By Louie Ferrera

On March 6th our precious twins turned twenty. I wrote them a letter.

Dear Sam and Denali,

So how on Earth did you both manage to turn twenty? The moment of your birth was a watershed event for your mom and I and without a doubt the greatest day in our lives. Two decades later and I can still picture many of the details from that morning with surprising clarity. They’re all there: the sounds of your cries, first Denali then six minutes later Sam, your tiny red bodies covered with streaks of blood and a powdery white residue, your clenched fists and closed eyes, the way you both writhed atop those heated tables under the blinding light of the operating room at Kaiser. You looked so fragile and helpless. I remember asking one of the pediatricians, “Can I touch them?” Her reply, “Well, they’re your kids aren’t they?” There were so many people in the room that morning, all there to make sure you were brought safely into the world. You were just minutes old, I stood there speechless with wonder, letting the moment fully wash over me and wanting to take in every last detail. I was exhausted from a sleepless night but wired on adrenaline. Throughout her pregnancy mom and I anticipated and prepared for this moment only to realize that it was nothing like we had expected it to be. Nothing could have prepared me for the flood of emotions that I experienced meeting you both for the first time.

We were a brand new family and spent the next four days together in the hospital getting acquainted with one another. I did all of the “heavy lifting” as mom was recovering from a C-section. The four of us went for daily walks up and down the halls of the maternity ward. You were side-by-side inside a wheeled basket that squeaked as we strolled along. What a sight we must have been. I only went home to shower, feed the cat and bring in the mail. Our room at the hospital had this funky fold-out kind of couch/bed which I “slept” on. I use quotes here because neither of us did much actual sleeping. You’d cry, mom and I would wake up. We’d change you, feed you and go back to sleep as quickly as possible, twice each night. I became a diaper changing expert in a hurry. Wake, change, feed, sleep… This was a pattern we would become all too familiar with until you were toddlers.

As you know, mom’s birthday is four days after yours. That was the day we took you home. We emerged from the hospital into a blindingly brilliant March afternoon. The nurse and I strapped you into twin infant car seats, handling you like fine porcelain. I drove the two miles to our house about as slowly and cautiously as was humanly possible. It was an absolutely stellar day; warm and sun splashed, the sky as blue as your infant eyes. Trees were beginning to leaf out, daffodils and tulips bloomed, the hillsides were awash in golden mustard flowers. After four days in the hospital the world was simply aglow!

After what seemed like an eternity I finally pulled the Saturn station wagon into our driveway. You were still fast asleep in your car seats which mom and I unhooked and carried inside. Friends of ours had left a bag of groceries in the entryway which came in handy later that day as neither of us had energy to prepare a meal. Your crib was in our room. We gingerly laid you down then crawled under the covers of our deliciously comfy bed, our sleep deprived bodies grateful for its warmth and familiarity. We were home. We were together. We were a family.

Love,

Dad