Uncategorized

(Where I track how hard it is to type).

If it could just keep raining, I’d appreciate it.

Unlike rainy days as a teacher (where the teenagers howl at the moon), rainy days at home make for peace, especially during toddler naptimes and lazy lunchtimes and —

(One.)

— book-reading laptimes. It’s not that it’s free from interruption. It’s just that the house is a sort of almost quiet-ish where you can hear the hum of the dryer and the tapping of droplets on our porch and Carter’s breath in the chair next to mine.

(Two.)

The girls are four weeks old today. Their existence has given me a sense of something I can’t quite explain. One of those intangible somethings that I haven’t found any good words for. The closest thing I can come to is that I feel done, complete, and —

(Three.)

— full. Like I know I’m done with a part of my life, the pregnant/person-growing part of my life, and I know this is my family, my unit. Seeing into the future, just a tiny bit, has become that much more lucid for me.  This probably makes no sense. Does anyone, any parent, have better terminology for this? It’s a good feeling, a calm and solid, warm and gooey feeling. Of course I am frequently warm and gooey and wide-hearted anyways these days. New baby smell will do that to a person. It’s just that —

(Four.)

— I’ve got this husband and this marriage that I can wrap both arms around and never get enough. I have this sweet-souled six-year old with blue-blue eyes and two missing teeth. I have a deep-voiced two-year old with out-to-there lashes, the best kissin’ lips and humongous, ever-growing feet. And now I’ve got two tiny twins, each completely different and separately wonderful from the other —

(Five.)

Charlotte with her balding jet-black mop of hair, her round face and her crinkled ear. Her love for laying belly-down on Dad’s chest —

(Six.)

— and the funny way she clears her throat and grunts in her sleep. Her olive skin. Her bubble-blowing. Charlie. Char-Char Binks. Charmander.

Elizabeth? Prim and proper. Sleeps with her hands folded, tiny button nose in the air. Megan’s namesake and eerily-similar personality. Strawberry duck fluff; pursed lips. Tiniest peanut of a baby who still swims in newborn diapers. Mom-likes-Ellie-but-Dad-votes-Lizzie. Little Bit. Marmot. Squeaker.

It’s not to say life is perfect. Life is loud and messy, and we’re flying by the seat of our pants.

If I were to point out insecurities in the hopes of recording the grittier parts of reality, I’d write about how I’m still scared of having four kids. How that seems like too many. I’d write about how soft and squishy my midsection is; how it feels like puppy skin, and how this both makes me feel proud and daunted. I’d talk about —

(Seven.)

— my struggle with breastfeeding, and how small that makes me feel sometimes.

(Eight.)

I’d talk about losing my temper/mind at 3:30 in the morning, about worrying about medical bills and trying to figure out how I’m going to run this roost solo once Jesse goes back to work in two days.

We’ve got newborn twins — double blessings that keep us up all night and tethered to an insane feeding cycle during the day. Jack’s a walking accident with proprioceptive sensory issues. He’s also two with a powerful set of lungs and an Irish temper. Carter wants to play computer games with pixelated blood and is all of a sudden preoccupied with natural disasters: volcanoes, tornados, tsunamis, acid rain.

It’s a never ending juggling act around here.

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(Nine.)

In wrapping things up, I’ve got to sing praises to all of my meal-makers, my conversation-keepers, my coffee-deliverers. My neighbors, my family, my friends; my people.

When I’m about to pull out my hair — with fists, from the roots — I try to think about how undeniably joyful my life is. I think about how beautiful it all is, despite my always-sticky floors and full hampers and all the other things that don’t matter.

Hey look at that — we got through this post without a tenth interruption.

(Ten.)

Almost.

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Uncategorized

13 and some change.

I am so sick, still.

A little bit better, I sometimes think. And then the headache comes on or my back seizes or my lunch slides up my throat — or whatever. I’m so sick of the constant reel of complaints in my head. I wish I could ignore them, ignore the symptoms. Push through. But when I do, I end up in bed for two days.

2016: The summer I stayed in bed, ice pack 15 minutes on the hour, and waited for this, too, to pass.

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This was 10 weeks… 10 WEEKS. 

Had first visit at perinatologist this week. Had no idea what to expect. There was a nurse who took vitals, an extensive ultrasound, a blood draw, and a meeting with a doctor. All went really well. I’ve had my fickle blood drawn 3 times already this pregnancy, and that doesn’t bother me at all. The doctor was very familiar with my file, thorough, and had an awesome handlebar mustache and photos of him riding a cattle horse on his ranch. The ultrasound tech was great in that she, too, was thorough and clearly had been doing her job for quite some time. She referred to babies’ sex as genders, which rubs me wrong, but overall I really liked her and everyone in the office.

Everything looks on the up and up. Each baby has its own sac and placenta (dichorionic-diamniotic), which we were pretty sure of before, but got a better look this round. This is a big plus, since it’s less risky than other types of twins. Both heartbeats were strong (160’s) and measurements were on target and/or in the good range. Both babes were flipping and turning.

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Carter starts first grade tomorrow. He made sure his alarm clock was set and has a new hair cut and fresh threads. My heart hurts and leaps. Carter Patrick, you make my world turn.

Jack is all no-pants and toothy cheese grins and sign language these days. He’s got words and belly laughs and (so. many.) screeches — the kid has great lungs. Between now and January, I’m looking forward to some Mom & Chumby time during the day. As long as he stops head butting me for snacks.

I’m so tired, as I might’ve mentioned. This entry took me over an hour. Words and breathing, man. Hard.

Signing off for sleep. Eff editing.

H.Lynne

Growing Up Carter, Uncategorized

On Carter Patrick and the Whole Ocean.

In three days, Carter Patrick will be five years old.

And there’s so much to tell about him.

The way that he wakes me up every morning, his eyes the only thing I see over the blanket, to tell me good morning.

How he plays the air guitar when he’s singing his signature rock n’ roll song, “I love you, Mom”.

How he runs, full speed, past all the other kindergartners to hug me when I pick him up from school.

How he’s reading and he’s writing and he’s doing math problems.How whenever he writes the daily message faster than his teacher he laughs and says, “You just got beat by a four year old!”.

How when the cashier forgot to give him a sticker at the grocery store, he told me, “She probably thought I was a grownup.”

How when I said I was on edge, he wanted to know why I wasn’t living on the land.

Or how he sticks his tongue out in dance class when he’s learning new moves in dance class.

How even on Jack’s grumpiest days, Carter can make him laugh.

How he wants to be just like Dad, so he draws pictures of the two of them fishing — and they both have beards.

How much he loves hot chocolate and peppermints.

How he holds both my hands in his when he says his prayers.

And just like that, he’s five.

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“Mom, are mountains plants? If there’s oxygen in your blood, does it help you breathe? Does it rain in California? Ok, ok –please don’t call Grammie — I’m going to nap.

Mom? I love you for the whole ocean, and the whole ocean is just ours.”