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.

The Big Kids

I know this is an abrupt return to blogging after a summer away from the computer, but look at it as a fresh start — the new, pre-twins, post-shock Burts. Because there was shock. And morning sickness. And record-breaking exhaustion. And potty training. And more shock. And I will get to all of that, but not just yet.
...


While going through an entire summer's worth of photos, contemplating blog posts and the annual photo books I promised myself I'd get caught up on before we add two more to our brood, I came across a photo of Porter and Nora building wood chip castles.

Porter's is big and intentional. Nora's is small, and what you don't see in this picture, is that every three seconds or so, Nora glances over to see what porter is doing and alters her building plans accordingly.

You also don't see the devastated big brother just two minutes later, when his little sister suddenly swipes at her own castle, taking Porter's out with it.

My point? She is the little sister, as evidenced by her terrible-two tantrums and mimicry, but she will also soon be the big sister. And though I have always known that he would be the big brother, a big brother to one little sister feels a whole lot different than a big sister and a big brother to three.

My little kids are growing up.

This one started school a few weeks ago. Not preschool. Real K-12 and then on to college school.

And he plays a game called "girl emergency" with his friends at recess (from what I gather, the girls capture one boy, and the rest of his buddies try to rescue him from the cootie-infested giggly grip).

And he's suddenly asking me questions about science with answers that I forgot I ever learned (inner core, outer core, mantle and crust — totally forgot mantle and had to pull the "ask Daddy when he gets home" card). Most nights, I have to pepper him with a range of questions just to find the one right question that unzips his lips, reminding him of the one thing from the day that he actually wants to share with his nagging mom.

That's right, nagging. He has never used that word, but more and more, my requests for him to put shoes away or wash hands before dinner are met with eye rolls and "You always make me do everything."

Like it or not, he keeps growing up. And I have to remind myself that five is really just the beginning — the start of a whole childhood he'll one day look back on. Because right now, it feels so old.

And compared to the idea of two little infants who keep hogging more of my thoughts and plans, she doesn't feel like she is that far behind. She can hopscotch. Not well. But she gets the general idea, knows how to count and is eager to try.

And she wants to do everything her big brother does which makes her seem all the older, because I never remember my first 2 1/2-year-old caring so much about playing with friends and hitting and wanting to be the boss. But this one does. And for a tiny little girl (she measures in at the fourth percentile for height), she sure can keep pace with the big kids. And though it's fun to watch, it's a little heart-breaking.

My babies aren't just not babies, they're kids. And will soon be the true big kids. They'll share a room and beg for cartoons and playdates and ignore my talk of bedtime. And sometimes, they'll get away with it simply because they are the big kids and can play on their own and manage themselves for a few minutes while I diaper and feed and swaddle. Feeling like the earth just shifted. And trying to soak up every minute of their littleness while I still can.

Impossibly Pink

This one loves pink and princesses and sneaking into my bathroom to steal lipstick I've forgotten I even had. Or, in this case, purple toenail polish that I should have been smart enough to put on a higher shelf.



If it's not pink or sparkly, she wants nothing to do with it, and it is making mornings impossible on days when we are running late and 100% comical on those when I can remind myself to give her space to make a few decisions. Even if it means wearing an apron or doubled-up pajama shorts. (She justifies pajamas in the daytime by impatiently explaining that they are "fresh" -- not the same pajamas she wore to bed the night before.)

I never knew a two-year-old could be so stubborn as to endure 20 minutes of repeated time-outs just to hit and screech and " You big baby!" her way out of a yellow shirt or spring green sneakers.

The yellow shirt has since been relegated to the bear.

And the green shoes have never made it beyond her bedroom door.

On her best (worst?) days, everything is pink. All the way down to her too-small "gummy sandals" that are, apparently, worth the discomfort.

She is no less insistent at bedtime.

Note the puffy eyes? We settled on pink "capeas" after a ten-minute rant about the "big baby" (her insult of choice) red shorts that are supposed to go with this pink top.

Nor do holidays give us a break from the pink fest. Even after walking her down the street first thing in the morning to see all the American Flags on the fourth of July, and first getting myself and Porter al dolled up in Americana, I found myself giving into pink bloomers just to get our stubborn fashionista in the planned red, white and blue, complete with sparkly "rubes" (ruby slippers).

She even picks through the crayon jar for all the "pinks and purps" before she'll start to color.

One of these twins had better be a (much more compliant) girl, because I've got a whole closet full of untouched 2T and 3T that does not fulfill little Miss Nora's pink quotient.

Stubborn but adorable. But oh. so. stubborn.