I have these interludes where the realization of what I’ve done hits me in one of its myriad ramifications. I flash forward to the first morning after they arrive here. I walk to their doorway. They are still here. They did not evaporate into the night. Two round heads, huge brown eyes look at me with the exact same question in my blue eyes, “Are we doing this again, today?” My joy is selfish, rich, ice cream and marshmallows; they are mine again today. Then who do I pick up first, the one who pulls herself upright to solicit my attention, so willing to be loved. Or, no, perhaps the one who still has not decided what to think about the new mother; perhaps she needs the extra preferences.

And then the agony of culling the obscene amounts of pink, flowered clothes, the mountain of lilac and polka dotted yellows and red gingham and ultra white laundry - just to find the cutest thing possible to dress them in for today, no, this morning, because time is running out on this mountain, all the same size clothes, for this summer only.

Little brown fingers on my white, pink knee, as I try to squeeze little feet into purple socks. Do girls have sticky fingers, too? like boys? I bet they don’t.

I say these things now, before they are here, before I can possible know what I will think or feel. Now, I walk past their gorgeous nursery as it sits empty. Once in a great while, I stop, lingering in the gently pink light of the room, glance from one empty crib to another. I inhale, as if the room should already smell like babies from a land far away.

It smells like nothing. The beds are still made up exactly how I did it a month ago. The crates of beautiful clothes depreciating by the minute. A brown babydoll in each bed, along with a homemade puppy.

Happy. Sad, Happy, sad sad, HAPPY HAPPY. And that’s just this morning.

I sure do love them.