How's that again?

Or, how many parentheses can Carly use to tell a story?

It's just about the right time in the afternoon to think about where I was ten years ago today and share the "when my son was born" story. (Nothing gory guys, don't be scared.)

I begged to be induced because I *KNEW* that the second child was bigger than my first, and she had gone two weeks past my due date.

After an ultrasound I was patted on the hand and told "...your baby is only about 8 pounds, Mrs. Carly".

I somehow convinced them to induce me anyway (in part because of significant challenges during delivery of my previous one).

Sometimes being induced is pretty horrible, but I already was starting labor, so they started me with a lower dose of Pitocin, ramped it up gradually, and things just went pretty smoothly all day. He was delivered almost without incident -( they broke his collar bone because the cord... um, never mind guys!)

While I was crying because I misunderstood "they'll just pin it" (meaning his SHIRT, to immobilize his arm, not surgery on his collar bone), I heard a nurse over on the other side of the room say "Nine twelve." I knew it was only around four thirty, but I was on some funny meds.

"What, doctor?" I asked. He glared at me and seemed like I was yanking his chain. No reply. I repeated my question. Reluctantly, he answered me.

Yes, my "eight pounder" was 9 lbs, 12 oz. Needless to say, (a) I now have a different doctor, and (b) the factory is closed.

So, this is a very Un-Dooce-like birthday note, but there you go. My kids are absolutely the best thing I've ever done in my life. All of my decisions and plans focus on them. But if you know me, you probably know that already.