Peanut Butter Jelly Time

If you were expecting something in a banana suit singing "Peanut Butter Jelly Time," I apologize.

This is a post about healing -- about a quirky hint even.

My husband and I wanted desperately to find a holiday tradition that would honor and remind us of Jasper and Bodhi. If it could include "Garby," all the better.

So I came up with this idea of getting an ornament each year that represents them to me. Angels aren't my thing. Birds would work, but it didn't feel quite right. I wanted something that reminded me of childhood, as well as each child individually. Something Garby would get excited about putting on our tree. Something he could understand without needing to grasp some overly deep symbolism.

Nobody will really 'get it' until Garby is born. But this is the ornament I just ordered (no tree to hang it on this year, but wanted it ordered by what would have been the twins' first Christmas). The goal is to find a similar one each year. :)

This Your First?

That is the question that has haunted me this entire pregnancy. From the ER to Urgent Care to well-meaning strangers. And now hospital tours.

As soon as I hear those words, my insides collapse.

"Is this your first?"

No matter how I answer, the conversation scrapes away at those wounds. On the rare occasion I've said "Yes," to avoid the awkward conversation, hoping the other party will just drop it, it turns into a weird blend of condescending cheer. "Oh, just wait. You'll see."

And then there are the times when I say, "No." Then I'm left wondering if they'll ask follow-up questions, or if I'm bound to explain my heartbreak all over again.

It hit me really hard last night.

My husband and I went to take a tour of the maternity/birthing area at the hospital. It was looking like we'd be the only people on the tour, but about 30 seconds before it started, another pregnant woman and her husband walked in.

As soon as we approached the tour guide, an older woman who seemingly had more trouble walking than either of us preggos, she immediately asked, "So, is this your first?"

I swallowed abruptly and simply said, "No."

She glanced back at me inquisitively. I knew she was used to mothers going on and on about their previous children. So, my grief and avoidance made me seem anti-social and/or rude.

She turned to the other woman, "No. This is our third, so we're excited."

We all head up in the elevator, and the tour goes as expected. Short and to the point. But as we go to leave, our tour guide starts picking away again -- even though I knew it was her version of casual conversation.

"So, where did you deliver your other children?"

The other woman answered first, "Well, one was in China. The other in Australia."

I took my cue and tried to make it seem funny, "Oh, ours were just in Indianapolis."

Was she going to drop it there? Of course not.

"Indianapolis? What hospital?"

Eh..

And just as we're about to leave, she turns to us again, "So how long were your labors last time?"

I feel like I can't catch my breath -- my pause allowing the other woman to answer first. I couldn't even muster a real answer and basically repeated what she had said.. then walked away.

I know I should be elated to be pregnant, and I am. But the very state of being pregnant causes a barrage of questions that hurt immeasurably. And it all feels like it's coming to a head as we approach the holidays. I can't tell you how many times the grief has flooded in so fast I felt like I was drowning.

My nephew's birthday party. Shopping for their Christmas gifts. Hanging up our stockings, but leaving Jasper's and Bodhi's in the box. The pain is so thick as I ponder what should have been their first Christmas.. just a handful of weeks away from their tragic birthday.

It's becoming increasingly hard not to lose myself in all those thoughts and things I had hoped for.

The only saving grace to last night was being able to cuddle with my husband, as he wrapped his arm around me and felt for our son's kicks, talking about the twins as we fell asleep.

The Easiest Choice

When you're about to get married, everyone tells you, "Marriage is hard work."

Four years ago, today, I was staying in a hotel room all by myself, with eager butterflies in my stomach.. wondering how our big day would go, how he was feeling, and desperately missing him.

These years have flown by, and I have to say "hard work" has not been my experience. We've been through some of the most difficult things a couple can go through -- that parents can go through. Life has been so hard in recent months. The kind of "hard" that steals your breath, keeps you awake at night, and changes you at your core. But the marriage was never hard, or even 'work.' Being married to this man is probably the easiest thing I've ever done.

Every day, the choice to love my husband is the easiest decision I make. So simple that it feels like a reflex.

Have we argued? Sure. About the best way to paint a room or what to have for dinner. Our "fights" last less than 10 minutes. And I can't recall a single time that I've left the house or gone to bed angry. And for us, that hasn't been difficult to accomplish. It's just who we are together.

What it comes down to is this. When you have a husband like mine.. who supports you, never doubts you, and will practically do anything to make you smile.. it's not hard to love him. It's nearly impossible not to.

To my husband,

This has undoubtedly been the most trying year of our lives. You have seen me at my absolute lowest -- too weak to move, and moments when I can barely breathe. You were the only thing that got me through those times. You never tried to stay on the fray of it -- supportive from the outside. You walked into the despair with me, and carried me out. Over and over again.

I will never be able to express how profoundly I felt the depth of your love during this journey.

On our wedding day, I told you, "I choose you. Every second.. of every day." And now that you've held our twins, and lovingly spoken to my 'baby bump' -- to our unborn son, it has never been so easy to choose you.

And just as I ended my vows, I say this again to you, "I'm not standing here to tell you how much I love you today.. I'm here to tell you how much I'll love you tomorrow... and to promise you all of my tomorrows."

It doesn't feel like four years have passed since our wedding day, but at the same time, it feels like I've known you -- like I've loved you -- forever. <3

Age of Viability

For someone who has never had to say goodbye to a child born too soon, "viability" is not a milestone they usually think of during pregnancy. But today marks 24 weeks, which is considered by most hospitals to be the "age of viability."

That means, that unlike with the twins -- where we just had to hold them and watch them pass on -- this little bean would feasibly stand a chance. They would intervene. It wouldn't be easy. There'd be steroid shots and lots of NICU time, but they would try. And the survival rate climbs steadily from this point on.

It's very hard to think that a few short weeks makes such a difference. That our twins were so close to being "viable" -- and yet so far away.

Because we've reached this critical milestone in the pregnancy with no problems, next week will be our last regular visit with the high risk doctors. They're doing a growth scan, and then sending me on my merry way, because as the last doctor put it, "There's no emergency procedure to be done now. Your measurements have only gotten better and better."

As elated as that makes me, it's also bittersweet. In a weird way, I was hoping for a definitive 'problem' to fix. I wanted a reason for why I lost the twins. A reason my body failed. I wanted something to blame. "Oh, you definitely have an incompetent cervix." or "Your uterus is hypersensitive."

Instead, nothing has been indicated as a clear problem. And it all goes back to what the doctor told me the morning after the twins died. "Sometimes this just happens with multiples."

"Just happens," is nearly impossible to accept. My babies died, just because. And I can't blame.. I can't fix.. "just because."

And I look now in the nursery closet, filled with supplies we had purchased for the twins. Sad that Jasper and Bodhi aren't here to use them, yet hopeful that "Garby" will give it new life.

24 weeks and counting, little guy. <3

We Adopted

No, not a human.

We adopted another dog.

As soon as I posted the news to Facebook, I could hear the sighs of "Are you nuts?!"

Yes, we already have one dog at home. My baby girl, Bristow. Anybody who knows us knows that we fully consider her our first child. We raised her from 8 weeks old, and have spoiled her rotten. She has full run of the furniture, drinks only filtered water, we whisper to not wake her when she's sleeping, and only turn the lights on when she's decided to get up for the day.

We knew adding a new human in a few months was going to be a huge change for her. Mom and Dad won't be able to spend every hour snuggling with her. The house sure won't be quiet. Things were about to change.

Now, for quite some time, we wanted to adopt a second dog. But that has especially been true since moving into our new home. Even though it's a fairly nice neighborhood, I'm often home alone.. including overnights when my husband is working. I find myself hearing all sorts of noises and convincing myself that someone is within seconds of busting in the door. I inevitably end up turning on all the outside lights and peering out into the yard for several minutes.

Oddly, I lived alone for years, and I never got nervous or scared. I'm not sure if it's the fact that I'm now preggo and feeling the need to nest and make my home the safest it possibly can be, but it was a second dog or a security system. The option to rescue an animal won out (and saves us some money).

And as a bonus, we thought/hoped our new girl may help Bristow cope with those only child issues before a baby comes home.

So in terms of security, size, loyalty, and family-friendliness, I found myself drawn to either shepherd or lab mixes. I had been browsing several rescues in the area, and none really jumped out at me. For weeks, I searched pages. And in the last few days, I started filling out applications to meet some possible contenders. But I wasn't sold on any of them. Then I decided to peruse the Almost Home Humane Society page once more... and there she was. I saw that face online and my gut was screaming, "That's your girl!"

I sent Brad a text with a picture and a link. "We have to meet her. She's soooo pretty. And those eyes. Can you get off work by 5pm? I'll meet you." He agreed, though not nearly as excited as I was.

We walked into the rescue, and they led us back to her. My heart hurt as we passed all the other barking dogs in their cement and chain link pens. One very handsome basset hound and beagle mix really tore away at me. It didn't help when I glanced back and saw Brad had stopped to look at him briefly. But I had to keep my eye on the prize.

They pulled Nori (named Hannah at the shelter) from her pen and took us to a visiting room. She was still very puppy-like, nipping to play and jumping up on us. But still, very mellow, in that she didn't bark at anything. Nor was she timid around us. They also told us that she passed all temperament tests with flying colors. By the end of our short visit, she was showing her belly and trying to hop up on the bench in between us. I was sold.

Brad was nervous. "I'm just worried about Bristow. She's my baby."

My thought process was that she can either deal with change now, and have a buddy to occupy her when the baby arrives. Or she can deal with it all at once, by herself, in a few months. And for me, at worst, we give Nori a few weeks outside the shelter as a pseudo foster family. Any break from the constant barking and cement floors has got to be a good thing. (And we would exhaust all options, including bringing in a trainer, before ever considering returning her.)

Hubby agreed, and we prepared ourselves for a very uncomfortable introduction. First, we had them meet on neutral ground outside the home. But Nori, with her puppy ways, was full of excitement and jumping. Bristow didn't care for such quick movements, especially around her parents, and let out a few good growls while lunging. But eventually they both got so worn out that they fell asleep on the couch together, with Brad sitting in between. I was so glad, at that moment, that we didn't wait til we had a 1 or 2 year old in the house while trying to bring two dogs together.

From everything I've read, and been told by other fur parents, it can take quite some time for the established dog to really accept the newcomer. And we're doing all the obvious things... Letting Bristow have her 'sacred' space where she can get away, keeping food/water bowls separate, etc. So we're eager and hopeful moving forward. But if any of you have tidbits of advice, we welcome it.

The rescue identified Nori as a "lab mix." She definitely looks mostly lab (in body and snout shape), but Brad and I think she might have some pit bull in her -- based on her ears and coat. Still, at 14 months old, she looks to be a smaller "medium" breed.

My mother asked, "Where did you get Nori?" Yes, most people know it as the seaweed.. but it also means belief, rule, or ceremony. It was actually a contender if we had conceived another girl. But instead, we adopted one :)

As a final note, consider donating or gifting to your local humane society/shelter as you consider all the countless causes seeking your support this season. There's even an app (Walk For A Dog) you can download, and all you have to do is log your dog walks, and it makes a donation to your local shelter. <3 And PLEASE... Adopt. Don't Shop.

19 Weeks

Several weeks ago, when I was about 13 weeks along, a friend of the family said, "Well, you've made it further than you did with the twins," as a she gave me a smile.

The look on my face was probably one of dismay; possibly even annoyance.

For some reason, I think people around us only had a vague idea of the previous pregnancy, and the assumption has been that the twins were born, and lost, much earlier in our pregnancy than they were. Which also leaves me to wonder if they realize that my children were born alive.

Yes, by far, most pregnancies are lost in the first 12 weeks. But that was not the case for us. We were nearly halfway through the pregnancy -- 19 weeks, 2 days -- when I delivered.

Today, as I write this, I am 19 weeks, 1 day in this pregnancy. And there are so many moments when I can't seem to catch my breath. I can still feel those first contractions. I still see the look on my doctor's face when she realized I was in labor. And of course, I'll never forget having to say goodbye. I find myself reliving that day with near constant frequency as we approach that milestone in this pregnancy. I'm equally anxious that something will go wrong again.

These fears have not been eased. A week ago, I found out I needed to get a dental procedure done. It is the same procedure I had done three days before I went into labor with the twins. Then, a few days ago, I started getting heart palpitations, that started getting more severe and frequent as we headed into the weekend (which I got checked-out, and were apparently due to low potassium).

Things were just feeling "wrong" all over again.

In fairness, this entire pregnancy has been one of trepidation. I found myself, especially early in the pregnancy, saying things to my husband like, "If this pregnancy goes well..." and "Assuming this baby makes it..." I couldn't let my verbiage portray confidence -- because I wasn't.

I hate that my framework for pregnancy has changed so much that I can't feel or sound like a 'normal' excited mother-to-be. I know too much about how badly it can go, and I'm forever trying to prepare for it -- pretending that it will somehow make me 'ready' for whatever may go wrong.

But instead, I still cry. I cry in the shower. I cry when I'm falling asleep. I cry when my husband hugs me. And I plead, in every moment of silence, with grieved desperation in my voice, "Please stay in there little one. I really want to bring you home."

Today, 19 weeks and one day, marks the day I went into labor with the twins, and tomorrow would be the day I delivered them. This will be, unquestionably, the hardest couple of days for me.

As it turns out, October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. I didn't really post about it (here, or on Facebook). I'm not big on "awareness months." I live with that awareness every moment of every day. I don't need a month, or a day, set aside to talk about my children. I'll be doing it for the rest of my life.

And I hope -- so hope -- that one of those people I'll be telling will be Jasper and Bodhi's little brother. <3

It's A Boy -- Coping With The News

So, if you aren't a friend/follower on Facebook, you might have missed our announcement. Shilor Bean, as we've so affectionately called our baby this entire pregnancy, is a boy.

But now, I'm going to talk about something that will surprise some folks -- maybe even offend them.

Gender disappointment.

I've decided to talk about it, because I've been soooo open about both pregnancies. This isn't something I want to keep secret. So many mothers and fathers experience it. Gender disappointment is very common, very real, but seldom discussed. It's taboo, and we feel guilty for even having these feelings. So allow me to explain for those that may not understand.

When we got pregnant with our twins, my husband and I both expressed a desire for it to be at least one (and we'd be happy with two) girl. But I joked the entire time, "With our luck, since we want a girl, it'll be two boys." Sadly, we didn't find out til moments before her passing that we indeed did have a little girl.

After our boy/girl twins died, we decided to try for one more pregnancy. Again, I hoped for a girl. My husband did too.

I understood his dream. Daddy's little girl. In fact, just a month or so ago, he saw a picture of my brother and my niece going to a father-daughter dance, and he commented, "I hope I get to do that."

As for me, I don't even know why my desire for a girl was so strong. I didn't grow up a super girly-girl. Sure, I liked make-up, but I also liked running around in the woods and playing Army with my brother and his friends.

Still, I wanted the experience of raising a girl. Sharing wisdom only another woman would know.

Again, when we got pregnant, both of us still hoping for a girl, we joked, "It'll be a boy." So, when we went into the ultrasound last week, I casually mentioned, "If you spot any genitals, let us know." The tech went looking and paused the screen. Before she could even say anything, I saw that it was, in fact, a boy.

I did what all mothers do, and smiled. But inside, I was a bit crushed.

And let me elaborate. I wasn't mad that we were having a boy. But I felt a loss, a mourning, for the girl we had wanted. I also knew that this was our last pregnancy, so there was no thinking, "Well, maybe a girl next time." I, in that moment, had to say good-bye to that idea forever. And it was difficult.

It's hard, especially when I know that I've carried two boys, and one girl. But (fingers crossed) I'll only get to raise one boy. That's a lot of loss to take in, during that split second, when the tech and doctor expect you to be overjoyed with the news. And I felt that loss, not just for me, but for my husband as well.

Sure, it didn't help matters that literally 15 minutes before spilling the news, they shot me up with a good dose of progesterone. So for the next 24 hours I was weepy. Crying that it wasn't a girl. Then crying from guilt that somehow the baby in my stomach was already feeling my disappointment.

Finally, my husband got home from work, and asked why I was having a hard day. I whispered, "Just having a hard time with the gender." He asked me why, and I immediately had to turn around.. facing away from him. He wrapped his arms around me while I cried.

"I knew you wanted a girl too," I muttered.

"Yeah. But there's all kinds of things I look forward to with a boy," he replied.

And as only he can, he managed to make me laugh. "Don't worry. I'll let you put him in dresses and buy him dolls."

I cracked a smile and could finally explain my feelings. "I'm not upset that it's a boy. I love our son already. I think I'm just struggling to accept that we had one of each, but I don't get to raise them. All the dreams of raising a girl are completely gone. And I can't talk about it, because people will assume I'm ungrateful."

Thankfully, he understood completely. And I've felt better about it since letting it off my chest. That's why I decided to share it here. So other mothers (or fathers) struggling with this feeling, can know it's okay to acknowledge it. You're not a bad person, or a bad parent. We all have dreams that we have to adjust when life decides otherwise.

And what I know is, if my second born son is anything like his father, he's going to make me smile every single day. So, whenever I get stuck on those "girl dreams," I look at pictures of my husband as a child, and I so look forward to raising someone like that <3

Getting in the boy blue theme.