There is a part of this story that I didn't share. I felt that it was unnecessary at the time, but after thinking about it, I realize it needs to be told. It is an event that will hold paramount implications in the future of my parenting.

During the first part of my pregnancy, my Mom was dealing with pain in her back and pelvis. She tried all sorts of things to help with the pain to no avail. If any of you know my Mom, she never complained. She kept going on as if she was fine. We made our annual trek to Beaulah Beach to stay in the "refurbished" cottages, where one wonders where the refurbished actually starts and the original cottage ends. I was pretty sick, pregnant with the twins, completely oblivious of the true pain my Mom was suffering. My self absorption is embarrassing to remember.

Upon our return home, Mom continued with her life as usual. We knew she was hurting, but we all assumed she just had injured herself and would soon get better. As time went on, Mom knew that she needed to be seen by a physician and so she made an appointment. I am not sure the ins and outs of the time frame here, Mom and Dad were living in Minnesota and I was stuck in bed in Illinois.

I do vividly remember the day I got the call. I was sitting in bed, once again placed on bed rest. Mom called and I could tell by the sound of her voice that she was not well. For those that know my Mom, she is one of the strongest women I know. She rarely shows emotion and is a stereotypical German stoic. Hearing her voice shaky on the phone alarmed me.

Mom was quick and to the point. She had cancer. Again. The Dr.'s had done an MRI or CT scan, I can't remember, and found that her cancer had returned. Mom had fought and won her first battle with cancer when I was a teenager. It had been 20 years since her first fight. This time, however, the end result was already determined. Unless God intervened with a miracle of physical healing, Mom would not win the fight this time. The cancer was already stage 4 and in the bone.

I remember at the time that I didn't really process the information well. I remember that in my puny mind I assumed that since she beat the odds the first time, she would obviously do so again. I refused to read online what the prognosis was, since Mom had never followed any medical norms to begin with. Mom did fight, for much longer than the doctors believed possible. Mom tried every treatment and lived long enough to see her last grandchild be born, whom we named Joy after her.

Mom fought for 7 years, 5 more than most patients with her cancer live. She lived for her family and showed us that by battling on and on until it was obvious that there was nothing else left to do. Mom and Dad moved to Illinois 2 years before her passing in order to be near family. She passed away on May 14, 2009 with her three girls and her husband near her. It has been so difficult to continue on this journey of motherhood without her here. She was my sounding board, my source of wisdom and my fountain of strength. I am now mothering motherless. This trek through parenting is now much more challenging without my Mom to help me forge ahead.

I thought I would find some pictures of our life at the time. Life was full of busy days and long nights. The boys kept us on our toes. They seemed to have boundless energy. Joel began going to preschool a few mornings a week and Aaron and Connor were still napping twice a day! On those days I felt like a new woman! It seemed like months would pass before we knew it and suddenly the twins could walk and Joel was riding a tricycle.

Days slipped into weeks and then into months. Aaron and Connor were healthy and strong. Their issues with prematurity diminished before our eyes. They kept us up all night, they chugged down formula like some kind of starved ape-like mammal, and kept us in the poorhouse with the amount of diapers they required on a daily basis. That being said, they were still a source of great joy.

Joel struggled with all the changes. Suddenly he was no longer the center of attention. He decided the only way to counteract the lack of attention was to go on the attack. I mean, negative attention is still attention right?. He decided he would do everything he was not allowed to do until someone cared. He drew on the walls, took a dozen eggs and broke them all over the floor, would throw himself on the floor screaming, you know typical stuff. I decided something needed to be done.

I hired a teenage girl to come over and help. She would either watch the twins while I took Joel out or she would take Joel to the park to play. It helped, but Joel still demanded more than I could give. I was starting to feel pulled in so many directions and would collapse on my bed at night frustrated and near tears. This motherhood thing was way over-rated and I was not at all living the sweet life I had planned. It was too hard. I started crying daily, losing my temper and snapping at Scott over every little thing.

After a lot of long conversations with Scott and other close friends, I decided to seek help. I had always felt that I could do it. I believed I was strong enough to withstand whatever came my way. One meeting with the therapist led to a quick diagnosis: post partum depression.

For those that boo-hoo this issue and stand next to Tom Cruise and his drivel, I challenge you to spend a day with a woman with twins, a highly energetic two year old, countless bouts of rotovirus and overactive hormones. Trust me, the issue is real. It certainly was for me. I was in over my head and needed some kind of break, or a nervous breakdown was inevitable. The therapist recommended hiring someone to give me some much needed respite. My parents had always taught me to follow doctor's orders and this was no exception. When Scott realized that the help would ease my constant sour spirit, he was on board.

God brought a wonderful woman into our lives who helped me more than I could ever share here on this blog. She helped me stay sane. She cleaned my house, took care of my kids and just let me leave and sit at Panera for two hours reading a book. My kids called her Nana, but she was more than that. She was an angel sent by God. She helped us celebrate the twins' first birthday, saw their first steps and loved them without reservation. I look back and realize how my life would have collapsed around me if she had not stepped through the door of my disheveled mind. She stayed around for almost two years, until she moved to help her daughter care for her children. Whatever sanity I have left, I owe to her.

The drive home was surreal. I sat in the back staring at these two little ones who were so tiny they're bodies were secured with rolled up towels so they would be sure to not slide out of their car seats. All I could think of was how now I really was a mother of three. Three boys no less. I woman who had been raised with only sisters, now had to figure out how to mother three boys. I really didn't know if I was up to the task.

As we pulled into the driveway, my stomach was in knots. I had wanted this for so long, and now I had a sense of impending doom. Scott helped me out of the car and took both car seats. As we walked in, my sister had her video camera. I can not stand those things, but I guess these momentous occasions catapult one to freak show status. I gave a half hearted smile to the blinking red light shining in my face, and tried to dodge the paparazzi as I made my way into the living room.

Joel was asleep upstairs, which in and of itself was miraculous, since that child rarely slept. My friend Liz was there, a woman who herself struggled with infertility and whose pain that night was sadly far removed from my mind. I should have known better than to ask her to watch Joel. Why in the world would she want to be there when I brought home two newborn babies? It shows how self absorbed one can become when dealing with stress and I have always felt badly for having such an attitude. (Liz is now the mother of a beautiful little girl name Aliyah)

As we set the twins down on the ground and began to unbuckle their straps, Connor began to wail. Well, for us it seemed like a wail. Little did we know how loud that little one would truly become. I went into the kitchen and made the first of thousands of bottles which would become our daily morning ritual. As I walked back into the living room, my sister was holding Aaron and Liz was holding Connor. I looked at these two new little lives and hoped they would bring me all the joy I envisioned. How tiny and perfect and beautiful they looked, that is until Connor decided to wail again! That was when reality set in.