Happy Birthday, My Prince!

HOLY COW! I am really struggling with my little man turning one. He still seems so young! I love him so much, and he has changed so dramatically! I do remember quite clearly the day that he was born.

I remember going out to dinner with Grandma and my moms (mom and mother in law) the night before (Jim and Nick's YUM!!). I remember sleeping really well (not like the sleepless anticipation before Tori). I ate a good breakfast (remember, no missed meals here!) Tom and I drove to the hospital, parked, tried to find our way through the construction and into the right entrance. While we were walking I told Tom that I felt like even if I weren't scheduled to be induced, I would have the baby that day. Finally we found the admission desk, and she informed me that I was not in their schedule. Luckily she admitted me anyway when I admitted that I felt like I could be trying to start labor on my own (*Note--remember how I mentioned that my body doesn't know how to contract?!?). Once I got to my room and they checked me (a little after 7:00 AM), I was fully effaced and dilated to a little over a SIX! (Yeah, no contractions to at least warn me!) Grammy had taken the girls to the zoo, so we called her and told her that it probably wouldn't be that long. My mom came straight from work. The nurses said that my doctor was in an emergency procedure and would come in to break my water when she was finished, but they didn't want to start the pitocin until she got there since I was already so far along. THREE HOURS LATER--my body is STILL not contracting, and the doctor is JUST getting to my room. I played sudoku, walked around, got annoyed at the tardiness of the doctor, etc. Finally I begged the nurse to start the pitocin. She got it going on a low setting...nothing...a little more...a few contractions...a little more...OH MY GOSH! I think I am going to die! GIVE ME DRUGS! I was dilated to about 8 1/2. GIVE ME DRUGS NOW! Too late. No drugs, lots of pressure, my knee caps felt like they would pop off, and I honestly thought that I might die. I actually screamed a couple of times (and was SO embarrassed that I did). Finally my man came. It was time to give him a name. Throughout the entire pregnancy I had pushed for Gavin. That day though, I was really leaning toward Isaac. When they handed him to me, Tom said that I got to name him after what I had gone through. He was going to let me pick anything I wanted. We had so many options we had talked about, but we never agreed on anything. I remember so vividly looking into his sweet little face, and knowing immediately that he wasn't Isaac. I tried Gavin. That wasn't right either. I looked up at Tom and asked him if he had an idea of what this baby's name was supposed to be. He said that he did. I knew too. It was like he came with a name already attached. I asked him if the name that he thought of was Owen...it was. There you have it! Thanks to his Grampy, he was not named after Great Grandpa Peterson (they had a nick name picked out that I wasn't going to let fly). So he became Owen Thomas Peterson.

I remember worrying about the girls' names so often after they were born, but I never had that with Owen. I always knew it was right. I still don't know why that had to be his name, but I know that it was chosen for him, whether by me or by someone else.

I am so thankful for the hard times that we had with him for the first many months of his life, because now I value the smiles that much more. I am grateful for his smile, his funny noises, and all his little quirks.

One year later, he is fun, stubborn, aggressive, and very curious! He is my little man, and I ADORE him!