More

After that last post, I keep thinking that there is more to say.

As emails and texts and neighbors pop in to check on me, I keep thinking that there is more I should say—to assure everyone that I am fine, that we are fine. (For the record, we are doing good and are fine, thanks for asking.)

As I sit with myself and try to assess this crazy heart-ruled brain of mine, I keep thinking that there should be more to say, but the truth is, nothing has changed and we are fine. So what else is there to say?

How do you talk about something that is just as it has always been? It's a weird spot to be in—wholly but unnoticeably changed, with nothing tangible as testament to two years of living.


Nothing changes. Now two years into this third baby business, we are still just the four original Burts who comfortably fit in the Honda Accord I got in college and have no need for the plans we've commissioned to turn the guest room into a bedroom and third bathroom. I set the baby toys aside in a bin in the guest room rather than lugging them back into the attic because I was sure we would need them soon, but that was two years ago. I have spent the last two years preparing for something that has never happened, and unless you crawled into my head, you would have no way of knowing all the hopes and dreams and planning and preparation and changing that has taken place to end up exactly where we started.

When I was at the doctor's office, already crying because I knew the ultrasound was just a formality, the nurse asked, "This is your fourth pregnancy, right?" I first said, "No, it's my third—" because I was counting the two other kids I'd kissed goodbye on my way out the door, but then I interrupted myself to say "I mean fifth—" because I was counting the number of babies I've actually conceived. For a moment, I had no idea how to answer that question, and I was shocked at the realization that I had just completed my fourth pregnancy. Andy and I are both from families of four kids, and I always thought we would have four kids too. It's a bit surreal to realize that I  am there in number of pregnancies but still only half way there if you're counting the number of kids I sing to sleep each night.

I don't know if there are words to explain it—this middle place of looking back and moving forward and waiting all at once. Other than this: It's a fine place to be, this middle place. It's like lukewarm water or an unscheduled weekend. We don't do anything. We're just here. Talking about what we could do, what we should do, all the while, sitting and waiting for something to happen. We wait and plan with no real concept of what our future holds and thus, no real conviction for anything we talk about putting into action.


But I am a doer, a fixer. I like to check things off lists and start fresh each day. And I keep wondering lately if I'm doing something wrong as I wait and plan and wait for the need for these carefully laid plans. If nothing else, it seems I am supposed to be learning patience from all of this. But at this point, shouldn't there be more?

Here Again

For a few weeks, there was joy unlike anything I have felt since that heartbreaking afternoon in October when I lay quietly, listening enviously to the pouding heartbeat amplified on a fetal monitor of another mother's baby across the hall while my own two little boys sat still and lifeless on the ultrasound screen in front of my face.

For a few moments, there was hope and possibility and a heart bursting rather than breaking, only to come crashing down with another silent ultrasound. A miscarriage that began, ironically, eight months to the day—the 12th—of our last heartbreak.

Miscarriage. Stillborn. How did these words become part of my otherwise normal life?

I had no idea how far away from hope I had traveled until it came rushing back in with those stupid double pink lines that dared me to dream of a happy ending. A 3-pack of pregnancy tests that I thought held the promise of something so, so good—something that would firmly plant my footing in the future rather than the past.

Eight months to the day, and after all that—eight months of grieving and moving on and praying and healing and really trying to make something good out of something that felt like it would crush me—I am right back where I started.

Here again: trying to make something good of heartbreak.

The boy has quickly gone from wobbly and cautious on his training wheel free bike to speedy and self-assured as he daily asks to pedal a little bit further away from the front yard. This afternoon, while riding down the road with his pal, he happily shouted, "I'm alive!"

Couldn't have put it better myself. Oh, how I love the summer time.

 

Simon Says, in case you were wondering

Q:What do you do if you want to run through the sprinklers but your mommy says it's too windy?  A: Fill up the sled and swim in your skivvies, of course.

Andy often complains that I don't know my limits when it comes to fun, always trying to squeeze just one more thing in at the risk of bringing it all to the ground with tired, cranky kids. And though I try to be responsible about bedtimes and clean-up and balanced meals and peace and quiet most of the time, summer is my exception—we go until we crash, and I wouldn't have it any other way. We're alive!