Duke

Duke. I’ve told you nothing of Duke.

Let’s start from the beginning. I found out I was pregnant with Duke the week we arrived in Monterey. It was… startling. But then, it wasn’t.

I threw up in my mouth. A lot. I laid on the ground and read quotes about suffering by Spurgeon. I made sport of my OB/GYN’s Russian accent. And throughout all of this, I did not one dish. Not. A. One. It was a misery. But eventually, it wasn’t.

I knew this baby was a girl. I had girl clothes on my Amazon wishlist. I sat through 2 ultrasounds where Duke resolutely crossed his legs over his umbilical cord so I caved and did a blood test. This baby was supposed to be a girl, but he wasn’t.

After coming to terms with, let’s be honest, the loss of all the tiny tutu purchases I had anticipated, it was time to name my 4th baby and 3rd boy. I was taking suggestions because, it’s like, who has this many names?!

Duke was induced a week early because of my diabeetus. Fairly uneventful. Count Dracula. Uterus gone. The kid on nickelodeon who turned inside out on the swing.

Duke was born. Duke, to my surprise hates loud music. And his car seat. But other than that is happy and affable in every way.

Duke is a peacemaker. Duke refuses to play with toys and would rather play as if he is trying to make the team at training camp. And what I mean by that is he pushes heavy objects across the floor over and over again- then occasionally clothesline’s his older siblings. Duke is a tank. Duke loves to laugh.

And now you know about Duke.

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