A very Merry Christmas to all our blogging friends!
12.19.2012
Merry?
True to form, little sister shied away from the bearded stranger while big brother eagerly comforted and reassured Santa that she was "just shy."
A very Merry Christmas to all our blogging friends!
A very Merry Christmas to all our blogging friends!
11.11.2012
Sweet Sunday
One of the million reasons why I love Sunday afternoons...
Turns out she loves tights and ditched her church dress to wear the stockings like pants for the rest of the day.
11.01.2012
The Sugar Crash
If you are like me, you are going through sugar deprivation after weeks of candy corn and tootsie rolls for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Try this for a little sweet happy instead...
There could not be a more perfect holiday for this little lady who changes her clothes every three hours and goes crazy without a daily sugar fix.
She landed on a vampire costume at the last second after seeing Hotel Transylvania, and giggled every time I called her Mavie-wavy (see the movie, you'll thank me—fun for all ages). Before that, she wanted to be a pink spider, then a bat, then an Ugly Doll, then a bat again, then a ghost.
From the clothes to the sweets to the indecision, she takes after me in every facet of her personality, and we daily alternate between besties and fisticuffs. So I should not have been surprised when last night's sweet little trick-or-treater, who preferred to hold my hand rather than run ahead with friends and was fine heading inside to pass out candy after just one street, conversely screamed at me all morning because I was "choosing everything wrong" (her clothes, her breakfast and a cartoon). That she also snuck a piece of candy from her pumpkin bucket, left the telltale candy lips and sticky finger smears on her shirt, and then immediately replied "Porter told me to eat it!" when I asked what was in her mouth shouldn't have been any more surprising, but it somehow made me an hour late for work. She is not a quick learner when it comes to discipline. (Turns out—to no great surprise—her big brother, who was deep in his Phineas and Ferb joke book and still had minty fresh toothpaste breath, had no idea what she was talking about.) And yet, my heart swells every time I look at this cheesy little grin.
She's a trick, but a treat.
There could not be a more perfect holiday for this little lady who changes her clothes every three hours and goes crazy without a daily sugar fix.
She landed on a vampire costume at the last second after seeing Hotel Transylvania, and giggled every time I called her Mavie-wavy (see the movie, you'll thank me—fun for all ages). Before that, she wanted to be a pink spider, then a bat, then an Ugly Doll, then a bat again, then a ghost.
From the clothes to the sweets to the indecision, she takes after me in every facet of her personality, and we daily alternate between besties and fisticuffs. So I should not have been surprised when last night's sweet little trick-or-treater, who preferred to hold my hand rather than run ahead with friends and was fine heading inside to pass out candy after just one street, conversely screamed at me all morning because I was "choosing everything wrong" (her clothes, her breakfast and a cartoon). That she also snuck a piece of candy from her pumpkin bucket, left the telltale candy lips and sticky finger smears on her shirt, and then immediately replied "Porter told me to eat it!" when I asked what was in her mouth shouldn't have been any more surprising, but it somehow made me an hour late for work. She is not a quick learner when it comes to discipline. (Turns out—to no great surprise—her big brother, who was deep in his Phineas and Ferb joke book and still had minty fresh toothpaste breath, had no idea what she was talking about.) And yet, my heart swells every time I look at this cheesy little grin.
She's a trick, but a treat.
10.12.2012
It's Here.
It's here.
It's here and I am not ready. I thought I was, but I'm not. I don't know how to account for the past year, and I had hoped by now that I would. But it's here, so here I sit on a couch in the dark just as I sat one year ago, wishing time would just stop. Because it's here and I'm not ready. Because there really is no great way to adequately mark a birth day that never was and the year of unimaginable firsts that followed.
I have a million times replayed the life I thought I'd have each day of the past 365, contrasting it against the one I've got and imagining what each and every day would have held, if only.
It's here and I'm not ready, but here it is all the same. And while I wish this day had no reason to be different than any other, there is so much I want to remember from the year I'd just like to forget. So I write, because that's what I do when I don't know how to think about something...
Just seconds before my OB turned away from the ultrasound screen, I remember thinking, He has to tell me that he can't find a heartbeat. I had seen the screen where my boys sat silently; I knew what he knew.
He didn't need to say anything at all; his face gave it away — genuine sympathy mixed with something else, something very telling from someone who has seen this before: a quick glimpse in one small grimace of all that is to come.
"Oh sweetie, I am so sorry. They're gone."
My brain was racing, though I didn't move and didn't know what to say, so I sat: quiet.
I was so quiet, that after a minute, my doctor asked me if I understood what that meant. I understood. But all I could think was nothing and everything all at once. So I sat there, quiet, while my brain whirred on.
Finally, after staring at my toes for what felt like an awkward amount of time—the toenails I had painted blue for my baby shower just three days before—I noticed both my doctor and the nurse staring at me, waiting for me to say something. And I realized I was supposed to take the lead. So I said, "Are you—"
I stopped. I knew what I wanted to ask, but I didn't want to hear the response. So the three of us just sat there. Me, staring at my blue-is-for-boys toenails, and the doctor and nurse staring at me as I tried to make sense of the unimaginable by playing back the months and weeks and days leading up to what had just become the worst day of my life...
I remember being relieved that Andy wasn't with me, because I didn't want to look at anyone, didn't want to say anything, didn't want to move, and I would have wanted to look at him had he been with me. I would have needed to follow his lead, and I was glad to just sit silent.
I remember thinking it was nice of my doctor to have gently covered my sticky belly with a towel before telling me. I remember thinking it would have been awkward to be laying there bare-bellied while they stared at me and I stared at my toenails.
I remember thinking for a long time about that blue toenail polish. I had bought it to use on one of the babies so that we could tell him apart from his identical brother after they were born—I had read something about that being a good idea. I had the same brand of green toenail polish that Nora helped me pick out tucked in a drawer at home, waiting for the day our boys would turn our world upside down.
I remember thinking that never in a million years could I have guessed that this would be their birthday and that this is how our lives would so change.
And then I remember thinking, But maybe I did.
I reasoned with myself, as I stared at my blue toes, that I had been overly and increasingly paranoid about this pregnancy over the past few weeks. I reminded myself of the braxton hicks that wouldn't end. Of the persistent promptings I'd regretfully ignored to make Andy take my picture, a blissfully unaware, happily round-bellied soon-to-be mom. And of the literally overwhelming joy that washed over me when I felt a strong jab on my left abdomen just two days before. So overwhelming, that even now, I remember it clearly: the last time I felt Benjamin kick.
I remember wondering, if I sat there thinking long enough, would I be able to recall the last time I felt Andrew?
I remember thinking about Andy then. The boys' kicks had just recently become strong enough for anyone besides me to feel. Andy had only felt them move once—a week before—and I felt so sad that I hadn't grabbed his hand and placed it on my belly every moment between then and now. I wondered if his only memory of our boys would be of those jabs and kicks on the Sunday afternoon I spent sorting through boxes of Porter's old baby clothes.
I remember thinking about everything we had already done to get ready for our boys—just in case they came early, as twins often will. And I wondered if I had jinxed them. I remember wondering if I had only put all of the shopping and decorating and celebrating off, would things have turned out differently? Then I remember wondering if I had subconsciously known all along that those seven months would be all the time I'd get as their mom.
I remember thinking about how I put off calling my doctor that morning to ask about the contractions and lack of movement. I had told myself it was because I didn't want to be the crazy lady with a million questions. I had told myself that everything was fine. But even then, I knew I needed to call.
I remember thinking that before, when the nurse had gone to get the first ultrasound machine after the doppler failed to pick anything up on what was supposed to be a quick non-stress test, I had momentarily thought it ironic that I was lying there waiting to hear my babies' hearts beat while I could so clearly hear the heartbeat from the soon-to-be born baby in the delivery room next to me.
And I remember thinking about the prayer I had frantically whispered just 20 minutes before the silence that now surrounded me, after the nurse left the room to get the second, "better" ultrasound machine. It was rushed and felt, even as I said it, like it was too late. I just kept repeating, "Please let them be ok, please let them be ok, please let them be ok." I thought about bargaining in that prayer, but then I thought it weird that I was begging for them to be ok; I was being overly dramatic—of course they were ok, because these kinds of things don't happen to me.
I remember wondering how unlikely the odds must be for someone to naturally conceive identical twins and then to also lose them this far along. Surely, these kinds of things just don't happen, right?
I remember thinking that I had been wrong. How in the world do these kinds of things happen?
I remember thinking a whole lot as the minutes ticked by and my doctor waited for my response. And then I took a deep breath, looked up only to quickly look back down to my blue toenails, and asked, "Are you sure?"
How can 365 days have passed when just one of those days runs on repeat in my head? It's here, and it feels all too similar to that other quiet morning in the dark, willing time to stop while waiting for the sun. And still, I'm not ready.
It's here and I am not ready. I thought I was, but I'm not. I don't know how to account for the past year, and I had hoped by now that I would. But it's here, so here I sit on a couch in the dark just as I sat one year ago, wishing time would just stop. Because it's here and I'm not ready. Because there really is no great way to adequately mark a birth day that never was and the year of unimaginable firsts that followed.
I have a million times replayed the life I thought I'd have each day of the past 365, contrasting it against the one I've got and imagining what each and every day would have held, if only.
It's here and I'm not ready, but here it is all the same. And while I wish this day had no reason to be different than any other, there is so much I want to remember from the year I'd just like to forget. So I write, because that's what I do when I don't know how to think about something...
Just seconds before my OB turned away from the ultrasound screen, I remember thinking, He has to tell me that he can't find a heartbeat. I had seen the screen where my boys sat silently; I knew what he knew.
He didn't need to say anything at all; his face gave it away — genuine sympathy mixed with something else, something very telling from someone who has seen this before: a quick glimpse in one small grimace of all that is to come.
"Oh sweetie, I am so sorry. They're gone."
My brain was racing, though I didn't move and didn't know what to say, so I sat: quiet.
I was so quiet, that after a minute, my doctor asked me if I understood what that meant. I understood. But all I could think was nothing and everything all at once. So I sat there, quiet, while my brain whirred on.
Finally, after staring at my toes for what felt like an awkward amount of time—the toenails I had painted blue for my baby shower just three days before—I noticed both my doctor and the nurse staring at me, waiting for me to say something. And I realized I was supposed to take the lead. So I said, "Are you—"
I stopped. I knew what I wanted to ask, but I didn't want to hear the response. So the three of us just sat there. Me, staring at my blue-is-for-boys toenails, and the doctor and nurse staring at me as I tried to make sense of the unimaginable by playing back the months and weeks and days leading up to what had just become the worst day of my life...
I remember being relieved that Andy wasn't with me, because I didn't want to look at anyone, didn't want to say anything, didn't want to move, and I would have wanted to look at him had he been with me. I would have needed to follow his lead, and I was glad to just sit silent.
I remember thinking it was nice of my doctor to have gently covered my sticky belly with a towel before telling me. I remember thinking it would have been awkward to be laying there bare-bellied while they stared at me and I stared at my toenails.
I remember thinking for a long time about that blue toenail polish. I had bought it to use on one of the babies so that we could tell him apart from his identical brother after they were born—I had read something about that being a good idea. I had the same brand of green toenail polish that Nora helped me pick out tucked in a drawer at home, waiting for the day our boys would turn our world upside down.
I remember thinking that never in a million years could I have guessed that this would be their birthday and that this is how our lives would so change.
And then I remember thinking, But maybe I did.
I reasoned with myself, as I stared at my blue toes, that I had been overly and increasingly paranoid about this pregnancy over the past few weeks. I reminded myself of the braxton hicks that wouldn't end. Of the persistent promptings I'd regretfully ignored to make Andy take my picture, a blissfully unaware, happily round-bellied soon-to-be mom. And of the literally overwhelming joy that washed over me when I felt a strong jab on my left abdomen just two days before. So overwhelming, that even now, I remember it clearly: the last time I felt Benjamin kick.
I remember wondering, if I sat there thinking long enough, would I be able to recall the last time I felt Andrew?
I remember thinking about Andy then. The boys' kicks had just recently become strong enough for anyone besides me to feel. Andy had only felt them move once—a week before—and I felt so sad that I hadn't grabbed his hand and placed it on my belly every moment between then and now. I wondered if his only memory of our boys would be of those jabs and kicks on the Sunday afternoon I spent sorting through boxes of Porter's old baby clothes.
I remember thinking about everything we had already done to get ready for our boys—just in case they came early, as twins often will. And I wondered if I had jinxed them. I remember wondering if I had only put all of the shopping and decorating and celebrating off, would things have turned out differently? Then I remember wondering if I had subconsciously known all along that those seven months would be all the time I'd get as their mom.
I remember thinking about how I put off calling my doctor that morning to ask about the contractions and lack of movement. I had told myself it was because I didn't want to be the crazy lady with a million questions. I had told myself that everything was fine. But even then, I knew I needed to call.
I remember thinking that before, when the nurse had gone to get the first ultrasound machine after the doppler failed to pick anything up on what was supposed to be a quick non-stress test, I had momentarily thought it ironic that I was lying there waiting to hear my babies' hearts beat while I could so clearly hear the heartbeat from the soon-to-be born baby in the delivery room next to me.
And I remember thinking about the prayer I had frantically whispered just 20 minutes before the silence that now surrounded me, after the nurse left the room to get the second, "better" ultrasound machine. It was rushed and felt, even as I said it, like it was too late. I just kept repeating, "Please let them be ok, please let them be ok, please let them be ok." I thought about bargaining in that prayer, but then I thought it weird that I was begging for them to be ok; I was being overly dramatic—of course they were ok, because these kinds of things don't happen to me.
I remember wondering how unlikely the odds must be for someone to naturally conceive identical twins and then to also lose them this far along. Surely, these kinds of things just don't happen, right?
I remember thinking that I had been wrong. How in the world do these kinds of things happen?
I remember thinking a whole lot as the minutes ticked by and my doctor waited for my response. And then I took a deep breath, looked up only to quickly look back down to my blue toenails, and asked, "Are you sure?"
How can 365 days have passed when just one of those days runs on repeat in my head? It's here, and it feels all too similar to that other quiet morning in the dark, willing time to stop while waiting for the sun. And still, I'm not ready.
10.09.2012
The Useful & Beautiful
They say necessity is the mother of invention, and now almost a year out from a real life heartbreak, I am in need of a little reinvention. A year out, still with no babies or even baby bumps to speak of, I am beginning to see that a life devoted to new baby wishes may be my ultimate demise. Consider this post the pre-game show, if you will, to a more thoughtful testimony about the much-needed peace gleaned over a very meaningful weekend. The gist: There is much good to fill this life of mine, if I'll let it.
While mulling that over the past few days, I happened upon an idea that gave my musings some direction:
"Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful."
This little gem was delivered in a lecture given to a room full of artists way back in 1880, entitled "The Beauty of Life," and it speaks to my heart in ways I never knew an old British interior designer could. After a year on grief's soapbox, it has finally hit me: Even in this—especially in this—there is beauty and there is life. And, at least for today, that is what I'm gonna fill my house heart with.
I know I've sung this tune before, but I think it might just stick this time. In a life full of stops and starts, I'm hoping to fill this week with the useful and the beautiful, and to open the next year with a bit more hope to replace some of the longing.
While mulling that over the past few days, I happened upon an idea that gave my musings some direction:
"Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful."
This little gem was delivered in a lecture given to a room full of artists way back in 1880, entitled "The Beauty of Life," and it speaks to my heart in ways I never knew an old British interior designer could. After a year on grief's soapbox, it has finally hit me: Even in this—especially in this—there is beauty and there is life. And, at least for today, that is what I'm gonna fill my
 |
| The ice cream man, not so beautiful, but a traveling van full of treats? Magic. |
I know I've sung this tune before, but I think it might just stick this time. In a life full of stops and starts, I'm hoping to fill this week with the useful and the beautiful, and to open the next year with a bit more hope to replace some of the longing.
10.05.2012
And so it begins
As mid-September hit, I started to wonder if the days and weeks would soon feel any different.
For the most part, with work and kids and friends to fill the silence, time marched on unnoticed, and I began to wonder if the shock of the past year was enough to dull any emotions October may usher in. Until today.
Today, I vividly remember this time last year: a quiet conference weekend planned to accompany the newborn-sized laundry and organizing for a nursery for two little boys we already loved.
Today I want to go back in time and shout at myself to pay attention, to slow down, to take note of every last detail of this final week as a soon-to-be family of six. I want to warn the old me that everything is about to change.
Today, I can't stop thinking about how much I didn't know on this very same day last year.
For the most part, with work and kids and friends to fill the silence, time marched on unnoticed, and I began to wonder if the shock of the past year was enough to dull any emotions October may usher in. Until today.
Today, I vividly remember this time last year: a quiet conference weekend planned to accompany the newborn-sized laundry and organizing for a nursery for two little boys we already loved.
Today I want to go back in time and shout at myself to pay attention, to slow down, to take note of every last detail of this final week as a soon-to-be family of six. I want to warn the old me that everything is about to change.
Today, I can't stop thinking about how much I didn't know on this very same day last year.
8.17.2012
Souvenir
Our best entertainment of the summer, AKA: How to open a coconut...
...nope.
Maybe this?
Or this.
What if we daintily toss a rock at it?
 |
| Yes, he really is that sweet and helpful with his little sister (most of the time). |
Darn. Now what?
Try jumping again, Nora.
What would you do, Mommy? (They so seldom ask this that it bears documenting when it does happen.)
 |
| For the record, I then called my mom to ask her how to do it. |
P.S. The following photo documents P&N's relationship perfectly: him helpful and encouraging, her stubborn and indifferent. He really is a patient kid to put up with his little sister's bossy, hardheaded ways. (The black eye is par for the course for our tiny wrecking ball as well...maybe I should be grateful for that hard head.)
8.16.2012
My Stolen Heart
When Nora was a few months old, I snapped a bunch of pics, one after another, that together showed her personality perfectly. I loved them and had big plans to create a two-page spread in her baby photo book, one photo after another, but two-and-a-half years later when I finally got around to said baby book, a year's worth of baby pictures and the per page charge for the book forced me to pick a favorite and discard the rest to fit everything else in that I loved about my little gal when she was two months old.
I sure hope luck is on my side with page counts in the 2012 family photo book, because I don't think I can choose a favorite of these...perfectly Porter, my sweet little man (don't mind the red popsicle teeth).
I sure hope luck is on my side with page counts in the 2012 family photo book, because I don't think I can choose a favorite of these...perfectly Porter, my sweet little man (don't mind the red popsicle teeth).
8.15.2012
Just Quiet
Please forgive the lapse in posts, and thanks to those of you who have checked in with me, given the lapse in e-chatter.
The short answer:
I spend equal parts of my day with one of two thoughts running through my head—How is this my life? and Babies aside, I love my life. I have no idea how to reconcile these two very conflicting emotions in my own heart, let alone in print for all the world to read. So for now: just quiet but just fine, thanks.
Meanwhile, for those of you who are only in it for the cute kiddie mugs, first day of first grade photos without the witty mom-mentary will be up soon...
The short answer:
I spend equal parts of my day with one of two thoughts running through my head—How is this my life? and Babies aside, I love my life. I have no idea how to reconcile these two very conflicting emotions in my own heart, let alone in print for all the world to read. So for now: just quiet but just fine, thanks.
Meanwhile, for those of you who are only in it for the cute kiddie mugs, first day of first grade photos without the witty mom-mentary will be up soon...
7.16.2012
Home
After a choppy start to our summer, we decided to retool travel plans a bit and simplify. So we have stayed close to home and refocused on our little family of four as I try to come to terms with the idea that we may, for some while yet at least, be just a family of four.
For the record, I adore my family. But it feels like a very real choice (and one I have to make every day) to be present with them rather than lost in daydreams of a future, more complete but wholly uncertain family. At home in our quiet little town seemed like an easier place to come to grips with reality than it may have been if we were gallivating around new places full of new daydreams.
And though there have been moments of guilt and frustration at the "boring" summer, it has been nice to rediscover home after a very stressful, busy, downright crazy year.
Home:
Happy at home with just one month of summer left. To be continued...
For the record, I adore my family. But it feels like a very real choice (and one I have to make every day) to be present with them rather than lost in daydreams of a future, more complete but wholly uncertain family. At home in our quiet little town seemed like an easier place to come to grips with reality than it may have been if we were gallivating around new places full of new daydreams.
And though there have been moments of guilt and frustration at the "boring" summer, it has been nice to rediscover home after a very stressful, busy, downright crazy year.
Home:
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| Our perfect summer night (followed by popsicles). |
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| His first "catch". |
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| Porter's choice. |
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| And my one-week compromise. |
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| Dancing with the approaching drill team. |
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| Why yes, that is a knockoff Lightning McQueen. |
Happy at home with just one month of summer left. To be continued...
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