After ten years, TT finally had these damn kids.
The thought was a constant, percussive rhythm against the back of her skull, a frantic drumbeat set to the soundtrack of her new life. A life that sounded mostly like a high-pitched shriek, the crash of plastic blocks, and the wet, slapping sound of yogurt hitting the floor. For a full decade, Tiana’s house had been a sanctuary of quiet sophistication. Polished hardwood floors gleamed, white couches remained pristine, and the silence was so profound you could hear the dust motes settling in the afternoon sun. She had hated that silence. She had prayed for it to be broken, bargained with every deity she could name for the pitter-patter of little feet.
Well, the pitter-patter had arrived. It was less of a pitter-patter and more of a stampede, a two-man, toddler-sized demolition crew named Leo and Mia. The twins. Because of course, after a decade of nothing, the universe had decided to give her two at once.
This morning’s particular brand of chaos was sponsored by oatmeal. It was everywhere. It was a sticky, cooling paste on Leo’s eyebrows. It was a Jackson Pollock-esque splatter across the kitchen cabinets. Mia, the more artistically inclined of the two, was currently using her fingers to paint a mural with it on the leg of the antique dining table TT had inherited from her grandmother.
“No, sweetie, no. The table is not our canvas,” TT said, her voice a strained imitation of the calm, gentle mother she’d read about in books. The books did not mention oatmeal as an artistic medium.
Mia looked up, her blue eyes wide and innocent over a glob of beige goo, and then deliberately smeared another line onto the carved mahogany. A tiny, defiant artist. TT felt a scream building in her chest, a primal roar of frustration that had been ten years in the making. She had wanted this. She had cried for this, month after month. She had endured endless tests, hopeful whispers, and crushing disappointments for this exact moment. For the privilege of scraping hardened breakfast cereal off of priceless family heirlooms.
She took a deep breath, the air shuddering on its way in. She scooped up Mia, who immediately tried to transfer the oatmeal from her hands to TT’s hair. On the other side of the room, a crash. Leo, a born mountaineer, had successfully scaled the pristine white couch and knocked over the single, elegant floor lamp that had survived the initial toddler-proofing purge. It lay on the floor, its shade bent at a sad, defeated angle.
That was it. The scream escaped. It wasn’t loud, more of a strangled squeak. “For the love of… why?” she whispered to the ceiling.
The house was a wreck. Her hair was a mess. Her nerves were frayed wires sparking against each other. For ten years, she had pictured motherhood as soft-focus moments: reading bedtime stories in a rocking chair, gentle cuddles, sweet, melodic laughter. The reality was loud, sticky, and relentlessly demanding. It was a constant, unending state of emergency management.
She put Mia down, who immediately made a break for the fallen lamp, and went to corral Leo, who was now attempting to eat a decorative pillow. As she pried the tasseled corner from his surprisingly strong grip, he looked up at her. His face was a mess of oatmeal and drool, but his smile was pure, unadulterated sunshine. He let go of the pillow and threw his little arms around her leg, hugging it tightly.
“Mama,” he said, his voice muffled against her jeans.
And just like that, the frantic drumbeat in her head slowed. The frustration, the exhaustion, the sheer overwhelming muchness of it all, receded like a tide. She looked from Leo’s beaming face to Mia, who was now patting the bent lampshade as if to comfort it.
The silence she had lived in for a decade hadn’t been peaceful; it had been empty. The clean floors and spotless couches had been monuments to a life un-lived, a home without a heartbeat. This chaos, this relentless, sticky, noisy, beautiful chaos… this was the heartbeat. This was the life she had begged for.
She sank to the floor, pulling Leo into her lap and holding out an arm for Mia, who toddled over and collapsed against her. They smelled of oatmeal and baby shampoo. Their combined weight was a solid, grounding presence. The house was a disaster. Her sanity was hanging by a thread. But it was her disaster. Her thread.
She rested her chin on top of Leo’s head and closed her eyes, a real, genuine smile finally reaching her lips.
Yeah. These damn, wonderful, impossible, perfect kids.
