Finding Happy

Though I have no idea how this works when we get to big picture issues, it seems our life has begun to march on, with tender reminders that we are blessed even if the last six weeks has often left me feeling otherwise.

Porter is losing all his teeth, thanks to his daddy's genetics that have given him two huge front teeth that amazed even the dentist. Said the dentist to his assistant after looking over the x-rays: "Have you seen these things!?" Said the dentist to me: "Do you have any friends in orthodontia?"

There are no words for the gratitude I feel when I think of my toothless boy who is growing up all too quickly. He is funny and sweet. So, so sweet. And he daily reminds me to let happiness in.

We had a Yes Day last week because I was tired of sitting in my sadness and decided, instead, to try to manufacture happy. So we ditched work and school, and I told the kids we could do whatever they wanted all day long. I've been a bit apathetic since we lost the twins — nothing feels right. So I left the decision-making up to the little people, and it turned out better than I could have ever imagined.

The first decision of the day: breakfast, and they kicked things off with leftover Booberry Crunch and Fruity Cheerios (we only do sugar cereal on weekends in the Burt home, so this was a treat). But the cereal sat untouched and soggy once Porter realized "yes day" really did mean no rules.

Swimming was a unanimous second once the milk bubbles were cleaned up. We had the entire aquatic center to ourselves and stayed until missed lunch hunger pains turned to tears.

After a late peanut butter and honey lunch (Porter asked to be in charge of the honey), complete with chocolate milk and cheetos, Porter and I spent the afternoon coloring and playing Legos while Nora napped (naptime is non-negotiable even on Yes Day).

And even before she had climbed out of her bed after waking up, my girlie knew what she wanted to do next...

We've been fighting over that tube of lipstick ever since. Turns out, in her eyes, anything acquired on Yes Day is rightfully under new ownership.

The day wrapped with a trip to the library, where I let them wander the aisles for as long as they wanted (though I did have to steer Porter away from an illustrated book called "Our Bodies" in the preteen section).

And though we're big readers in general, I was surprised at just how long they were both entertained thumbing through picture books.

And that's all it took: a few borrowed books, a tube of lipstick, lots of swimming and some spilled milk. It doesn't take much to find happy with these two underfoot.

Grace

In a recent conversation with someone who has also lost a baby, the woman described this kind of grief as "breathtaking," and for a moment, it sounded strange to me — after all, mountaintop views and sunsets are breathtaking, and this feels nothing like a mountaintop view. But then again, it most certainly does take your breath away. It knocks the wind out of you, drags you across the pavement and then kicks you in the shins. It feels as if it robs you of everything, even when its wake is cluttered with a whole lot. It feels like it is more than you could ever imagine feeling and being and doing. And it takes your breath away again and again and again.

Breathtaking in the most heartbreaking of ways.

But there's more. In its wake — the wake of nothing left and yet so, so much — there have been different, new vistas that stop time in an entirely different manner. Somehow, in the face of it all — the loss, the shock, the confusion and even the anger, when your heart feels as if it will never recover and the loneliness of it all feels like it will swallow you whole, there is light.

I stupidly wore the dress I had worn the day before finding out we'd lost the twins. The dress I wore on my last happy, carefree day — the last day I felt like myself. And though it felt different when I put it on this morning, simply because its hem hung a little lower and its folds more loosely from the high waist, it looked cute with the boots I wanted to wear and, in my rush to get myself and the kids out the door , it seemed like a good choice. But as I walked from my office to the car after a day spent trying to be normal, the wind swirled, and I realized for the first time all day just how loose and empty that dumb dress felt — how empty I felt. You're not pregnant and you're not getting your babies knocked the wind out of me as I remembered how happy I'd felt just five weeks ago in my cute dress with my twin baby belly and big dreams.

But as I cried on the drive home, the sunset's light turned the entire sky bright pink. And I immediately thought of my little pink princess at home and drove a little faster, hoping to scoop her up just in time to catch the last of the show I knew she'd think was just for her. And her happy little squeal and "Mommy's home!" when I walked through the door took my breath away.

She came running from the living room as if she had been racing to greet me too. From empty and side-swiped to heart swells and gratitude.

When you're sad, worn out or even beat down, there is comfort. When you're not even sure you want it because there's something assuring about a sadness that affirms the existence of your happiness just before the inevitable fall, there is hope. There is comfort from a Heavenly Father whose love and concern is strong enough to reach you even when you're not sure you want to be reached.

This is grace.

The LDS Bible Dictionary defines grace as "divine means of help or strength." It is God's love in action, doing for us what we cannot do for ourselves. And even as I survey grief's wake with gloomy eyes, grace abounds.

A sunset cuts through tears, reminding you of everything you've still got. And that's just the beginning.

An old friend emails just to say she cares. A newer one stays up well past midnight as we tackle questions that neither of us fully understands. Almost-strangers take time to check in and offer help. And a childhood friend sends a card full of compassion and love that reminds you of the bigger picture — an entire life that has led up to the past five weeks. My Heavenly Father has surrounded our family with love. This is grace. And I am grateful.

Cloudy

I was happy to see a cloud-covered sky this morning to match my battered heart. And I was mad when the sunshine started shining through.

Such is life. Happy. Sad. Happy. Hopeful. Bam! Sad. I'm so worn down, I don't know what I am. I know I   was mad when the sun started peeking through the clouds this morning, because I wanted a reason to curl up, to be quiet and, yes, to be sad.

And I feel like a big, bad mom and a lackluster wife and an unfaithful daughter of God to say that, but it's true: I am sad.

Yes, I have had a great week with my funny, perfect kids. We've snuggled and tickled and laughed. Oh, we've laughed. We've learned new songs. We've played games and told jokes and ate Halloween candy and read piles of stories. They are beautiful and sweet — the epitome of hope.

Yes, I have an equally broken-hearted husband who, though he doesn't say it, is just as scared and frustrated as me. A husband who abides and listens even though he has no idea what to do or say.

Yes, I have the very best of friends rallying around me — friends who, try as I might to tell them, will likely never know just how much they mean to me at this very moment in my upside-down life. This path is dark and winding and lonely. I know that it is not a fun place to be. But they're here, walking beside me, even though not one of us knows where we're going or when we'll come through to the other side.

Yes, I have a somewhat surprisingly unwavering faith that brings me comfort when I begin to wonder just how all of this came to be and brings me hope when I worry it may never be ok again.

But I am still sad. With all the good things I've got — all the sunshine bursting out from the clouds — my heart is still just broken.

But I am trying. Sit tight, dear friends. I am still in here somewhere; it's just a little cloudy.

As Promised

Halloween is one million times more fun with kids. Even this year. Especially this year. And especially with these kids.

We needed a pick-me-up, and the finishing touches on costumes and force-feeding of vegetables before the sugarfest was a welcome distraction. A welcome, normal distraction alongside my two favorite people.

And though a little different, it felt pretty normal: excited chatter, big plans, late afternoon tantrums and a cartoon distraction while I tried to sneak the white shirt onto our all-pink princess who somehow, even with a bath towel draped around her, spilled the two bites of dinner she actually ate all over the front of the original princess top planned for her costume.

And I laughed out loud when I looked back over the day's photos and saw this, because this is the Porter I know... naturally compliant and helpful enough to sit down and stay put, but not without a little whining — just to be sure you know what he really thinks.

And then I cried, reflecting on our different-but-normal Halloween. Just before I took this picture, the kids walked home from their babysitter's, which is down the street and around the corner. Porter arranged it, and he asked me to drive slowly alongside them as they walked, hand-in-hand, with big brother double-checking both directions before he would let his little sister cross the street. I cried because my boy is an amazing big brother. Would have been an amazing big brother to the two that were to join us.

But first I laughed. And it felt good and right for a day that had lots of smiles and happy memories.

At least until we ran into friends and let him loose, Porter was happy to wait for Nora to catch up before knocking, gently prodding her to say thank you before turning for the next door.

He said he wanted to be a mummy in the beginning of September and didn't change his mind once (though he did start making a long list of costume ideas for next year).

Mummy practice

We had to bribe him with a dollar and a candy bar to get him t touch the guts this year

In true Nora fashion, this one opted to paint her pumpkin this year as soon as she saw that we had pink paint.

Surprisingly, she branched out after first painting the entire thing pale pink (I am guessing because everyone else was still carving away and she didn't want to leave the action).

And we though it was funny that, without even realizing it, Porter's pumpkin design included just two teeth — in nearly the exact spots where his own had just fallen out days before.

Our girl stole the show, at least in my heart. She had been practice trick-or-treating for weeks. I've never seen a child more excited for candy. One week later, she still spontaneously giggles any time we say that yes, she may pick a piece of candy out of her pumpkin bucket.

Amid all the big, sad stuff we've been dealing with over the past few weeks, I truly was so, so grateful for a happy Halloween that didn't feel forced, just fun.

Am I doing it right?

I remember snippets of a conversation from some point in my shy, self-conscious teenage years, when some well-intentioned adult was trying to get me to break free from caring about what people thought. The gist of the punchline, so to speak, was "How much have you thought about so-and-so today?" Followed up with, "What did so-and-so wear last week?", "What did so-and-so say two days ago?", etc. And though I couldn't answer any of those questions very well, I continued to wear my self-consciousness into adulthood, worrying that each step was a misstep and that I would soon give myself away as a fraud —not quite the person I was pretending to be... not quite a great mom... not quite a good writer... not even close to Martha Stewart... not quite a real grown-up.

Though a small victory, one good thing that has come of the past almost-four weeks is that suddenly, none of that matters.

Seriously. I haven't worn anything beyond mascara and a ponytail since I left the hospital. I don't think I've vacuumed and am certain I haven't dusted since my mom left two weeks ago. And the never-ending project to-do-list that usually fills our weekends long before Friday evening, at least for now, seems to be a thing of the past. Because the only thing I want to be doing is impossible, so why bother with anything else? So I navigate the day-to-day with a bit more ease, not worried about much beyond are my kids safe and happy? Too bad perspective has come at such a high price.

It would seem I am free of inhibition in all but one area of my life. But in this one area, I am driving myself crazy: I don't know how to be the person I have now become.

And even though everyone keeps telling me there is not one right way to trudge through this bog that is missing my babies, I worry with every breath that I am mucking it up. Worried that the only thing I can do for them is being done wrong. Am I too pushy or too clingy in my sadness and will everyone forever think of these two little guys negatively (which is different than with sadness)? Too formulaic in my retelling, too happy in the in between, minimizing my heartache and their impact?

And just as my 15-year-old self, knowing something (that none of it matters — that my grief is not up for judgment) and moving forward with that knowledge are two very different things.

And I am driving myself crazy.

The upside: Every once in a while, the worry about how so-and-so will hear such-and-such feels almost normal. At least until I fill in the blanks with the topic at hand.

Because They Mattered

I worry my sadder ramblings may turn away some of you. And I completely understand why it would. Three weeks and two days ago, I would not have known what to say to someone like me. So please don't feel obligated to read. I just keep writing about this because, honestly, it feels good to get it out — to be heard. A Halloween recap will soon follow this post. Check back soon or read on as you like.


It's been three weeks since Andrew and Benjamin were born. Three weeks full of heartache and regret and useless what ifs on top of three weeks of overwhelming love and compassion and patience on the part of those around us that, combined, have left my emotional filter threadbare. A loss like this feels like it overshadows everything else, and moving forward is so much easier said than done.

But I don't know how. Because any step away from this is a step away from my boys. And however unavoidable it is, that first step feels impossible.

And amid all of this, I am left with one overwhelming regret about the only thing I really could have done differently in all of this: we didn't have a funeral. And I worry this makes them less legitimate to everyone but me. I worry that because noone else saw them, held them, noticed the side-bent pinkies that their older brother and sister also inherited from their daddy and the scrunchy toes on skinny feet they got from me, that in everyone else's mind, Andrew and Benjamin were never really here — never really a part of our family. And this breaks my heart all over again because, to us, they were everything.

Shortly after we told the kids we were having twins, Nora started pushing two of her dollies around in her little stroller. She called them her "twin babies," and her playtime with them almost always led to conversations about what her "twin brothers" (she got really mad if you just called them the babies or brothers without the "twin") would be like. To this day, her twin babies are swaddled, rock-a-byed and tucked in beside her before she goes to sleep, and she often talks about "when our twin babies come back".

And though he understands that our twin babies will not come back (and gently reminds his little sister every time she brings them up), Porter carries his little brothers with him in other ways and often asks about how old they will be "when we are all together in Heaven." Every once in a while, he sneaks into my room and gently holds the hand molds of his brothers that a kind nurse made for us the night they were born, rubbing his thumb across their fingers and marveling at how tiny his brothers were.

I wonder if he picked this up from me. Though I want to do something lasting with the hand molds (just have't figured out what that should be), I can't bring myself to stow them away for the time being, so they sit on top of my jewelry box where I can get to them anytime I need a reminder that all of this did happen. That they were really my babies. Much like the ultrasound photo that still hangs on our fridge; though we see it every day, neither Andy nor I have the heart to take it down.

I don't know what to do with all these reminders. When you think about grief, noone ever tells you about all its baggage.

Noone tells you that when you do muster the courage to return to work, you will open your desk drawer to find the leftover anti-nausea medicine you kept on hand just in case the morning sickness returned. Or that your husband would run into an uninformed acquaintance who would innocently inquire about how the twin pregnancy was going.

It doesn't end and so it is hard to move on.

It's November now. I am supposed to be nearing the end. We weren't going to go anywhere for Thanksgiving, "just in case they came early." The thing about all of this, is that it caught us completely off guard. I had an ultrasound just five days before, and everything was fine — we were basking in high hopes. And then we weren't. And each week feels like another sucker punch.

Just three days before we lost Andrew and Benjamin, my mom and I finished piecing the tops of two quilts for their nursery.

Three weeks later, the second crib, nine bulk boxes of diapers and all the coordinating sleepers and onesies have been returned, but my boys are no less present to me.

They are with me every moment. And I don't know if I'm ready to give that up.

So the hand-written list of baby names with some crossed off and some starred is tucked in a clip on the side of the fridge. Though I will probably never use it, the brand new double stroller hides in the back of our storage closet, "just in case we have twins again." And though I have blocked the weekly "Your Growing Baby" emails that told me which fruit or vegetable my boys were as long as each week, I can't stop googling "identical twin pregnancy complications" in the hope that I will make sense of all that has happened.

But it just doesn't make sense. I can't wrap my head around everything that has changed in just three short weeks. So however unavoidable it is, this first step feels impossible.

Just three weeks and three days ago, I had three hearts beating inside of me. Now I've just got a shattered one and a whole lot of unanswered questions. But what I do know is this: These boys mattered. They matter. They were my children and they will be again. And I cling to that — one last hope from the countless dreams I imagined just three weeks and three days ago.