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Born.

Elizabeth Megan. 3:48 am. 5 lbs 1 oz. 17″.

Charlotte Avery. 4:46am. 6 lbs 7 oz. 18″.

I’m still holding the L&D details pretty close to my chest. The girls came Sunday the 22nd. We spent 5 days in NICU, mostly for monitoring on room air. I lost a lot of blood during a long delivery. Charlotte got to hang out for a day under the phototherapy lights. Elizabeth dipped down to 4 1/2 lbs. We all got sent home together on Friday, but Elizabeth bounced back into the peds ward Saturday after she showed some trouble breathing. It was a very long, scary week.

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Charlotte of Hollywood

We’ve been home now for three weeks, and it’s been love-bright and sleep-hazy. Having Jesse home on paternity leave has made every drop of difference when it comes to figuring out this new landscape, and I think it’s finally sinking in: we are a family of six.

Carter Patrick is the twins’ (The Twins!) biggest fan. He is the sweetest big brother, reading to them and always asking to hold them and singing them improvised Carter-tunes.

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Jack is curious and thinks the girls (The Girls!) are hilarious noise-makers. He points out their ears and hairs and noses and laughs whenever Char-lit and Bibbit squeak. He’s too fast for most pictures, what with being a bit of an (adorable) bulldozer, but we haven’t given up trying.

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2+2. We’re still working on our form.

I am overwhelmed with the support and love that has been showered on our no-longer-so-little family. Truly, we have the best people.

I am taken aback by just how very different the girls are, both in appearance and personality.

Guys, guys. Twins. Twin girls. I have them. They are here and they are gorgeous and they are perfect and is this real life?! Cheers to don’t-blink moments where your life reaches a mountain top and the sky splits wide-open in a smile and your heart explodes into dancing confetti. This is the stuff.

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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

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Jack, Jack. He’s our man.

Hey, Jack.

You are one. A whole year has passed. You are tall and strawberry-blonde and sensitive-skinned. You are eyebrows and thighs and sock-free feet. The church nursery refers to you as “Jack the Bear” (you growl). Carter calls you “Chumby-saurus” and “Chum-bacca”. Grandma calls you “Sprout”. Papa calls you “Happy”. You are my Jack, the apple of my eye. You are my right-hip attachment, the weight that keeps me in the moment. I’m in love with you.

On the night before your first birthday, you slept through the night. All the way through until 7:30am. It was a birthday miracle. You, sir, have been no picnic when it comes to the middle of the night. It’s taken you an entire year to figure out that the buffet closes after dark.

Your first word? “No.” But you’ve got others these days — “Uh-Oh”, “Hi”, and a singsong “I love you” (ayyyyluhhhou) top the list, though I’m almost positive you’ve also got “Hey Dad” down as well.

You’d like us to let you live in the tub. You escape and climb in as fast as your little-big butt can crawl to it. You splash and blow bubbles and stretch out and simply cannot be bothered to get out. The tub is your happy place. Mine, too. I get it.

You are a foodie. And by foodie, I mean that you are not picky at all, as long as we keep the munchin’ coming. Grammie made banana bread, and today you ate nearly an entire loaf — plus a green apple, some Cheerios, yogurt, noodles, and a full banana — for lunch.

Here’s where I must state, for the record, that you are the king of diaper blowouts. This is not an understatement. I know many, many babies. You, Jack Michael, take the cake. An average day is 3 #2 diapers (more like #7, 47, and 156) and at least one full outfit change. It’s come out the top of your onesies on more than one (or 10) occasions.

You are a mover and a shaker, a linebacker and an expert tackler. At one-year old, you are cruising from one piece of furniture to the next, but not walking just yet. You are very fast and very loud.

You love your brother the very most, and you always want his toys. Somehow, they are the most desirable household items — second only to Dad’s electronics. Keeping you out of Carter’s room and Dad’s office is a full time job.

It must be said that you are the biggest of flirts. I think you’ve got more game than your father. You love grocery shopping. It’s your practice field.

Your father and I have a theory that parents are given the sort of kid that will help them grow where they need it most. I thought I was patient, Jack. I thought I was flexible. I thought I was organized. I commended myself on these traits.

“No.”

You keep me on my toes. You’ve made me appreciate luxurious 6-hour stretches of sleep. You make my arms strong from holding you, my legs quick from chasing you, and you’ve necessitated an on-hand supply of ibuprofen.

And I love you more than life itself.