The Attic: the journey from pipe dream to blessed reality

This post is long and detail-heavy.  It is the record I want to keep of the renovation of our attic space.  Praise God from whom all blessings flow!

Seven years ago this August, we moved into our house.  It's my dream house - the house I was in a few years before it was put up for sale, and I fell in love with it.  It's not fancy, really.  It's just a house, but it had everything I wanted - 5 bedrooms all upstairs, living areas and kitchen on the main floor, 2 bathrooms, laundry on the main floor (rather than in the basement), a huge basement finished enough for great, clean storage but not with enough height to actually finish. And the backyard... It's dreamy!

When I found out it was for sale and we pulled up to the house to tour it, I told Chase, "We can't afford it.  There's no way we can afford it."  But we looked anyway, and by God's grace and a miraculous set of circumstances, we COULD afford it.  I still pinch myself about that sometimes.  

Yes, my kitchen is small and I'd love to change the layout, but food tastes just as good coming out of it as any other kitchen I could cook in.  (Turns out food is more about the cook than the kitchen...) Yes, there are things here and there I'd tweak if I could, but on the whole, I STILL cannot believe this is my home!

From day one when we walked into the house and it was ours, we'd dreamed of finishing off one space: the attic.  It was unfinished and filled with blown-in insulation on the floor.  I remember saying, "It would be so cool if we could finish it by the time Lily turns 13.  It could be a great teen hangout."  

The attic had a proper set of stairs with railings built originally with the house.  It had a (damaged) tongue and groove wood floor that was hidden below decades-old carpet remnants, and a thick layer of blown-in insulation.  Bat poop speckled the insulation around one chimney (we took care of that problem early on in our home ownership!), and while I dreamed of what it could be, I can't say that the attic was exactly inviting at that stage.    

The attic space was pretty huge, but one dormer ended up housing one of the 2 HVAC units we put in 6 years ago when the old one croaked early that summer. The same dormer also housed the vent for the bathroom on the 2nd floor, and a bunch of duct work to heat and cool bedrooms below.  

Late last fall, again by a miracle, we had money to dive into "the attic project."  It's a bit of a long, complicated story that I'm not going to get into, but suffice it to say it felt like nothing more than God showing off.  The short version is He literally put the money in our account - almost exactly what we'd need - and put restrictions on it so that we could only use it for this project.  From the time we learned we could do this, I said, "God's got a plan for the attic.  I don't know what He'll use it for, but He's planning something."  So, as anyone who takes on a renovation project must, we took a step of faith and hired a contractor.  

November 2023 - enlarging the windows

The first step was to get all the blown-in insulation sucked out so the contractors could work.  Who knew there are companies that have massive insulation vacuums that will come to your house and do this?!?  There are, and now you know.  :)  

The second step was to remove the original leaded glass windows, enlarge the openings, and install new, larger windows.  When deciding what size window to put in, I told my contractors that I needed the high school football center to easily be able to get out of the window should there ever be a fire.  I have no idea if the high school football center will ever be in the attic, but if he is and the worst were to happen, I wanted to be prepared.  

January 2024

After the windows were in, the next step was to install beams to support the underside of the roof.  It took two 16-foot 6x6 side beams and three 16-foot 6x6 cross beams to do it, and you simply can't go through the interior of our house with beams that long.  It's hard to see in the picture above, but what's happening there, is there is scaffolding set up next to the house in an area that the contractors had to clear with a snow blower.  One guy is on the ground handing one 6x6 beam to a guy who is on the top of the scaffolding.  That guy is then going to hand the 6x6 beam to the guy waiting inside the open window in our 3rd floor attic. It was barely double digits that day - SO COLD!!!

Initially, I was watching this process from the inside of the large window on the 2nd floor that looked directly out onto the top level of the scaffolding.  Julie (age 4) was with me, and she said, "Mom, that doesn't look safe."  I agreed, and we both went downstairs to a place where we couldn't see what was happening.  At least, we did after I dashed outside to take the above photo.  

March 2024

With the interior of the roof supported, it was time to move on to the floor.  In the original construction of the house, the attic was built to support a "storage load."  I checked with a structural engineer and was told that because of the layout of my 2nd story, the floor of the 3rd story was supported enough that as long as I didn't put a ton of bookshelves up the middle of the attic (did he know me or what!) OR have a massive dance party up there, the structure was sufficient to support what we were doing.  However, my contractor noticed that in one area of the attic, the floor bounced when it was walked on.  

As it turned out, 2x4's spanned a distance of 16 feet, when really they're rated to span a distance of only about 8 feet.  Whoops!  So we had to open up the floor there and do some significant reinforcing.  Which also required supporting the floor from below as they were working on it (so we had a pretty sweet support system in our bedroom below for a few days), removing the insulation, and all kinds of details that I'm thankful the contractors figured out and took care of. The original floor was a tongue and groove wood floor, but it was in rough shape and couldn't have been finished without significant repair work.  Additionally, we knew we wanted carpet for the attic for both sound transfer and comfort.  So pulling up the floor to fix the bounce wasn't a hard decision.

With the overhead beams in place (you'll see a picture of those soon), and the floor reinforced, it was time to start framing.  I couldn't believe how fast the framing was happening!  Just a day at it and my vision was taking shape!

It was about this time that I found out I was pregnant.  To say I was shocked would be an understatement.  SO many emotions!!!  But.  But now I knew that this attic was for us, to help us continue to live here well with another little soul added to our midst.  Glory to God for His provision!

One thing I'd been struggling to figure out was how I was going to pad the window seats that were being framed underneath each window.  I figured out that the most economical way to pad them would be to make them the width of a standard twin bed - 38 inches.  The one window seat (of 3) that was already framed was roughly 32 inches wide anyway, so if we just added another 6 inches, we'd be good to go.  Plus, then I'd have 3 extra long twin size beds, each in their own dormer, should I need them down the road.  I talked to the contractors, we made this adjustment, and viola! Three massive windowseats!

East dormer

South dormer

West dormer

North dormer

With how to pad the window seats decided, the contractors got busy and framed away!  

I forgot to mention that also as part of this project, we realized that we should probably update the knob and tube wiring in the top 1/2 of our house while we had the attic floor opened up anyway and could "easily" get to all the wires.  This brought on a unique set of challenges for our electrician who spent many an afternoon fishing his way down walls to reach outlets, switches, and light fixtures on the 2nd floor.  

Along with the 2nd floor wiring, he also had to rough in all the electrical for the attic space.  Which begged the questions of how many lights? Where should they be placed? How many switches? Dimmers or no? Placement of HVAC vents and intake? Placement of plug ins? Do we want USBs as part of the plug ins? How many breakers? Etc., etc., etc.  We spent a good long time discussing such things on more than one occasion.  But I was pleased this week, now that it's all done, to have Chase tell me that we "nailed it" on lighting, switch placement, and plug ins.  Whew!

May 2024

After the electrical rewiring of the 2nd floor and the electrical and plumbing rough-in (we included a sink, though no bathroom) in the attic, the next step was insulation.  We went with a closed-cell spray foam installed by a contractor with quite a few years of experience and a very good reputation.  He helped us work through different options and the best insulation available for our limited space.  The roof is installed on top of 2x4's, though the peaks and valleys are supported by 2x6's.  And because our home was stick-built over 110 years ago, the spacing of the 2x4s was consistently inconsistent.  When the insulation was all in, I couldn't believe what a difference it made in the temperature of the attic.  It was SO much more consistent in temp!

June 2024

With the insulation in, next came the drywall.  And FINALLY the vision I'd been seeing in my head began to take shape so those around me could see it too.  (See those wrapped beams - we had to wrap them to protect them from the insulation and the drywall mud.  They become a focal point eventually!)  

I felt for those poor drywall contractors.  It was June and July when they were in the attic space that wasn't yet cooled with AC.  (We kept the vents sealed so drywall dust wouldn't go all over the house.)  First, they had to get the sheets of drywall up into the attic - which took using a lift to get them onto the 2nd story balcony. Then they had to carry each sheet individually into the house, through a bedroom and part of the hallway into another bedroom before they could turn to head up the stairs and carefully make the 180 degree corner on the steps around into the attic.  Hanging the drywall was an adventure, because there are SO many angles!  And they hung directly onto the 2x4's, which meant they had to measure and cut so that the drywall butted right up to the 2x6's that supported the valleys and the peaks (those are the dark lines you see along the angles in the photo above).  The peak of the attic ceiling is about 14 feet high, so they stood on scaffolding (which also had to be hauled up into the attic) to install the drywall above the beams. 

All through the project every time a new contractor showed up at my house, I'd open the door to their smiling face in the morning.  We'd introduce ourselves, and I'd suggest they leave their stuff there on the porch while I showed them where they'd be working.  Then we'd trek up the 18 steps from the 1st floor to the 2nd, and then up the 14 steps from the 2nd floor to the 3rd, making the 180 degree turn half-way, and they'd look around very quietly.  And I'd say something like, "It'll be really neat when it's done, but..."  And they'd quietly nod their head.  I had more than one contractor tell me that this was one of the most unique projects they'd done.

I have to say we hit the jackpot on contractors - a great GC, then there was insulation, electrical and plumbing, drywall, and flooring.  All of them were kind, patient, responsive, and did what they said they were going to for the price they said they would.  Many thanks to them!  (Because if we'd had to do this ourselves, it would still look like those first couple of pictures!)

July 2024

Once the drywall was in and finished, it was time to prime, paint, stain, seal, and all the things that we can actually do!  In the photo above, you can see that the beam closest to the camera isn't stained yet, but all the others are.  We had to stand on scaffolding to do it, but we stained the beams a dark mahogany color, and I love it!  Then we sealed them with polyacrylic.  

I thought priming and painting the space would be a breeze since there was no carpet to work around, and since we were painting out the 2x6 peak and valley boards that showed thorough the drywall.  There really was only edging around the beams.  However, there were a variety of things I didn't take into account, like all the caulking that would need to be done to fill and seal the thin cracks along those 2x6's.  And I also didn't take into account exactly how much there was to paint.  It's a big room - about 650 square feet, give or take.  But with a 14-foot peaked ceiling in the middle, and SO many tight corners/edges to paint with a brush that not having drips in them took a lot of time and care.  It took about 6 to 7 hours per coat of primer/paint to do the whole thing, and we primed it once and painted it twice.  We kept having to buy more paint, because I kept underestimating the actual square footage of what we were covering!

You'd think once we got that far, most of the paint work would be done.  But we hadn't yet painted the trim (which the contractors were coming back to install), and worse, there was still the stairwell to deal with.  It had cracking original plaster walls that had been dinged by 110 years of stuff being hauled recklessly up to storage as well as all the things our contractors had hauled up, God bless them!  So I learned how to patch an old plaster wall and fill relatively significant dings.  That part painted up pretty nicely.  

But the stairwell's banister - ugh.  First there was the sanding.  (I forgot to mention earlier that we had to also sand the 2x6's AFTER the drywall had gone up - big mistake!  We should've sanded those before the drywall was put up!  And we had to sand the beams before they could be stained. I hate sanding.)  I think it was somewhere in the realm of 3 hours of sanding the banisters with a palm sander.  Then I learned when I was priming, that it took about 4.5 hours to prime all of the trim/banisters/railing around the stairs.  Egad!!!!  The painting took about 4 hours per coat, and it took 2 coats, so... that was a lot more painting time than I thought it would take.

I should say here that I was in my 2nd trimester for the sanding/priming/painting stage of everything, and I am SO glad!!!  I wore masks when appropriate, I opened windows and had things vented as I should, and I generally had the energy to do what needed to be done.  God's timing was so good!

September 3, 2024

When the contractors came back to install the trim, they also installed the cabinets and counter top.  I wanted a "serving counter" in the attic, and I also wanted a sink, because its a foregone conclusion that spills will happen up there!  I wanted to be able to easily and quickly be able to clean up a mess or refill a cup if needed.  So there's a small bar sink toward the left side of the counter.  Additionally, we needed to be able to access what is behind that north wall (our HVAC system), so one of the cabinets has a false back that can be removed for easy access to the system.  After the counter was installed, the electrician/plumber came back and finished up the last of the details that were his.  

September 3, 2024

It was the first week of September, and this journey we'd started exploring the November before was almost over! All that was left to do was clean out all the last stuff, give the floor a good vacuum and wait for the carpet to arrive.  Ellie danced in the window seats while we hauled away trash, leftover paint, empty boxes, wood scraps, sanders, and all manner of odds and ends that accumulate when you're renovating.  

We were expecting the carpet to come on a Thursday, but the guy who laid our carpet is a neighbor and caught me Tuesday night before.  He said if Chase would help him get the carpet upstairs, he could install it a day early!  So Chase bit the bullet and helped move the 12-foot wide, 26-foot long rolls of carpet up into the attic.  All those stairs, all those turns, now with freshly painted walls, trim, and railing that I really didn't want ruined. By some miracle, they made it, but not without battle scars. A month later, the scraped up part of Chase's wrist is finally almost healed!  (I have no idea how our neighbor manages to move carpet on a daily basis and not be beat to smitherines!)

A week after that, the couch was delivered and I bought and the kids helped build some shelving to store things.  And just 2 weeks before Lily's 13th birthday, the attic was finished!!!

Can you even believe that?  I mean, what a dream!  What a journey!  What a God!  I honestly didn't even have the faith to ask Him for this.  I just spoke that it would be cool if we ever got to finish it, if it could be done before we had a teenager.  And here we are...

East dormer

North dormer

West dormer

South dormer

It's a family hang out where 5 people can sit on the couch and watch a football game, while kids build Lego in one area, others are munching in another, kids are reading or playing in another, and no one is on top of each other and no one's project has to be moved off the dinner table so we can eat together as a family.  It's quiet in the attic, and you do feel on top of the world - we can see the rooftops of all of our neighbors for a block or more!

Chase has an office up here (and the day after the carpet was installed he had his first online meeting up here!), the boys' building toys (Lego and K'nex) moved up here so that the three of them could share a bedroom and still have a place to play.  And that was part of making room for the baby's room.  (If you happen to have read this far and see Connor, compliment him on moving out of his single room to share with his younger two brothers so the baby could have a nursery.  That kid is pretty amazing.  And compliment Spencer and Nolan on sharing their room with Connor - it's cozy to have 3 in a room, but they haven't complained one bit.)

I know the structural engineer said not to have massive dance parties in the attic, but dance parties are one of the favorite activities for the Francl kids, thanks largely to Ellie's love of "We Didn't Kill a Cow" by the Cheese Weasels (aka Dude Perfect).  But the kids are small, so I figure it doesn't count.

As with any space, there are things that aren't perfect - anything other than walking sounds like a herd of elephants in the attic, and the wrestling/jumping that sometimes happens makes it sound like the house is falling down.  We're figuring out how to keep it tidy and clean.  (New, soft carpet makes everyone shed their socks as soon as they're up in the attic.  SO MANY SOCKS!!!)

In closing, I just want to say, again, how very grateful I am for this life I get to live, for this home that has been given to me, for the people I share it with, for the messes we make, for the spaces we fill, for the goodness seen all around me.  There have been and will be seasons of really hard - in the midst of this renovation there have been really hard things!  But I am constantly in awe of the God who walks with me through any season, of His care for the desires of my heart, of His generosity toward me.  This was a huge gift from Him, and I don't ever want to act like or pretend that we did anything to deserve it.  He gave it to us.  May we use it for His purposes and His glory.  May it be a blessing to others as well as us.  

East dormer Before & After

South dormer Before & After

North dormer Before & After

West dormer Before & After

PS - the Attic will never again be as tidy and clean as it was in these photos.  I took them when all the kids but Ellie were at school, and Ellie and I had spent the previous hour tidying and cleaning.  But this is what the attic looks like in my mind when I imagined it year ago and now - lots of open floor space, 3 giant window seats to cuddle up and read on, a cozy couch for movies, an office space for Chase, and a place to be together on top of the world.

 

 

  

That Old Barn

I wrote another short story (evidently I only have one in me per year, ha!) for the Bess Streeter Aldrich Short Story contest.  It didn't win or even place this year, but it was so fun to write.  It is based loosely off of family folklore on the Francl side, I hope you enjoy.

Dorothy silently berated herself as she fanned smoke away from the charred remains on the stovetop.  Why had she turned the gas flame up so high?  Why had she put the chicken to fry on the stove in the first place?  She was better at baked chicken.  Why didn’t she just do what she was good at?

Dorothy, her inner voice mocked, you sure are good at burning things.  She snorted in cynical agreement to herself.

Harry, her responsible ten year old, would certainly have alerted her to the inferno raging on the stovetop, but today he was miles away at the country school house, as was Charlie, her 8 year old who might have sounded the alarm.  

It was too much to expect her usually observant 4 year old daughter Ellen to have noticed.  While Ellen noticed most things, at the moment the chicken turned to char, Ellen was engulfed with Dorothy combatting Little Jim’s explosion.  It was the biggest blowout the mother had experienced in her 10 years of parenting. 

Little Jim, just 15 months old, was cutting molars, which in itself caused horrible rashes and diaper disasters. On top of that, he had evidently gotten into something that disagreed with him.  Who knew whether it was chicken feed, or fishing worms, or raw corn flour, or crocus blossoms or any number of unthinkable things stuck in the creases of his chubby thumb as he sucked it? Everything went in his mouth these days, and something had hurtled right through the dear boy bringing with it everything in its path.  

At least the smell of that diaper is drowned out by the smell of the charred chicken, Dorothy thought.  Smoke billowed out each window she opened on her sojourn around the house. Ellen trailed behind still holding the offending diaper.  Little Jim enjoyed the view from his mother’s hip, and as they walked back into the kitchen he squealed with delight at the sight of the smoldering black lump not even fit for the dogs.  

That’s when Dorothy caught a glimpse of it through the kitchen window.  That old barn.  That old barn that she hated.  It was the first structure erected on the home place back when Ed’s parents had settled the section.  It wasn’t the classic kind of barn, the kind you’d paint red and white and you’d preserve and enjoy for generations. This “barn” was rectangular in shape, but had an awkwardly off-center peak. One side of the roof had a gentle pitch that tempted daring boys to use the rickety wooden ladder to clamber up and toss pine cones or whatever else they could find onto unsuspecting passers by. The other side had a pitch so steep it was almost vertical, but not so vertical that daring boys stayed off the ridge cap.  No, indeed. Dorothy caught Harry straddling that ridge cap just last week, which had landed Harry behind the woodshed with Ed.  

Speedily built for utility, the rickety structure had always had problems.  Despite the leaks, cracks, creaks, and leaning, Ed’s parents couldn’t bear to see the thing torn down - the first thing they ever built - when they’d lived on the place. 

But Dorothy had no such attachment to the vile thing.

If burning things was what she did, then by golly, burn them she would!  

“Ellen, follow Mommy,” Dorothy said.  She marched out and opened the side door to the old barn. “Throw the diaper in on the floor, big helper,” Dorothy instructed.  

“But, Mommy?” Ellen’s voice had not just a hint of concern and obstinance in it.

“Ellen(!)”  

The fierceness and firmness of the single word left no room for question or hesitation.  Ellen hurled the diaper inside the door and stepped back.  

“Good girl. Jimmy, this is gonna make you happy, but you must stay with Mommy.”

Dorothy strode back to the house and got the long bit of linen from the back of the rocking chair.  As she tied Jimmy on her back with it, she grinned.  It had rained last night, and Ed was away working at the farthest field.  If that wasn’t Providence, she didn’t know a thing that was!  She had asked Ed a hundred times to do something with that old barn.  He was busy.  She understood that, but he hadn’t been that busy for the last six years.  She’d said when they moved onto the home place back then that the old barn had to go.  Gentle reminders, joking ultimatums, and knock-down-drag-out fights had done nothing to convince Ed that she meant business.  Well, this would.

The matches, hidden away from little hands on the top of the shiny new refrigerator, joined Dorothy, Ellen, and little Jim on their trip back out to the old barn.  

Despite the rain, the wood that made up the old barn was so old, brittle, and dry, that Dorothy didn’t even bother with kerosene.  She simply grabbed a handful of old straw bedding from the chicken coop on the way by, tossed it next to the old barn’s leaning door frame, and lit the match.

This is what today was made for.  Bright sunshine, blue sky, fluffy white clouds easing by, and orange and red flames licking their way up and across that blasted old barn.

Dorothy made sure the water tank by the hydrant was full and then screwed the hose onto the hydrant.  The day was bright and cheery, but the damp spring and the recent rain meant that the grass and plants were green, the dirt beneath them was moist, and it was the perfect day to burn down a barn.  That old barn.  That old barn that she hated.

Little Jim squealed with delight as the smoke billowed out of the barn loft’s door.  The door just below that awkward off-set peak had been hanging open on a single hinge since the wind from the blizzard that winter had broken the latch. For as long as she’d known, the door only had one hinge anyway, and the only thing that kept it from incessantly banging in the incessant wind was that they kept it latched.  Until the latch broke.  

The crisp crackling of the dry wood incinerating itself played in sharp contrast to the memory of the low, erratic thudding of that barn door through the last of the winter and early spring.  Dorothy could hardly believe her luck that she’d never hear that maddening sound again.

It took longer than she thought but still just long enough for the barn to be too far gone to save when she spotted the dust of Ed’s tractor barrelling, as fast as a tractor can, down the dirt road.  Holding Ellen’s hand with little Jim peeking over her shoulder, she stood before the flames and braced herself for what was coming.  

As the tractor rounded the shelter belt of trees and slowed just enough to make the turn into the drive, Ed’s face registered sheer relief rather than the anger she expected.  

Was he glad she’d burned it? 

Then it hit her.  From the field he’d been in, it probably looked like the house had caught fire!  Her bitterness toward the barn and resolve to defend her rash actions dissolved as she realized the terror she’d put in Ed.

Though he was her first and only love, and she his, they were both strong and stubborn people who loved deeply but had to fight desperately to hang on to each other when their wills crossed ways.  Sometimes it was deafeningly loud.  Sometimes it was deafeningly silent.  Sometimes it was just plain hard to put up with each other.  But they did it.  

She’d expected the deafeningly loud version of “discussion” to ensue when Ed arrived, but instead, he climbed down out of the tractor, scooped up Ellen, kissed little Jim, and put his arm around Dorothy.  

Although it was a silent interaction, it wasn’t the deafeningly silent kind.  She heard him take a deep breath full of relief and gratitude before he looked down at her.

“Dorothy, how are we gonna sleep at night without that confounded banging barn door?”

She looked back at him, brown eyes shining with the heat and passion of the barn’s demise. “We’ll manage,” she said. Then she spat out, “I just couldn’t stand that dad-burned barn one more day.”

Ellen tugged tentatively on her mother’s skirts, “But Mama, you burned the barn,” she corrected.

Astonished, Dorothy and Ed looked down into the innocent, honest, bright blue eyes of Ellen, the observant little thing. 

They were still wiping away tears of laughter when the neighbors started showing up.  

The story of Dorothy Frank burning down that “blasted old barn” swept across the county like the wild fire of a story it was and became something of a local legend.  

Mr. Harrison at the General Store smiled every time he sold a new box of matches to Dorothy.  Seemed she’d been buying them more frequently since that fire, he thought to himself, but maybe he just noticed when she bought them now. 

Ed never bought matches at the General Store. He didn’t have to, because no matter how many times she replaced them, the matches kept disappearing from the top of the shiny new refrigerator, especially if Ed was working in the farthest field.

Laughter

I wrote the following short story on a whim one Saturday this spring to enter in the Bess Streeter Aldrich Foundation's Short Story Contest.  Aldrich wrote A Lantern in Her Hand, a "heart book" for me.  I submitted it at literally the very last minute and sent it to only a couple of people certain to be charitable. You can imagine my shock, incredulity, and delight when I received an email a month later informing me that I'd won the adult division!  

Inspired by stories I've heard from my grandparents and those of my husband, I give you first (and only) short story...

Laughter

The cool of the crisp gray sky penetrated the rows of corn stalks above her.  From where she landed on her back in between the rows, she looked up into it and couldn’t believe she was here. The baby kicked inside her, whether in protest or delight she wasn’t sure.  And then it all struck Dorothy as funny, and she laughed.  With her laugh escaped emotions that had been held captive but building in number and strength in the depths of her soul over the last 15 months.    

She and Ed had loved each other as long as she could remember.  When she was only 4 and her parents had moved to the homestead, Ed’s family had come to be part of the barn raising that introduced the newly arrived Wallace family to the community.  Ed, being the dashing and capable 6.5 year old he was, had earnestly helped the men and watched them work, soaking in so much that he would need to know in the future.  But when the dinner bell rang and the platters heaped with food covered the table, Ed disappeared.  

A short time later he reappeared with a purple crocus in hand.  Where he’d found the flower that chilly early spring day, Dorothy never knew. But as he handed it to her and silently walked away, she felt her innocent, tender heart follow him, and there it had always been - with him.

In the one room schoolhouse, they never really talked to each other though there was a kind of silent appreciation, each for the other, between the two. By the sixth grade Ed could out run in speed or distance any of the 8th graders, and he excelled at arithmetic.  Dorothy was a friend to all the girls, jumping rope, playing cat’s cradle, and first in her class at spelling and writing.

By Thanksgiving of his 8th grade year, Ed was the head of his class.  But his father was building the Frank family a new house and needed Ed’s help to get it finished before spring planting. Ed traded his slate and chalk for a hammer and nails, but was no less adept at his new occupation.  The walls were perfectly square, the trim perfectly finished, and the house ready just ahead of planting. Dorothy missed watching Ed from a distance at school.  None of the other boys were as interesting or handsome to her eyes.  

They’d loved each other all their short lives, and when they were old enough nothing would keep Ed from courting Dorothy.  Nothing except the spring rains and the muddy river of a road that passed for the Wallace’s driveway.  The spring of Dorothy’s 16th year, the rains were so incessant and the ground so reluctant to soak away the deluge that the Wallaces simply couldn’t get off their homestead.  When the half-mile drive was finally passable in the early days of June, Ed came courting every Saturday night and Sunday afternoon.  At 18 years of age, he was tall, handsome, confident, and ready to claim his bride.

But economics got in the way of their marriage.  Ed’s help on his family’s farm was essential just then in his 18th year.  His father’s broken leg in April and slow recovery had made Ed the man of the Frank family and head of the farm for this season.  His two sisters, ages 15 and 12, couldn’t take over the heavy labor of the farm.  And his two youngest siblings, twin boys age 8, were good help, but far too young to run things.  The quarter of farm ground near the river that his dad had promised Ed to help him get his start sat untouched all spring and summer.  

But young true love finds a way.  So one sunny Saturday morning that fall, Ed picked Dorothy up in the old Model-T he’d bought the year before. Under the guise of a picnic with friends from a nearby town, the two drove away through the golden fields almost ready for picking to secretly start their future together.  It took them three hours to get to the courthouse where Ed had made arrangements with a justice of the peace to legally marry them.  In the shade of a giant cottonwood tree by the river, they celebrated their nuptials over the picnic lunch Dorothy had packed.  Then they drove the three hours back to the Wallace homestead where Ed walked Dorothy to the door, shook her father’s hand, smiled at her mother, and thanked them for the pleasure of spending the day with their daughter.  Cheeks still flushed just from the picnic in the warm sunshine, or so her parents thought, Dorothy uttered not a word of their adventure to her parents. Ed quietly returned to his parents’ home, giving nothing away to his family.  

The letter and newspaper clipping that came in the mail 2 weeks later to Ed’s parents from their second cousins who lived just a few hours west revealed all.  With congratulations to the happy couple and the newspaper’s record that Ed and Dorothy had purchased a marriage license, the newlyweds’ cover was blown.  Ed still had to help with the family’s harvest before he could begin building the simple two-room house on the land down by the river that would be theirs.  

That fall was full of hopes and dreams for Dorothy and the hard work of bringing dreams to reality for Ed. A mere three months after their legal marriage in September, Ed and Dorothy finally moved into the cozy little cottage nestled in the grove of cedars and cottonwoods along the river. 

They were on their own, living their dream together. All their lives, they would remember that first Christmas together as one of their favorites.  They had no money to buy each other gifts.  Every penny they found had gone to purchase necessities for the winter or to pay for the building supplies for their home. The windows were bare of any curtains, but the winter’s frost and the cover of the grove gave privacy. The wood floor had only one small rag rug by the bed, but the wood floor was a luxury over dirt.  They had food and supplies enough for the winter, and they had each other. That was all they really wanted.

One blizzard followed another late that winter, and the sun took its time melting the drifts and warming the earth.  The day he finally finished the spring planting, Ed came into the cottage to find Dorothy not herself.  She’d prepared supper for him but couldn’t eat any herself, and by the next morning, she was ill and unable to get out of bed.  After two days of no improvement, Ed called the doctor.  The examination revealed that the illness wasn’t an illness at all.  Dorothy was pregnant.  The baby would arrive early in January.  Shock, disbelief, fear, and joy flashed across Ed’s face before finally settling into excitement at the doctor’s announcement. A baby!

One of Dorothy’s younger sisters tramped a path the 3 miles along the river between her parent’s home and her sister’s during those early days of pregnancy.  She helped Dorothy with the cooking and cleaning as often as she was able, and it was that help that kept the growing family in the little cottage afloat.  By the time of the Annual Independence Day Celebration in town, Dorothy had finally returned to herself and was able to shoulder her share of the responsibilities again.  

“Knee high by the 4th of July,” for corn they said, but that year only a few fields had reached such heights.  Ed surveyed his crops with a look of consternation and concern.  What would he do if the snow came early this year? Dorothy set her jaw and held her tongue about her own concerns.  No sense adding to the weight already on Ed’s shoulders.  Besides, worrying wouldn’t speed the corn’s growth or stop the snow.  

A long Indian Summer stretched throughout the fall so that by Thanksgiving the crops were finally ready for picking.  Dorothy felt almost ripe too, ready to hold the fruits of her labors in her arms. Just 6 more weeks until the baby was due to arrive. 

Just 6 more weeks, but there was so much to do on the small farm with the cottage in the grove by the river.  Final preparations for the baby’s arrival had to be made, but first and foremost, the crops had to be harvested.  And as the entire community shared the necessity of the late harvest, everyone took to their fields.  Everyone including Ed and Dorothy.

The crisp gray sky spread above them, cloudy but not the kind of clouds that threaten rain or snow.  The coolness of the day wasn’t sharp enough to penetrate sturdy wool clothing on working bodies.  The cornstalks stood at orderly attention awaiting their undressing.  

As they started, Ed took 6 rows, giving the very pregnant Dorothy just 2 to harvest.  Dorothy’s competitive nature dared her swollen belly to slow her.  She would keep up with Ed, even beat him to the other end of their assigned rows, she silently vowed to herself.  They moved through the field pitching the ears of corn into the wagon pulled by Bess, the old plow horse.  

On the first pass, Dorothy kept pace with Ed, not beating him to the end of the rows, but tossing her last ear into the wagon just as he stripped the final ears from his rows.  But with each pass through the field, Dorothy’s belly felt heavier and more in the way, her steps slowed, and her pitches became less accurate.  Ed glanced over at her as he bent to pick up yet another of her bad tosses.  Dorothy’s brows furrowed as she turned away from him in frustration. It was frustration at herself and her inability to make her body do what she needed it to. She suggested a break for water and the morning’s snack she had brought for them.  As they sat on the wagon’s tongue and ate, she again vowed to herself that she would keep up.

But the next pass through the field was the worst one yet.  Ed was picking his six rows, plus almost an entire one of hers.  Dorothy’s frustration mounted as she watched Ed creep farther ahead and pick more and more of “her” rows.  That was it.  She’d had it.  She plucked a particularly fat ear off of the stalk beside her, wound up, and hurled the thing not at the wagon, but at Ed’s back.  She put such focus and force into throwing the ear of corn that she missed her next step, lost her balance, and tottered backwards before falling, flat on her back, in between the rows of corn.  

The ear clipped Ed’s heel and he turned to see what had happened.  He found his wife, marooned on her back, bulging belly pointing to the sky, like a turtle turned upside down, unable to get up. Her hard facade cracked, but instead of tears, her laughter rang out through the field.  He grinned as he took a step toward her.  Then he began to laugh too, and once he’d started, the two of them couldn’t stop. He reached for her hand to pull her up, but instead, she pulled him down into the row beside her, and they laughed. 

They laughed away the years of waiting to spend forever with each other, the nerves of sneaking away to be married, the anticipation of being together in their own home, the weight of being penniless, the excitement of a new baby’s coming, and the anxiousness of the late harvest. They laughed for the past they had shared and for the future they looked forward to.  

Ed and Dorothy lay under the cool blanket of the crisp gray sky that penetrated the rows of cornstalks, and they said together, in a way that no words can, that they forgave the hard things of the past and looked forward to the future that they would build together on this little piece of land with the cottage in the grove by the river.

Dear Thomas

Written in November of 2019. Raw and real. And 3.5 years later as I hit "publish," it is just as true.  Dear one, Mamas don't forget.  

Dear Thomas,

I wish you were here.  But I don't.  I'm so glad you are where you are, missing the pain and hard that this world holds.  But, man.  What I wouldn't give to hold your warm, breathing, alive self.  Whisper to you how much you are loved.  Put your darling face on the wall with your siblings as you all smile back at me.

But, dear one, it was not ordained to be.  Instead, I have the gift of you always.  You, my twin I got to know so little.  I'm not sure how the heart can hold so much all at once.  I am so grateful for you.  I am so grateful I got to know you in so far as I could.  I am so broken that you're not here.  I am in agony that you're not beside your twin. 

But let's go back and remember our journey together, my dear one.  It all started in early March, 2019...

I desperately wanted to be pregnant.  I'd had "baby fever" for a while, and we had finally agreed to go ahead and see if we could conceive.  I was desperate to know if we had.  I researched which pregnancy tests to take, how early I could take one, and how likely it was to be accurate.  I'd planned to take a test on Friday.  But then, I changed my mind.  I took one Tuesday morning, first thing, instead - a super sensitive one. 

Two lines.  Pregnant.  Elation!

Well, I thought, that didn't take long to show up.  I wonder if it would've mattered if I'd waited till afternoon (they say your most likely to get a positive first thing in the morning).  I took a less sensitive test Tuesday afternoon.

A blue plus sign.  Pregnant.  It wouldn't have mattered! 

I took a picture of the two pregnancy tests beside each other - one pink, one blue - and thought how great it was to know so soon.  I wondered then if there was significance to the two tests, to the pink and the blue.  It would be fun, I thought, if it was twins.  But I wouldn't really let myself go there - twins are a dream I'd long ago retired.

By 4 weeks I was napping every afternoon.  I worked to get things ready for first trimester as soon as I knew I was pregnant - meals in the freezer, projects wrapped up, house in order.

The exhaustion I began to feel was unlike anything I'd felt before.  I laid in bed with 3 weeks' worth of laundry filling baskets all over our room, and I ignored them.  I could hardly lift my drink to my lips, let alone care for my family.  I remember making supper one evening, bringing a pillow and blanket into the kitchen so I could lay down between putting the water on, putting the noodles in, and draining the cooked pasta.

Saturdays and Sundays consisted of me getting up to get breakfast for everyone, then getting back in bed.  Chase would manage the kids while I rested all afternoon.  I was so exhausted I simply didn't care how beautiful the day was.  I remember one Saturday in particular, Chase was playing with the kids outside on a perfect spring afternoon.  They giggled, mowed the lawn, shouted encouragement, and simply were having the best time.  I remember wanting to want to be outside with them, but I just couldn't muster up the strength to go to the window to look out at what they were doing.

Morning sickness wasn't bad - I never threw up - but I was queasy most of the time.  Salty things tasted good.  I could convince myself to eat eggs with ketchup, toast with butter, grilled cheese, and the like.  Sweets were not appealing in any way.

The first week of April, I was 9 weeks along, when we went in for our first appointment.  I'd intended to wait till 12 weeks, but we were concerned something was wrong because of my exhaustion. 

There was a simple answer:  twins.  You and your sister. 

Perfect little hearts beating away, babies both over the 95% for size and growing beautifully.  Everything checked out well.

The next three weeks I spent trying to wrap my head around twins, grieving the loss of the freedom a singleton allows that twins don't, trying to figure out what life would look like and accept that this time things would be different.  Massively different.

At 12 weeks we had our 2nd ultrasound.  Perfect little hearts beating away, babies still growing beautifully.  Everything checked out as expected.

I breathed a sigh of relief.  We'd passed the "vanishing twin" stage.  I was in the lowest risk category for twins - di/di twins in a mom who'd had babies before, over age 30 - this was going to go well.

I took it easy, not doing more than I had to, and caring for myself as best I could.  I can't say energy returned immediately after the first trimester wrapped up, but I was anticipating that I would feel a little better soon.

At 15 weeks we went in for another ultrasound.  We joked as the doctor put the wand on my stomach.  I wasn't paying close attention to the ultrasound image, because the two babies were there, clearly, still tucked safely away in my stomach. 

"Stephani.  This one doesn't have a heartbeat."

Dear one, my world crashed.

"Damn."

I jumped to logistics.  How does this affect the other twin?  How does this affect my care?  What are our next steps?  What do I need to do?  Could it be a mistake? 

My doctor answered my questions and handed me a few tissues.  "It's ok to be sad and cry," she said.  "I know," I responded.  "That will come."

Unsure what to think or do, we walked into the lobby and headed for the car.  We decided we were simply going to tell the kids that there was a problem with one of the babies and that we'd see a specialist about it soon.  We told our parents the truth - no heartbeat - and we prayed for God's healing hand to do the impossible miracle.

A week later, Chase and I went to Omaha to the specialists office where it was confirmed - no heartbeat.  Baby, I don't know why your heart stopped beating.  I pray it was nothing I did, and I don't struggle with guilt over it.  I read every twin book that got good reviews.  I followed the recommendations.  I did my best to care for you.  I'm so sorry I couldn't do more.

Your sister got an excellent report from the specialists - "She's an overachiever," they told me.  "I know," I replied.  That's the kind of babies we make - the best kind.

They told me you would likely reabsorb into the placenta.  They told me there may not be much of you, if any, at birth.  They told me they weren't sure what we would find when you were born.

Thus commenced the next 23 weeks of pregnancy.  23 weeks I got to carry your body in mine, though you weren't alive.  23 weeks I continually processed your loss.

I worried that your sister would know me more by my sobs than my laugh.  I worried that something would happen to her too.  I worried that you or she wouldn't feel all the love I have in my heart for each of you.  I read about twinless twins.  You're both twinless twins in different places.  God, won't it be great when we're all together and you can just be twins?

People said things to try and make it better - "at least you're still pregnant" was the most common sentiment, as if I wasn't grateful for your sister and the pregnancy that continued.  People meant well, and I had and have to have grace for their efforts to show love.  That's what people were trying to do. 

I find that seeing other twins doesn't make me hurt, exactly.  I don't just want any twins.  I want YOU.  I want MY twins. 

The second trimester I felt better.  I had energy.  And largely I didn't have to face hard things - I just had to do pregnancy and enjoy summer.  And I got to pretend like nothing happened. 

But then 3rd trimester hit.  My hips and back ached.  But I wanted them to ache more because I was carrying you, still growing.  Instead, they ached and my heart ached because I wanted you too. 

I had to face the fact that I would deliver a singleton.  But not really, because I would deliver you, whatever there was left on this earth of you, anyway.  Questions came up, like my obstetric history.  Had I had a miscarriage?  Well... not yet?  Not really?  Not one that resulted in the compromise of a pregnancy.  And I hadn't miscarried yet.  I still carried you.

36 weeks hit and I lost it.  We would've been planning your induction or c-section at that point.  I would've been monitored regularly to ensure you were safe.  Instead, I'd nested early and had no projects to work on and grief bearing down on me.  How could I do this without really meeting you in the end?

I faced it.  I faced grief.  The waves pulled me under yet again, and I came up on the other side.  Hope rose with the sun the next morning and my battered soul breathed again.  I accepted that I'd be pregnant for a while yet.  It would be a while before I'd meet your sister and you.

38 weeks came last Thursday.  We did an ultrasound and found I had excessive amniotic fluid - not by much, but "technically, you have high amniotic fluid."  Which meant cord prolapse risk in delivery.  My doctor wanted me to do non-stress tests twice weekly.

I went in the next day, Friday, for a NST.  It took a long time, and I didn't get back to Central City till lunch time to get the kids from Wendy.  Everything looked great.  But emotionally I was back to facing the fact that I would've held you that day, November 1st, no matter what.  You would've been delivered by then, via natural childbirth, induction, or c-section.  I would've met you that day.

I sobbed.  I so very desperately wanted to meet you that day.  Really meet you.

That night, after the Harvest Concert, I was laying in bed, heard a "pop" and my water broke. 

In the midst of it all, I looked at Chase and said I thought I wanted an epidural.  I didn't think I could do it without one.

You, my dear one, were such a huge part of it all, are such a huge part of me.  We got to the hospital, and I got an epidural.  Before pain even really hit me, I got an epidural.  I needed head space to think.  I needed head space to pray.  I needed head space to work through seeing if you were there, what of you was there, and do that all in the context of welcoming your sister with all the joy and elation that her birth built in my soul. 

It's the strangest thing.  It's not that my heart is split - like 1/2 was sad and 1/2 was happy.  It's like the entirety of my heart could feel the entirety of emotions - relief, joy, elation at your sister's arrival; sorrow, yearning, grief at your body's arrival without you.

Ugh.  Thomas.  Damn.  Losing you hurts.  Always.

Hurts doesn't begin to encompass it.  It's this can't breathe, depth of my soul, aching pit.  It's overwhelming.

But I look just beyond my computer screen, and there, your sister lays sleeping, breathing, alive, and my heart soars in gratitude, love, and joy.  How can my heart be both places at once?

So your sister was born, and then you came with the placenta.  Dr. Crockett cleaned me up, got me settled with your sister and brought you over to me.

She told me that here was the placenta - Juliana's part.  Then over here was your part.  There was still a bit of you there to see - she asked if I wanted her to pull the membrane back.  I said yes and she did, and there you were - little head, body, arm, leg, eye. 

That settled it.  My nurse, Sylvia, personally took you down to the lab with instructions about us picking you up on Monday.  You were, as far as it was possible for me to know, cared for and honored by the doctors and nurses who handled you.  And, I hope, that the same can be said for those in the lab.

Monday, Chase tried to pick you up, but they weren't done with the placenta, they said.  Then, I got a call from the hospital.  They couldn't release you to us, your parents.  They had to release you to a funeral home director.

I was a mess - I'd asked all these questions ahead of time and knew that the Nebraska state statute said that they COULD release you to me because you were gone prior to 20 weeks gestation.  But the fact remained that you were born at 38 weeks gestation too.  After going in circles in my head for a couple of hours, I finally called my cousin's husband, a funeral home director in NE. 

He is excellent at his job.  He said I was right about the statue, but institutions can have regulations tighter than the statute.  He offered to call the lab and see if he could get them to make an exception in this case.

He called back and they had refused.  I wish I knew who decided it was a good idea to keep parents from picking up their kids and laying them to rest.  It was absurd bureaucratic red tape.

He recommended calling our local funeral home and told us they wouldn't charge for picking you up.  I felt kind of silly, like 1/2 the town has to help me get my child back, but there was no way I wasn't going to fight for you.

Baby, I would have fought forever for you.  You are so worth the effort.  I wish there was something I could've done so we could've known each other more.  I would've done so much more than this.

So your dad dug your grave in the back yard.  It is under the Miss Kim Lilac bushes.  Your dad also bought the box we buried you in.  While I've spent months grieving, he took on the hard physical tasks of facing those most tangible things.

We went the next day to the funeral home to pick you up.  I assumed you'd still be in your placenta and we'd have the whole thing to bury.  They laid you out carefully on a table in the back of the funeral home and let us come look at you.

The lab had taken you out of your placenta, so we just had YOU.  Your little head, your precious body, your dear arms and legs, and God saved 5 perfect little toes pointed out on one of your feet for me to count.  I can't wait to really hold you.  Like hold your warm self, hear your heart beat, look into your darling eyes and fall even more in love.

God's handiwork from the first day just blows my mind.  You were there, all of you. 

I don't understand why.  I will never understand why.  At least not this side of eternity. 

The hospital had you in a clear plastic bag, and had that bag wrapped in a hospital blanket.  We wrapped you back up, put you in your box, and brought you home. 

It was then that I realized what I wanted to do for you - I wanted you to have a sleeping bag of sorts.  Something made out of your fabric - the fox fabric, and the white minky, and the gray fuzzy. A miniature blanket like the bigger ones I've made for each of your siblings.  So that afternoon I made you the tiniest sleeping bag.

When Lily got home from school, I went to the basement where you were waiting, tucked you in your sleeping bag, covered you with the blanket Pat Loper knit for you, wrapped it all in your hospital blanket, and closed the lid of your box.

We bundled up all the kids and went out on the cloudy, cold, windy Wednesday afternoon to your grave.  We stood with our backs to the wind as Chase put your box down in the grave.

The neighbor's cat peered out the vertical blinds, our only observer.

I asked if anyone had anything they wanted to say about you, Thomas. 

Connor, age 5, (who had been particularly ornery lately) piped up, "I know what we should do." 

Internally I just dreaded a smart alecky comment coming from him at this moment. 

"We should pray." 

I repented for assuming the worst.  He was exactly right - we should pray.

Chase took the lead and prayed over you.  We thanked God for the gift of you, and looked forward to the day when we'll get to really know you in Glory.

We watched as Chase filled in the hole and talked about how much fun you must be having with Auggie.  We talked about Uncle Chet and Grandpa Jerry and how they were probably taking you fishing, and how you get to be with Jesus.  It sounds so lovely it's hard not to be jealous.

We came inside and Lily was processing the deep things.  I held her and we cried and talked about you a bit more.  Then she took her stuffed animal and went to her room to write and cry.

Connor came near, and I asked him how he knew exactly what we should do out by your grave. 

"Ramona Quimby," he answered.

In the last month all he has listened to is the Ramona Quimby Collection on Audible. 

"But there's not a funeral in Ramona, is there?" I asked.

"Uh-huh.  Picky Picky's," Connor responded. 

Picky Picky the cat.  Ramona.  I laughed and in my heart praised God that He used that stupid book we've all heart a billion times now to make sure we did just the right thing as we laid your body to rest.

Dearest Thomas, I don't know how I'll do life without you exactly.  I mean, I do.  I'll breathe.  I'll eat.  I'll sleep.  I'll be joyful and happy, I'll be sad and weary.  I'll live.  And in that living, I'll remember you.  Mamas don't forget. 

I'm so grateful to have known of you, to have seen your body, to have held you in my hand, to have touched your skin.  I'm so grateful you're here, in my heart, and on our property. 

My dear child, all I can say is that I love you.

Mom

I knew this day would come

I knew this day would come. 

Last year, quite like this year, it was around Valentine's Day that we got through a week or two of influenza and sickness in our house.  Then we were hoping that, at some point, the Lord would answer in the affirmative our request for a new family member. 

We were overjoyed to learn around this time last year that He had! 

Even as I struggled through the exhaustion and nausea, I knew that in about a year, there would be a day, a glorious day, that would be warmer than expected.  It would be a break from the frigid temperatures and sickness and cabin fever, and we would break out beyond our four walls and relish the sunshine. 

I remember searching for a bargain - the diamond in the rough, the choice carriage, the perfect pram - that would carry my new babies to the park.  Because there wasn't to be one addition, but the Lord had ordained two additions to our family!  Twins!  Again, we were overjoyed!

I ordered the double stroller - my second double stroller, but we use them so much, and with twins even more so - a gift from a loved one as excited and overjoyed as us. 

As I hit "Buy Now," I knew this day would come.

The double stroller arrived, and we all looked at the pictures on the outside of the gigantic box.  It was exactly what I'd hoped.  And it was heavy.  Too heavy for me in my exhausted, expecting state to lug it to the basement until that glorious day when it would be needed.  Chase hauled it down the stairs and stowed it away.

It was shortly afterward that we found out that we wouldn't, in fact, need the double stroller for our twins.  At least not for that gloriously warm winter day I'd been anticipating. 

A strong, steady heartbeat next to the the gaping silence of dreams shattered.  We had lost our Thomas.

Memorial Day weekend last year our basement flooded.  This, immediately after we'd found out about little Thomas.  He wasn't even named yet.  And I splashed through the giant puddle in the basement to shove and lift the stroller, still packed safely in it's box of dreams, to dry safety.

And I knew this day would come.

I have walked by it, moved it from one spot to another, considered returning it, considered selling it, considered giving it away.  But when it really comes down to it...  I want it. 

I want this stroller.  I researched and looked and considered and spent pregnancy-induced insomnia hours weighing the benefits of this stroller over others.  I wanted this color - my favorite, and more rare so as not to get it confused with others at the park who already have the same one.  It pushes easily - I know because I've tried out a friend's.  It folds compactly.  It has decent storage, and all of the other features and functions I knew I would need... for twins.

November 2nd brought the birthday of our twins - Juilana first, then Thomas.  We brought her home first, then him.  Tucked her into her bassinet first; then tucked him into his resting place at home, with lilacs to blanket him each spring.

And I knew this day would come.

We made it through the fall, the holidays, the winter, until February 1st without a sniffle or a cough of any concern.  Then the fevers started.  It was 14 days of fevers, chills, aches, sore throats, coughs, runny noses, and general sickness spreading from one to another until 5 out 7 family members had succumbed.  Finally, on day 15, the last victim awoke free of the fever.

The sun was out.  The wind was still.  The day practically begged that we break free of our prison and leave our sick beds behind.  So preparations began.  Socks, shoes, jackets (for that's all that was needed), and a stroller.

I lugged it up from the basement and set the box in the kitchen. 

The day had come.

The kids helped me open the box, dump out the contents, assemble the wheels, brake, and accessories.  They joyfully climbed in, buckled and unbuckled the straps, and then asked, "Is this for Julie and Nolan?" 

"Yes," I answered, "If Nolan wants to ride in it, he can, but I bet he'll want to ride his trike." 

After a pause, I went on, "When we got it, I thought we would need it for Julie and Thomas, but since we lost Thomas he won't get to ride in it, I guess." 

The kids continued their inspection of each feature and part, nodding in agreement with me.  But their minds had moved on while mine lingered. 

If Thomas were here along with the others, would I have the energy to take them all to the park, even with their dad's help (he came along too today)?  If Thomas were here, would we have made it till February 1st without sickness?  If Thomas were here, how would I have managed the last 2 weeks where someone(s) (including me for 2 days) was sick and sleep was so rare?  What would that have been like with twins to nurse?  Could I have nursed twins this long?  ...

But the "what if___" tunnel is not one to travel down very far.  So I stopped myself and wheeled the stroller out the door. 

Children atop bikes waited patiently at the end of the drive as Chase and I loaded up the new stroller with all manner of superfluous necessities.  The diaper bag sat in the seat next to Julie.  What I wouldn't give to have had a baby, my baby, Julie's twin, sitting there next to her. 

But I knew this day would come.

As my heart both ached for our loss and celebrated the life we get to enjoy, I turned my face to the sun, and we set off for the park. 

Today is not what I hoped it would be.  Today is not what I wanted it to be.  Today is not what I dreamed it would be.  But today has come and gone.  And while I still don't understand, today was good.