Dear Kai,

Yesterday you fell asleep on my lap and stayed there for three hours. Your parents thought I was crazy for putting up with that, but I didn’t have anything better to do. That’s not to say that there was nothing else I could have done — just that there was nothing better. I had been thinking recently about how you used to fall asleep on my chest, or in the crook of my arm, and how you were too big now and would probably never do that again. So it was precious to me to have you sleeping on my lap, for what might be the last time in my life. Your little chest rising and falling right there, the warmth of you keeping me from needing a blanket in the cold basement.

I love being loved by you, being needed by you. I know you have many other people who take care of you, now, but how many of them know how to put you to sleep? How many of them would you sleep on for three hours? I love that you feel safe with me. You have always been terrified of abandonment, from the time you were an infant. It seems hardwired into you; your sister has never been like that.

You feel things strongly and capriciously. You are afraid of change. You need a lot of comforting and reassuring. You are a sweet boy, for the most part. You share with Lyra when you see that she’s sad. You have always had strong preferences; now you are strong-willed. I think I manage it well — I try to make you feel heard, without necessarily letting you control what happens. I think you feel stable when you are with me.

My least favorite thing you do is that sometimes you start screaming when I sing. I used to sing to you all the time, walking you to sleep in the stroller, rocking you to sleep in my arms, filling the air with calming noise while you played in the living room. Now you only want Alexa to sing to you. You want superstimulus on command; you don’t want my voice. I never play Alexa for you, though everyone else does. You ask for a song on Alexa, I offer to sing the song instead, and when I try, half the time you cry. Sometimes it makes me want to cry too.

Dear twins,

Taking care of twins is a different beast from taking care of one baby. When you were infants, I felt sad that I wasn’t able to love either of you with my whole heart, because I had to be constantly aware of how your little baby actions, which you couldn’t control, were affecting each other. I was lucky yesterday that Lyra didn’t wake up while Kai was napping on my lap, but it was a gamble to let him. Every nap time is always like that — never able to dedicate my full attention to either of you, in case the other needs me. Balancing the timing so that neither of you screams and wakes the other.

If there were just one of you, I would want to give you the world. I would be able to let you finish the snack you wanted without worrying that there wouldn’t be any left for your twin. I could let you play in the room you wanted or go to the park you wanted. I could carry you all the way home, if you needed me to. I’m sorry that I can’t.

Dear Lyra,

My beautiful, smiley girl. I do love you with my whole heart. I love the way you speak, so garbled that no one could possibly hope to understand it if they hadn’t already spent hours paying attention you. I love being one of the people who understands you. I love how you choose me to carry you even when your parents are there, or choose to come sit in my lap at the park when there are dozens of toys you could be playing with instead. I love when I’m holding you and you lean back so you can look right in my face. It makes it harder to hold you, but it’s so worth it for your big smile.

You have always been good at sharing. You have almost always stopped crying when I distracted you. You have always had my heart.

When you were an infant, you would get frustrated and give up on things before you’d even tried. I found it too relatable. But as you’ve gotten older, you’ve developed a drive towards self-sufficiency, an ability to persevere despite the myriad obstacles of being a baby. I love how you love to help me sweep and unload the dishwasher, and how you insist on putting on your own pants and shoes. You are so tiny and ineffectual, but you’re becoming less ineffectual every day.

Dear both of you,

I met you when you were three weeks old. I could cradle your head in my hand and have you sit in the crook of my elbow. It was no feat of strength to hold one of you in each arm — though it was much scarier than it is now, because you were so fragile. You looked like tiny, bug-eyed aliens, with weird, wrinkly faces. You look like little kids now. You’ve tripled in size, and sometimes you still make me carry both of you at once. I can still do it, but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to.

Today you are two years old, and I have known you your entire lives. I’ve seen you learn everything from how to use your hands to your first words to how to take turns. You got your first haircuts last month. You choose your own outfits now, when I let you. You are more like people every day. I learn a lot about being a person from being around you.

You don’t know anything yet. You are constantly having to learn the most basic things about the world, like that rain makes you wet, or that you will fall on your face if you try to run down the slide. You are becoming people, but you are still my babies.

I don’t want children of my own. But I’m so glad for every moment I’ve had with you. I love you with my whole heart.

~ 明远