“There’s too many people in the house!” my three-year-old daughter sobbed.
I crouched down next to her. “Daddy says the same thing,” I consoled.
My mother had arrived to stay with us for two months in our cramped, three-bedroom house.
But Nanny wasn’t the problem.
From her perspective, it was the newborn baby brother and sister who were at the heart of the overcrowding concern.
I twirled one of her blonde ringlets around my finger as I searched for the right words. “It’s tough,” I tried. “But you see, love expands. It doesn’t divide. There is always more love, not less.”
She calmed down and nestled into my arms, accepting the comfort of the sentiment, if not the mathematical terms.
In truth, she wasn’t the only one struggling to adjust to life with premature twins. For me, it was the logistical, physical, and emotional demands of caring for two tiny babies at once. In the early weeks, the challenge was to ensure they gained weight by breastfeeding them every three hours like clockwork. My husband started staying at his office, claiming he needed his sleep lest his business and our livelihood be financially ruined. Plus, he reasoned, my mom was there to help. Whereas she had likely envisioned peaceful hours of cuddling babies, Nanny soon found herself fiddling with onesie buttons at all hours of the day and night, serving as an around-the-clock nanny of a different ilk. As the end of her stay drew near, I threatened I wouldn’t drive her back to the airport. I didn’t want her to leave. I couldn’t bear it. I clung to her desperately, wondering how I would make it through without her.
Yet somehow, we did. Through the sleep-deprived haze, the hours blurred into days, then weeks, months, and even years. First baths turned into first foods, first words, first steps, and – this year – first days of school.
Yet my husband and I never quite settled into family life together.
Last month, the house got a little less crowded.
This time, my now seven-year-old daughter overheard my sobs.
I twirled a blonde curl of hers around my finger as I searched for the right words – this time to explain the separation. “I don’t know what will happen with our family,” I tried.
“I do, Mommy,” she said.
“Really? Do tell,” I asked with dread, expecting to hear fears of a life divided between two parents, torn between two homes.
“It will probably get bigger,” she answered. Then to my surprise, she counseled, “After all, love expands, so there will probably be more to love.”
She remembered. I trust she's right. | 
