 feet across the room from each other. the perfect, humid environment for 27-week old babies (gestation).
every two hours i pumped milk. i pumped and pumped and pumped. with each drop, my depression got worse. thousands of ounces later, the postpartum ocd was identified.
but the story got better. didn’t it?
prasadam baby, our sweet gentle soul, came home at six weeks (34 weeks) nursing exclusively.
moya baby was two weeks behind at eight weeks.
i finally had my babies home. thousands of ounces of milk donated, therapy sessions now starting, and my body began to feel less empty.
now, nine months later, things have gotten better.
here’s the quick update:
my babies are nine and a half months. six months adjusted.
they’re exclusively breastfed and keeps turning their noses up at bottles (shot glasses of milk is appreciated).
they explore different foods, starting to crawl around, loves reading, sits on the potty, are snarky little butts, and have been on eight plane rides so far.
i document daily life on instagram.
i realized my birth was actually extremely traumatic. same with pregnancy. same with postpartum. i struggle daily with postpartum ocd, but certainly kicking it in its ass.
staying with them in our denver montessori-esque home has been a true blessing.
it’s been a while. i hope that we can get to know each other again.