Orson Birch.

We have been asked two questions over and over again this past week.  Did Orson come as fast as Ila?  Yes, our little man came fast.  We left the house at midnight and he was born at 1:27am.  The nurses joked that we made it in the hospital a whole sixty-eight minutes.  Unfortunately, he still came rapid enough that no one actually caught him.  The nurses chided with our doctor that she made it to the delivery room this time, but still missed the delivery.  These kids of ours, beating to their own drum beginning the moment they enter the world.

And why Orson Birch?  Orson is simply a name that we heard and loved.  Most guessed that we were going to go with a three letter name similar to the girls.  We tried to love a three letter name, but nothing seemed to fit just right.  Birch is a name that we debated for Orson.  With elbows bent upon our chippy deck railing this past summer, my grandpa, Kerry, and I were looking out at the farm when my grandpa asked, "Do you have any birch trees?  Birch trees were my dad's favorite tree."  Kerry and I exchanged sideways glances, because obviously that was an ironic question.  We knew then and there that Birch was Orson's middle name.  To celebrate our little man's arrival, we bought a birch tree to plant on our bitty farm.

We planted Orson's tree today.  Orson's great-grandpa leaned upon a shovel, Orson's grandpa brought an excavator, Orson's uncle trimmed the highest branches, and Orson's daddy made sure it was in the perfect spot. 

Orson and his great-grandpa.

Orson and his great-great grandpa, who loved birch trees best.

We are slowly figuring out this whole baby boy business.  I have a lot to learn.  You know, since that time when I asked the nurse when Orson would be receiving his vasectomy.  She laughed and asked, "Don't you want grandkids?"  I didn't get it.  Kerry leaned over and chuckled.  "Circumcision, Heather, circumcision."  Oy vey!   

Now, back to regularly scheduled madness that is three kids three and under.