Two Years of Oak and Ash: A Birthday Letter for My Twins
This month, my boys will turn two. Two years old! I can hardly write that without feeling a mix of awe, gratitude, and a kind of disbelief. In some ways, it feels like they’ve been here forever. In other ways, it feels like I blinked and the tiny boys who once fit in the crook of my elbow have become sturdy, joyful toddlers who barrel through the house and into each other.
Their story began earlier than it should have, as many twin deliveries do. My high‑risk OB told me the best‑case scenario for the boys was for me to make it to 32 weeks gestation or longer. I carried them to 34 weeks, which at the time felt like its own accomplishment, but in retrospect feels like something close to miraculous. I didn’t know I had kidney cancer then. I didn’t know my body was fighting a battle behind the scenes while also growing two babies who shared a placenta. I only knew I was exhausted. I was too tired to walk through Target with Lily without stopping to rest over and over, breathless from emptying the dishwasher, and preparing for their arrival in short, determined bursts as I could manage. I assumed this was just the twin pregnancy experience.
When they arrived, small but healthy, I remember feeling both relief and fear. Relief that they were here, breathing, crying, pink and strong. Fear because the NICU is a world no parent imagines stepping into. There were three teams in my delivery room: one for me and one for each baby. As they were delivered, they were briefly shown to me and whisked away to another floor to the NICU and I since was on bed rest for 24 hours so I could not even go see them. I stayed in bed, hooked up to multiple IVs and medications and had to tell the nurses the names for “Baby A” and “Baby B” without having met them. I sent my dad to take pictures of them and hold them. It was unimaginable.
They spent four weeks there. They had so many monitors and pieces of life‑sustaining equipment that it was impossible to snuggle them for skin-to-skin time without asking a nurse for help every time. Most of their care was just breathing and feeding support but that didn’t make the separation easier. The NICU allowed parents to stay overnight in the room with their babies, but I couldn’t. I had to come home to Lily every night.
And then, a couple of weeks after delivery, I was finally able to plan to spend the night with them but that day I came down with a cold and was unable to visit for ten days. It was the longest ten days of my life. All I could do was ask the nurses to FaceTime them for me, which they did, graciously and often. I waited for daily phone call updates from their doctors. I had to take notes to keep everything straight.
And now, two years later, I look at them and see none of that fragility. I see strength. I see curiosity. I see two boys who have outgrown every expectation placed on them. Everything I read about preemies in those early days felt terrifying: long‑term delays, lifelong challenges, developmental hurdles that might never fully resolve. I remember reading those articles late at night, my heart sinking, wondering what their futures would look like.
But here’s the truth I want to say out loud, for myself and for any parent reading this who has walked the preemie path: those statistics are not destiny.
Oak and Ash are thriving. They are big, healthy, and full of life. They’ve graduated from occupational therapy and cranial remolding and no longer qualify for any developmental services. They run, climb, babble, laugh, and explore with the same energy and determination as any toddler their age. In some cases, I see them hitting milestones earlier than their full‑term sister Lily did. And every time I notice that, I feel this quiet swell of gratitude…not because milestones are a competition, but because it reminds me how far they’ve come.
I didn’t know then that I had cancer. I didn’t know that my body was carrying more than babies. Looking back, I understand why 34 weeks felt like the edge of what I could manage. My body was doing everything it could to keep them safe while also trying to keep me alive. When I finally learned the truth just months after delivery, I realized just how much strength was required of all three of us. It WAS a miracle.
Two Years of Becoming
Now, at almost two, Oak and Ash are full of personality. Oak is thoughtful, observant, and quietly clever. He watches first, then acts with surprising confidence. He was barely walking when he figured out how to latch (not lock) the baby gate and keep his brother away from him for a minute. Ash is bold, determined, and endlessly curious. Climbing, exploring, testing boundaries with a spark in his eyes. When he acts up, he gives the sweetest grin to make your heart melt. Together, they balance each other in a way that feels almost poetic.
They adore their big sister Lily. They follow her around the house, mimic her movements, and light up when she enters the room. They’re all just now big enough to play together and it warms my mama heart.
And as their second birthday approaches, I find myself reflecting on how far we’ve all come. Not just the boys, but me too. I survived cancer. I survived the fear of the unknown. I survived the NICU, the sleepless nights, the constant worry that comes with being a preemie mom. And now, I get to watch my boys thrive.
For the Parent Reading This Who Has a Preemie
If you’re reading this and you’ve had a preemie (or multiple preemies) I want to speak directly to you for a moment.
I know the fear.
I know the late-night Googling.
I know the way your heart clenches when you read statistics or predictions that feel too heavy to carry.
I know the way you watch your child, wondering if they’re keeping up, wondering if you’re doing enough, wondering what the future will look like.
I also know this: preemies are resilient in ways that defy explanation.
They are strong.
They are determined.
They are wired with a kind of grit that comes from fighting for every ounce gained, every breath taken, every milestone reached.
Your child’s beginning does not define their entire story.
Your child’s challenges do not predict their limitations.
Your child’s timeline does not have to match anyone else’s.
Oak and Ash taught me that. They taught me that growth can be slow, then sudden. That progress can be quiet, then astonishing. That the things we fear most often never come to pass. And that sometimes, the children who start out the smallest become the ones who surprise us the most.
The Joy of Watching Them Grow
Every day with Oak and Ash feels like a reminder of what is possible. They run through the house with boundless energy, their laughter echoing off the walls. They stack blocks with concentration and dance whenever music plays. They are loud, messy, joyful, and full of life.
They love books, especially the ones with flaps. They yell “mouse” at the TV when Mickey comes on. They love being outside, touching leaves, picking up rocks, and pointing at birds. They love each other, even when they’re wrestling over the same toy.
Looking Ahead
As their second birthday approaches, I feel a mix of nostalgia and excitement. I miss their tiny newborn snuggles, but I also love who they are becoming. I love the way they run into my arms. I love the way they say “Mama” with confidence now. I love the way they fill our home with energy and warmth.
I don’t know what the next year will bring, but I know this: they will meet it with strength. They always have.
And I will meet it with gratitude; for their health, for their growth, for the chance to watch them become exactly who they are meant to be.
A Wish for Their Birthday
If I could give Oak and Ash one wish for their second birthday, it would be this: may they always know how strong they are. May they always feel the love that surrounded them from the beginning. May they always carry the resilience that was woven into their story before they even took their first breath.
And may they always remember that their early, unexpected, and imperfect beginnings were only the first chapter of something beautiful.