Last year this time, I was in New York with a fresh needle wound from the first shot of my in-vitro fertilization cycle. I was trying to be thankful for a wonderful husband, a promising job that fit my talents and general happiness with life despite the ache of not yet being pregnant and having to endure IVF at all. That was a difficult balance. It was even worse to battle such inner turmoil while wearing the permanent smile-face of holidays with in-laws who didn’t know or necessarily understand anything about me or anything I might be feeling. Empathy from outside of the infertility circle is hard to come by even after the explanations of why and how.

But. I. Survived.

And I came out with a story to tell happily ending with a real live Rufus and Reefus, born exactly three months, two weeks and three days ago. Even as I listen to them sleep in their cribs (for only the third freaking day ever FINALLY), it’s unbelievable that they actually exist way beyond a couple groups of dividing cells, a collection of heartbeats captured in a whirlwind doctor’s visit or even the invisible sources of discomfort in the late hours of labor. Ready or not (with emphasis on the NOT), they’re here.

Their presence means:

– I’m up at 5:43 a.m., having just nursed the boy for the third time this hour with him now wanting to play. (Grrr, boy, go to sleep!)

– I contemplate daily cutting my hair to a low fade to avoid looking a hot mess. (My stylist’s feelings will be so hurt.)

– I haven’t slept more than four hours at a time since a week before I delivered. (I’m done with the “I’m tired” complaints of my childless friends, BTW.)

– I ate Thanksgiving dinner with a baby on my lap, having cooked a minimal spread with another on my hip.

– I’m incredibly isolated from the civilized world most days and evenings and often lonely because of my husband’s work hours.

– This is life as I now know it with no end in sight.

Yet this year, even with all of that, I’m not superficially thankful with a veneer over the potentially heavy burdens of new motherhood. Instead, I’m overwhelmingly humble for the greatest gifts since salvation and welcoming of the collective discomforts that my babies bring. I can’t say I don’t complain — I do because, well, this crap is hard — but the comfort of this new family is greater than the discomfort of feeling it would never happen. This is true every day all day with baby giggles, smiles and developmental skills that put icing on the cake (which I can eat worry-free with the calorie burning of nursing). And I’m nothing but thankful for that. I’m also thankful for the smallest hope that led me to this point, the prayers of the people around me, those who remain to share in our children’s lives and to God, who made it all possible.

Recognizing that things didn’t have to work out in my favor has made every day with the twins a day of thanksgiving, regardless of what the calendar says. To those whose struggle continues, try to know that my heart is with you. Happy Thanksgiving (give or take four or five days. Sue me; I’ve got twins).