Seven is Heaven

I have a brand-new, seven-year-old boy in my house.

My Mason.

He has the largest blue eyes that make me melt. And two missing top teeth.

He couldn't wait to open his present this morning. I had forgotten to wrap it until late last night. And I could only find Christmas wrapping paper at that hour. It made him smile even more. And then, when he opened the larger box, he found a smaller, wrapped box which held the beloved gift he wanted so much ...

A blue iPod Shuffle. He was so full of giggles. It was adorable. And I'm sorry that Joe is out of town and missed it. I have a $5 Amazon credit for music downloads, so after dinner and soccer practice, I'm going to let him pick out a few songs.

A few days ago I tried to remember when and how I went into labor with Mason, and I couldn't remember. After freaking out for a few minutes, I started to remember.

It was a Monday morning and Joe's parents had just arrived the day before (I think) to help with the kids when I had the baby. We were stationed in Columbus, Ohio, at the time. Mason was (and still is) our only baby born in a different state and different hospital. He is our "Ohio baby," as we affectionately call him.

I started having mild contractions in the morning every five minutes. I've never had contractions further apart than five minutes. Ever. I lounged around and called my friend and then I think I called Joe. And after I was sure it was the real deal, I just casually mentioned it to my in-laws. Joe came home around lunchtime and we headed to the hospital around 1 p.m. I was barely 2 cm when I got there and they wouldn't admit me until I reached 4 cm.

When I finally reached 4 cm around 3:50 p.m., they admitted me. They asked me to walk down the hall to the labor and delivery room, but I could barely walk. I had to stop every few steps. When I reached the room (and had sufficiently annoyed all the nurses), they started with all the admittance questions. The easy questions that are no-brainers, like my religion, etc. I could barely answer her. I looked at Joe in desperation, hoping he would just answer them for me.

The nurse seemed agitated and said she'd check me. Then she exclaimed, "You're 8 cm. NO! You're 9!!! Call the doctor!" And Mason was born a few minutes later. From the time I left the triage room at 3:50 (and only 4 cm dilated) to the time Mason was in my arms, only 48 minutes had elapsed. It was 4:38 p.m. It was a wild ride, let me tell you.

After he was born, the nurse (who was much kinder at that point) finished the admittance questions, which were so much easier to answer. And I got my hospital bracelet.

Happy birthday, Mason. I will love you forever and ever and throughout all eternity.