I remember this night, 9 years ago tonight, like it was yesterday. Jack was 4 years old, in Start Smart Football, which is really just herding cats, but all the cats have footballs. I was 296 months pregnant with one Mr. Tolt, and feeling none too good, and Ash had the night off of work to participate in the said herding of the said football wielding cats as I was far too large and far too grumpy to have any kind of involvement in that. I was on the bleachers at our local Parks And Rec watching father and son toss the tiniest of footballs back and forth and wondering why the hell I was in so much pain. (Ain’t I pretty?! – pretty being code for dumb!)

Football ended, and I had nothing prepared at home for dinner, so we decided to get pizza before heading home. I told Ash of my belly woes and we concluded it was probably hunger (we were so, so pretty) and proceeded to order 2 slices of white (ie garlic) pizza. Now, before you start wondering how these 2 seemingly mildly intelligent humans did not come to the conclusion that they were about to birth another bouncing baby boy any minute now, we had already been to the hospital once that week, me insisting I was in labor, labor and delivery insisting I was not. And again, before you start thinking hello, woman, you’ve had a baby before, you should know when you are and when you are not in labor. And you’re probably right. But I was induced with Jack and that just felt like a whole different ball game – that was immediate pain from the moment they put the whatever the fuck to “ripen the cervix” inside of my, well, cervix. If I had a nickel for every time I said ripen the cervix…Anywho, moving on, it was instant labor for me. We just dove right in the first time around. Mr. Tolt was gentler on me than Jack and things got to happen naturally with him. Therefore, I will defend how “pretty” I was until the day I die.

We return home after our family pizza date, get Jack to bed and then get ourselves to bed to watch The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug. I tried to lay down but naturally the garlic fucking pizza I ordered was certainly giving me heartburn, so set about pacing around the room. So strange that the heartburn was coming every 6-7 minutes, was mainly located in my elephantine gut, had me doubled over in pain and breathing like oxygen was scarcely available. I am fucking gorgeous at this point. Ash is irritated with me. I’m interrupting the movie after all. So I move to pace the bathroom, shutting the door behind me and flipping Ash the bird. After a fair amount of climbing the walls like a spiritually broken caged animal at the zoo, I use the bathroom. I wipe. I’m bleeding. I go back into the bedroom, report my findings to my enthralled with tiny men that have super wide and super hairy feet husband and continue my fervent march. I use the bathroom again, wipe again and that’s when I come to the realization that I might actually be in for real, baby is gonna come within the next 24 hours, labor. Blood. Lots of it. I go back to the bedroom, again, report my findings to my husband, again, but also tell him it’s time to fucking go, we’re having a baby. I set about getting our things together, texting my brother (who lives downstairs) to let him know I gotta go to the hospital and birth a baby so he’s in charge of Jack and turn around to find my husband, still lying in bed, still watching The fucking Hobbit. I look at him in disbelief, say something super kind like “what the fuck are you doing, let’s fucking go” to which he responds “let me just see how much longer is left in the movie”. So he pauses it, the little elapsed time bar pops up on the screen and shows there’s about 45 minutes left. Ash pleads with me to let him finish it before we go, chances are it’s another false alarm. I’m in so much pain, I just agree with whatever he says and continue my caged animal dance, wondering how I’m ever going to survive another 45 minutes, I need drugs and I need them now. I shit you not, y’all, I’m in my second lap around the bed, it’s been less than one minute and the movie fucking ends. Credits rolling. I don’t know if it was divine intervention, if neither Ash or I can read time or how it happened that the credits almost immediately started rolling as soon as Ash asked for 45 more minutes, but thank the Maker that it did. We barely got to the hospital in time for an epidural and had I not gotten that epidural, I don’t know that Ash would have lived passed that night. He maybe never would have had to worry about cancer at all. I kid. Mostly.

Long story short, just kidding, none of my stories are short. I got the epidural and at 4:44 am on September 17, 2014 a raspy voiced, wailing, 8 lbs. 6 oz., 23 inches long blue eyed, blonde haired baby boy joined our family. We were officially Jones, party of 4.

It’s so much different with your second child. You’re more relaxed, so much more calm, so much less worried that every move you make is going to break and/or most certainly kill your baby. Colt was such a good baby and Ash and I were better newborn parents than the first time around. He started sleeping through the night at 5 weeks old. He almost always let us eat dinner in peace. And he was just so chubby and happy, with one of the cutest smiles this totally biased mother had ever seen.

And in a couple of hours, that sweet blue eyed boy will be 9 years old. Time flies when you’re having fun. And not having fun. That chubby little baby is now rail thin and taller than any 9 year old I know. He is so funny with a vocabulary that constantly shocks and amazes me. He is kind in a very matter of fact sort of way. He will tell you exactly what he’s feeling exactly when he’s feeling it. He is fiercely independent and as stubborn as it gets. He loathes sports but wants to be a professional basketball player when he grows up (go figure), if the whole YouTube career doesn’t pan out. He can catch a fish better than anyone I know in real life. He loves all things Star Wars, Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit (probably because of his history with it on the night he was born! Ha!). He’s never met a Lego he didn’t love. He is an outside of the box thinker. He is strong but also sensitive, has the gift of gab and prefers to take life at a slower pace. He would rather spend his time alone but doesn’t mind the company of others (except for when he pays them to go away – true story – I got a call from his teacher last year because Colt took money to school with him to pay his friends to leave him alone on the playground).He is extremely artistic and wildly creative. He is nerdy in the best possible way and just one of my most favorite humans in the whole wide world. And nearly every word I have used to describe him is nearly every word I would use to describe his father (minus the fishing, sorry babe, you sucked at fishing). Their similarities are uncanny given that short amount of time Colt got with his dad. Them there are some strong genes.

He is my Wonderfully Weird Mr. Tolt and he has been mine for 9 years. How lucky am I?!