Dormant . . . but soon awakening

This blog has been hibernating.

Well, that's not quite right. It hasn't been sleeping for months, though there has been a fair bit of energy conservation. Perhaps I could spin it as cocooning, but the blog's not a chrysalis that will metamorphosize into a butterfly.

In truth, my blogging energies have been *temporarily* wrenched away toward other things. For example, I present Exhibit A:

Sleeping, and arrayed with pretty colors, but not becoming a butterfly. Though he seems occasionally to metamorphosize into a Sour Patch Kids sorting table.

The lil' scribbler has reached four months of age and he is, to put it bluntly, a time-suck. When awake he demands our attention. While his naptimes might provide good time for blogging, his are short and irregular catnaps. Someday in the future he'll undoubtedly trend toward a single morning nap and a single afternoon nap, but that day has not yet arrived.

Admittedly, the burden of baby care falls more on Kate because, y'know, breastfeeding and stuff. And let's face it, who do you trust more to trim tiny fingernails and toenails? But I can't really sneak off and leave her alone for the drudgery joy of entertaining an infant. Hey, keep that screaming kid away while I sit here and . . . blog.

That's not a good look as a father, I've found.

Along with the new kid comes the usual nesting and organizing. New drapes for the baby's room. New cabinets and bureaus to stash the big kid's toys and make room for the new kid's gear. Of course, with those quasi-necessary things Kate has we have somehow also snuck in new baker's shelves for the kitchen, new plants for the garden, and so on. The to-do list grows, never shrinks.

The photo we used for Jackson's birthday party invitation.

Just because we have bright and shiny Exhibit A doesn't mean we can neglect Exhibit B, the older kid. Jackson started school in January when we moved from Scotland to England, and school-age children seem to multiply the number of activities and overall busyness of afternoons and weekends (a.k.a., my prime blogging times).

Playdates, birthday parties, field trips, and PTA. We got our act together to produce a kick-ass birthday party for Jackson's fifth birthday (his first-ever birthday party) at a climbing gym, but wowzers did the planning/invitations/fretting/gift bags/cake/thank you cards/etc. gobble up time. And let's not forget the least favorite time-suck: homework.

(Ed.'s note: Who gives homework to kindergarten-age children?)

England, that's who. Not all the time. But every so often the kids get hit with six pages of work for a weekend. Or ten pages due next Wednesday. Or even eighteen f$!*%@ pages over a vacation week.

Nana and Grampa Bill take Jackson to school.

I mean, isn't the point of the vacation to be a break from schooling?

But I digress.

What else has wrenched away my blogging hours? We've had the requisite visits with the grandparents (Exhibit C) for the new baby, with some de rigueur sightseeing thrown in.

Nana and Grampa Bill explore the grounds of Berkeley Castle, north of Bristol. Grampa Bill, our genealogy buff, informs us that we have ancestors who once lived in the castle.

Similarly, Exhibit D: travel and sightseeing eats up a fair bit of our time. We've tried to put Kate's maternity leave to good advantage by exploring southwestern England, whether around town in Bristol or nearby in the Cotswolds, or even further afield in Cornwall.

The captivatingly beautiful Kynance Cove in Cornwall, England.

On a beach in St. Ives, we learned he can levitate!

But all those things — new baby, older kid starting school, visitors, and travel — pale in comparison to the giant time-suck time waster recipient of my devotion. Exhibit E is . . .

Kate, of course.

Who, me?

Now, I'm not saying she doesn't allow me to blog while she's home. That wouldn't be accurate.

It's not quite true she would frown upon it.

But let's say that life goes more smoothly if I'm putting my full efforts and energy toward her the baby and our chores and our family activities. Fewer eye rolls and sighs.

(Ed.'s note: She will deny this. Vociferously.)

Ohh, I know.

And so, until Kate returns to work from maternity leave in September, things round these parts may be scarce. I'm gonna try to eke out a post here and there, but no promises.

Then in September, I'm sure I'll have oodles and oodles of time for blogging while taking care of an infant all day. Right?

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.

Meconium aspiration is a crappy start to life

The day my son was born was the worst day of my life. It was his worst day, too.

Perhaps I should explain.

Let's start with the crap, shall we? Literally. Meconium is a baby's first poop, made up of the things a fetus ingests while still in the womb: amniotic fluid, mucus, epithelial cells, water, and so on. It's not pleasant to look at, to the say the least, typically dark green or brown or dirty yellow. Moreover, meconium is thick and sticky, like a glue paste.

Imagine breathing all that in and coating your lungs with it. Tiny baby lungs, which have just begun to be put to use outside the womb, are delicate enough. Breathing in mouthfuls of meconium — i.e., aspirating it — renders the lungs almost immobile. Even if the lungs could move, little or no oxygen can make it through the thick meconium goo into the baby's circulation.

It's not uncommon for a fetus to poop in utero. Estimates for the number of babies who do so range from 1 in 20, to as many as 1 in 5. Generally, the meconium doesn't cause any problem. Of all the babies who do poop in utero, only about 5% end up with some kind of meconium aspiration.

And then there are the cases like Jackson. The ones who have severe meconium aspiration syndrome.

Y'know how nearly everybody has those sweet pictures of a tired mother cradling her newborn child, all smiles and love and happiness? Not us. Jackson was whisked straight over to a waiting team of nurses who immediately assessed him for signs of meconium aspiration. They were ready for him because during labor he had briefly registered fetal distress, sending all the machines into a tizzy. It lasted less than a minute during the multi-hour labor, but the distress likely was when the meconium appeared.

The nurse team found gobs of meconium in his mouth and throat. They suctioned what they could. But he was barely responsive. His Apgar score, which provides a quick measurement of a baby's health after birth, was a 1 out of 10.

Zero is dead.

Soon after birth, the doctors and nurses placed Jackson on a ventilator. The doctors and nurses explained his prognosis was grim and they gently prepared us for the likelihood he might die. It was a very severe case. However, after some pointed encouragement from me, they set about finding specialists and surgeons who could provide him the best possible care. Within an hour a specially-equipped ambulance arrived and ferried Jackson from our hospital to a neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) at the University of North Carolina. We were heartened by this development.

First day on ECMO, with cannulae running into his vein and artery at his neck.

At the new hospital, however, we were again told his situation was dire. The resident who first broke this news to me was a newbie, having just started her residency a few days before. She couldn't conceal that she thought Jackson was going to die. The doctors explained Jackson's best chance would be if they could place him on extracorporeal membrane oxygenation (ECMO). Essentially, ECMO is a heart and lung bypass, with machines siphoning Jackson's blood, adding oxygen to it, and reinserting it into his bloodstream. There were surgeons on staff who had performed an ECMO surgery years ago, though not on a newborn. In the span of a couple of hours, they would need to reacquaint themselves with the procedure and then perform it on an hours-old infant.

Jackson was enveloped amidst the ECMO machinery.

Even if they succeeded with placing him on ECMO, his prospects were still tenuous. For several days, technicians would watch him round-the-clock, constantly checking and adjusting the levels of his blood and oxygenation. He was in severe danger of either blood clots or, if the blood got too thin, of strokes. Either could kill him. It was a high-stakes balancing act.

Furthermore, after ECMO, his prospects were likely dim. Assuming he ever came off ECMO and a ventilator, we had no way of knowing how much the oxygen deprivation affected his brain. There was a decent chance he would be a vegetable, or suffer from debilitating deficits. At minimum, he faced a high likelihood of developmental issues or delays.

His ECMO surgery, thank the stars, was a success. The NICU team began its vigil, always with at least one technician in the room monitoring and adjusting the machines.

Day after day, under their watchful eyes, he persisted.

He prospered.

Meanwhile, we hovered. Watched the machines. Stroked the tiny bits of baby skin that were left bare, careful never to shift or move him. Although he wasn't in a coma, he was completely sedated. We nevertheless read books to him, chatted with him (okay, soliloquized), sat in the room all day listening to the whirring machines. We bought coffee and donuts and treats and set them outside his room, openly trying to make Jackson a hub for activity and interest for all the doctors and nurses. For me and Kate, time stopped. The outside world essentially disappeared. His battle became our sole focus. All we could do was watch. We were hopeful but nonetheless fearful about the many unknowns of Jackson's, and our, future.

On the fourth day, he came off ECMO. But he was still on a ventilator.

Less puffy after ECMO, without all the extra fluids.

Can you believe this was progress? At one point I counted more than 50 wires attached to him.

All of this was tough on me. As I said, that first day was the worst day of my life. By the time Jackson was on ECMO, we had been up nearly 48 hours. We were on a roller coaster: the joy of his birth followed by his possible demise. We were told by medical staff multiple times to prepare for his death, only to have a short-lived reprieve. Then, when he was finally stable on ECMO, we faced the prospect of a troubled future.

This was our very first family selfie. It was my own first ever selfie, for that matter.

But I had it easy compared to Kate. She gave birth with no epidural. An hour after birth she was dressed and on her feet, waiting at Jackson's side. An hour later she was in a car headed to another hospital, her newborn tucked away in a special ambulance. She was like the mythical stories of yore, the peasant woman giving birth and then immediately getting back up to work in the fields. Kate met the roller coaster head on, sad but resilient. Although her physical pain paled beside the emotional beating, her sheer endurance was remarkable.

During his first week in the hospital, we couldn't do hardly anything for him. We tried to find ways to stay involved and connected. Since Jackson obviously couldn't breastfeed yet, Kate pumped milk and froze it. And pumped more milk. And more, and more, and more. The hospital could give him a little of it through a tube into his stomach, but Kate ended up producing so much in the first several weeks that ultimately she was able to donate a large amount to a breast milk clinic for use by other needy families.

The only clothing Jackson could wear was socks.

He was still sedated, but we decided to accessorize him with shades.

The NICU loved his progress and called him a "rockstar." We found an appropriate onesie.

He opened his eyes for the first time on day six.

Finally, by day six, they could reduce Jackson's sedation enough to allow him to wake up and open his eyes. It was the first time he saw the world outside momma's womb, but he couldn't really move or even breathe on his own. Still, what a wonderful feeling for us to finally be able to look into his eyes and smile, as well as to talk and read and laugh to a non-sedated baby.

On day eight, we had our first chance to hold Jackson. In truth, Kate had had thirty seconds to hold him right after he was born and before he was hooked up to machines, but nothing since then. Early on, I had been frightened my child might be born, live, and die while I would never have had a chance to ever hold him. While that fear faded as the days went on, the nurses were sure to give us a chance to hold our baby as soon as it was feasible.

It took several nurses to get Jackson and all his wires onto my lap.

I could finally hold Jackson! He was still hooked up to a ventilator.

Kate got her first real chance to hold her baby.

Grammar, Nana, and Grampa Bill got to watch but not yet hold him.

Our second family selfie.

Our cyborg baby on standby.

After day eight, the pace of changes and improvement increased mightily. On day nine, following some debate, the NICU team decided to take Jackson off his ventilator. They were taking an aggressive approach with him overall, to which he responded well. Although they weren't certain his lungs were ready to breathe on their own, they decided that if he struggled they could simply reinsert the ventilator. He did struggle immediately, and at one point we heard the machines make the dreaded flatline sound. (For anyone who might have the chance to be present during a family member's medical procedure, I'd strongly advise against it. They offered, we accepted, and I wish we hadn't.) But Jackson's lungs did lurch into use, and he never again needed to be put back on the ventilator.

When he had two solid days of breathing, the NICU team determined that Jackson could graduate from intensive care to the children's wing of the hospital. He still had an oxygen tube in his nose, which gradually was weaned from all day to just at night.

Jackson's first day off the ventilator, gazing at mommy and Grammar.

Our new room in the children's wing, with bed for mom and dad.

So much quieter and more restful out of the NICU.

He was a great success story, and drawing admirers. Shades for style.

Still some wires attached, but so much more interactive.

Once he was breathing normally, it was time to start breastfeeding. This was more challenging than it would have been had he had a typical post-birth introduction, but all things considered not too big a struggle. By this point Kate was a mass-producer of milk and Jackson was just learning to have an appetite, so she continued to pump large quantities for the milk bank.

We were also now able to take Jackson out of the crib and handle him delicately, but like a typical infant. We now had to do things such as change his diapers, where before the nurses in the NICU handled all those tasks. We could play and take walks around the halls.

Day by day, his breathing and oxygen saturation levels improved. And along with those things his energy and interaction levels boomed, too.

About to begin a new life challenge: breastfeeding.

Breastfeeding is exhausting.

At birth he weighed about 8.5 pounds, but by the time he was out of the NICU he had dropped to around 6 pounds, losing about 30% of his weight in ten days. To make sure he was on track with breastfeeding, we weighed and tracked his gains after every meal.

Eventually, he spent most of his day without an oxygen tube in his nose (though with tape on his face).

Jackson's first nap outside of the crib. Still with oxygen while sleeping, however.

The last few days in the hospital came with a sense of relief. Jackson was improved to the point of nearly being able to go home. Nonetheless, we still had the tedium of waiting around the hospital all day. At night we slept in his room, regularly awakened by nurses' checks as well as by Jackson's oxygen machines, which beeped furiously every time his oxygen saturation (his "sats") dropped below 90%. We slept fitfully.

Darth Vader and Jackson both had their share of respiratory issues.

As another side effect of his time on ECMO and a ventilator, Jackson lost his voice for a couple of weeks. He would cry (like any other infant), but no sound would come out. He would just silently mouth his distress and shed tears. We rooted for him to regain his voice, though of course who really wants to hear a crying baby? We did. But not too much, dear boy!

Finally, by day 21, Jackson could sleep at night and regularly keep up his oxygen sats. We were able to go home. This was exciting but also a little scary. We were safely cocooned within the hospital, medical staff at the ready if Jackson had any challenges breathing. He was coming home with an oxygen tank and a machine to measure his saturation levels, which ultimately he used at night for nine months. Think it's hard to get a normal baby to sleep peacefully through the night? Try adding wires taped to his face and the beeps of a machine if he shifts or doesn't take a full breath. Leaving the hospital meant losing security and comfort in case of trouble.

At last in the car seat, ready to head home for the very first time.

But of course we wanted and needed to take him home. At last!

By the end of his three weeks in the hospital, Jackson had gone from life-threatening meconium aspiration syndrome to nearly complete health. We had been on the brink of losing him several times, and now had an apparently normal and mostly healthy baby. For awhile we met regularly with a pulmonologist who assessed Jackson's breathing, but he steadily improved to the point where we no longer needed the oxygen tank at any time, though we kept it nearby in case of some unforeseen emergency.

Finally, home with the bebé.

His developmental milestones were checked regularly, as well. Besides the normal meetings with pediatricians, he was enrolled in a special infant care clinic. Every few months several experts measured whether he was meeting his milestones, and he was on track every time. In fact, by the time he was 20 months he was exceeding the milestones and was actually ahead of the curve. He did so well they eventually told us he no longer needed to have his development tracked.

No one could have predicted this kind of result. At the beginning it wasn't certain if he'd survive, and if he did, the question became what problems would he have. So far, as we approach his fifth birthday, there have been none. At all. Quite simply, an amazing turnaround.

I'm still watchful, and now that he's been thrust into school in England we have more developmental milestones to track.

As next week approaches we're staring down the due date for baby boy #2. I've been reflecting rehashing reliving the nightmare, wondering why I'm willing to go through having another. Jackson's story turned out to have a very happy ending. But what if the new lil' scribbler's path doesn't?

I'm excited and terrified. Rationally, I know there's almost no chance the lil' scribbler will have meconium aspiration. Nor is there much chance we'll have any complications. Nevertheless, I can't banish all my worries. I'm a planner by nature, and I simply have no control or plan that I can exert.

My excitement is inescapably tinged with trepidation.

Deep breaths and embrace the wonder of childbirth. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

And we have moved to . . .

Our expat journey continues!

We hadn't planned on moving. At least, not yet.

{Ed.'s note: That implies you actually have a plan.}

Okay, true enough, we don't have a plan. But when we first moved overseas, back in June 2013, we assumed we'd be in Scotland for at least three years. Kate's contract with the University of Glasgow was for three years, and at the end of those three years — i.e., next June — our toddler would have turned five and been ready to begin school. We figured June 2016 would be an excellent time to take stock of our lives and see how this expat adventure was working out.

Then Kate developed a crush.

Actually, she's had the crush for a long time. Years. Since before we ever moved overseas, she had developed a crush on a small veterinary diagnostic company. (I've been assured the crush is only for the company, and not for its owner.) She loves their fantastic work and clientele. She loves that although they are a small business, they nonetheless have (inter)national leaders in the field of anatomic pathology who produce good scholarship and give talks at major conventions. She loves that they're so well respected in the field that the Royal Veterinary College in London sends its pathology residents to spend as much as a year getting training at the company. She loves that the job advertisement indicated baking skills were not required, but definitely a bonus.

She really loves that they all stop work every day and have tea, and every Friday is "cake Friday." And that she'll get her own mug with her name on it, although not until she's been there long enough to earn it.

It's the little things.

Our new home, a nineteenth century Victorian row house. (Photo by leasing agency.)

{Ed.'s note: Okay, get on with it. Where is this new job?}

I thought you'd never ask. We have moved to    .  .  .
                                                                                                            Bristol, England!

Bristol on map of Britain (link)

We left bonnie Scotland for the auld enemy, England. Some of you might think we've simply moved south within the same country (the United Kingdom). In the view of many Scots, though, we left one country and moved to another. I'm glum about leaving Glasgow and the lovely nation of Scotland. We truly loved our time there.

But a new city beckoned.

And what a city it is. According to frequent rankings and polls, Bristol grades as the U.K.'s best city to live in. It's funky. Artsy. Home of renowned street artist Banksy. Home of multiple Oscar-winning studio Aardman Animations, which created characters like Wallace and Gromit and Shaun the Sheep. Home of the illustrious Bristol Old Vic Theatre School, founded by Sir Laurence Olivier and whose alumni include Jeremy Irons, Gene Wilder, Olivia Colman, Patrick Stewart, Stephen Dillane, and the incomparable Daniel Day Lewis. Home of iconic engineering marvels, like the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Home of numerous festivals, including, because the area is so gorgeous, an international hot air balloon extravaganza.

Bristolians get roughly half the yearly rainfall as Glaswegians. And Bristol enjoys approximately 360 more hours of sunshine per year than Glasgow, which equates to a full month more of sunny days. When you're coming from damp Scotland, these aren't insignificant bonuses.

Bristol's best draw, to my mind, is its ideal placement to explore so much of England and Wales. We're on the threshold of: the Cotswolds; the wilds of southern Wales; the rolling countryside of Somerset, with its cider and Cheddar (as in, the actual birthplace town of Cheddar cheese); the moors of Devon; the beaches of Cornwall; and UNESCO world heritage sites like Bath and Avebury and Stonehenge.

With our 19th century Victorian row house, we've seriously upped our Britishness. The house comes complete with ten-foot ceilings, original stained glass, wide-plank floors, and, well, not one goddamn closet. Moreover, we now live within a stone's throw of three sporting complexes — lawn bowling, grass court tennis, and a cricket pitch. It's as though we've moved into a British cliché.

Our kitchen, as lived in by our predecessors. (Photo by leasing agency.)

Our move to Bristol has forced a painful but necessary scantiness in blog posts here. For the past few months, we've been preoccupied with the move — finding a place to live, figuring out schooling for Jackson (kids in England start at age 4, unlike in Scotland where they start at age 5), packing boxes and arranging movers, and on and on. Plus, ever since we saw our move on the horizon, we spent every available day in Scotland traveling and sightseeing and absorbing as much as we could. I wanted to devote time to experiencing Scotland instead of writing about it.

{Ed.'s note: Now that you've left, will you no longer blog about Scotland?}

Heck, no! I have oodles and tons and reams and gobs of fascinating stuff in Scotland still to write about. Truly, years worth. Especially at my current snail's pace. Indeed, Scotland will still feature very prominently here. I loved it and have much more to share. England and Wales, however, will now become major players here, as well.

Kate at 5.5 months pregnant with the new lil' scribbler.

Our carpe negotium (i.e., seize the job) move to England has once again stretched our boundaries and expanded our expat lives. While our first move, to Glasgow, always had a possible deadline of three years, this second move, to Bristol, feels like a long-term stay. We're only three to four years from getting our U.K. citizenship, which is a huge goal we're eyeing. That'll give us a multitude of options and advantages for our futures, particularly for Jackson and the new baby on the way. A passport from the U.K. provides European Union citizenship (assuming the U.K. doesn't boneheadedly vote to leave in an upcoming referendum), as well as the many perks of being members of the Commonwealth.

After two and a half years, expat life is still relatively new to us. Living outside the U.S. for a few years seemed adventurous; we were ready to color outside the lines. Now that we're earnestly contemplating getting foreign citizenship? Well, we've gone from scribbling on the page to drafting an entirely new picture.


UPDATE: I've gotten a few inquiries about whether we'd give up our U.S. citizenship. Getting U.K. citizenship doesn't require giving up U.S. citizenship. We have no intention of relinquishing our U.S. passports.

New scribbler joining our team

Recently, posting has been kinda . . . sparse . . . here at Coloring Without Borders.

{Ed.'s note: That's a bit of an understatement, huh?}

Partly, that's due to our fanatical traveling. We haven't been out of the country, as was our original plan. But we have ventured all over Scotland these past couple of months, squeezing eking milking our late summer and early fall for every drop of Scottish wonder we haven't yet experienced. And, for good measure, we threw in a long jaunt to southern England.

Nearly every weekend has been a day trip, overnight trip, or three-day weekend. And that's not counting a horde of midweek trips while the kid is in nursery. Ye olde family car has seen several thousand miles of the U.K. in just the last couple of months. And with British petrol prices, oh my.

So much travel goodness to share in the months ahead!

But the travel, remarkably, has been the least of our preoccupations. Several other items on the agenda recently bellied up to the top. Not least, this one:

The new lil' scribbler.

He's scheduled to join us on 29 February 2016. A pretty rare start date, I think. Unfortunately, he gets some flexibility regarding his arrival, though not if it were up to me.

And yes, he is a he. Damn it.

Woe is me. All I wanted was to have girls.

Our news doesn't end with just the new bébé. More updates to come. Soon(ish).