The lil' scribbler arrives

Six days late. Less than three hours of labor. A pound lighter than his older brother.

Finally, the new lil' scribbler has arrived! He made his grand entrance ten days ago, on Mother's Day (traditionally called Mothering Sunday here) in the United Kingdom. And, thank goodness, he came without all the medical drama his big brother made us endure.

Frankly, the lil' scribbler's entrance was . . . not to put too fine a point on it . . . boring.

Recovery from any British birth requires a proper cup of tea.

Wonderfully boring!

The whole labor and delivery thing was a breeze. {Ed.'s note: Easy for you to say. Try giving birth.} Kate's first contractions started around 1:30 in the morning. Her body decided to skip the introductory contractions. Instead, she dove straight into the full-on powerful ones. We waited an hour or so and then headed off to the hospital.

The maternity ward was packed. Who knew 2:45 am on a Sunday was such a popular time to deliver? In truth, the maternity ward was simply so understaffed that they couldn't even operate an entire wing of the ward. Understaffing is one of the National Health Service's not-so-secret methods of cost controls. Anywho, during our drive to the hospital they called and sought to redirect us to another hospital across town. But we missed the call — the phone was tucked away into Kate's bag — and we showed up at the hospital to crash the party.

Sleeping while momma takes a shower.

They made room for us, grudgingly.

We didn't take up much of their time. Our new baby boy, Finley, was born roughly an hour and a half later. Nor did we take up much of their resources. Unlike in the U.S., where most births are overseen by obstetricians, most births in the U.K. are overseen by midwives. Our midwife managed everything on her own. If there had been any complications, further medical staff was around. But generally the approach to birth here is less "medical" and more "natural," though circumstances or personal preferences can of course dictate otherwise.

Jackson met his new little brother, Finley, for the first time.

Kate's mom ("Grammar") holding Finley in the hospital.

In general, if it's a mother's second (or third, fourth, etc.) baby, they aim to send momma and baby home from the hospital within six to twelve hours. This has shocked some of our U.S. friends, who spent a day or two in the hospital after giving birth. But so long as both the mother and baby are doing well, and the baby is nursing successfully, they urge you to go home.

Ready to go home.

But going home doesn't mean you're suddenly on your own. A midwife comes to your home the next day to check on the baby and mother. If all is well, another midwife visit is scheduled for two days later. After two or three further days, you see a midwife again when the baby gets a poke for routine blood screenings. Several days later, you have another evaluation to make sure all is well and the baby is growing as expected. At that point, your medical supervision is handed over from midwives to a "health visitor," who makes periodic visits to babies and toddlers and follows their development. The usual vaccinations and other routine medical checkups are passed over to a general practitioner (GP), your family doctor.

Born early in the morning and home in time for dinner. We let Jackson, his devoted big brother, pick the clothes we bought for Finley to come home from the hospital.

I've been asked several times whether Finley, having been born in England, is a British citizen. He is not. Like the vast majority of countries in the world — including all of Europe and nearly all of Asia, Africa, and Oceania — the U.K. grants citizenship on a jus sanguinis basis (i.e., by "right of blood"). That means one parent must be a British citizen, or at least that immigrants like us need to be "settled" and have permanent residence status. However, if or when Kate and I gain U.K. citizenship in a few years, our children can also gain citizenship at the same time. Additionally, if Finley continues to live in the U.K. until he's ten years old, he becomes eligible for citizenship regardless of the citizenship status of his parents.

So, if the lil' scribbler isn't a British citizen, is he an American? Yes. In the U.S., like much of the Americas, citizenship is granted automatically on a jus soli basis (i.e., by "right of soil"), so anyone born within American territory is granted citizenship. Finley doesn't qualify on that basis. But generally speaking, the U.S. also grants citizenship to children born to U.S. citizens living abroad, as long as a few minor conditions are met. Finley (and his parents) check those boxes.

(Nearly) favorite family photos of our first year in Scotland

I take a lot of photos. That's self-evident on this blog.

I have taken more than 10,000 photos in our first year in Scotland. Kate has snapped some, too. Lots of things are memorialized and captured for perusal later. Most of the photos are nice enough. Some are pretty good.

Here are a couple dozen of my favorite family photos from this past year. Whittling down from 10,000+ is a challenge. In a post next week I'll show you my very most favorite family photos, limiting myself to fewer than ten. But here are some of the other candidates which didn't quite make the cut.

When the museum doesn't interest you, make your own excitement. (St. Andrews, Scotland)

Communing with the old gods. (Machrie Moor stone circles, Isle of Arran, Scotland)

Kate's an expert selfie taker. (Hiking in Glen Coe, Scotland)

Racing a new friend in Park Güell. (Barcelona, Spain)

Kate's eldest sister, Tracy, and her husband John, claim the thrones. (Stirling Castle, Scotland)

Kate and Jackson can't quite muster as much dignity.

Grampa Bill and Nana take a breather while touring Paris.

Bucket. Shovel. Temptation.

Finishing a cookie before going into the castle. (Stirling, Scotland)

Finishing a pint in the sailors' lounge, the Verge Inn (get it?), on the Royal Yacht Britannia. (Edinburgh, Scotland)

My niece, Macie, plays on the beach. (St. Andrews, Scotland)

It looks like I superimposed Kate on this photo. I didn't. (Isle of Skye, Scotland)

Hiking is a lot harder with a butterball on your back. (Isle of Skye, Scotland)

Ennui, appropriately, in Paris.

Even the master selfie taker sometimes fails. (Versailles, France)

Group nap after sightseeing. (Our house in Glasgow, Scotland)

Jack's first shower was taken, ironically, in Bath. Because our room didn't have one. (Bath, England)

Skipping rocks. (Scalpsie Bay, Isle of Bute, Scotland)

Grammar exploring. (St. Conan's Kirk, Scotland)

Happiness. (Barcelona, Spain)

Cheerio-bag pruning of flowers. (Brodick Castle, Isle of Arran, Scotland)

Collecting the clippings. (The Crescent, Bath, England)

Note the tiny hand photobomb.

In the Hall of Mirrors. (Palace of Versailles, France)

Believe, you will. (York, England -- exactly where you'd expect to find Yoda)

A blustery May day in St. Andrews.

The imp has a lollipop. (On a Cal Mac ferry in the Firth of Clyde, Scotland)

It's what I do. (Glastonbury Abbey ruins, England)

Want to see more? Here are the favorites from our first year in Scotland:





Favorite photos of places we visited our first year






(Nearly) favorite photos of places we visited our first year






Favorite family photos of our first year in Scotland

A boy and his free iPad

"I want red iPad," Jackson announces. Not so much a request as a demand.

"I want red iPad."

We do have an iPad, a mini, but Jack wants our Kindle in a red case. They're all iPads to him. Sometimes, he tries to swipe on the television screen.

"I want red iPad. Please." Upping the ante.

The mini is supposed to be my toy. 

I'm ignoring him. There's an orange dump truck on the floor, a yellow digger askew in the truck bed. Three books — all about Thomas the Tank Engine, one even has a steering wheel and makes chugging noises and horn toots — are on the coffee table. Haydn's trumpet concerto in Eb Major plays in the background, because he declared "I want trumpet music." He's gripping a plastic trumpet in his hand. A blue and green Duplo Lego garbage truck rests on top of a chair cushion. Two toddler laptops sit open on the storage bench next to him.

Enjoying the antics of the "Talking Ben" app.

We blame Grammar. She got him hooked.

I'm sitting on the couch. He climbs into my lap. He must want to cuddle.

Not exactly.

He cups his hand on the outside of my shoulder, looks deeply into my eyes, just inches from my face — Coach instructing his player — needing to explain, earnestly, ever so earnestly, he knows I'm slow on the uptake and he must help me understand: "Dad. Dad. I want red iPad."

So I've gathered.

Creating a contraption.

We limit his screen time. Many days, even weeks, he doesn't see an iPad or Kindle at all. Sometimes he gets just a few minutes at a time. Averaged over a week he gets less than an hour of screen time a day (tablet or television), though he might hear music played over the telly or watch a few minutes of football or ballet or a travel show. I keep track of his usage to make sure it's limited. I'm actually kinda old school when it comes to his toys — wooden trains, Play-Doh, balls, Legos, sticks and rocks — so he doesn't garner much sympathy if he's whining for a tablet.

Kate and Nana admire the Church of the Holy Rude in Stirling.
Jackson completes a puzzle.

But there are times when the Kindle and iPad get a workout. Tablets have to be among the greatest, perhaps the greatest, sightseeing tools that parents could ever hope for. We strap the boy into his stroller, hand him an iPad, and can pretty much count on half an hour, an hour, or even more of uninterrupted time to see the sights. He'll play alphabet games, do puzzles, watch an animated movie, or swipe through pictures; meanwhile, we can gaze at a painting, admire an exhibit, or tour a building while actually paying attention to the sight we came to see. It also keeps him contentedly quiet in buildings where quiet is expected, such as art museums and cathedrals. So it's a tool that not only helps us as parents, but one that helps all the other patrons enjoy their experiences, as well.

Position Jack at an intersection of the nave and transept (like here at Salisbury Cathedral),
then wander freely while still keeping an eye on him.

It's not foolproof, of course. There are times when he wants to walk and wander, or demands to be carried in our arms. Sometimes he'd rather hold a toy. On occasion, he's even interested at looking at the pretty paintings or observing whatever has caught our attention.

When I'm touristing on my own with Jackson, he'll be playing a game on the Kindle or iPad and I'll get compliments about how well-behaved he is. Umm, lady, of course he's well-behaved. He has a stupor-inducing toy in his hands. I think they just appreciate that he's quiet and not disturbing their visit.

On a visit to the Palace of Holyrood in Edinburgh, the staff/guards in every room were watching, eyeballing the iPad, peering at what had him so captivated. They were communicating via earpieces, telling the next room to take a look at this kid. They were paying so close attention that I actually overheard one of them say, "He's not playing with a car game now. It looks like a puzzle." When I glanced at the guard he pretended not to notice.

At Westminster Abbey, entire groups of people stopped to watch him as we slowly wheeled down the aisle. One guide stopped mid-explanation because her Japanese tour group had turned its attention to Jackson and his iPad. Several took pictures of Jack, even though photographs aren't allowed inside the cathedral.

We also unleash the Kindle and iPad on days where we have long periods of travel. That might be a train, a plane, or an automobile. Maybe even a ferry boat. Usually, we try to keep him occupied as long as possible with toys, snacks, coloring, or other activities before the big guns come out; once a tablet is opened, everything else pales in comparison.

Watching The Lion King on a train in the highlands.

Completing a puzzle while riding a Cal Mac ferry between the Isle of Skye and Mallaig.

Get out of my seat after three hours in the car? No, thanks. I'll stay here and play an alphabet game.

Sometimes we bring an iPad or Kindle to restaurants, particularly if we're eating with friends or if the restaurant is a quieter/fancier establishment. We can converse with adults, and other customers can eat, without an earful of boisterous toddler. We don't allow tablets while we're eating, so these are quick breaks to tame the squirmy beast.

Dining at the Firebird in Glasgow. Coloring got rejected.
Looking at pictures won ten minutes of adult conversation before the entrees.

It was at a brunch with some of Kate's colleagues that Jackson dropped the iPad. It simply slipped off his lap. Struck the metal table leg with a crack! that paused all of us.

We knew. Didn't have to look at it. Folks around the table waited for our reaction.

We shrugged.

We were expecting it to happen. In fact, we were surprised it took so long for the iPad or Kindle to suffer an injury. Both had suffered drops before, though only a couple. Jack is fairly careful while handling them. He just doesn't yet have sufficient coordination to always meet his intentions.

Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.

Since we expected mishaps, we had gone ahead and bought Apple's repair warranty for the iPad. I'm typically a hater of such extended warranty offers; they're usually not good value for a microwave or television or some other appliance. But we knew the iPad would be in regular jeopardy. The AppleCare plan allows two events requiring complete repair or replacement of the iPad, during a two year period. We just need to pay a $50 charge. Warranty purchased!

Lounging in an IKEA shopping cart. Mommy is so slow.

Then came the hard part. Our warranty was purchased in the States. Technically, it was not valid in the U.K. Oy vey. An epically-lengthy phone call to Apple's customer service in the U.S. — you would think this scenario had arisen before, and wouldn't require multiple consultations with managers — resulted in telling us that we could mail it to my parents in the U.S., who would then mail it to Apple, who would then mail a repaired/replaced iPad to my parents, who would then mail it to us. Of course, by the time we paid those shipping charges, we could pretty much buy a new iPad.

So I headed to the Apple store in Glasgow. After a few minutes of discussion, they replaced the iPad on the spot. Took all of our data and apps and photos off the old iPad and loaded them onto the new one. Took less than half an hour. And, amazingly, they didn't charge us for it. I offered to pay. It was refused. I pointed out that I ought to pay something. They refused. They'd get credit for it in their system, I was told. Well, okay then.

And so we headed out the door with a free iPad.

Our tablet use has continued without much adjustment. Jackson now understands they're fragile; he makes no complaint if we insist on them being secure. The iPad and Kindle help us shop, or keep occupied before the building opens, or wait for a haircut. Santa is going to add a LeapPad into the mix this Christmas; we'll see if it passes muster.

Keeping busy while Kate and Grammar have tea at the Botanic Gardens.

Awaiting a haircut.

"Daddy. I want red iPad. Daddy. Daddy. I need red iPad."

The word "need" has become synonymous with "want" in Jack's vocabulary. At this age, anything he wants is, irrefutably, a need.

"Jackson, I have an idea." His grin collapses. It's not yet a pout, but it's in ready position. "Let's hit balls with the spatulas."

He smiles. Smashing things with blunt instruments is a favorite pastime, but often pooh-poohed indoors because, y'know, stop hitting the table, stop hitting the wall, stop hitting the dog, and so on.

"Hit ball!" The excitement level rises. The iPad is forgotten.

Old school.