I Am Much More Cheerful Than This Post Would Indicate.

So. That happened.

And by "that" I mean I spent Christmas Eve night hunched over the toilet in fervent prayer to ye olde porcelain gods as a raging 12-hour stomach bug had its way with me.  It wasn't pretty, it wasn't pleasant, and only my husband will ever know the full extent of what he cleaned up for me that night.  Suffice it to say that it was maybe the most thoughtful and self-sacrificing Christmas gift ever.  Nay, perhaps "Christmas Miracle" is not too strong a word for his actions.  But my perspective could have been skewed by the fact that I was incoherent with the vomiting and the diarrhea and such.  I might also be half-convinced I saw Elvis in a Santa hat streaking naked through our back yard out my bathroom window, so my impressions of that evening should likely be taken with a grain of salt. (A really, really big grain of salt.  Perhaps a salt lick?)

So the whole family has been through that bug and back again, and we're all well just in time for New Year's Eve.  Also, just in time for me to realize exactly how boring we have officially become as our NYE plans consist of a bottle of champagne (which I keep forgetting to put on ice - one sec - okay, done!) and probably several hours of me whining about my husband playing Gears of War 2 instead of hanging out with me because there is nothing more interesting to do.  If we're feeling frisky, we may break out the Scrabble. (And not Strip Scrabble, either. Also not "Scrabble" in the euphemistic sense, but the actual game of Scrabble.... which, incidentally, became way less interesting to play together after I scored an opening Bingo with "tornado" on my first turn when we played one time at a bed and breakfast in Maine and do you love how I am rambling this sentence on in the hopes that you'll just go ahead and realize there's nothing useful to be read in this post?)

Oh 2008.  You brought us Milo, for which I am forever thankful, and of course the candidate on whom I have pinned my hopes for a better future for my country ... well, he got elected. (Obama Mama - Hollah!) but beyond that I'm struggling to find anything else that was good to mention.  I mean, we are fortunate to have a roof over our heads and my husband is still (for the moment, anyway) employed -- allowing me to continue my decadent lifestyle of Pop Tarts and network television -- and on that point we are doing better than a lot of other people.

2007, for us, was the year of The Miscarriage, the year of the Herniated Discs, the year of Appendicitis and Emergency Surgery.  It was the year my husband was on travel for about 4 months straight and the year my Grandmother died.  So 2008 was a year of such high hopes.  And yet here I sit without my winning lottery ticket or a million-dollar idea to change the world and take early retirement.

So, I guess what I'm saying is: 2008 was my year of the status quo.  And I suppose, given the alternatives, that is probably just fine with me.

But 2009? If you could somehow drop a big bag of money on my head, or wake me up in the middle of the night with a really supremely awesome way to change the world or at least move somewhere closer to a nice beach? That would be really Quite Okay with me...

I seem to have misplaced my cheer, but I'm hopeful I can locate it somewhere in 2009.  In the mean time, I've still got my sense of humor and - really - what more can I ask for?

Happy New Year, Internets.

One and Two and Three.

First there was just one.  He was one, he was only, and he was ours.  He was perfection, and we spoiled him with abandon.

Then there were two.  There was one and there was two, separate but equal in the eyes of the house.  Everything was a division -- Mom and Dad, Big and Little.  One-to-one defense, if you will. A constant attempt to be fair, and spoil them equally.

Now there are three.  Where there was once a competition between one and two, now I sit here on the sofa next to our tiny three.  One and two climb the stairs, engrossed in animated discussion, off on an adventure that will doubtless end in one bedroom completely destroyed.  But there are bad guys to be vanquished and heroes to be made.

Three is tiny and helpless.  Three has his mother.  One and two seem to understand this.  They have each other.  And they break my heart with the sweetness of it.

All Jacked Up!

Rounding out our week-long-ish rotation of "Photos of my Offspring!" it is now the turn of the eldest.  The Jack.  The impish/angsty teenage man in the body of a sturdy 5-year-old.  Do not mess with him, he will charm your heart... and THEN break it by telling you "Mom? Can you go take a shower? Like, right now? Because you smell REALLY bad."  Even if you just showered and, really, it's your breath that stinks because how were you supposed to know the kid would want to kiss you before 8am?  And who brushes their teeth BEFORE their coffee, anyway???

You have been warned.

Ignore the possessed demon baby. I was too lazy to fix red-eye.

One of the many "action" poses in his repetoire.

Action pose meets Thanksgiving headband.

At his Kindergarten Thanksgiving feast. He is obviously too cool for his Mama.

The Faces Of Tobin

The Son Also Rises.

Picked Up The Phone, Gave You A Call.

You might have noticed I haven't been around much lately.

You wouldn't be the only one to notice.

My husband? He has noticed, too.  And as I've been physically in the room with him, that I haven't been around much is kind of a big deal.

I don't feel terrible.  I'm not moping or staring blankly at walls.

Not yet, anyway.

But after going 3 days before I remembered I hadn't had a shower, and looking blankly at my husband when I said "Wait, it's DECEMBER already?!!" because, honestly, I was at Thanksgiving and everything and it's not like I suffered "lost time" but I honestly couldn't tell you what I did the last month.  Except watch lots of TV and keep 3 children alive.  Oh, and install a floor, but that might have just been a manic episode.  Or pathological home improvement.  But I have spent the past 2 months getting from beginning of day to end without a hint of anticipation for the next.  I'm going through the motions but, as my husband gently pointed out to me, I'm not really here.  He also gave me a hand squeeze or two and reminded me that it's okay to need help, and that nobody expects me to make this all better on my own.

Which is to say, internets, that I made a phone call today.  I have an appointment Thursday morning.  I'll be shaking hands with my old friend Zoloft.  

Hopefully I will soon remember the feeling that life is full of joy and not just a trial to be muddled through as best I can.  Hopefully I will rediscover an enjoyment of writing, of cooking, of quiet afternoons.  Hopefully I will rediscover what it is like to look forward to... well, anything.  And then, hopefully, I will truly be back... and maybe I'll even find joy in telling you about it.

Wish me luck.

Photos Will Have To Do.

What, You Didn't See Me?

Because I was so totally here.  I just, uh, wasn't posting.

Yes, it is November again and this marks the first time in 3 years that I have decided NOT to participate in the insanity that is NaBloPoMo.  (National Blog Posting Month for the uninitiated).  And I thought I would feel a lot more guilty about it, but mostly I feel relieved - like a kid on a snow day who didn't study for a test.

I have not been feeling my blog mojo lately.  I think this is likely due to sleep deprivation and perhaps a touch of the blues.  Oh, and also due to pathological home improvement, but I'm not posting photos of my finished living room floor yet... Oh No, I am not.

You see, my darling husband, Mister Big Daddy, got called away at the last minute to the Czech Republic and I'm tormenting him by making him wait until his return to get the full effect of my efforts.  So all y'all will just have to wait until after tomorrow to see what my crazy hath wrought.  (Trust me, though, it's pretty spectacular. I am officially In Love with the TrafficMaster vinyl flooring planks.  Like laminate - but cheaper! Also can be installed by a crazy person, such as myself, wielding only a box cutter and a pair of flat-nosed pliers.)

Dear TrafficMaster, I just gave you the most awesome recommendation EVER.. on my website.  Because I installed your stuff in a fit of post-partum nesting frenzy and I still managed not to screw it up too badly and it looks quite nice.  How's about you send me a few gajillion dollars because, really, who doesn't want a positive review that includes words like "Crazy" and "Box Cutter"?!  

Sincerely, 

Crazy Mother of 3 Boys (and yes, I realize the "crazy" is redundant there.)

So.

Um. Wait, what were we talking about again?  I seem to have lost that train of thought somewhere between removing a soaked pull-up from Toby and sipping at my cold coffee while eyeing his Cheerios.  Is it wrong to steal breakfast cereal from your toddler when he's not looking? I figure he'll never miss those 3 pieces, unless he smells them on my breath.  He's sneaky that way. I think he's going to be a detective some day.  Or maybe a train conductor, what with the Thomas & Friends obsession.  But hopefully not the creepy guy who asks all the neighborhood kids to come over and play with the trains in his basement.

I'm suddenly realizing it's probably not a great idea to post in my current condition.  And by "condition" I mean when one's husband is across an ocean and very likely enjoying himself some Viagra gingerbread.  No, really.  Here's the photo:

Apparently Czech gingerbread is famous.

I'm hoping it's not for the reason this would indicate.

Thankfully, Big Daddy is now on his way to Prague to catch a flight that will eventually bring him home again.  I'm pretty sure he packed half my brain in his suitcase when he left.  I'm hoping he remembers to bring it back again, and that it hasn't been displaced by souvenirs for the boys and suspicious gingerbread wrappers.

The Balance Myth.

This is why you love me: Because I will rear my head in your airspace to drop a rant on a random Friday morning.

Today's myth to be busted: "Mothering Balance"

It's dangled out there in front of us as the epitome of "doing it right".  Find that balance! The elusive "work-life-mothering" balance.

Allow me to pose to you a radical and revolutionary idea for our time: There Is NO Such Thing As Balance.

Life is not balanced, and whenever I attempt to ponder this mythical "balance" I find that the hours in my day are spent in the planning and pondering instead of the actual living.

Instead of running ourselves ragged attempting to live up to some sort of balance, let's just admit that - most of us? - we muddle through as best we can.  Some days we do too much work, some days too much playing with legos and too few dishes.  The only balance I expect to achieve is to get to the end of the day and not feel like I've screwed anything up too badly.

So, please, Oprah? Regis and Kelly? GMA Ladies? STOP with the deluge of "experts" telling me how to find Balance.  It doesn't exist.  Like unicorns or decent laundry stain remover, I believe it's a pretty legend that exists only in the minds of the believers.  

I hereby declare that I will no longer concern myself with finding the Balance.  I'm going to concentrate on completing the essential tasks of the day and using whatever time is left in whatever way I see fit.  

And what do you know, so far it's working out pretty well.  Apparently when you stop trying to figure out how to find something and just start Living your life On Purpose... the balance will take care of itself.

*Disclaimer: The above was written by a mother of 3 while holding her six-week-old infant. She got 4 hours of sleep last night.  She hasn't finished the laundry but she vacuumed her whole house yesterday, fed her family, packed a school lunch, cleaned the toy room, nursed the baby a dozen or so times, and she may or may not be typing this at her kitchen table while pantless.  Which is to say she's doing pretty well in her assessment, and has not wasted a moment of her precious time wondering if she is "balancing" all of her responsibilities and goals well.  Later today she plans to go to the playground with her toddler and perhaps lay a new floor in her living room.  This is Life: Lived On Purpose, but not necessarily As Planned.

Still Standing. (or Laying Down, as the case may be)

I know you thought I had abandoned you.  I keep doing these periodic check-ins and then disappearing again.  And I know you forgive me, what with life being totally taken over by the Infant Overlord and his co-Dictators, the Demanders of Snacks.

I'm still here.  WE'RE still here.  I'm still getting over this cold/virus/what-have-you, which includes coughing up things I have only ever seen in my nightmares until now.

Today marks 6 weeks since Milo joined our little posse.  I can't imagine life without him... all glorious, 12 pounds of him.  No, that's not a typo.  He came into the world at 9 pounds 14 ounces, left the hospital 10 ounces lighter, and by his two week check-up had gone up to 10 pounds 7 ounces.  At his one month he was up to 12 pounds 5 ounces.  His pediatrician chuckled and said "So the breast feeding is going well, then..."  Um, yes.  Also, I am thinking of attaching a storefront to my chest and selling it off as soft serve ice cream.  (You're welcome, PETA.)

Also at his one month check-up, the doctor noticed a heart murmur.  

So today is going to be spent having my lady parts inspected by my cheerfully silly OB (whose jokes remind me of my Uncle George) and a visit to a cardiologist who will inspect my tiny wonder and declare him perfect.  We're not discussing any other possible outcome, because my head might explode all over the clean kitchen and then someone would have to scrape brain matter off of the light fixtures.

Which is my offhand way of saying I am doing my very best not to Freak. Out.  Because murmurs are incredibly common in babies and children, and most of the time they are entirely benign.  And still, knowing this, if I think too much about it I start to break out in a cold sweat and my own heart skips a few beats, as though it is trying to send them straight to Milo's heart - just in case it's not as strong as it should be.

The thing is, though, you see... MY heart is not as strong as it should be when it comes to my boys.  Add in the lack of sleep, the lack of clothes that will fit this tired, stretched out body, and the uncertainty of everything right now and... well... there just has not been a lot of me left over to pour out into this chronicle we call "blog".

So forgive me if I continue to be a little sporadic in the posting.  Rest assured I am coping quite well with the post-partum part of all of this.  In fact, I'm getting ready to lay down a new vinyl plank floor in our living room, and the carpet installers will be here this week to replace the old carpets with lovely new carpets.  New carpets which have never been used as a litter box by cats, dog, or small humans. (Seriously. Toby's idea of potty training this week was to give the playroom carpet a fecal frosting.  It was lovely.  I'm taking the cost of the therapy, which I'll need in order to recover from the horrors, out of his college fund.)

But just so you know that we're still here... and perhaps so you can understand when I spend the few minutes I find in the day that could probably be used for writing to instead gaze at his wonder... I present, once again, Milo. 

Happy Halloween

Do you know what scared me today?  That I realized I forgot to fax in my forms for BlogHer Ads.  (Hi! If you are reading this, I am sending them today. Please don't burn then in effigy to my stupidity. Thanks!)

Yes, I will hopefully be adding a little adverts column over there <--- or perhaps over there --->

Moving right along...

Here is what you came here for.  I know you don't want to hear from me right now, because even I don't want to hear from me. (Except to share that the pediatrician confirmed Jack's ear infection this morning.  FUN! Games! Excitement! PUS!) Excuse my sarcasm, apparently someone forgot to put the magic happy dust in my coffee this morning.  I'll try to find it by tonight, otherwise my happy clown costume will have to be a sad clown instead.... and nobody likes the sad clown, do they?

Here are the photos from Jack's school carnival last week.  I'll try to take more costume photos of the kids at trick-or-treats tonight, but I make no promises because I am still coughing up green fraggles.  I might need to go to the doctor myself, but I'm running on Dr. Allie's "you are only sick if you acknowledge you are sick" theory, which only works if you are someone who should totally know better. 

This public service message brought to you by the number Q.  Also, I might need to go lay down now.  But first, here's one more photo of Milo... because I can't help myself.

The Roof Is On Fire.

Hello, Internets. Have you missed me?  

I'd go into detail about where I've been, but that would involve a detailed description of the things I have been coughing up and nobody needs to read about that.

Between being sick, taking care of sick kids, and - you know - not sleeping (what with having a newborn in the house and all) we are trying to refinance the mortgage and going along with Toby's plans to slowly potty train himself.  Oh, and the mountain of laundry threatens to consume us all.  Remind me, please: in case of an avalanche, you're supposed to put your arms up over your head to make a hole so you can breathe, right?  I'm assuming that works as well with dirty sweat pants as with snow.

Which is to say "HALP! I am losing my mind! Please send a nanny, a case of mallomars, and a check for 1 million dollars!"

Yesterday was a really special day.  Allow me to share it with you.

The appraiser was due at 2pm to scope out the house and determine if we can refinance to a low, 30 year fixed rate.  The alternative would be sucking it up with the ARM adjusts next fall and waving bye-bye to any hopes of funding the kids' collective college educations.  So, yeah, we really need the house to appraise.

In front of our house sits a huge Bradford Pear tree. 

There are two things you should know.  First, Bradford Bears are notoriously weak trees. Builders love them because they grow fast and give the illusion that a new neighborhood has some foliage, but they are infamous for toppling in strong weather.  Second, our neighborhood and all of the streets in it are named for some variation of the word "Wind".  

You can see where this is going.

So yesterday I'm minding my own business, getting ready to run the steam cleaner over a few spots on the carpet to prepare for the appraiser (because every little bit helps, right...?) when the power goes out.  Since we only have a cordless phone I had to rely on my cell phone.  That's when I noticed the batteries were almost dead, and realized that this would probably be the day that Jack fell and re-broke his collar bone and of course the school wouldn't be able to reach me. (which didn't happen, but have I mentioned that the day he broke it to begin was the first time I had gone more than 10 minutes from home in months?  And I had to turn around and come back without even getting inside the kids museum we had driven almost an hour to get to? Yeah.)

So Toby, Milo and I trekked to our local MegaSuperCrazyMart to get me a car charger because, really? I don't already own one of those? But no, I didn't. So we got one.

We pulled back up to the house and I immediately thought "Hey! Where'd that huge hedge in the middle of my yard come from?"  And then I realized that it was actually one third of the tree.  I would have taken a photo of that sight for you, but by the time I got the car unloaded and got the kids in the house and got lunch started... well, here:

Yeah, see. Now 2 parts are down.

And that last part? It's pointed right at my living room.

So there was a dilemma, the solving of which involved me, my pregnant neighbor, a hacksaw, and reluctant assistance from my (skeptical, bordering on terrified) home appraiser (who arrived minuts after I did).  Also, as the last portion of tree began to fall its controlled fall and veered horrifically towards the house... well, let's just not say anything to my mother or my OB/GYN about me leaping into the air and swinging from a branch in order to lure the hunk of bludgeoning death to fall onto the driveway instead of my roof.

So now our front yard looks like this:

And a tree-removal guy is coming this afternoon to haul away the carnage.  

In addition to drastically reducing the curb appeal of the property, the loss of our tree means that we now have to be much more careful about ensuring the blinds are closed before parading around the house in various stages of undress.

Also the appraiser was sure the tree was coming down on either the house or my head and he was obviously terrified at the prospect of his involvement in this catastrophe.  The moment the tree was safely felled the man tore out of here like zombies were after him. (The slow-moving sort of zombies; ones which would require you to move quickly and efficiently but not so fast as to break into an outright run.)

So that's the short version of what has happened to me the past week. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go finish coughing up this lung.  Perhaps later I will post cute baby pictures to cheer us all up.

Waxing Quickly Political...

Because I likes a little politics with my breakfast... (which, this morning, consists of the kids' leftover scrambled eggs and an english muffin plus a liter of coffee, if anyone's interested.)

... here is what Peggy Noonan (of all people) had to say about Sarah Palin in her column Friday: (excerpted):

She doesn’t think aloud. She just … says things.

Her supporters accuse her critics of snobbery: Maybe she’s not a big “egghead” but she has brilliant instincts and inner toughness. But what instincts? “I’m Joe Six-Pack”? She does not speak seriously but attempts to excite sensation — “palling around with terrorists.” If the Ayers case is a serious issue, treat it seriously. She is not as thoughtful or persuasive as Joe the Plumber, who in an extended cable interview Thursday made a better case for the Republican ticket than the Republican ticket has made. In the past two weeks she has spent her time throwing out tinny lines to crowds she doesn’t, really, understand. This is not a leader, this is a follower, and she follows what she imagines is the base, which is in fact a vast and broken-hearted thing whose pain she cannot, actually, imagine. She could reinspire and reinspirit; she chooses merely to excite. She doesn’t seem to understand the implications of her own thoughts.

So, uh, yeah.  Let's just leave it at that.  

10 Days New

Milo, My Love: A Story in Pictures.

"Before"

Pay no attention to the chins.  It's water weight, I swear. I don't really have 3 chins.

Labor is hard work.

Being born is hard work, too.

"Hello, world.  Please to be turning down the lights."

And baby makes... uh... five.  HOLY COW. 

Also, pitocin makes you swell.  A LOT.  I don't really have six chins.  

Enough about the chins.  This is the reason you're really here.  

Yes, he really is JUST. THAT. AWESOME.

Enough to justify all those capital letters. And more.

Milo & Me

Milo Duran

9/29/08  5:34pm EST

9 lbs 14 oz,  20.5"

Yes, those cheeks DO taste like heaven.

So on the way to the hospital our camera fell out of the bag.

Thankfully, Big Daddy's Mama came to the rescue with hers, so we were able to get great photos of Milo as soon as he came into the world.

Unfortunately, we haven't been able to get the photos downloaded from the camera because of cable issues.

Fortunately, this hospital (the chi-chi one I mentioned before?) now has WiFi in the patient rooms.  And I have my trusty macbook, with the built-in camera.  

Long story made somewhat shorter, that explains the fuzzy photo.  Better photos will be forthcoming, but for now - how can you complain? LOOKIT MAH BABY!

One Last Look Before I Go.

I woke up this morning with a strange sense of peace. 

Also with the realization that I really, really had to pee.  

And so it is that this, the final day of this pregnancy, begins.

The boys and I are celebrating with toasted-coconut donettes while Daddy has one final opportunity to sleep in before he has "big kid" duty for the next 2 weeks.  Me? I'll be the one passed out with a baby attached to one nipple.  (I'm suddenly imagining the google searches that last sentence will no doubt invite, and it would be funny if it wasn't so sad.  *insert Jedi Mind Trick wave here* "This is not the porn you are looking for".)

I'm going to go ahead and recommend that nobody expects to see anything in this space for the next few days - unless of course Big Daddy is feeling ambitious and decides to post some photos while I'm in the hospital.

Thanks for all the love and well-wishes through this pregnancy - especially this last month.  My sanity has been kept just barely in check some days, and it's always nice to have the emails and comments cheering us on.  Even better than a caramel latte - and if you know how I love my coffee then you will appreciate the profoundness of that statement.

And so, dear internets, for the moment I will bid you adieu as I head out on this next leg of our Adventures in Baby Making.  

See you on the flip side, my peoples.

Or "Why I Obviously Need More Therapy".

See, I've developed an obsession with Facebook.  Which goes well with my addiction to Bloglines and Twitter, especially since the internet is the only thing that induces me to actually talk to other humans on many a day. 

And if you didn't already know I tend towards the reclusive, HELLO and welcome late to the party.

So the ADS on Facebook.  They have, so far, been wickedly in tune to my brain.  I think they're using some sort of advertisement brain ray to suck keywords from my brain.  Remind me to start wearing a tinfoil hat when sitting in front of the computer.

Today I was minding my own business, absently perusing the status updates while I waited for my cnn.com video to load, when I started seeing ads for birth announcements.

Well Crap.

This is the part where I confess that I have not once, not even for second, given any proper thought to what I am going to do about birth announcements.  

With the first two babies I was ambitious and creative and made my own.  I am, after all, supposed to be a photographer.  Linen paper and a good printer was all it took to come up with something I could distribute with abandon.

That was then, y'all.  

Now? Now I am desperately trying to live up to the expectation I set that I would not be one of those moms who lets the third kid get lost in the shuffle.  And the internet is making it so very easy to create fabulous birth announcements in a range of lovely designs, and at the cost of only about half the kid's college education.

So you see, Uncle Sam... before you go giving a huge check to these silly failing banks, PLEASE understand that the $2200 cost per citizen?  I already have that earmarked for printed paper products.  Because I am a good consumer, and also because I am high on estrogen and popsicles... and spending unholy amounts of money on something pretty trivial seems like a preferable alternative to actually, you know, making something myself.

Thank you for your attention to this vitally important PSA.  We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.  At our house, this means Noggin.

Are we there yet?

So after the doctor's appointment on Monday wherein I still had no cervical progress, my OB took pity on me and said "Okay, let's schedule that induction".

I heard the words "Tuesday night check-in and Wednesday induction" and nearly wept with joy.

Then the chi-chi hospital Birthing Center (where I had Toby and determined to have this baby, too, even though it's almost an hour away because it is just that posh, people) broke my fragile little heart by not having any openings.

No openings until Sunday night.

Which means that I will be induced Monday morning.  Which is also a full 2 days past my due date, which makes me want to weep again.

BUT.  But at least we have a date, peeps.  Monday! I'm having a baby on Monday!  And hopefully he won't be so huge by then that he won't fit through my delicate pink parts.  (And to the Lady Who Did Not Know Me at Walmart who decided to tell me I was "for sure having at least a 12 pounder! - you can suck it, Lady.  Keep your opinions to yourself. Unless you want to tell me I look fabulous and, by the way, did I know that I also smell really nice? Because THAT is all you are allowed to say to a pregnant woman you do not know unless you want her to get medieval on you.  If she could actually do that, anyway, but I'm too pregnant to lift this economy-size pack of toilet paper and swing it over my head to bash you with so JUST GO AWAY ALREADY!)

Phew.  Okay, so I feel a little better now.  Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.

Now I just have to figure out how to fill some hours between now and Sunday night.  You know, some stuff that's more fun than the laundry and vacuuming that I need to do anyway.  So far? I have decided to work on neglected crochet projects and maybe bake some cookies.  Yes, my own ambition impresses me as much as it does you.  (*cough*)

Yep. Still Pregnant.

39 weeks.  One week to go before we start blaring Black Sabbath at the belly in hopes of torturing the baby out.  

Doctor's appointment later today.  I'm not getting my hopes up.  Still looking for the services of a good cervix whisperer, y'all, because we need that 1cm so induction can begin.

Seriously, that is all.  I am now spent.  I think it's time for a cookie and a nap.