This is where you were born. On Pearl Harbor Day: a sneak attack. You busted out ten weeks before you were due, with Papa in New York, and Mama on the sofa. We had been to Saint David’s before on one of those tours you take when you’re pregnant. You see the labor and delivery rooms, all spacious and fancy. You’re shown that room behind the glass wall, where all the newborns wiggle in their clear lucite beds, with their cradle cap in swaddled blankets, amid shuffling nurses in Elmo scrubs. Papa had driven to the hospital; I wasn’t paying attention to which roads he took, if we were on a highway. I didn’t think I’d ever need to drive myself. It’s like those couples who spend weeks in Lamaze class only to have an emergency c-section. I never saw those fancy labor and delivery rooms again.
But on December 7th, I strapped on a seat belt and called your Auntie Lea, who told me, "Put on your hazards and drive on the shoulder. You can’t drive for shit!" I sat in rush hour traffic, and got on the wrong highway, and off at the wrong exit. And the GPS lady kept saying, "RECALCULATING" in a snooty British accent. I sang Ray LaMontagne songs to you, and then I moved on to Christmas songs: Silver Bells by Stevie Wonder–my favorite. I cracked jokes aloud. To myself, to you two. "Of course you’re coming now. Of course! Mama doesn’t do anything small, now does she?" I didn’t just get pregnant, I got pregnant with twins. Not just twins, twins who came early, with their Papa in New York. I’m the first to admit I have a flair for the dramatic, but there’s a certain amount of drama you can’t control. Life just happens. We made it here to Saint David’s, where you lived for the first eight weeks of your lives–oneupping me with your own dramas. Infections. As and Bs. A double hernia for you senor. We even had 20/20 come visit you in your incubators. You each weighed under three pounds, but there was nothing small about your lives.
You’re at home now with Grandma and Grandpa and Norma. I’m with Papa at the hospital, where the doctors are going to tickle his heart. They’re going to add fire to his already feisty heart, hoping to close off some of his overactive blood vessels. It’s called an Ablation, and it’s to stop his Atrial Fibrillation. He has a cardiomyopathy, like his Papa had, so you two sprouts will want to show the doctors your hearts every now and then to make sure they stay healthy.
Papa and I are going to have a sleepover at Saint David’s tonight. Good things happen here, at your first home, and we’ll be home to you two tomorrow night. Lucas, take care of your little sister. And Abigail, try not to boss Lucas around too much. We love you very much.