Twice Blessed

Note: I originally wrote this article the week after we blessed our twins, in 2009. I'm reposting now in celebration of the twins' 5th birthday, and dedicate this experience to all the great twin moms I know. I've survived the first five years! And you can, too.

I am the mother of twins. Hooray! Hooray! Friends warned me that there would be twice as many diapers, twice as many feedings, and twice as much crying. 


“Never mind,” I thought. “By now I’m twice as good at being a mother.” Besides, one mother told me that the first six children are the hardest, after that it “just gets easier.”  Unfortunately, all I’ve experienced so far has been total chaos.


I’ll never forget the day we blessed our infant twins at church. After six previous baby blessings, I was sure I understood special occasions. I knew the routine: invite special family members, prepare special food, dress the babies in special clothes, and expect a special feeling all day long. However, I wasn’t prepared for the challenging experience of guiding a family of 10 through a supposedly “special” day.

At 4 a.m. on that "special" Sunday morning, my two-year-old woke up, fussy. At 5 a.m. my seven-year-old came in, saying she didn’t feel well. At 6 a.m. my 10-year-old threw up. 

By now, we were all awake and getting ready for church. We chalked the queasy stomachs up to dessert from the night before, and by 8 a.m. were all dressed and posing for pictures on the front lawn. The two sick children weren’t smiling, but we assured them that they could wait in the church foyer during the service. Before we drove away, I grabbed an empty bucket just to be safe. Looking back, I should have grabbed two buckets, or ... make that six.


At church, we deposited both sick children in the foyer with the bucket, and made our way to the front of the chapel, our extended family unashamedly taking up two whole benches usually occupied by season ticket holders who were slightly late that day.

During the opening hymn, I tried to put thoughts of sick children out of my mind and enjoy the “special” baby blessing feeling. When my husband carried the first twin to the front of the chapel, our baby was the picture of sleeping perfection. However, just as the prayer started, a loud electronic SQUEAL erupted from the microphone.

Everyone in the congregation jumped. Our poor baby, his little ears right next to the mic, immediately started screaming. All that could be heard for the duration of the blessing was the squealing microphone and the baby’s crying. I don’t think anyone in the room had a very “special” feeling at that moment.

As the first baby blessing ended, my husband, clearly shaken, handed the screaming baby to me and took the second twin. Wishing I was an octopus, I balanced the distraught baby in one arm and tried to tackle our restless toddler with the other, all the while straining to hear the second twin’s blessing above the first twin’s crying. 

The mic volume had now been adjusted, but my frazzled husband incorrectly started the prayer three times, finally praying in Tagalog (his mission language) before he got it right.  Let’s just say the second blessing was considerably shorter than the first.

When the prayer finished and we were all seated on our row again, our family wasn’t the “special picture” of family perfection I had hoped for. Both twins were upset, our toddler was running up and down the bench, and we were worried about sick children in the foyer. I quickly exited to feed the noisiest twin.

When I returned to the chapel a few minutes later, I noticed that several extended family members had left.  

“Where is everyone?” I whispered.  

“Sick,” my husband responded.  I tried to enjoy the rest of the meeting, but could only think about the nauseated crowd gathering in the foyer.  

As Sacrament meeting ended, our twelve-year-old turned around.  “I feel terrible,” he said. 

“Just hold it together for a picture,” I pleaded.  We gathered up the babies and remaining family members and walked back to the church foyer just in time to see our daughter lose her breakfast outside the front church doors.  Just then, my brother, as white as a ghost, ran past us with the infamous bucket.  Two of our other children raced outside after him.  Our relatives and children were dropping like sick flies around us as the crowd from the chapel started filling the foyer. 

“Quick, everyone outside for a picture,” I begged, dragging the bishop along with me.  He seemed oblivious to the situation, so we steered him clear of the soiled sidewalk and onto the lawn. 

Gathering up the sick family members we plead for one, quick smile.  Just as we snapped the picture, our twelve-year-old lost it on the grass.  By now the bishop had clued into the situation unfolding around him.  Not wanting to be the next “victim,” he bid us a quick farewell and hurried inside.

My husband handed me a baby and rushed to the bathroom, past well-wishing ward members, to get some water and paper towels.  Holding both crying twins, I ushered our depleted children into the car.  

“If you need a bucket, sit in the back.  If a bag will do, sit in the middle seat,” I instructed.  We bid our visiting family a hasty farewell opting to forego any special luncheon and sped home.  

As we walked in the front door, the five sick children collapsed on the living room carpet and I dropped into bed, shaking with embarrassment, disappointment, and disbelief.  My careful planning and motherly skills had been reduced to mere survival mode.  Whoever said motherhood gets easier was wrong.

But then again, maybe I am better at something.  If my first baby’s blessing had been such a disaster, I would have cried for a month.  But for children number seven and eight, it took me only a good nap before I started giggling at the memory.  By that evening we were all gathered on the bed feeling much better, holding our precious twins, counting our blessings, and laughing, twice as loud.