If you are lucky in your lifetime, you will not ever have to see your two year old drugged and unable to stand. If you are lucky in your lifetime, you WILL get to see how modern medicine is rad. There are some things in the world that I do not believe in, like god and the moon landing, but I do believe in outpatient surgery.

I know I am being overly dramatic, but today was really stressful. As a mom of twins, I have to say that there is this small portion deep inside of me that is always waiting for the universe to take one away. I am always worried that the powers-that-be will correct itself. That I was only meant one quirky little girl in my life and that this was all a fluke. I have many times met women who say things like, "My son is a twin. But his brother died." And this touches that tiny worry deep inside of me and I am looking at someone who has lived my worst fear.

When I first found out I was having twins, I worried that I couldn't love/care for/afford two children at once. I remember mourning the loss of the idea of that one special child. The further you get into twin parenthood, the more you realize how dumb and selfish that is.

When I gave birth, I almost died. And for ten days, we waited in the hospital to see if I could go home. And I didn't fully understand the situation until it was over. I kept a good attitude and didn't worry because in the modern world, women like me don't die in childbirth. But yesterday in the Operating Room, watching the anesthesiologist put the mask on my 27 pound two year old, I thought, "oh my, I could become one of those women today." I could be walking down the street with Anya one day when she is 12 and see a woman with twins and say, "Anya was a twin. Her sister died." I don't know what the numbers are on how many kids die from being put under for surgery every day, but I still worried.

So, I recorded every moment with Rachel to save in case something happened. From the way her little hospital dress hung off her tiny frame, to how she joked with the nurses about their hospital masks, from the way she scrambled from her little bed onto the operating table. Walking out of the OR to go and wait, I thought, "Ok. This can be enough. I will be happy with this if something happens." But of course, it never would be. We never have enough time with our children. Never ever. This is the secret of parenthood. No matter how many minutes or hours or decades, it can never be enough.

The waiting took forever. But a few hours later, they wheeled her down to us. She looked horrible. I didn't react very well to her state, IV in her hand, tired mad face, white as a ghost, crying and nauseous. My whole body felt hot, like the blood in my veins was lava, threatening to burn me from the inside out. And I felt like I was going to pass out or vomit or both. No matter how much I told myself, "She is ok," I still felt this way. I didn't expect to react this way. It was really strange. Jeff kept telling me it was just that I was worried, but I think I might have had a little bit of a flash back to my 10 days in the hospital after the girls were born.

For the rest of the day, Rachel couldn't walk because she had an epidural for the surgery. It was so sad, she was like a new baby horse, trying to stand and crumpling to the ground. At one point, she was like the legless terminator dragging herself across the living room floor to reach a toy.

Today, she is still sore and on pain meds, but I am so happy this is all done. I know it was just a hernia and that I am lucky to not have a chronically ill child. I am very lucky. Lucky to have health insurance. Lucky to have good doctors. Lucky to have twins.