Pause

This blog started out as a photo dump for far-away grandparents and a way to keep in touch with friends, to highlight all the good and pretty stuff that makes up the Burt life. And at times, it's been a way to be more honest than I can be in person (much more articulate on paper, I am) — a way to put it all out there without really putting it all out there. In this, I am every once in a while surprised to hear from someone unexpected with a quick note to let me know that someone, somewhere, gets it. And that's been nice. Especially now. Because right now, try as I might, this Burt's life is not feeling so good and so pretty.

Except when it is.

But the thing is, I don't know how to go from a post about the babies I wanted so badly to a post about how my two-year-old wants nothing to do with pants now that she has new, "big girl" Rapunzel underwear, which she accessorizes with nothing but ruby slippers.

Both hold a whole lot of space in my heart, but the transition from tragedy to humdrum, from heartache to joy, feels strange and impossible and surreal no matter which camp I find myself in at any moment.

our first baby splurge after finding out our twins were two little boys

And so I sit and I wait and I don't really do much of anything because everything feels either too normal and happy for someone who is sad, or too sad and unfaithful for someone who has a whole lot of goodness surrounding her.

I want everything to stop, to give me a minute to figure things out at some undetermined time in the future when things like this are to be figured out.

But instead, everything goes on. And though that is probably good and necessary, it just feels so darn unfair to the baby boy-filled life I had a thousand times imagined my own. Like I'm betraying my boys by looking ahead to a life that does not have them in it.

I was going to be pregnant with twins for Halloween, and I was going to eat every Tootsie Roll and Mr. Goodbar in sight without an ounce of guilt, and we were going to find two tiny pumpkins at the pumpkin patch for the twin brothers who would soon join the chaos. Instead, I made my mom make my kids' costumes while I cried in my room; I have honestly considered the dentist's offer to trade candy for cash; and I bought enough pumpkins to line our entire walkway just because I couldn't bear to only see four pumpkins alone on our stoop.

Can I please hit the pause button?

Because the costumes are cute, and I really want to enjoy my kids running around in them without feeling guilty. And the candy is as sugary as ever, but I'd like to eat it without thinking about the pregnancy weight I have no reason to hang onto. And the pumpkin-lined pathway brings a smile to my face every time I look out the window, but then I remember the two tiny pumpkins I'd rather have in its place.

And so I sit. And I wait. And I try to have faith that normal will again feel normal one day.

My Whole Heart

In Loving Memory

Andrew & Benjamin Burt

Stillborn October 12, 2011

We chose to honor our sweet boys privately. It just felt like we had no way to put into words all that they both were. But now, in the quiet moments when the thought of them swallows me whole, I feel that I can’t rest without marking all that they were. Because they were everything.

Andrew and Benjamin.

Andrew because, like his daddy, he was a leader. As Baby A, he was set to come first into the world. And in the end, he was the first of our boys to return to his Heavenly Father.

He looked a lot like his namesake. So did his little brother, but for some reason, Andrew just looked a little bit more like his daddy to me, and as I held him and tried to say goodbye, I imagined him strong and honest and kind and fearless. Just like his dad.

And much like his older brother Porter and sister Nora, Baby B came to be Benjamin after music. A song that I had often hummed over the past months while mulling over our little boys’ names, shaping dreams of a little Benny with a crooked smile, a quiet nature and a huge heart.

This same song played on the way to the hospital on that quiet Wednesday morning and echoed in my heart the entire day as we prepared to say goodbye to our little boys.

Benjamin, after an idea that so wholly embodied the spirit of he and his brother’s purpose — for which, we are so grateful.

Though we never met them, their being made us better people. As we prepared to care for and raise the two of them, trying to comprehend all that would come with two infants and trying to shift our family and our home into the refuge all six of us would so need, we slowly became the parents we hoped for them. And our family became stronger and our home became that refuge.

There really is no way to put in words all that they were to us. Though heartbreaking, trying to understand Andrew and Benjamin’s role in our lives has truly helped us refocus our attention on our family in very important ways. Being their parents is a great blessing, and we will carry them with us always.

Thank you to all our friends and family and to our very caring and generous ward who have all supported us and prayed for us over the past week. We have been awed by the support system that surrounds us and are so grateful for each of you.

Love,

Andy & Jen

Was

The one word that changed everything: Was.

To most of you — my friends who were not on the immediate call list but who have still all been so important to me and my family — this post will seem rather abrupt. There is no etiquette for sharing bad news with the masses, however, and as I sit here and wait for everything to change, I feel like I need for those I care about to know. And I have no idea how to spread the word when I can't muster a phone call, let alone several.

And I can't imagine what it would feel like to come back to blogland months from now with photos of Halloween costumes and stories of the holidays without acknowledging that the Burts have been changed and that the soon-to-be family of six is just a family of four after all.



Porter and Nora both came into the world a little early and of their own accord. One day, everything was normal, and then suddenly, a contraction. and another. and another, until you're nervously smiling and calling the doctor and sure that today is the day you get to meet your child.

I was always grateful that they forged their own birth stories whenever I heard of friends who had to be induced or had scheduled c-sections. I just thought it would be so overwhelming to have a timeline for something so wholly life changing.

And it is.

I have two babies inside me whose hearts have stopped beating. Whose spirits have returned to their Heavenly Father and whose bodies will soon be delivered from mine. And as I sit here — staring the clock down, begging it to stop while, at the same time, willing the sun to rise and end this waiting — I am overwhelmed at the thought that these are my final hours of pregnancy.

I don't know how to do this. How to one day be pregnant and hopeful and so happy with the two little boys whose whole lives I have a thousand times imagined full of adventure and mischief and joy. And then to simply turn it all off, like waking from a dream to realize that none of that is to be.

And the clock keeps moving.

And I can't sleep. And I keep wondering what you're supposed to pack for the hospital when you're not bringing a baby home.

And though I'll probably regret pouring my heart out online in the light of day and once the shock wears off, I just wanted to think and to write and to mark this quiet moment that I will never forget.