More of the Same

Christmas has come and gone and, as always, I am sad to see it go. I slept on the couch next to the twinkling tree lights last night just because I needed a little more holiday cheer before we box everything up and look ahead to a 2012 that is entirely different than I had imagined it would be.

I don't think my future has ever felt less certain or further off. This is disconcerting for us Type-A planners. I want to know what 2012 will bring, but I don't have the heart to make any plans beyond wake up, snuggle my kids, work, cook-clean, kiss my husband, sleep. So 2012 looms a bit ominous and a whole lot different from what I had hoped it would be.

I keep thinking about how I am supposed to be holding two little babies under the twinkling lights of our yet to be dismantled tree.

I keep thinking about the hollow feeling of last Christmas when I so hoped I was pregnant but was not. It is not all that different from the hollow in my heart this Christmas, and I am awestruck at just how long these babies have been – will always be – on my mind. After all the hoping and hoopla, the planning and preparation, the dreams and prayers and surprises and trials of faith, the end of 2011 looks far too similar to the end of 2010. Everything has changed and yet nothing has changed.

Looking Back

Christmas marked the week our boys should have joined our family, and I keep wondering what it would have been like – what it should have been like. There is nothing else to anticipate; their countdown has ended as quietly as it began. This week feels big and important even if nothing has changed as we once dreamed it would. In my daydreams, this week was beautiful. But in real life, I simply replay the past nine months and take note of all the good and the bad as I try to make sense of the unimaginable.

There are things that I regret:

All the worry. All the stress.

Every complaint about heartburn and sciatic nerves.

Every complaint. Every worry.

Every wisecrack about how crazy our life was about to get.

Every time I took this fairytale for granted.

The sleepless nights full of doubt, wondering how in the world this was going to work.

Putting off taking a picture of my pregnant belly.

All the nagging and fretting that made this pregnancy appear anything less than bliss – every moment spent worrying instead of daydreaming.

All the nights I was too tired or stressed to pray.

And I regret complaining when I found out we were having boys because I wanted Nora to have a sister; I would give anything for the two little brothers that were supposed to complete our family.

And while the fallout from their being leaves me sad and wistful, I do not regret loving my boys. I have much to be grateful for in the short time that they were mine:

For the excited anticipation and the daydreaming.

For every conversation about the “twin babies” with Porter and Nora, little moments that made them real to their older brother and sister.

For every time I successfully worked “I’m having twins” into an unrelated conversation.

For every conversation I hogged in their sake.

For the baby shower – as it turned out, my only chance to celebrate our boys’ life with family and friends.

For the extra ultrasounds that showed my boys alive and well, snuggled side by side with a lifetime ahead of them.

For the colorful world I imagined would be theirs and for all the fun I had working to make it so.

For every time I heard their hearts beating.

I am grateful for every minute I spent with my boys on my mind, even if it means I now look ahead to a lifetime with my sweet boys on my sad, sorry mind. 

On Balance

Now that the obligatory vacation report and genius child showboating is out of the way (because how can you not showboat cute, genius children like mine), I return to the other-life. I am thinking I should separate these two blogs, as I am sure it is confusing to my dear readers. You just never know what you're gonna get.

Neither do I. Such is life. Sorry about that.

I thought I was better. Really. I thought a trip to the magic kingdom and a McDonald's Thanksgiving feast on the beach was all it would take to fix my broken heart. I submit as evidence happy, smiley pictures of me with a beautifully, blessed family on vacation in previous posts. I really did think I was better and I was so relieved. Because I feel like I should be better. I want to be better.

But then December set in. The very December in which I am supposed to be bringing home babies.

When vacation wasn't the magic fix (though it was a nice reprieve), I decided a whole lot of Christmas magic would surely be the cure all. As of December 8th, we have:
trimmed the tree (and the walls and rooftop);
drunk hot chocolate four times (and I wonder why I can't lose the rest of this baby weight);
gone sledding;
baked gingersnaps (and then put most of them in the freezer so I wouldn't eat them all at once);
shoveled snow;
watched Frosty the Snowman;
finished the Santa shopping;
made a lovely garland off of Pinterest;
had two Christmas carol dance-offs;
taken a night walk in the snow to look at Christmas lights;
cut out snowflakes;
taken the kids to a holiday choir concert;
opened my freezer as home to fallen icicles;
wrapped gifts and hid many more for later wrapping;
attended our first Christmas party;
read seven new Christmas books to kids clad in footed PJs;
and have sung Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer enough times that my two-year-old can now sing it in her sleep.

And every bit of it has made me smile with warmth and fuzziness that leaves me thinking This is it—the moment when everything gets back to normal.

But then, This Christmas would be so much better if..., immediately follows.

What a strange balancing act.

Torn

What a strange and yet still blessed season this December seems to be.

Though I am grateful for reasons to smile and savor the Christmas spirit, I catch myself down and low and green with envy every time I think about the unabashed joy that fills so many homes this holiday season. It seems almost every woman I know will either be snuggling a new baby, nearing the end of a peaceful pregnancy or happily looking down the road a few months to the miracle that is to come. I want that joy in the form of two look-a-like boys all my own. The pull between I cannot look at another smiling pregnant pal and This is Christmas and I am going to share it with the people I love leaves me torn and full of regret from one end or another.

Oh, for a happy medium. For answers that feel like they really are enough to explain the heartache. For the strength to think of Christ's birth without the hollow heart that follows as I feel the weight of empty arms. Each swell of gratitude leaves me noticing just how empty a full heart can yet be. I sincerely want to be grateful and happy. I am grateful and happy, but...

All I want for Christmas is the impossible, but I'd settle for peace.

Not to be Left Out

Disneyland was magical, but so was the ocean.

 

The waves made her just nervous enough that she loved the "baby ocean" her Daddy made for her.

He opted for a long, loud Halloweenie "Booooooo!" over the bird screeching Andy initially suggested he use to scare off the gulls,  

Totally worth the McDonalds Thanksgiving dinner to which I conceded when the kiddies were sandblasted and too tired to sit through a real meal once we had hunted down an open restaurant.

A Scientist?

I got to help the husband with a project not directly related to family life. It was fun to show off my mad nerdy research and writing skills, but it was even more fun to feel like the husband still appreciates something that is just me without all the bells and whistles of motherhood and marriage. Because, let's be honest, sometimes the everyday runaround eats up any spousal conversation that is not directly related to the kids, the bills, the calendar or the to-dos.

So I helped the husband with a writing project, and I got to thinking about how it is I came to enjoy writing and reading and, yes, grammar and punctuation. And I traced it all back to my first book report in second grade. I can't remember the book, though I believe it had a blue cover. But I remember the report was due on a Monday and that my bestie, Adrian, had a birthday party at Classic Skating on Saturday, which meant my big bad parents wanted me to do it on Friday. So while my brother and sisters played with my cousins and our parents played cards, I sat secluded with my no. 2 and wide-rule notebook.

The thing is, I really wanted to play with the rest of the gang. So I flipped the book over (which I did read, just for the record) and tried to figure out a new way to rewrite every single sentence in the synopsis and added an "I really liked this book" onto the end. That's right, I cheated (Sorry, Mrs. Meano Reno). And it worked. And everyone told me how well I had done on my five-sentence book report. And I got the Excellent! worm-in-the-apple stamp in happy red ink next to my name at the top of the page. And right then and there, I was pretty sure I was a better writer than anyone else in the second grade. And I liked that feeling a whole lot, so I kept writing (though I did, eventually, stop plagiarizing). And I got more happy-worm excellents. And then a bunch of straight A's. And then a scholarship. And then a boyfriend who I would not have met had said scholarship not brought me to his sleepy college town. And the boyfriend became a husband who saw more promise in what I could do than I did myself. And because we were newly married, I listened. And I got another degree. And then a job. And then a great job. And here I am, all grown up and amazed to think of the first book report that changed my life.

My musings on the book report that led to everything else turned to my kiddos, wondering about the little things now that may become everything down the road. And while I'm pretty sure my girlie will never be an actual princess, I suspect the boy may be a scientist in the making...

Or an artist.
But my fingers are crossed for a scientist, by day at least.

The solar system is his very favorite, followed closely by volcanos.

And trucks, of course. But I'm holding my breath for a scientist.

 

Speaking of Happy...

We went to the Happiest Place on Earth, and it did not disappoint.

There were mouse ears and teacups and princesses and the Matterhorn. Christmas lights and on-demand caroling, Mickey in a snowflake sweater, an It's a Small World holiday mash-up, and one teary-eyed mama as we walked down Main Street for the first time as parents.

It could not have been more magical.

Really. And I would not normally fancy myself a huge Disney fan. But, oh, the magic!

When you plan a trip to Disneyland with kids, the advice comes at you much the same as it does in those first few months as a first-time mom. Everyone has a plan, the plan to make the experience more magical, less stressful, more affordable and efficient. But what they don't tell you is that all that research and planning will be in one ear and out the other as soon as you walk through the gates with a five-year-old who is rushing to learn to read his first map and an almost-three-year-old who cannot get to the princess castle fast enough. And you wont care, because you'll be just as geeked. Literally, openly crying with a goofy grin on my face as we walked down Main Street.


A quick recap:
Nora adored the teacups. Asked for them again and again and again. And we conceded—this was one day when I was happy to let the kids run the show.

 

Porter surprised both Andy and I when the Matterhorn was deemed his very favorite. I was sure they'd wait in line only to turn around at the very last second, but he loved it and spent the rest of the day talking about it.

And while Andy took the boy on his first "big kid" ride, Nora and I headed for the princesses. We lucked out times two when, first, the line took just a few minutes longer than it took Porter and Andy to make it through the Matterhorn and, second, the princesses changed post just three minutes before we reached the front of the line, bringing in my girlie's very favorites: Ariel and Belle.

That's right. I ok'd an hour-plus wait for the princesses even though I initially swore I wouldn't. Disney will do that to you. And it was so sweet (complete with a lesson on blowing kisses from Belle) and surprisingly simple—just a girl and her imaginary BFFs brought to life.

Me thinks there is no better cure for heartache than granting a wish.

As fate would have it, we also lucked into a very manageable Mickey sighting just as the line started to form. So after only a  five-minute wait, Porter slowly inched forward with a shy smile and then suddenly gave Mickey a big hug after the initial high five icebreaker.

It was the perfect day.

I didn't realize I had switched the camera to black & white mode—very unfitting for one very colorful day.

Hearts were light. And though there was likely a bit more gratitude, given that on top of the fairy tale hoopla, we were also quietly noting how nice it was to smile and mean it, we felt like a normal family—our happy little family.

The only drawback? Now that Porter has seen how Disney does  Christmas, our single-strand lights along the roofline do not seem to measure up.

The boys are now on the hunt for, among other things, a big plastic rooftop Santa...