Mag-log inDay thirty.One month. Lyra and Damon are one month old today.I say it out loud three times because my brain doesn't believe it. One month since mirror day. One month since naming day. One month since butterfly chains. One month since I became a mother of two and not one and learned how to hold two heads with one arm.I woke up this morning and they were different. Not just size — yes, Caelum measures every day with his old string, he has marks on the PackHouse wall, thirty kids, fifty wolves, now two grey lines that grow every morning — but faces. Faces change when you are one month old.Lyra's white-grey fuzz is darker now. Not white anymore, more stone-grey, like morning fog over the farm when Dee & Ensley took us to Mureru Farm in Nyeri County. Her grey eyes are sharper. Judge stare stronger. Yesterday she held a stare for a whole minute. A whole minute. She stared at Nia, and Nia — Nia who never looks away — she looked away first. Elara timed it on Luna's cracked watch."Sixty-
Day twenty.Lyra and Damon were twenty days old and had learned drama.Not crying drama. They had that since day one. New drama. Performance drama. Look-at-me drama.Lyra discovered that if she does her high chirp and scrunches her white-grey fuzz just right, everyone drops everything. Elara will stop eating carrots. Hope will stop guarding. Kai will stop being alpha and become soft dad. Even fifty wolves will stop patrolling and come to window.Damon discovered that if he punches air, then pretends to be sad that air punched back, then does gummy smile, Luna will cry and give him extra holding time.Maya said, "They are Grey. Of course they are drama. Their mother ran away from PackHouse at eight months pregnant and delivered twins screaming. Drama is genetic."I was offended, but also, she was right.We were in blanket nest, morning light, me trying to drink tea that Number 2 made that was more milk than tea because "mama needs milk to make milk." Lyra was on my left, wearing her wh
Two weeks old.Lyra and Damon were two weeks old and had discovered they have hands. Not just fists for punching air. Hands that grab. Everything. Hair, carrots, noses, each other.Maya said this is normal. "Grey pups discover hands, then they discover world is theirs to grab," she said.So we made them chains. Not real jewelry. Too small for real jewelry. But Elara and Hope insisted, because I got a butterfly chain in the garden photo and they said it was unfair if only Mama gets butterflies.Caelum carved two tiny butterflies from soft wood, sanded until smooth, no sharp edges. One white-grey wood, one black-grey wood. Luna sewed them onto soft string, string long enough that it wouldn't choke, short enough that it wouldn't tangle. Nia touched them with white light, not for magic, just for blessing."Butterfly for balance," she whispered. "Same as your mama."We put them on.Lyra — white-grey butterfly on white string — stared at hers like she knew it was hers. She didn't grab it. S
Week one done.Lyra and Damon were seven days old. Seven days of no sleep, all milk, all howls, all blanket nest. Seven days of Elara and Hope fighting over who gets to burp who. Seven days of Pip asking if they can eat cake yet. (No, Pip. Not yet.)Maya said I had to walk. "Grey mother needs air, or milk goes sad," she said, which might be science or might be Maya making up rules again.So we walked. First walk since birth. First walk as four.Not far. PackHouse porch to forest edge. That's it. But Kai treated it like we were crossing mountains. He had Lyra strapped to his chest in a wrap Elara and Luna made from old curtains — white-grey wrap, of course — and I had Damon in black-grey wrap. Elara and Hope held each side of me like I might fall, even though I wouldn't.Fifty wolves lined the path. Not howling. Just watching. Guarding."They think we will drop them," Kai whispered, gold eyes scanning trees like danger would come from a leaf."We will not drop them," I whispered back,
Day four of four.Tradition says: Day one and two, pack gives names. Day three, mother rests. Day four, pack gives promises.I had not rested on day three. No one lets a mother of twin Grey pups rest. Lyra decided she only sleeps if she is on Elara's chest. Damon decided he only sleeps if he is on Hope's chest, or my chest, or Kai's chest, but never alone, never in the basket Caelum carved that was supposed to be perfect.So day three was musical chairs with two babies who already run the house.Now day four. Promise Day. My favorite and my most hated tradition.PackHouse was full again. Not just 30 kids and 50 wolves. Everyone. Luna, Aria, Vex, Caelum, Maya, Nia, Number 2 with TWO cakes this time — one white frosting, one black frosting, both with grey swirls, he remembered — and Pip with a new list.PROMISE LIST FOR LYRA AND DAMON GREY, the cardboard said. He spelled PROMISE wrong, but we all knew.I was in the blanket nest, finally wearing a clean shirt that wasn't covered in milk
Day two of four.Lyra and Damon were 24 hours old and already had a waiting list.Not a cute, little list. A real, written-on-cardboard-by-Pip, taped-to-PackHouse-fridge list that said in wobbly crayon:HOLDING LIST FOR LYRA AND DAMON GREY1. Elara and Hope (ALREADY DONE) (SISTERS PRIVILEGE)2. Maya and Nia3. Caelum (has clean hands)4. Luna (will cry but okay)5. Vex and Aria (if they promise not to be scary)6. Number 2 (if he brings cake again)7. Everyone else8. Pip LAST because he fell off chair yesterdayFifty wolves were not on the list. They were offended. They sat outside the bedroom door, whining.I was propped up in the blanket nest, finally able to sit without feeling like my body would split in half. Lyra was on my left, swaddled in white that Elara had picked. Damon was on my right, swaddled in black that Hope had picked. Both grey in the middle. Both staring at nothing and everything with those new eyes that couldn't focus but somehow saw everything.Kai was standing







