A couple weekends ago, the kids and I had the Saturday to ourselves, as Hercules was sitting “Up North” in a tree with a bow and some arrows.

I woke up that morning with a taste for adventure. Well, whatever adventure can be had by a pregnant woman with three other children, that is. I had read an article somewhere about letterboxing, a lower-tech version of geocaching. Haven’t heard of either? Long story short: “treasure hunting.” I found online clues to a “letterbox” hidden somewhere on a trail not too far away.

We packed a little backpack, and headed out. Adventure! Soon, we arrived at the trailhead that the clues had led us to. Adventure! The day was a bit chilly, and the kids joked “That’s why they call this the Ice Age Trail!” We hiked for about a half hour on an easy forest trail, covered in a canopy leaves which were, for the most part, still green.

Dimples could barely contain his excitement. Adventure!

Best Daughter Ever was very focused and observant. Adventure!

Baby was just plain weird:
Adventure?

At long last, we discovered the cobwebbed container, well-hidden among some large stones.We were all terribly proud of ourselves, the first-time letterboxers. It was, essentially, an empty peanut butter jar, containing the expected letterbox items: a notebook and a stamp. We stamped our own notebook with their stamp, and stamped the letterbox’s notebook with ours, scrawling a note with a stick and the ink pad (whoops, forgot the pen). Success! Adventure had! “Mission completion!”

After celebrating, and carefully placing the container in its original hiding place, we turned back. The walk to the van seemed much shorter this time. We began to pile in, when the kids noticed the play equipment. After some moderate begging (times three), I gave in, threw the backpack in the front seat, and waddled along to play “for 15 minutes, and then we’re leaving, because I’m cold and tired and hungry!”

Fifteen minutes later, it registered:
The keys were in the backpack.
The backpack was in the front seat.
The doors were locked.
I was cold and tired and hungry.
And pregnant.

The next 2 1/2 hours were a blur of sheer stupidity. They included confused calls made on a stranger’s cell phone, a police officer and an irritating know-it-all bystander dude getting the unlocker-tool-thingy stuck in my door (which inevitably cost us $250 to get removed), a ride in the back of a police car (yeah, all four of us) to a friend’s house, a ride from said friend to meet my father- and brother-in-law (who brought Hercules’ keys to me), a ride from same said friend (hooray for said friend) to my van, and a trip to Culvers and…

…Starbucks.

Ad-friggin’-venture. Indeed.

Five years old. That’s, like, a kid! Dimples is five years old. There are funfetti cupcakes in Lightning McQueen cupcake liners waiting in the fridge for him to bring to school. He goes to school.

But wasn’t it just yesterday…

Alert: Labor story ensuing, containing “too much information” for some of you (like my dad):

I went into labor a week and half early with Dimples, thanks to my OB who, as requested, gave my cervical check that day a little more …oomph. (And, ahem, thanks to my husband for prostaglandins.) It was a slow, relatively easy early labor, with mild contractions all night long. Annoying, actually. Boring. From midnight until 5 or 6am, I tried to sleep. Anticipation is what kept my rest from me, as opposed to pain. This “early” labor was already longer than my first labor from start to finish, if it was even really labor. This was ruining my record!

I started walking around the backyard before the sun rose. It was a beautiful dawn, and the sky was full of stars. I could hear the waves of Lake Michigan crashing on the shore, and feel the waking of the world. As the sky began to pale, I ventured out to our dead-end street. I walked up and down that street for at least an hour. I called my sister, and for some reason (sorry, everyone else), she is the only person I remember talking to. Finally, the walking increased the intensity of the contractions, and I went inside to update Hercules.

I took a shower, and (dad, for goodness’ sake, stop reading!) checked my own cervix. Good Lord, did I just type that? …for, potentially, the entire world to see? Well, there you have it. And I was 5 centimeters. I doubted it, knowing what most laboring women look like at 5 cm, but I gave myself the benefit of the doubt, and called the hospital. They laughed; they were swamped, and I was scheduled to work labor and delivery that PM shift!

Hercules’ nephew came to watch BDE. I remember saying good-bye to her. She was playing with her new little wooden dollhouse, the spoiled only child, bursting with personality, sweet little momma’s girl… I feared the change that the day would bring to our lives. How could I possibly love another child the way I loved her? Would she feel betrayed? And… Oh, GOD, this contraction hurts!

The L&D wing was indeed busy. After the initial admission stuff (yay, I was right; 5 cm!), I capped off my own IV, walked around, took pictures of my friends working, leaned on Hercules in three minute intervals, yadda yadda. As labor progressed, though, I eventually kicked my poor, supportive mom and sister out, and cut the cutesy “ha, ha, I’m a L&D nurse in labor” crap.
I listened to Enya and other calming music while Hercules read Hypnobirthing meditations to me. I was calmly envisioning a rose gently opening when my OB came into the room for a routine check. Before I could say anything, I saw the bright yellow crochet-hook instrument in her hands, and POP! She had broken my water. What the… I was so angry! Really, there was no reason for it. It isn’t something one should generally do to an unsuspecting other. I was 7 cm, and there were no problems with the labor, except that, at this rate, it would be another couple hours of gentle, naturally progressing labor, and she would not be certain to get her office back on schedule.

I was quite irritated, but the sudden onset of pain, encouraged by the loss of my amniotic fluid cushion, overpowered any other feelings I could muster. My cervix went from 7 to 10 in less than a half hour, and with 3 (if that) pushes, at 1:28 PM, Dimples was born. He was 7 lbs., 10 oz., exactly one pound heavier than BDE had been.

“My little booooooooy!” is what I remember saying to him, through my tears. He was on my chest, and I was wrapping his slippery bluish-pinkish body in warm blankets. It felt strange to be in a bed that I had stood next to in so many other deliveries. Room 477–it had always been my lucky room. And to have to have this beautiful baby in my arms! He was adorable! He was a “He!” I was overjoyed at the simple fact that I loved him so much. Already! It was wild! I didn’t realize that I had it in me to love this much …again! He was a sweet, snuggly, hungry little baby.

And then… all of a sudden…

He grew up. He is five. Practically a teenager.

He does, at least, ask me to sing him his lullaby every night–the one I sang to him as a baby. He sings along in his sweet voice (and is now joined by his little brother):

La La Lu
La La Lu
My little star-sweeper
I’ll sweep the stardust (he makes me say starlight)
for you…

La La Lu
La La Lu
Little warm, fluffy (he says fuzzy) sleeper,
Here comes a pink (he makes me say blue) cloud
for you…

La La Lu
La La Lu
Little wandering angel,
Fold up your wings,
Close your eyes…

La La Lu
La La Lu
And may love be your keeper…

La La Lu
La La Lu
La La Lu

Happy Birthday, my little star-sweeper. I love you!