I knew better. But, then again, I didn’t. My labor with Winnie was induced. Timed, artificial, and supine in a white bed. I’ve offered the same precautions given me hundreds of times. Contractions regularly occurring as frequent as every 5 minutes for two hours if less than 37 weeks need to be assessed. However, I was on track to have an average sized boy. On time. My providers were on board with a term delivery, and so was I. At my last OB appt, I told my doctor not to check me. “Nothing is happening,” I said. Preterm labor wasn’t something I saw coming. I suppose that’s the nature of spontaneity.

The morning of the 27th, I rode my beach cruiser alongside Jen as she ran our 5 mile loop. I was at the end of my rope with the “normal” discomforts of the third trimester. I told her if there was anything I could do to expedite his arrival, I was not above trying it. As if in answer to my plea, a couple hours later, the contractions began. Without fail, every 2-3 minutes my belly would tighten. Hard as a rock. They were only slightly uncomfortable, so even though I knew the regularity should be a red flag, I thought these certainly could not push a baby out. While Winnie napped, I got started on another painting, tidied up, and we made sure the hospital bags weren’t lacking. When she woke, we went out to lunch, and picked up the truck from the shop. Little did I know when I was driving Winnie home, her brother would arrive within the hour. It was now late afternoon. Four hours into contractions. I drank a few glasses of water, and drew a bath. Winnie and J, who happened to be home on his first and only 4 day weekend of the year, went for a walk. Before the bath filled, I knew. All of a sudden I knew. This baby was coming now. We threw our bags in the 4Runner, and texted Jimmy and Teresa we were on our way with Winnie. I carried my constant companion to their front door. Barely able to stay upright, but tearful to part with her just the same. We finally pulled into the parking garage, and J sprinted for a wheelchair. I went to the trunk to unload our bags, doubled over, and the primal screams began. Thirteen minutes after we hit the door of the hospital, another tiny combination of us was placed in my arms. Only this time, his downy hair was unexpectedly deep brown in contrast to his sister’s cotton white.

Memorial Day weekend 4 years ago, I boarded a plane to see what might happen if I stepped out boldly to let a man know face to face that I couldn’t forget him. That same weekend two years ago we were married, and, again, on the weekend we celebrate the lives of those who have sacrificed their own for our freedom, we welcomed Harold (army ruler) Paschal (Easter, sacrificial lamb). Our hearts are full, Harry Boy.

It’s about time. Day after spring day, we have ventured out into the faded, wet cold. Yesterday, we finally felt the warmth of those familiar beach rays. After a morning bike ride to the sea, we decided to spend the afternoon braving the jet noise in our own backyard with fruit (i.e. kale and spinach) pops, sidewalk chalk, and bubbles. 

In the previous posting, what you don’t see is Winnie fussing from the dock, determined to join our paddle. On Saturday afternoon, we set out to find a life jacket small enough to allow our little amphibian the means to safely get closer to the water. Or, shall I say, delightedly submerge herself in the 59 degree inlet around the corner. 

Celebrating year two with the one I hoped for.

We took Winnie to see a bit of French and American Impressionism. Who knew the smooth, open hardwoods of the Chrysler Museum would inspire our three-months-a-walker ballerina to kick up her tiny leather shoes.

A break in the clouds allowed for some brief but gleeful play in the sand with Grandma.

Ten months ago, our young bird dog hopped in her crate for the long drive back to Mom and Bobby’s house. She thrilled Winnie with a stay on our couch for a couple days this week.

In training.