You Would Be 7

Today, you would be 7. First graders.

And that is how we celebrated you..

Because of COVID, and restructuring of the hospital where you were born, our usual visit/donation was not really an option. Really, we knew for many months that this year would not be the same. But we did the best we could to keep your memory alive.

We started by making a donation to the school where you should be this year. They had coincidentally just started a "closet" at the school for students/families in need. So, we donated clothes, shoes, accessories.. that you would be wearing.

It hit me harder than expected when that clothing arrived on our doorstep. Most notably, a pink tie-dye sweatshirt.

It was so unlike anything your little brothers own, so it was unavoidably 'different.'

Different in a way that hurt. Different in a way that ached, as it reminded me what was missing.

I could hold it up and see my baby girl. How tall you would be. Imagining you picking out your outfit for school. It's like seeing someone through the fog. It's both clear and blurry as your brain fills in the blanks.

But in this case, it was my heart guessing who you would be today.

And it brought me to my knees. Right there on the kitchen floor, I just cried.. holding that pink sweatshirt. I felt like I couldn't breathe.

Grief is just like that.

That gnawing pain of what-ifs and could've beens.

But it is also a gift.. because it means I got to love someone (or two someones) that deeply.

And all I can do, year after year, is find a way to channel that love. 

You left, but it didn't.

So, a few kids in our community will have new jeans, new shoes, and new gloves.. because YOU were, and are, so loved.

After dropping off the clothes, we headed to your birth hospital.

I knew I wouldn't be going inside this year, and I went back and forth on if we should bother. But as the day got closer, the idea of not going was literally painful. It would keep me up at night. 

I knew I had to go. 

It is still the only place you knew -- the only place you breathed air into your lungs. And as long as I am able, I will go. 

Even if I have to sit outside. Even if it's cold and dreary.

I will go to remember you. 

I will go to read to you.

But I don't read because I think you can hear me. I read to remind myself I still have breath in my lungs. That I am a mother with a story to tell -- about that place, and the two people I met -- 7 years ago.

It is crystal clear when I am sitting there with you.

"Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises everywhere."

Happy birthday, my babies. 
Goodnight, Jasper and Bodhi.

You are loved.

Has It Been 6 Years?

Today would be your 6th birthday.

It's taking me awhile to move past the pain of that sentence. The sorrow of a life missed out on -- where we would be having a party today. Last night, I should have been making cupcakes and wrapping gifts. And I will forever wonder which flavor you would have wanted. What gifts would have been on your lists.

It always hurts more today.

But underneath, it's that same ache you can never really numb. The grief. The price I pay for loving you.

We visited your room -- LDR 16. Sometimes we get to go in. But sometimes it's occupied and we just get as close as the hallway.

Today, as we approached -- and I could see it was unoccupied -- my throat began to tighten. Our liaison actually asked how it feels when we see the room right as it was happening. I touched my neck in reflex as I said, "It hits me right away. Like it just happened."

I suppose that could be interpreted as a 'lump in my throat,' 'choking back tears,' or 'losing my breath.' But that's not it. It feels like my body is squeezing down all those raw bellows that I've kept in since the minute we lost you.

A curdling scream that wants to come out as I crawl.. and cry.. scratching at the floors until my nails bleed.. and ripping sheets from the bed. Searching for you, even when I know you're not there.

I can never fully explain what that feels like. The primal instinct for a mother to cry out for her young.

It never leaves.

We stood in your room, mostly unchanged over the years, and remembered. Remembered that day. Remembered you. Remembered saying goodbye.

We donated dozens of books in your honor. Always the highlight of this day. Knowing how many people come together and donate because YOU inspire them. Knowing how many parents will read to their children and create memories -- because you existed.

And I imagine you there. Every time one of these books gets read in a NICU. Or pulled from the shelf in the nursery. Or set on the coffee table before bed.

I see you everywhere. It is my solace.

And, as per tradition, we read to your little brothers in the lobby. One day, they'll understand why.

To those walking by, we were just a family of four having a moment. But it will always be six.

Then off to WB Pizza for the garlic bread you both seemed to love when I was pregnant. Your brothers both ate some today too.

But.. I still wish it was cupcakes.. with you.

You Would Be 5

You would be five today.

Five. Five.. Five.

I say it over and over, because it doesn't seem real.

I would be worrying about your first day of kindergarten coming.

Everything would be different... had you survived.

And I think about that life a lot. A stampede of "I wonder" running at me at full speed.

I wonder if you two would be best buddies. I wonder what your favorite movie, stuffed animal, and flavor of lollipop would be. I wonder if you'd sleep alone through the night, or sneak into bed with me.. or maybe with each other. I wonder if you'd be shy, or dance to your heart's content even in a room full of strangers.

It haunts me that I'll never know.

All I'll ever have is that hour. I have to make it enough.

So, we celebrate you. We celebrate your life.

And just like all the years before, we went back to where you were born. Heavy with grief, but light with love -- a near permanent way of being for me.

Unfortunately, we didn't get to visit your exact birthplace today. They tried.

Our liaison had approached the nurses station as we waited in the hall, wagon full of books. And I could hear the whispering. I heard the audible "awww" and read the sad look on the nurse's face when she looked up at us.

I know that look well.

There is no other reaction to a story like ours.

But LDR16 was occupied today, and that's okay. We visited an adjacent room, and later stood inches from the door to take a picture. And while it is powerful to go into LDR16, you are more than just a room. I can both grieve and celebrate you from anywhere.

I am your mother... everywhere.

Then we read Goodnight Moon with your brothers down in the lobby (where they had to stay due to flu restrictions). I revel in this tradition the most -- when I can imagine you sitting on my lap, or on the floor gazing up at me, waiting for the next page of the story.

But it is hard, every single time, to close that book and leave the hospital again. Because I remember that feeling 5 years ago. Leaving you behind. My legs on autopilot, with pieces of me falling away with every step.

I recall that morning clearly, walking through that lobby, passing strangers that would glance at me. Did they think I was rude for not smiling at them? Did they think I was visiting a grandparent or uncle? Did they really notice me at all?

I know for certain that none of them knew I had just said goodbye to my babies. That I had given birth to twins, but was going home without any children.

It was when I first felt the absolute loneliness of this kind of grief.

And now, when I walk through hospital lobbies, I watch for faces like mine. The ones walking -- heart no longer in their chest.

I watch for the lonely.

I wish I could just tell them, "I know."


In my very first post about you, and leaving the hospital that day, I remarked about how it felt like there should be two car seats in the back.. but it was empty.

Today, it was full.

For that, I am grateful.

They will know you. They will be your brothers... everywhere.

So again, on this day, I must thank you for making me a mother. To you, and to them. The journey you took me on, and that sorrow, has enlarged my soul. The pain is the price I pay for loving you -- and it is worth it.

You are worth it.

And every year, your lives touch more and more people. They learn your story, or take home a book because of you. You matter... everywhere.

Happy birthday, my babies. Jasper and Bodhi, you are loved.

-- Your mom and dad

Four Years

There are just minutes left in the day.. what should be your 4th birthday.

It's a strange feeling each year, as if at midnight, I have to say goodbye again.

Today.. we remembered you. We celebrated you. And, as always, we missed you.

Today.. we delivered so many books, kindly donated by family, friends, and strangers, to the place where you were born. The only place you ever knew.

Though we didn't get to take your brothers to the room this year, because of flu restrictions, your father and I got to go up alone. They specifically saved the exact room where you born, so we could have a moment there.

It is hallowed ground to me.

Walking into that room -- Labor & Delivery Room 16 -- is like entering the holiest of churches.. the most peaceful of monasteries.. the most beautiful of cemeteries.

Crossing that threshold takes my breath away every time. It is the air you so powerfully and unexpectedly breathed.

I want to crumble to my knees at the weight of it. But I feel like you're keeping me standing. Like you're holding me together. It is the same way you gave me strength when I had to say goodbye to you.

But make no mistake.. I cried for you today. Without your brothers in the room to distract my attention, the memories came like snapshots. Like a Polaroid spitting out images that would start blurry and then come into focus.

My chin would quiver and I couldn't stop it.

But I didn't crumble.

I took all those Polaroids and added them to album I visit every so often -- tucked safely away in my heart.

They won't get lost there.

So, happy birthday.
Goodnight.
And goodbye for now.

Thank you, as always, for making me a mother, first.. and a better person, second.
You changed me.
You changed the world.

And a thank you to the staff at IU Methodist that allowed us to come and make our donation, even on a Saturday and in the midst of a flu restriction. We are grateful they allow us to celebrate our babies every year.

And lastly, thank you to the donors. It wouldn't be possible to touch so many families, in the legacy of our children, without your help each and every year. <3

Three Years -- Still Proud

Over three years ago, when we found out we were expecting twins, Brad began his search for a second job. We knew I'd be staying home with them, and one full-time job just wasn't going to cut it for a family of four.

And in the most painful of coincidences, he landed a job at Payless (the grocery store), and was scheduled to start on February 2nd, 2014.

As it turned out, that was just 6 days after our babies passed away in our arms.

But he went on that first day anyway. He knew we'd have hospital bills. And we hadn't decided if we were going to do more treatments. So just days after losing his children, he took on two jobs..

I remember how lonely I felt those first few weeks. I was drowning in grief, alone in our apartment most nights.

And I remember him coming home looking exhausted and defeated. I'll never forget when he looked at me with tears in his eyes, "It's so hard going there. I got this job for them, and now they're not here. I think about it all the time when I'm working."

We hurt for each other, but did what we felt like we had to do.

Soon, we decided we were going to try again. So, he kept that job. To support us. To help get us closer to another child.

And 5 months later we bought a house and we found out I was pregnant.

So he worked both jobs.

I got put on bed rest and had to essentially quit my job. So he worked.

I stayed home with Paxton. So he worked.

I (against all odds and plans) got pregnant again. So he worked.

I stayed home with Paxton and Greyson. So he worked.

I felt guilty that all the financial burden was on him. He felt guilty that I was stuck at home doing "mommy" things all day, every day.

I watched him get more and more drained. He watched me get more and more drained.

It's hard.. on both of us. But what we both dislike most is that he misses so much time with the boys. Half the week, he's only home long enough to feed them dinner, then leave again for his second job -- not getting home until 1:30am.

He hasn't had a vacation, as in, more than 3 days off both jobs... in three years. Which also means, I haven't been able to really relax either.

But maybe, that's all about to change.

Brad has been offered a position as a CVS manager-in-training.

And I'm so proud of him. I'm proud of him for applying, as he's been looking and applying to jobs here or there for quite some time. You don't hear back from most. And the rest just didn't pay enough to afford him to leave either job to pursue it.

After so many years doing the same thing, getting worn down, you start to feel a little stuck -- wondering what will come next -- and feeling like it may never come.

And I worried, as I saw the toll it took on his personality and physical body doing mostly repetitive, physical labor for 14 hours some days.

So, I'm proud that he saw his way out, and pursued it. Despite being nervous, anxious, and unsure.. he did it.

Nothing is ever that simple though. Then we found out the insurance would cost more and cover less. As in, his pay would be about the same as his two-job income, but he'd be paying more for insurance. So we'd be losing money.

I felt sick to my stomach. And I broke down. I didn't want him to see it, but I did. I hated that he might be this close, but we'd have to turn it down because of family expenses. That we'd be sentencing him (and all of us) to months or years of the physically demanding, sometimes crushing, two-job schedule.

I said, crying, "You can't keep doing this forever (referencing his current schedule). It's wearing you down. You're always exhausted. And I wanted this for you so bad. I just know you can do it.. and I know where you're at now is bothering you. It's weighing on you."

His face turned sad, but he tried to muster reassurance that he'd be okay.. "But I've never complained."

I felt punched in the gut.

I knew he'd never complained. And he never would.

"Just because you don't say it, doesn't mean you don't feel it." I paused, "I know you wanted this. And I wanted it for you."

He started to get teary-eyed.

We took a day to think things over, really crunch numbers, and make sure we made the right decision.

So, while he was at work, I thought of all the positives. The physical reprieve. The fewer hours for the same pay. More time with the boys.

I also knew that insurance plans change every year, and we're at a point where we have no idea what will be happening in the next year or two anyway (in terms of government regulation/market changes). It was a gamble, but after I weighed all the positives to just the cost of insurance, I knew.

I texted him, "I think you should take it."

I wanted him to do something he wanted to do, instead of what he had to do. It was just time.

But I was even more elated, and proud, when he told them his concerns about insurance, and they offered to pay more to make the difference more manageable. They wanted him bad enough to do so.

So, in a couple weeks, he'll officially be an employee of CVS. Training to be a store manager. And I'm so proud.

I know I've used the word a few times already, but I don't feel like I can say it enough.

Proud of him for getting back to the career he wanted. Proud of him for applying, despite the rejections or offers he had to turn down. Proud of him for doing so well in the interview that they wanted him so much that they were anxious about him not taking the offer right away.

But I'm most proud of him for starting that second job three years ago. Taking it for his unborn children. And deciding to still go, in the midst of our grief, for the hope of future children. And going -- week after week -- for three years now, to take care of his family. And when you'd think he was totally drained, he'd be going to mow someone's yard for a little extra cash.

Because that's who he is.

Doing whatever he could to take care of us.

And never complaining. <3

From your children.. and me.. Thank you. And, congratulations!

Three Years

Another birthday has come to pass. And every year, I grasp for the words to explain how I feel.

This year was definitely different -- for so many reasons.

First, we decided to make the book donations a 'thing.' A non-profit 'thing.' And considering we didn't decide to really pursue it until autumn, and set a goal of collecting 50 books, I'm so humbled and thankful that we got to deliver 84 books today -- in your names.

Forming this charity has given me something to focus my grief into -- from drawing the logo, to brainstorming fundraising ideas, and establishing our 'mission.'

But at the same time, it means that losing you is on my mind nearly all the time. I think that's why this year, especially this last week, has been so hard. I spent days drowning in my grief, guilt, and what-ifs. Waking in the middle of the night to immediately feel like I just lost you. Every second of that day playing over and over. Unable to catch my breath. Other days it would sneak up. Breaking down in tears, randomly, while brushing my teeth or making lunch, because I just kept saying in my head, "I miss you. You should be here... I'm so sorry I didn't save you."

Your father didn't always know what to say when he would find in me in such despair, telling him that I knew it was my fault.. and that he should blame me. But every time I go through this, or close to it, I find my way out. Your father has helped many times over to talk me down, but the common thread each time is just remembering how much love you ignited in me. The depths of which I didn't know were possible. And you got me there within seconds of meeting you.

I know, that if I can love you that strongly.. and just keep loving you.. it will last. It will carry me. It will light a fire in me to do better and be better. That there will be enough for me to share with the world -- and it will multiply. The love you gave me, and uncovered in me, will grow.

People often tell me that I'm strong. But I'm not. Not exceptional. Not extraordinary. I get lost all the time.. I just focus on you to find my way back.

So, though the week was harder than I expected, today was much like last year. Bittersweet.

I had put all the books into a Radio Flyer wagon, and your father remarked, "I'm happy we have so many books that we need a wagon. But I also just imagine the kids riding around in it."

And that is the burden we bear. Always imagining how things could be different. Who you would be now. The lifetime we missed out on. An ache that never stops.

But we arrived to IU Methodist, and I felt a sense of calm. Dramatically different than these last few days.

Again, we were greeted by several staff members. And babies, they remembered you and your story. We talked about you even more, which as a mother, fuels me. I love every chance I get to mention your names.

And then we talked about the charity, and how we arrived at the name.. PB&J Books Project (for those that don't know, peanut butter and grape jelly accounts for the initials of all four of my children -- Paxton, Bodhi, Greyson, and Jasper).

We talked about who we wanted the books to go to. I explained that people suffering a loss, or imminent loss.. like we did.. were at the top of our list. I explained further, "That time with them was mostly a blur. I barely remember the things I said to them. And I think now how it would've helped to have something tangible like a book to read. Something I could take home, hold onto, and know.. these are the words I said to my babies. That I could read it any time I wanted to go back there."

Next on the list were NICU parents. They go through so much, and just long for normalcy and bonding -- sometimes when they're not able to even hold their children. Reading to them is a chance for calm and bonding.. despite any obstacles.

And then, anyone they felt it would benefit. Low income. Previous loss. Or just anyone that expressed interest in reading to their baby on day one.

After we handed over all the donations, they again offered for me to visit one of the rooms. This time, it wasn't the exact room I had delivered you in -- so it didn't hit me as strongly to the chest as last year. But the layout was identical. And it brought me back almost immediately to laying in that bed, waiting for you to arrive, while knowing you wouldn't stay.

But this time, I didn't cry. Maybe I was all cried out. Or maybe it was too hectic with both your little brothers in tow. Or maybe.. just maybe.. it was the same calm that came over me the very second you were born. A feeling that I knew I didn't have much time, so I just wanted to breathe it in. To never forget.

I sat with your brothers and read Goodnight Moon. Every Shilor in one place -- the only place you ever knew. 

And as we left, I felt like I just had visited hallowed ground. I knew that as long as there was breath in my lungs, I would return here year after year, just to feel close to you.

So I will. Your father will. And when we can't, your brothers will.

This project will continue in your name, one way or another.

I owe you that.

To me, each and every book represents a piece of my love for you. Infinite and full of hope. Sending them all out into the world is the best way I know to be your mother. To help you live on and reach the world you didn't get to see -- and to help the world that didn't get the chance to see you.

We miss you.

Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises, everywhere.

Goodnight Jasper. Goodnight Bodhi.

- Your mother

If you are one of the parents that received a book, and you found your way here, please reach out. We would love to hear your story or see photos of you reading to your baby. You can find more on the book project on Instagram (@PBJBooksProject) and Facebook (www.facebooks.com/PBJBooksProject).

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.