We haven't been married that long (close to three years, though who's counting?). And I think that having married in early middle age, we still want back from our day the sort of change that we could have counted on as singletons. I mean, you'll always have a few hours of an evening to feel like you are human again, won't you? Whatever the schedule, there will always be a decompression period during the hours of darkness, offering itself up like a guarantee of sanity, won't there?
Quite, but it is paper thin. How can I put this? "Twins eat time". Or how about
E=MC2 where E is parental fatigue, M is madness, and C is chaos (all squared by twins of course!).
The days blend into one, the feeds become indistinguishable, nappies heap up in corners like spent cartridges, and, as Yeats wrote after a sleepless night with a grumpy toddler, Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold.
One accepts all these things as a parent. This is the price of having those delightful little bundles who, after driving you slightly round the bend for an hour, melt your heart with their indescribable magic. But I never calculated the loss of time beforehand! Everything goes by the board. Correspondence is neglected, phone calls are never made and, mais oui, blogs grow dusty with disuse. Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold, Mere anarchy is loosed upon the nursery.
It's at time like this that I like to think of the words of the great Canadian bard Neil Peart:
I let my past go too fast
No time to pause
If I could slow it all down
Like some captain
Whose ship runs aground
I can wait until the tide
If I could slow it all down! If only!
At least I still have time to listen to music (if it can be heard over the caterwauling!)