The PB & J Books Project

Okay, my dear followers and folks that stumble into my blog by accident. It's been many months since I last posted.

That is, in part, because I've been focused on doing something significant.

You see, several months ago, I approached my husband about the book donation we do every year on the twins' birthday. It had started with just us, delivering a few books we personally bought. The next year, a few friends and even a total stranger pitched in. And it got me thinking...

What if we do this as a legit charity?

Our goals are basically this:
We provide donated baby books (new board books) to maternity wards and NICUS, in loving memory of our twins, to encourage bonding, to promote literacy, and to help build precious memories.

I posted about my plans on Facebook, and the feedback and support was positive and swift.

I got to work making a logo and a Facebook page to share our story and successes.

Now, we're still sorting through all the red tape to make it official (ie: so people and companies can make tax-deductible donations). The IRS wants a lot of information, money, and paperwork to give us the stamp of government approval. So, please, bear with us for that.

In the meantime, people have been sending books and donations anyway. Most people donating $10-20 in money or books, aren't seemingly worried about the tax deduction <3

So, while we fine-tune our mission statement and organize a non-profit from the ground up, we need your support. Please follow us on Facebook and Instagram (@pbjbooksproject). Donate if you can. Tell others about our story, and what we're doing.

I am so grateful to get to do this in honor of my babies.

My Boys

My boys -- the best thing I ever did with my life was being your mother.

When I booked my surgery, I broke down in front of your father and told him I needed to write a letter to you both.. just in case. In some way, this entire blog is a letter to you. Everything chronicled and each of your birth stories shared. But still, nothing directly to you.

In truth, I've been meaning to write this since the day each of you were born. In life, you can never count on tomorrow. I don't have a single memory of your grandfather because he passed when I was so young. That's why I've always been a "say it while you have the chance" kind of person.

And I mean always.

I will never have enough time or space to tell you my entire story. But that's okay. I want you to have your own story. So, I'll start by narrowing in on how I loved.

Oh, bless those poor boys I loved in high school. If you've read my blogs now, you can imagine what my notes of confessed love were like. Teenage love is a beast all its own, after all. Heart always on my sleeve. Songs that reminded me of them were constantly played on repeat. So.many.tears. I even wrote, and the school actually produced, a play about one such fella during a very dramatic point in time.

In other words, when I love somebody, they know it. In my words and in my actions. Not a hint of ambiguity.

And I have never regretted being that way a day in my life.

Because when I love, it's with every molecule in my body. Swift, powerful, and never-ending. You can't cage that kind of love -- and you should never want to.

Nothing was different when I fell for your father. I could fill books with the stories of us. Beautiful chaos.

You'll see movies and read novels about utter heartbreak followed by immeasurable love. Those stories don't even compare to what we had.

Ours was a love so strong it felt like gravity had changed. As if we got too close to the sun, the sun may not survive the encounter.
The kind of love that has you dancing in the rain, standing for hours on your beloved's doorstep, and a first kiss that elevates your soul.

If you can only learn one thing from me and my life, let it be this. That kind of love exists, and I lived it. If I never feel anything more, that was enough.

Love like that whenever you get the chance. Without fear. Unapologetic. With every part of you.

But if you want to go the extra mile (always go the extra mile) here are a few more words of wisdom --

As I'm attempting to do now, never leave things unsaid. Even if you're afraid. Even if your words could tear everything apart. Even if you must whisper -- say what needs to be said.

Don't let a person's single mistake make you forget everything they've done right.

Forgive as much as you can bear.

Choose your friends wisely. They should inspire and lead you towards positive growth. If they don't, find new friends.

Not every friend or lover will stay around. That doesn't make them a regret. Learn from them and your shared time. Thank them, even if silently, for the lesson.

Try. I don't care much if you "succeed," but give anything worth doing an honest try.

Most of life is trial and error. Don't fear the errors. That's when the most learning happens.

Be heard. Your opinions are valid.

Stand up for yourself, those you love, and especially those without a voice.

Listen. People often just want to be heard. Do them the favor.

Be kind. It's so easy to reciprocate. The challenge is, in the shadowy parts of life, amongst the bitter and angry -- to still be kind.

Catch snowflakes.. and fireflies.

Don't bully. Address your insecurities.

Be a hero, even your own when necessary.

Show up. Show up for others. Show up for yourself.

Keep real, printed pictures around. I should look young and cute in the ones of me.

Be funny. People always remember the person that could make them laugh.

Eat your vegetables.

Be smart. I don't mean calculus and biology (but your mama was a bit of a nerd, so that's okay too). I mean, keep your wits about you. Be aware. Make good decisions. And when you learn something was a bad decision, be wise enough not to do it again -- unless it was a lot of fun and totally worth it.

People will fail you. Remember that you've probably failed them too.

Know where your scars came from.

Wear sunscreen.

Love won't hurt you. But people that don't know how to love will.

Dance. Anywhere and everywhere. With abandon.

Act like a child sometimes. It's good for the soul.

Remember where you started, but know it has no bearing on where you may go.

Be you. Be proud of your uniqueness.

When presented with the option, always get extra guacamole.

Very few things in this life are black and white. Don't judge the grey areas until you've lived them.

Keep your promises.

Take risks. Jump from an airplane, at least once.

Make your own rules. But be prepared to throw them out.

Be happy. Everything you need for a happy life already resides inside you.

Finally, when you have/adopt/mentor a child, write them a letter like this. Tell them that you learned to do that from your mother.

Now, I know this letter can never make up for the moments and milestones I might miss. But the one thing I do know is that I loved you enough to last a lifetime -- yours.

You may not be able to recognize it every minute of every day.. but the moment you were born, a lifetime of love arrived with you.

Each of my babies brought an abundance of love from the depths of me. More far-reaching than I'd ever imagined.

I had dreamed of you. I begged the universe for you. I wept for you. I carried you. And I loved you. Every finger and toe, down to every eyelash.

Like the marrow in your bones, my love for you will live on wherever you go.

When the birds chirp outside the window. When the fields dance in the wind. When the sky burns red before nightfall. When snow collects on frozen branches. When the stars peak through the clouds. When waves crash against the shoreline. When seeds are sown. My love is there.

Whether my time comes today, or years from now, you can find me where the wild things are.

Now go be wild things.

Love, your Mama

Grief

Grief is such an appropriate word. It feels how it sounds. The way it churns in the back of your throat -- almost from the gut. It starts to flow out with a sigh, but gets caught up and trapped at the very end.

Two years ago, June 21st was the due date for my babies. And this week, the grief has been hitting me like colossal waves. Leaving me struggling to catch my breath.

Had my first pregnancy gone as planned, I would have my little girl and little boy here. We would be celebrating their second birthdays. A big party with family, I'm sure. Tearing into gifts and eating cupcakes to their hearts' content.

They'd end up with their toys strewn about the living room. I'd have one on each knee, or laying in bed with one on each side, as I read them a goodnight story. But they'd be wired from their big day, so I'd be using my 'mom voice' to tell them to stop picking at each other or to stop giggling and go to sleep.

And damn it, it hurts that it's not that way.

I wish I could say it's gotten easier. It hasn't.

Oh, my babies... I still fall apart in the shower, drowning in thoughts of you. I choke back tears every time I see a set of twins. I have to hold my breath if I hear your names. I often find myself wrapped in a feeling of emptiness -- like the day we went home without you.

Nothing can fix a mother's grief.

I see you in your brothers, but they can't replace you, nor will they ever be burdened with that impossible task. Having them doesn't make me hurt any less. It doesn't unbreak my heart. I just love them with all the pieces I can muster.

I was forever changed the day we saw two heartbeats on that screen. And nothing could have prepared me for holding you just long enough to say goodbye.

I remember.

I remember not expecting to be able to even meet you.
I remember the nurse carefully handing each of you to me, after her amazement that you both had a heartbeat.
I remember weeping.
I remember staring down at your tiny faces and translucent skin -- still too young to open your eyes.
I remember your mouths opening as you tried so hard to keep breathing.
I remember your arms and legs squirming as I held you.
I remember the tears on your father's face.
I remember, out of nowhere, feeling a sense of calm. That I just wanted you to feel safe and loved during those minutes with me.
I remember the last time the nurse put her stethoscope to your chests, and told me you were gone.

I wanted to go with you.

Now, I do my best. I try to keep your memory alive for others. I try to share the strength that you had. I try to help other grieving parents -- so they don't feel so alone. But that day... I wanted to go.

My dear Jasper and Bodhi... I miss you. I ache for you in a way that words can never describe. You are always deep inside me -- my memories of you are as much a part of me as the marrow in my bones. I carry you with me.

Thank you for making me a mother.
Thank you for your strength to meet me -- to stay with me awhile.
Thank you for those minutes. Too short, but long enough to let me love you with all of mine.

You are never forgotten.

The Things That Shape Us

The last couple weeks have been a whirlwind of worry, a near-constant sinking feeling, and lots of tears.

Both boys needed 100% of me at the same time.

First, Paxton had his 1 year check-up. His milestones seemed to be okay. Not great, but okay. And we all know kids kind of move through them at their own pace. I, nor his pediatrician, were at all concerned.. until she noticed his head circumference. Yes, it's big. Off the charts kind of big. And it has been since birth. But instead of plateauing along with the growth chart, his just kept a steadily increasing line. So, to be safe, she ordered an MRI to check for any fluid or pressure on the brain. She informed me that because of his age, he would have to be put under to get clear images.

My heart sank.

It was scheduled for last Wednesday (3/23).

While waiting for the MRI appointment to come, Greyson had his one month check-up. Pediatrician was concerned about head shape. She had been early on with Paxton too, but instead of just sending us to a specialist for a physical exam, she ordered a CT scan. This indicated to me that she was more concerned than she was with Paxton at the same age. She specifically wanted to check for craniosynostosis (premature fusing of one or more of the skull plates).

As we left that appointment, I let it all show. All my fear. My despair. My overwhelming feeling that enough was enough.

Every emotion was boiling up inside of me.. from the mundane to the extreme. "We can't afford this. We're living basically paycheck to paycheck. MRIs. Neurologists. And what if something is wrong? What if they need surgeries? How far can we travel? You don't have any vacation time. And we can't lose a paycheck. What if something is seriously wrong? These are my boys. My baby boys. They need the best.. but how?"

Then, I got mad. At everything. At the universe.

I cried to Brad, "TWO of our babies died in my arms. Isn't that ENOUGH?! I can't do this. I can't deal with this. They HAVE to be okay!"

And I knew he understood exactly what I was feeling. But the truth is.. I can do this. And I have to deal with it. Nobody else can do it for me.

When your babies need you.. you can do a lot more, and survive a lot more, than you ever knew was possible.

So, first, the MRI.

We were told Paxton could not eat after midnight before the MRI, and the MRI wasn't until 10am or so. So, we were immediately worried about how he would cope with just that. He's a huge breakfast eater, after all. But, he actually did just fine.. with lots of water and apple juice at 7am.

Because of flu restrictions, one of us had to keep Greyson in a waiting area, so only one of us could go back to the prep area with Paxton. It was me. They went through a pile of questions as they had me change him into a gown. Then we waited for anesthesia to come and talk to me and explain each step, risks, how he would likely be when he woke up, and so on.

I felt gutted as I was signing the consent forms. Yes, I know driving the car is actually far more dangerous statistically. But there is no logic when you know you're signing up for an added risk. But, I knew it had to be done.

They allowed me to go back with him while he was sedated. First they put a mask on. He didn't fight it at all. He just looked at me with his big eyes. Staring at me for reassurance. And after a few breaths, he was asleep. They had me kiss him and walk out before they placed the IV.

I headed to the waiting room where Brad was sitting with Greyson. I started to tear up as I explained what it felt like to watch him being put under. Had the waiting room been empty, I'm fairly sure I would have been sobbing. Luckily, it wasn't, so I just took a few deep breaths.

We waited a little over an hour. They came and told me he was waking up. So, I started walking back, expecting his eyes to be open, or at least rustling around in the bed.

Instead, I walked into a dark room, his head was tilted back in a very unnatural position, his eyes were closed, sheets covering his entire body and neck, and the only lighting in the room was the glow from the monitors and a dim light behind his bed. It almost stopped me in my tracks. He looked.. gone. And I was not prepared.

So I stared at the monitors. Watching his heart rate to reassure myself he was alive. The nurse was talking to me, but I was just glancing back and forth between the monitor and his face. Finally, it sunk in that she wanted me to start talking to him.

I started to say his name, and told him that he did so well. His heart rate would climb every time I spoke to him. My baby boy was in there, and he knew his mother's voice. <3

He woke up gradually, but perfectly. They warned me that some kids will scream, cry, have tantrums, etc. Many also get sick when they try to drink or eat after waking. Paxton was chill as always. Woke up, and started sucking down apple juice like no tomorrow. No sign of nausea at all.

So, we were off.

And literally as we were leaving Riley, we got a call that Greyson's CT was scheduled for April 1st, and then we were going to meet with a neurosurgeon at Riley on April 8th. Clearly, my pediatrician was concerned enough to schedule both. I didn't even get a full car ride to process the MRI before I had to worry about the CT for my other child.

So while waiting on the MRI results (we were told it would be 3-4 days), much against common sense, I began to Google everything craniosynostosis. I had briefly researched it when they were worried about Paxton's head shape, but it was a casual look at best. This time, I was bookmarking information, searching for specialists, joining support groups to ask questions. Full panic mode.

By Monday, I was in a downward spiral. Convinced one child would need skull surgery and worried the other was going to have bad MRI results.

Then, on Tuesday morning, I got a call from Riley saying they had a cancellation if we'd like to come in early for Greyson's neuro consult. "We have an opening on the 30th." ("That's tomorrow," I thought to myself.) I informed them the CT wasn't scheduled til the first, so that wouldn't work. Well, their nurse got on the phone and got the scann
 moved up to that day. I literally had three hours notice to get showered, the kids fed, fit in naps, and off we went.

As I walked in with the double stroller, the tech looked a mix of puzzled and amused. "Soooo this one is 5 weeks. How old is this guy?" "Almost 13 months," I replied. She gave me a smirk. "Girrrrlllll. Do you ever sleep?"

One of the staff members occupied Paxton in the hallway while I stayed with Greyson. As the tech was handing me the vest, "Any chance you could be pregnant?" she giggled. Noooooope. I got all vested up and stood by him. But, he didn't need me. He actually started to fall asleep when the machine got loud.

They told me a doctor had to make/review the disk of images, but that they could be picked up later. They would call when it was ready.

A couple hours passed. I spent most of that time pondering if I should try to look at the images when I got the disk. Even if it loaded on my computer, would I have any idea what I was looking at? Would I just worry more?

They finally called, said the disk was ready at the front desk, and then she ended the call with, "Good luck."

Whyyyyyyyyyy did she say that? I immediately was reading into it. "She KNOWS something is wrong. Otherwise she would have just told me to have a nice night."

So, when Brad got home with the disk, I popped it in my laptop. Yes, it opened. No, I didn't know what the hell I was looking at. Yes, some sutures were really obvious and open. Soft spot was there. But clearly, I would have no idea if one suture was fine while another was just starting to fuse. So I closed the computer and tried to make peace with waiting one more day to find out if my littlest was going to need surgery.

As we finished dinner, we got yet another phone call. It was Paxton's pediatrician. She was calling at 7pm, and wanted to be put on speaker phone so we both could hear. "The MRI results came in."

My stomach twisted into a million knots.

"Well, he doesn't have any fluid or pressure going on. That's the good news."

... I hung my head.

"But there are some areas of concern. The MRI did show spots of scar tissue, and evidence of a bleed or stroke."

Tears started to fill my eyes.. This has to be a mistake.

I think she knew my short answers were indicative of me falling apart silently, so she was quick to then reassure us, "I know this all sounds really scary. But I talked to a neurologist at Riley because I didn't understand the results when they arrived, and I wanted to be able to answer your questions. They said these look like old trauma, possibly from birth. (Paxton had coded right after birth) And the reality is that lots of kids may have this, and never get scanned, because they happen to have a smaller head size. Kids brains are able to compensate even better than adults. He may have no issues whatsoever."

We asked a few questions, but since she's just his pediatrician, we knew more complex questions would have to wait. The gist was that there are "small" areas of damage. We don't know if or when we might see any fallout from it. And for now, it's just keeping an eye on him and doing some blood work to make sure there are no clotting issues that would indicate any clotting disorders or risks for stroke.

But before we got off the phone, she noticed Grey's CT results from earlier in the day were in the system. So she opened the report. "No signs of craniosynostosis."

I asked her to read it again.

"I promise. It says he's fine."

I felt torn. Such relief about Grey (though I still wanted the neurosurgeon to confirm), while just starting to process everything with Paxton.

As parents do, we started to assess our own guilt. Brad started to wonder if he passed on a clotting issue, since his mother died from a stroke in her 50s. I began to wonder if I had passed a clot or became too dehydrated prior to birth. What if I hadn't gotten an epidural and pushing went faster?

The what ifs are a flood of self-torture. I tried to quickly quiet those voices.

I began to read up on infant stroke and brain damage during birth. I was surprised to find out that the highest risk for stroke in your lifetime is actually at or near birth. Even without a 'traumatic birth,' just the act of being born is a cause. They estimate it happens to 1 in 3000 to 4000 births. But since many are never tested, it's hard to know for sure.

Then I started diving into all the negative outcomes. More likely to have ADHD, cerebral palsy, seizures... I had to stop. Well, first, I had to break down. Bawl my eyes out. Then, I had to stop.

So, today, we went to Riley with a mix of a bazillion emotions. Part of me still fearing the radiologist was wrong. The other, overwhelmed with the news about Paxton.

I half-jokingly told Brad, "If I start crying, I wonder if she'll look at Paxton's MRI for us.."

I knew she was a surgeon, not a neurologist, but since the specialties overlap, I knew she'd be more adept at reading the results than our pediatrician.

Well, I didn't cry...

Instead, when she asked about family history, I added, "And we just got the MRI results for our other son. We're not sure what to make of it, but it's not great."

"Where was it done?"

"Here at Riley."

"Oh, I'll take a quick peek when I look at Greyson's CT scan."

I didn't tell her we saw the CT results. I wanted her to confirm without any bias. Sure enough, she came back with, "Well, this little guy has no serious problems. Looks like he just prefers to lay on one side, so we'll just watch him and check up in 3 months."

And I wasn't expecting much about Pax, since it was Greyson's appointment, but she did say this: "I did look at the MRI. There's nothing that would require surgery. Nothing I'd get too excited about" (such a surgeon thing to say). She then added, "It shows specks that are underdeveloped," as she held up her hands to gesture that something was tiny, by holding her thumb and finger together as if holding something the size of a Tic Tac. "Really, nothing I'd worry too much about."

And that was it. I knew I'd have to save my questions about long-lasting impact for a neurologist. And I couldn't help but notice she said "specks." So, are these areas smaller than I imagined? And I was reassured, somewhat, that a 'brain' person acted as if she wouldn't worry. But it will be a couple weeks until we can get ALL the details and questions answered.

In the meantime, I'm trying to stay positive. Grey, as of right now, seems to be just fine. Paxton, is standing, playing, giggling, and as of tonight.. learning to use a spoon.

Of course I wonder about the future. And how I'll have to remind myself that even if he is slow to talk, or bad at math, that may just be WHO he is.. and in no way related to any damage.

So, for now, I'll do my job. And my job is to worry.. and to love.

I'm exceeding at both.

Here Is To All The Dads

Here is to all the dads, and most especially the one to my children.

We've now been here with another newborn for a week. Utterly exhausted. In the ER for an incision check, and in the OB office for a second check, then in again for a blood pressure spike. That's on top of two pediatrician appointments. All with an almost one-year-old in tow.

Add in the usual newborn sleeping/feeding schedule. Me being in recovery from surgery (unable to lift our one-year-old) and adapting to new blood pressure meds. Oh, and I can't tell you the number of emotional outbursts and sob sessions I've had since being home. Everything from apologizing for needing so much help, to feeling like my older son is forever emotionally scarred by my inability to hold him, to just crying about everything -- our whole history -- all the injections and tests, the hospitalizations, the twins, ER visits, my changing body, the c-section, future surgeries...

And through it all, he was present. Not just there. Present.

Giving me hugs, wiping my tears, washing bottles, burping the baby, making dinner, changing diapers, entertaining and comforting the one-year-old, losing sleep, giving baths, driving me to every appointment, juggling both kids in waiting rooms. And not one complaint.

I would cry about my body being such a lemon. That I'm somehow 'healthy,' yet something always goes wrong. That I feel like I'm putting too much on him.

He would do nothing but hold me, reassure me we were in this together, remind me how capable and beautiful I am, and then go right back to being a dad.

When so many, by circumstance or choice, don't do the bare minimum, this is a shout out to the dads that go above and beyond.

For their children. For their spouses/partners. In it for the long haul -- no praise required or expected.

I'm married to one of those.

Paxton

Greyson

For all the baby bump kisses and foot rubs.
For fixing/finding anything I craved on any given day.
For all the bedtimes you've read to your children -- even before they were born
For wiping away tears and calming to sleep.
For all the forehead kisses and 3am feedings.
For the shoulder to cry on (for me and the kids).
For your ability to be compassionate, yet strong, whenever the situation requires.
For loving through the dark days.
For showing your sons what commitment means.
And for being the daddy my children deserve.
Thank you.

It is a special gift.. to see the love of your life holding the little lives you've made together.. and knowing it's exactly where he wants to be..

.. even if he'd give anything for a nap.

Beauty In The Greyson

I promised to write about his delivery when I got home, but as I'm rocking him at 4am in my hospital bed, it feels like as good a time as any..

So, I'll go back a little. What follows is pregnancy jargon, so feel free to skip ahead.

A couple weeks ago, I started to show progress/signs of labor after a very uneventful pregnancy. I was 1cm dilated and 50% thinned.

But then, for my next two appointments, nothing changed (unlike last time). So, much to my surprise, my doc briefly mentioned induction. With a history of two severely premature babies, and the other two weeks early, it's just not a conversation you expect to have.

At that same appointment, she offered to sweep my membranes, just to see if it would start something. Since I was still only 1cm, she (and I) didn't have high hopes, but told her to go ahead and try.

By midnight that night, I started my "bloody show" -- which is more mucus than the murder scene it sounds like. Contractions soon followed.

We might be getting somewhere.

But the contractions were 1-2 an hour. It was going to be awhile. So, I tried my hardest to sleep, in hopes that delivery was coming soon.

Morning came, and I started to eat breakfast. Woah. These contractions just kicked up a notch.

"You may want to stay home, dear. I think this is it."

Soon, contractions were 7 min apart, and I felt SURE things were happening. So, we went in.

I felt it was probably on the early side, but you hear about all these uber fast labors that result in a kid born on the toilet at home or the side of the road.

Let's avoid that, shall we?

We got to the hospital around 9am.

"3cm," they said after a quick check.

"Definitely a change from yesterday, but it may just stall. So, walk around and such, and we'll check in another hour."

At this point, Brad left, taking Pax home to the sitter (his cousin). I told him to go ahead because it looked like it'd be awhile..

An hour passes, "3.5 cm. So, a change, but not as much as we like."

They started not-so-subtly suggesting that if things didn't move much faster, they'd be sending me home.

My gut kept saying that was a terrible idea. The contractions were getting quite painful and only 4 min apart. What on Earth was I supposed to wait for if I left?

So, they offered a birthing ball to get things going. I obliged. And while bouncing and rolling, clipboard of consent forms in hand, my water suddenly broke.

Inside, I was thinking, "I tolllld you."

Contractions got intense -- shooting up my thighs and around my back. We weren't in Kansas anymore.

Quick text to Brad. "My water just broke."

Felt like that explained enough ;)

By the time Brad got back, I was a completely different person.

He had left a casual, fun woman -- talking and joking through contractions. He returned to one yelling and taking the deepest breaths possible just to get through.

"You're clearly having a harder time. Let's check you again."

Just 45 min after my last check -- "7 cm."

Whaaaat?! This is happening.

But as I was going through everything in my mind -- "Damn. Still don't get to labor in water," "Am I going to try natural since this went so fast?," and "I'm going to meet my son so soon!" -- everything came to a halt.

"I think he's breech."

This entire time, he'd been perfect on the monitors, and he'd been head down for weeks. But, not today. Not now.

One nurse verified with an ultrasound. Another double-checked.

And with how quickly I was progressing, they worried I'd be at 10cm within 30 minutes. There just was no time to safely try rolling/flipping manuevers.

So, as quickly as my excitement came, it fell out from underneath me.

"You need a c-section, and you need it now."

I immediately cried. I was in shock and utterly terrified.

Everyone around me was running around trying to get lab results and fill out forms. Dressing in gowns. "Would you accept a blood transfusion?" Telling Brad what was about to happen.

I couldn't stop crying as nearly every nurse tried to assure me it would be okay and that I was in good hands.

Brad came to my side, also trying to reassure me. But I saw the fear in his eyes. It was the same fear I felt in my bones.

"If something happens..."  I whispered, "just take care of my babies."

There was silence as a solitary tear fell down my face.

"I love you."

I was starting to get the urge to push as they swiftly wheeled me away. All they told Brad was to put on this surgical attire and that they'd get him in a few minutes.

They wasted no time placing a spinal and raising a sheet to block the view.

I can't adequately describe the battle going on in my head.

"I feel like I'm suffocating (as my chest was numb, breathing didn't feel like a reflex, but a chore)," "Why am I suddenly soooo tired? (found out later they'd given me a good dose of Benadryl to counteract itchiness from the spinal)," "I don't want to sleep through his birth," "If I fall asleep, will I stop breathing?" "Calm down and breathe," "There's Brad. Just look at him," "This feels weird," How long should this take?" "I really, truly feel like I'm dying."

And then I heard him cry.

I still struggled with every inhale, but it didn't matter. My job to get him Earthside was done.

I heard them going over their checklist, and all was well with my baby boy. Come what may, I was immediately filled with pride and love.

Brad, again, found himself pulled in two directions as they invited him over to see his son.

He looked me square in the eyes, "Are you okay?"

I smiled and nodded.

I felt so alone as he left my view, still struggling to breathe, but I wasn't going to let him know. It was his time to be a dad first.

But soon, I was in recovery, doing skin-to-skin, and nursing.

Seemed my time wasn't up just yet. And I felt grateful to the universe for being loaned some more hours, days, months, or maybe years -- to be a mother.

And as I held my baby boy, thinking about how we chose his name many months ago, I couldn't help but smirk to myself.

You see, we picked Greyson for a few reasons.

1) He was the "Grape" in our PB&J
2) His initials are GPS, cause he found his own way here.
And lastly,
3) The beauty and surprises in life exist in the greys. Not the rules, decisions, and plans we naively believe are black and white.
The area between black and white. The grey. That's where life happens.
And in all our black and white plans, our Greyson came along -- changed everything -- and showed us the beauty in surprises.

And his delivery was no exception <3

Born at 1:12pm on 2/19, 8lbs. 2oz, 20 inches.
- Greyson Paul Shilor -

My Valentine

Thanks to "On This Day" on FB, I just read my Valentine post from last year (and just like last year, I'm posting a day early). Not sure I can top it.. 

I mean, I talked about how we met, and how we fell in love -- over and over again. How we have the kind of love that playwrights imagine. What more could I possible add?

Last Valentine's Day, we were exactly one month from my due date (this time, we're exactly two weeks away), so needless to say.. this year has involved a lot of change. Because not only do I get to love you for all the reasons I did before, but now, I get to see you through our son's eyes.

And it's quite a view.

How he giggles when you make faces or blow raspberries. How he lights up when you walk through the door after a long day at work. How he snuggles his face into your chest when he's tired and just wants his dad. -- How he loves you.

And despite all the chaos our little rugrat has brought us, we did some awesome things to celebrate us and everything that got us here.

You set up a surprise picnic (and fire) in our backyard for just a normal date night.

You took me to where you proposed on our dating anniversary.

We announced the gender of our new baby.

But one of my favorite moments of the last year, was standing in the exact spot we stood on our wedding day -- celebrating 5 years of marriage. <3

But these, my love, are just the highlights. There have been countless love notes, slow dances in the living room, tickle fights, and laughing fits. Everything that makes us, US.

I choose you.

Happy Valentine's Day.

And Then There's This

There was something I intentionally left out of yesterday's post about the book donation and the birthday of our twins. I didn't want to get too off-course or somber. But this has been pulling at me ever since.

As I shared, we did visit the original room where I birthed the twins. LDR16.

But I left out a picture I took as we were leaving. The room board. You know the one. The board where they write down your nurse's name, pain levels, approved meds, etc.

I had taken a picture of it when we left the hospital two years ago. Just one of the details of the room I wanted an image of. This was ours, the morning we left, on Jan 28, 2014.

Almost as a reflex, I snapped a picture again yesterday, before even really looking at the board. And as I lowered my cell phone to see the board, I felt sick -- out of breath -- as these words jumped out at me under Today's Plan:

"Mementos. Burial plans."

(blacked out section had a name in quotes, and not knowing if it related to the child/family in a specific way, 
I opted to black it out)

My heart sank as I immediately knew so much about the mother that had just left this room. Her baby, or babies, weren't going home with her either.

And our children shared this single room as their place in the world.

I wanted to find her. To validate everything she was feeling. To give her a look of understanding. To reassure her. To tell her, "You are not alone."

When you left this room numb and in shock. Glancing in the back seat looking for your child -- you were not alone.

When you got home and just stared at your own arms... the arms that held your child, and you imagine them still there. And you touch your belly, feeling so empty, wishing you could feel just one more kick -- you were not alone.

When you curl up in bed, silently screaming and crying from the depths of your soul, hoping that nobody would awaken to see you like that -- you are not alone.

When you blame yourself or your body, and go over a million what-ifs -- you are not alone.

When you fall apart without any warning.. collapsing in the shower, or needing to pull over on your way to work.. and you wonder if the tears will ever stop -- you are not alone.

When you pour yourself into the memorial/burial plans, thinking to yourself how this is the only event you'll ever get to plan for your child -- you are not alone.

When people awkwardly stumble their words around you, and you ignore nearly everyone that offers to "help," -- thinking to yourself that they can't, because they'll never know what this feels like -- you are not alone.

When you struggle to answer questions from strangers, such as, "How many children do you have?" -- you are not alone.

When you get upset at people for asking how you are, but just as upset when they act like you should be over it -- you are not alone.

When you see other children, especially those the same age as yours should be, and wonder if they would sound the same or look the same, or what their favorite cartoon would be -- you are not alone.

When, one day, you have your first genuine laugh since you lost them, and you feel a mixture of hope and guilt -- you are not alone.

I've been there. And some days, I still am.

We belong to the worst club. Mothers that didn't get to know their children. That never got to read to them, calm their fears, teach them about kindness -- to encourage them to dream. We never got to show our children what "home" should feel like.

Ours is a loss of everything that could have been.

But I know, on some level, what you wished for them. What you wanted to tell them. How you ache to hold them again.

You won't recognize me at the grocery store, or in line at the bank...
But you are not alone.

Two Years

The sun has set on your birthday once more.

The candles are lit next to your urns.

Two years ago we met you, and we lost you. Some days, it seems like a lifetime ago, or a fuzzy dream. Others, I relive every detail. Every feeling. Every sound. Every tear.

But your birthdays are always the latter. I can't help but to recall that day with such focus. Knowing you were coming. Not expecting to meet you alive. Holding you in my arms. Saying goodbye. And leaving without you the next morning. Every so often, I even go back and read your birth story -- because I don't want those details to ever fade from me.

At the same time, just like last year, we didn't want to sit home and drown in grief. We need this day to have purpose. So I arranged to, once again, deliver books to the maternity ward at IU Methodist in your memory. Last year, we took just 6 books, all from me and your dad. This year, several people joined our efforts and donated, allowing us to take 20 books.

Last night, as I prepared the books -- wrapping each with ribbon and adding a tag with your names -- it struck me.. "It's almost like I'm wrapping their birthday gifts."

And I'd give anything for that.

When we arrived today, I only had one thing I needed to do at the hospital. Since your little brother is experiencing this trip for the first time, I decided to take his copy of Goodnight Moon with us. As I explained to your dad, "I want to read it to him there... so it can feel like I'm reading to all my children." I didn't even care where it was. I just knew I had to do it somewhere in the hospital.

Immediately upon arrival, we were met by three women who graciously accepted the books, and talked about loss and grief with us. We shared a bit more of your story -- and our story. And proudly gave them the books to hand out to whomever they felt would benefit or enjoy them.

That gesture -- that gift -- was my comfort. Perhaps my only comfort. Knowing that up to 20 other children will have those moments of bonding and quiet with their parents that you were robbed of -- and that they'll have that, in part, because of how much we love you and how much you meant to the world.

During our meeting, I mentioned how much it meant to us last year when were able to visit the labor and delivery area where you were born. Immediately they responded, "We can absolutely do that again." They even asked if I knew the room number where I delivered.

I did. "LDR16"

"I think that one is available."

My heart felt heavy, but I wanted to go in that room more than anything. So we did.

And there was no place more fitting to read Goodnight Moon. I sat on the very couch where your dad had slept (until he crawled in next to me in the hospital bed to comfort me) that night. Not three feet from where you entered, and exited, this world.. I held your baby brother and read. Each page bringing me closer to tears.

Paxton closed the book as I gave him a big kiss. That kiss was for all of you.

And as your dad sat down beside me, reminiscing about that day, I looked around that room -- and every moment came flooding back. I gave myself a minute to cry. But soon, your brother was looking up at me and smiling, making sure I didn't lose myself in grief. But as we left that room, I still felt like I was leaving without you. Like some part of me will always feel like we should be taking you home.

All in all, it was a good day for us. It feels empty to say "Happy Birthday." Yes, it was the day you were born. But it was also the day you left. And the day you made me a mother, and your dad a father... And the day my heart was shattered, but grew tenfold, all at once.

So, I'll just say, I hope we made you proud. Gave our love for you justice. This day was just for the two of you.

We miss you.

Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises, everywhere.

Goodnight Jasper. Goodnight Bodhi.

- Your mother

And if by chance, one of the parents that received a book has found their way here to read this.. be my substitute. My voice. Hold your child and read with them. It helps to make up for the all the chances I've missed. And without ever meeting you, you are helping to heal me, and giving purpose to the lives of my children <3

Goodnight Moon - Continuing to Remember

We're quickly approaching two years since the birth, and loss, of our twins.

As you may recall, last year, we donated a couple sets of board books to the maternity ward at IU Methodist (where they were born). The hospital was especially gracious. We met several members of the staff, were able to tour the ward and visit the room adjacent to where I delivered, and to share the story of our babies. They even interviewed us for their website.

We plan to do the same this year. Though we expect it to be much more low-key -- no interview or tour. Brad and I discussed how important it will be over the years to continue to honor and celebrate Bodhi and Jasper, especially doing so with our two youngest boys. We hope it will foster a chance for their brothers to get to know them and feel just as proud of them as we do.

Last year, several family and friends expressed interest in being involved, but since it was our first time trying such a thing we weren't organized or prepared for that. We now have several options for anyone that would like to honor Bodhi & Jasper in remembrance of their one day on earth.

1) You can donate physical copies of the board book Goodnight Moon -- either delivering to us in person, or buying and having it shipped via Amazon (email me on FB or at carollorton@alumni.purdue.edu for shipping address).

2) You can donate funds to us via Paypal (same email as above), that we will use to buy more books ourselves.

or

3) You can make a monetary donation directly to Methodist Health Foundation in their name.

As their mother, I just keep thinking about how awesome it would be to show up at the hospital on their birthday with 10 to 20+ books -- knowing that so many families/children will have something tangible in their daily lives because of Bodhi & Jasper. A chance for them to matter in the world that they didn't get to visit for very long.