It’s Joel’s nine month birthday.

It’s my dad’s birthday too.

It’s also Tuesday, just like the day he was born.

It is sunny and approaching 50 degrees. It is probably just like it was on March 9 last year. And I’m pregnant, just like I was on March 9 last year.

Only this time I know everything I didn’t know then, and somehow am far more insecure. Fear of the unknown is for those who haven’t lived through hell. I’ll take the unknown any day.

Babies are dying and politicians are spewing toxic waste and women are in labor and somebody just got married. The earth kept turning. There are nine month old babies doing what nine month old babies do all over the world. Just not in my house.

I don’t look, I don’t want to know how big he would be or what milestones would be passing. They don’t matter, he will always be newborn. That’s all he ever got to be, here anyway. I have no idea what or who he is in heaven, I just know he is perfectly formed and perfectly joyful. I still think that’s better than any silly old milestone.

Missing him is so elusive; it’s like chasing wind, or drawing music. It whips and whirls and sometimes it whispers, but it never fades. It owns my heart and I feel so guilty when I steal a piece for the little ones in my belly. I have to believe he doesn’t mind, this is normal guilt over adding to a family. Every parent struggles with the impact on their firstborn when the second (and third) come along. This attention splitting, it hurts and pains just like my body, groaning from rapid expansion. I liked those months of devoting my entire self to Joel. This moving forward, looking on, loving others, it stares me in the face as his nine month birthday is filled with activities to sustain the twins and run our lives. This day should be his, I say to myself.

His one year birthday is beginning to loom. I tell the Peppers they aren’t allowed to do anything to interfere with his birthday. I need to make him a cake, from scratch. This mom who doesn’t bake is just obsessed with his cake.

I don’t know why.

And all this rambling simply to say that while I enjoy the sunshine, my heart is breaking as it finds a way to love these two little imps who come after the one who stole my heart first.

This guy. 

            

I have You Capture shots to post yesterday.

They are still in the card in my camera, unedited and yet to be uploaded.

I have answers to your questions about the Peppers and this pregnancy. Right here, in this one corner of my mind where the words sit and push each other around until I spit them onto a page.

In the middle of it all, of human resources crises and paperwork avalanches and decades old music in my ear, the thump in my belly can’t drown out this sudden deep awful aching.

I just want my baby back.

It’s all I can think and the tears pour down my face. It’s dark outside and way to late to be sitting at this desk ...

Friday was a big day for the Peppers.

Although they were found out on ultrasound and have been sighted there since, Friday was their first official measure-everything-and-take-a-good-look-at-those-babies encounter with the wand in the dark room.

They were excited.

I was nervous.

So many of the women I have come to adore have received bad news in that dark room. Life altering, staggering bad news. And as much as I wanted good news, their stories all weighed heavily on my heart as we headed into Maternal Fetal Medicine. (Hereafter MFM, also known as the high risk office with the super dee duper ultrasounds.)

Because Leo isn’t here, the family gets to take turns peeking in on the babies at appointments and the lucky draw winners last week were my Grandma and youngest sister. Boy, were they in for a treat.

Red and Green put on quite a show. We had a fantastic tech who filled us in on every detail she saw, and they were all good. She even said because I’m so tiny (Hear that? TINY. Next time I’m bringing cookies, girl knows how to work the patients.) she could see things she normally wouldn’t be able to see yet, like several of their internal organs. All where they belong, all forming normally. They are exactly the size they should be, and both doing really well. Separate sacs, placentas and identical measurements all around. Also, they dance, kick and spin rather well. I’m seeing family DDR championship matches in our future.

We saw their little brain hemispheres.

We saw their little arms.

We saw their little legs.

We saw their little hearts just beating away in exact matching rhythm.

We saw their little profiles.

        Green

        
 
        and Red   
        

I think they look like their brother already.

And just to let us know they appreciated us, when we tried to get a shot of both of them, the one whose head we were staring down on decided to wave hi.

        

From the outside it isn’t quite so exciting. As of this morning, here’s the view. 

            

By evening it’s about twice as big. I love it.

It’s a tough day in my little corner of the internet. It is the birthday of James and Jake, identical twin sons of my dear friend Beth. She loved them and lost them long before we ever met, but her journey has made mine infinitely better. Bring Kleenex and read her post today, it is beyond worth the tears.

We’ve talked a lot about how the three J boys conspired in the conception of the Peppers. That James and Jake and Joel somehow know each other, know us, and know these babies growing in my belly. I like thinking that the Peppers have an open line of communication to the boys right now and I whisper all sorts of messages for them to pass on.

A friend brought it to my attention that I don’t have many of Joel’s pictures up here, or they are tough to find. I don’t have anything brilliant to say today. I can’t add to the beauty and poignancy that Beth has brought to this day. But I can share pictures of my baby, and be grateful that I had him for every second he was here, and tell you that I loved him more and better and still do because of knowing her, and I can’t imagine two other kids I’d rather have him cavorting around heaven with than her little angels.

So here’s a few of my favorites: 

                
One of the first snapshots, also one of the clearest of his little face. I know, babies aren't supposed to be that cute right when they're born, he was. 

            
The first time I held him. You'll have to trust me when I tell you he looks exactly like Leo. If it wasn't for the dimple in the chin we share, he'd be Leo's little clone. 

    
The award winning shot by Monni. She instantly gave us her heart, and then a slew of priceless pictures we will treasure for a lifetime. Our gratitude knows no bounds.

*Special thanks to my sisters, the shutterbugs. I can't imagine being without the pictures and videos you took. I can't imagine being without you, either. You're the best a girl could wish for.*

Our home…was Leo’s home before we met.

I could go on for days about how I don’t fit here, but it seems really silly in light of how a majority of the world lives. I have a beautiful, high functioning house. It is not my choice of home, but it is lovely and I am grateful beyond measure to live so well. 

(And I know, things like paint and simple touches change things, the problem is much more pervasive and far too expensive to be so easy. I truly wish it were that simple.)

That being said, the contemporary style of our house makes  for super interesting shapes at different times of day.

Like when the sun is setting.

            

Or even when it’s dark outside.

              

Trying to get back in the swing of things with You Capture. Go check out what others captured here. Hoping I’ll be back every week!

I had lunch with a new friend. A woman I like very much, who has sadly too much in common with me. The bump rounding out her torso has come after years of agony and loss, but still in a family of loving children who call her Mommy and pray for their new sibling.

We talked for too long, as I tend to do. We said the things we don’t say in polite company and ...

And when their babies died they couldn’t stand idle.

So they started working.

This weekend is their second annual event.

They will help families who have lost children, just like they have been doing since their own babies left this world.

I will proudly attend, and spend money, and watch them work tirelessly for other families to have some comfort in the worst of times.

Can you come too? Will you help too?

I can say with absolute certainty that the program at this hospital is wonderful. It should be replicated.

It has helped me, my friends, and many, many others who grieve the loss of their children.

But it can be better.

Come this weekend, visit the Angel Kisses site, see how good things can happen in bad times.

I’d love to see you there.  

Feel free to ask me questions, or talk to the amazing women at www.angelkisses.org

There’s a post on being a difficult knock up (DKU). Another day.

I’m also planning on answering the rest of your questions. When I feel like it.

But today – today is pee on a stick day. For those of us who have done it way too many times to count, POAS. You’re welcome for the addition to your vocabulary.

When you’re a DKU every day has a number. You know the exact numbered day when you can POAS and expect a reasonable result. Some of us do it sooner because we obsess.

I might have this tendency.

And so we find me shortly before Christmas, scurrying around to make a flight, late as usual, my ride on his way, my bags not quite packed. I’d been to the office that morning, stayed to finish “just one more thing” which, of course, turned into three. But on the way home I stopped to pick up those silly sticks. I would POAS the next day, the first reasonable number. Likely not to get good news, but in the presence of my husband, and hoping for better if I just wait for a more reasonable number. So I bought the three pack. Fully aware that the first was likely to be wasted, POAS too soon. A few more days and maybe the news would be good. Maybe this month we had it figured out. Maybe.

My ride is nearly in the driveway when I throw the bags next to the door and head back for one more trip to the restroom. Airport bathrooms? No thanks. I eye the package sticking out of my purse. Cue internal monologue:

“Don’t be STUPID. It is beyond too early.”

“You have an extra.”

“You have NO. TIME. Ride is in the driveway, you couldn’t even check the result! You are so dumb! D.U.M.B.”

Aaaaaaaaand cut to me opening a package.

I throw my bags out at my ride and run back in to grab the stick off the counter and toss it back in its package and into my purse.

But there’s a line.

A faint one.

But there’s a line.

How can there be a line?

You’re going to miss your flight, run!

And then it’s a whirlwind of ride to the airport, check in, long security line, dash to the gate and full flight next to strange men. All of this equals not another single chance to stare at that stick.

There couldn’t have been a line.

It’s too early. It wasn’t first thing in the morning.

Exit airplane and head to bathroom. Sit in stall and stare at faint little line. Know it’s really a line.

Cry.

Wish it was Joel’s line.

Apologize to baby.  Promise to love this baby as much as him. Wish it was him again. Guilt cycle continues. I love you so much in your own right, baby. I promise. I still just miss your brother. A lot.

Stare at line.

Tell God he’s as crazy as us. But THANK YOU.

Get in car and hug husband, drive a few minutes and he asks.

Tell him it’s too soon to know.

But yes.

Husband squeals and tears up.

Pretty sure he engages in similar guilt cycle.

Drive on in dazed delirium.

Thank God again.

Drive on.

They all walked up the steps of this building wearing a common piece of headgear. It’s the one of legend, earned with blood, sweat, anguish and some inhuman determination. Many attempt the first round toward the gre.en ber.et, most fail. Of those who make the second round, it is most often doctors who send them back to attempt again or to a career without the coveted headpiece. Few will finish.

Those who do serve quietly. They are expected to perform without rampant acclaim and to work where work isn’t supposed to be done. To make the indigenous forces they train the heroes. To enter in darkness, and leave in silence. To be fight, to be scarred, and to walk among the rest of us without notice. To be absolute experts, usually in more than one area and in more than one language. They are highly skilled, highly trained, and unless you know to look for the particulars of the stance, will stand in line next to you in the grocery store and you will never know. But they saw you, and counted every person in the store, every exit, every security device and knew that the man in aisle three was armed.

Today they are uncomfortable in the traditional dress greens or newer blues. Their chests are stiff with awards and qualifications. If I know them, and I do, most of their uniforms could have a few more, they’d just rather not take the trouble or draw the attention. Their boots are polished to a high shine as they awkwardly introduce their families to the others. It took a security key to enter the building, but they walk with ease in the halls that echo with secrets and trainings meant for but a few ears.

                

There are only two rows of them in the small theatre. The shoulders of their uniforms are bare in anticipation. Today they will join less than five hundred in the entire service. Their specialties vary, but from here forward they will be hailed as experts, more skilled, more trained, more deeply relied upon than before. They will go back to the same type of team they were on before with a new moniker and a heavier burden. There are even greater expectations, and an oath to accompany their responsibility.

        

The room is partly full of family, friends and those who hold the title these two rows will now assume. I have the honor of walking to the front and pinning the small silver bands on the shoulders of the one I married. I look him in the eye before I walk away and his face never moves. He is a soldier first. I wonder if my heart could burst out of my chest. It feels like it might try.

                

And then they are seated again, shoulders bearing the bars that tell the newest chapter of their story. More training to come, more mountains to climb, more hurdles to leap. 

                

They look ill at ease as they gather for the perfunctory photo. They aren't photographed often. Their faces are blacked out in the training manuals and press releases. As they stand under the massive image of a revered soldier, I wonder what heroics await these men. There are battles left to fight for all of them - while they are seasoned, they are not finished. None of them will rest in their new position. They will resume their place within the small band of the best soldiers on the planet. They will go into the world and make sure the world does not come into us. They will work in secret and gather the bits and pieces that make up the puzzle for others to follow. They may have a new title, but they still work as they have for years. Just another silent professional whose name and face you will never know. But I will.

"Where do we get such men? There is no finer fighting man on the face of the earth than the American Soldier. And there is no finer American Soldier than our Gre.en Ber.ets."
Lt. Gen. John F. Mullh0lland, commander of the U.S. Army Special 0perations Command.

"We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm."
Winston Churchill