By Nettie H. Francis
I am now 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 said. “By now I’m twice as good at being a mother.” Besides, one mother told me that the first six children are the hardest, and then it “just gets easier.” Now that I have eight children, I’m expecting my second wind any day. Unfortunately, all I’ve experienced so far is total chaos.

Take, for example, the day we blessed the twins. After six previous baby blessings I thought I could handle any special occasion. I knew the routine: make a blessing outfit, invite the family, clean the house, prepare myself spiritually, prepare my children spiritually, wake up early, curl my hair, curl everyone else’s hair, bathe and dress the baby, take pictures of the family, feed the baby just before the meeting so he doesn’t cry, feel the spirit during the blessing, hold my adorable baby the rest of the meeting, and then bask in the glow of the day and the congratulations of our extended family and friends.
Unfortunately, although my plan had worked six previous times, there was no second wind when the twins were blessed, and everything went awry.

At 4am my two-year-old woke up, fussy. At 5am, my seven-year-old came in, saying she didn’t feel well. At 6am my ten-year-old threw up. By now I was up and getting ready for church. We chalked the queasy stomachs up to dessert from the night before, and by 8am were all dressed and posing for pictures in the front room.

The two sick children weren’t smiling, but we assured them they could stay on the couch in the church foyer during the blessing. As an afterthought, I grabbed an empty bucket before we drove away. 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, unashamedly taking up two whole benches usually occupied by “season ticket holders” in our ward who were slightly late that day.

During the opening song, I put thoughts of sick children out of my mind and sweetly anticipated the spiritual experience that would follow. When the bishop invited my husband to the front to bless the first twin, our baby was the picture of sleeping perfection.

However, just as the prayer started, a loud SQUEAL erupted from the microphone. Everyone in the congregation jumped. With the squeal right in his ear, our poor baby jumped the highest and started screaming. My startled husband did his best to keep his composure, but unfortunately, all that could be heard throughout the chapel was the noisy microphone and the baby’s crying.

Clearly shaken, my husband finished the blessing, handed the screaming baby to me and took the second twin to the front. 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 feel the spirit for the second twin’s blessing. The mic volume had now been adjusted, but my frazzled husband incorrectly started the prayer three times, even praying in Tagalog (his mission language), before he got it right.

When the blessing was finished and my husband sat down next to me we were not the picture of perfection I had hoped for; instead, we were two visibly stressed parents trying to hold a family of ten together. 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 twenty minutes later, I noticed that several 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 groaned. “I feel terrible,” he said.

“Just hold it together for a picture,” I pleaded. We gathered up the babies and remaining family members and arrived in the church foyer just in time to see our oldest 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, followed by my sister. 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 all ten of us were all gathered on the bed, feeling much better, holding our precious twins, counting our blessings, and laughing, twice as loud.