This is why.
“I think one of the best things about this book is that it reminds a new or expecting mom of multiples that she’s not alone. That the feelings and thoughts and experiences are normal and others have been there, done that. The stories are full of humor and hope and perspective. There’s practical advice and tips. There’s all kinds of things new moms don’t even consider about raising two (or more!) babies at once. ~Natalie Hoage, Mommy of a Monster and Twins
We are beyond honored that the book reviews of our book Multiples Illuminated: A Collection of Stories and Advice From Parents of Twins Triplets and More have all been wonderful so far.
Have you bought a copy yet? If you need further persuasion, read these reviews from parents of multiples and non-multiples.
Jennie of A Lady in France loved the selection of stories, how well the editing was (such a great compliment!), and she thought that the writing was stellar.
Lisa of Mom on the Side said that she would have loved this book when she was pregnant with twins.
Leigh Ann of Genie in a Blog feels that this book is a great way to help parents of multiples feel connected and say, “Me too!”
Keely of Lollygag Blog who has twin sisters recommends our book as a compelling read!
Joanna of Motherhood and Merlot felt a flood of emotions as she read the book, having just welcomed boy/ girl twins less than a year ago.
Nikki of Rushed Mommy loves that the book is encouraging, gives parents of multiples the full scoop and has a great sense of humor.
Alexandra of Good Day, Regular People loves that we are creating a community for parents of multiples.
Janine of Confessions of a Mommyholic is a mom of two girls only a year apart and she can still relate to our book!
Still not convinced? Here’s an excerpt of Outplan, an essay by Jackie Pick which you will LOVE.
A resident crammed into the room to perform a tenth cervical exam, which was free because I got my card punched after the first nine. “You’re already five centimeters,” she paused and made a face. “I just felt a foot.” I assume she meant one of the babies’, but I’m no expert in anatomy. “Yep, you just delivered a foot and ankle. We have to get these babies out. Now.” I was wheeled from the laboring room to the impossibly more crowded operating room, where all multiples were delivered.
It was time for my doctor to arrive, the one who knew my history, my barfing-on-the-table phobia, my babies, and my tendency to make terrible jokes when I’m nervous. However, she’d been called out of town, so her partner, whom I’d never met, snapped on her gloves and stepped in. I introduced myself to her with as much dignity as I could muster while naked and hunching over a nurse so I could receive my epidural in this excruciatingly well-lit space.
Once the epidural hit, I had space in my own body again. I watched, immobilized except for my uncontrollable shakes, as my twins’ medical teams came in. It was standing room only, and soon enough two more little people would join us.
You may be asking yourself, as I was in very colorful language, where my husband was. He was the only person within a four-mile radius not in this reverse-clown car of a room. Like every first-time father, he was off getting a sandwich, having heard from his medically reliable poker buddies that first births can take upwards of seven weeks. A nurse was dispatched to find him.
Finally, my husband was shoved in the room by what I assume was a Japanese subway packer. I asked him if he’d washed his hands. The doctor gave a pity laugh, at which my husband jumped.
“Hi, Charlie,” said the beautiful young doctor, her eyes blazing from behind her mask. Ever the bright one, I asked, “Do you know each other?” I could tell by the way my husband shifted in his shoes that they shared quite a history.
I made a mental note to cross “Have husband’s ex-girlfriend take a gander at my privates while she removes two babies from my bulging midsection” off my bucket list. Visions of a wonky C-section scar that spelled out “he never called me back” flashed before my eyes.
By the time the doctor uttered the words, “You’re going to feel some tugging,” Baby A was out. Who was that squirmy little mole rat they were holding up? They held him up to me for approval, like a bottle wine. “Cute,” I said, not entirely convinced, but he was my mole rat and I loved him.
Baby B followed two minutes later, with no cry. It was the first of a lifetime of worried moments. He was whisked off for oxygen and brought back moments later, pink and confused. I nuzzled my two little mole rats. “Hello,” I said. “Remember it’s your birthday, because some day, 400 people will ask you.”