Seven Milestones

1. We have smileage from Malakai! Also, acne and cradle cap and an oily head.





2. Micah is riding sans training wheels.



In an effort to make me a bit crazy, he's already acting like Mr. Stuntman Daredevil.






3. Seth had his first car accident, involving an out-of-control wheelie and the van in the driveway.





4. Eli baked and decorated his first birthday cake, which he described as his greatest cooking accomplishment yet. I don't know; I thought the Mother's Day pull-aparts were pretty good. (I just noticed the stray hand picking at the front of the cake.)




5. Greg turned 38!



I included a second picture, because it's so cute.

6. This thing weaseled its way into my house, despite the fact that I clearly forbade indoor pets. I'm not sure how it happened, but it had something to do with the eldest animal-loving son, multiple attempts to trap a stray kitten in the barn, two big dogs outside that like to chase and eat small animals, etc.

The Farmer and I had a discussion as he was petting the kitten on our bed. I told him that I like to look at animals in a zoo or read about them in a book; I just don't like to touch them or have them touching my bed. He replied that he didn't understand how someone wouldn't want to pet and hold their animals. Apparently, I wasn't born with the animal-loving gene like everyone else in the family.


7. I slept for 6 hours straight!!!



Thanks baby.

Bear With Me

I've been camera-happy during the past 12 days.





This is the big brother that can't wait to start playing catch in a few years.



This is the brother that wouldn't hold the baby at first, but now does so eagerly.






This is the brother that's actually a big help to me, at least during the one day since Grandma left to go home.



The aforementioned grandma. We miss her big time.



We call him "finger-toes." Or "monkey-toes."



I have a dad-zonked-out-on-the-couch photo series with all the newborns; (you know how exhausting it is to have your wife get up several times each night to nurse the baby). With all the stuff that's been going on with the other children and with work, this has been the only chance this dad has had to zonk out.



Check out the cowlick.



Chillin'



Bros.

I'm Not Pregnant Anymore!!!!!!

But more importantly, we welcomed our precious son, Malakai Bradford, into our arms at a hefty 8 lbs 2 oz and 22 inches long. According to my obstetrician, approximately 5% of babies are born on their due date. Malakai decided to join this elite group and, as The Farmer likes to point out, he came at high noon--You can't get it any closer than that. Would mid-day on your due date be considered your "due minute?"


BEFORE

Here is a picture of the baby and me walking into the hospital.


I don't want to post the profile shot.

Okay, fine. I will.


The fetus seemed to me to be growing rapidly during the last two weeks, but I was still shocked at my size when I saw this picture.

AFTER

Three hours later, here we are:



Sorry if this is too much information, but I want to document the slightly funny labor story. Don't feel obligated to read on. The evening before the birth I felt like I was going into labor and started having strong contractions every 3-4 minutes. Then they kind of fizzled out for a while and just came irregularly through the night. I was able to sleep here and there. When Greg's alarm went off at 6:00, he asked if he should go to work or not and I told him that since I'd been asleep for the past 1-2 hours, he was probably fine to go. I called him back an hour or two later and said he didn't need to rush home, but I thought things were still progressing. He got home around 9:00; we decided to call the doctor's office and were told to go to labor and delivery. At that point, I didn't really think I was in full blown active labor yet, but was hoping at least something had happened and they wouldn't send me home. Turns out my cervix had dilated to 8 cm. So apparently, it was the real thing. Having been induced with Pitocin for the first three babies, I had a much different (i.e. slower and less intense) experience this time around. Greg was glad his nightmares of me delivering at home didn't come to pass.


I forgot how much I adore my newborns. I'm not quite so fond of them when they're still inside me.

MONKEY D

Each of our boys has been given a special nickname by their father: Monkey A, Monkey B, Monkey C, and now Monkey D.



He did look quite monkey-like right when he was born, but, as you can see, he is quite cute on day of life #2.


Awake for a minute.


A decent amount of dark hair.


We're not sure who he looks like. He changes quickly and different people have said he looks like Greg, Eli, Seth, and Micah. One thing we do know is that he doesn't look like me.

FOUR PEAS IN A POD


Monkeys A and B are thrilled. Monkey C isn't quite so sure yet.


A proud mama with her four peas.



I like my boys.


A WORD ABOUT GRANDMAS AND HUSBANDS


I feel sorry for women who don't have an amazing mother to come stay with them for two weeks at baby time and basically handle all aspects of the family members' lives with ease. I am so lucky.


The best husband and father in the world. And becoming a decent farmer.

THE WHOLE FAMILY


We feel extremely blessed to have four healthy, beautiful children and that our baby made it into the world safe and sound.

The Y Chromosome Wins Again

One night last week, the family felt a little hungry after a veggie dinner from the garden and we decided to go out for apple cobbler and ice cream. The waitress, pointing at my mid-section, asked, "What are you having?"
Me: "It's a boy."
Waitress (with all the children listening): "I'm SOOOO sorry!"
Me: "We're excited!"
Waitress (incredulously): "Are you REALLY????"
Me: speechless
Waitress (after a pause): "Well, of course you are; it's a baby."
Me (after waitress leaves): "That was the rudest thing EVER!"
Waitress (the next time she comes to our table): "I feel like I owe you an apology. I mean, I would like to have any child--I only have a dog."
Me: "We like our boys."
What I wanted to say: "Of course--Look how handsome and sweet and funny they are, and they didn't even take offense to your thoughtless words. Girls shmirls!"

I will admit that after the gender-revealing ultrasound, I shed a few tears for my daughter, the one that will never be. But I've had 23 weeks to smile about what it means to be a mom to boys. And much of it centers around bodily functions.

I know that there are little boys out there that have been taught to aim well and lift up the toilet seat and clean up dribbles with a small wad of tissue. I, however, have not been able to achieve this with my sons, despite my best efforts. Hence, the repeated need to do a little clean up at the front of the toilet seat before I sit. But there are advantages to raising standing urinators, particularly on hikes and long road trips. No scrambling for that elusive potty, carefully balancing TP all over the seat to cover germs. We just find a well-placed tree and we're good to go. My boys have taken to heart the phrase, "The world is your toilet."


lizards and reptiles and bears, oh my


And furthermore, I now know that it's possible to fess up to a gaseous odor with no shame. The years of being surrounded by maleness are getting to me. In fact, I can personally--on occasion--burp with pride, despite my modest and proper nature. Even at the dinner table.


born knowing how to vroom and shoot and drive

Sons are sensitive. Not in the same way as girls. I mean in a sweet way when it comes to their moms. (Sometimes.) I do enjoy getting all the girly attention in the family. Christmas and Valentines Day bring boxes of carefully selected jewelry, with hearts and diamonds being the distinct themes of choice.


He's a poet . . .



. . . and he can plug his nose with his upper lip.


bros

One blessed advantage of sons over daughters is that boys enter puberty, on average, later than girls. This means that I get to have my little boys longer. I'll have man sons for years, so I'll take them little and hairless for as long as I can get.

still smooth-skinned (for a while anyway)


my men

Rapscallions

Someone is stealing our ripe, juicy, delicious tomatoes. Someone rascally with sharp teeth and no footprints. Apparently our dogs aren't doing their job, but are hanging out lazily in the garage sleeping all night. Beetles and bugs, fungus, torrential rains, horses, ice storms, and thieves; the gardener's battles never end. I was going to try canning today. Very small thank you to the rapscallions for getting me off the hook.

The Farmer in the Dell (a clever reference to where we live)

Uncle Doug told me on a recent visit that Greg and I would have been good pioneers. The death of both our air conditioning and our washing machine in the past couple of weeks have proven this to be false on my end--it wasn't pretty. It's a different story for The Farmer. After 14 years of marriage, I'm finally seeing him in his true element, spending every spare minute out on the property. He can't stay away.


His hard work in the garden has been paying off.

Most of the ingredients in the dishes we've eaten this week have been from it. Zucchini pie, zucchini quiche, stuffed zucchini, zucchini bread, zucchini sticks, green salad, sauteed green beens, green been casserole, BLT's, cucumber balsamic salad, cucumber tomato salad, sauteed kale, kale butternut stew, just to name a few.
Here's tonight's dinner for example--all from the garden:




I don't know if he's trying to make it so the children will never allow us to move, but here are some of the boy-friendly enhancements he's created:


Tire swing.

Rope swing.

Sand box.

The tree house is apparently next.

He gets many shoes and clothes dirty.

He also gets many chigger bites.

I've got to go. The Farmer is pulling his fresh-baked bread out of the oven.