If I’d had one baby this time, I would have felt like the veteran mom I think I am. I know newborns. I know the sleep deprivation and what it does to you after a few weeks. I know how to read a cry, how to settle a fussy baby, how to exist in the fog without drowning in it. By baby four I’d figured out how to still be a person while being someone’s whole world. Two babies at once is a different equation entirely. It’s not that I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s that there are two of them and there is one of me and the math doesn’t resolve cleanly no matter how experienced you are. Leaving the house with twins — especially early on, especially when breastfeeding both on demand with no schedule — felt genuinely crippling. Not anxiety in a diagnosable way. Just the specific weight of calculating: what if one is hungry when we’re not home. What if both are hungry at the same time. What if I need to nurse in public with two babies and no second set of hands. The answer to all of those q...