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.