Too exciting.

Heather and I went in last night because she was experiencing regular (10 minutes apart) contractions. The professionals let her go after 2 am. The contractions (and they were that) subsided, and they don't induce at 36 weeks. They also don't stop labor, either, but there you go. "She could go today, or it could be two weeks."

Celebrate uncertainty!

Big, huge, unrepayable thanks to our magnificent neighbors Shelly and her son Kazz, who came over at the drop of a hat late Sunday evening to watch the sleeping kids until we got back.

This capped a weekend where we finished getting the room re-arranged for the Imminent One's arrival, bought a nice used dresser for $30 (I know where you can get cheap furniture in metro Detroit, BTW), and put up the Christmas tree and strung lights in part of the back yard.

Yes, indeed--Heather's nesting.

Dad gave me two storage boxes full of lights, some of which are older than I am, I'm certain (fabric electrical cords). It also gave me the golden classical education opportunity to explain the story and meaning of Alexander the Great and the Gordian knot. There's a reason I laugh out loud every single time at the decorating scene in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation: I've lived it.

Oh, and our house sounds like a ward for phosgene gas victims. Maddie is getting over strep throat, Dale has croup and we're waiting for the other shoe to drop on Rachel. Early betting favorite: hanta virus.

Dale received a steroid shot yesterday, which has eased the stridor cough considerably, and is frittering away our remaining sympathy with Binkley-esque complaints.

"My big toe hurts!"

"Did you fall?"

"Noooo..."

"Did you stub it?"

"Noooo. It just hurts..."

Heather: "Sounds like a hangnail."

Me: "Oh, I don't know, could be more serious. Maybe Etola or toberculosis."

Heather: "Or tolio."

Me: "I think that's it!"

Oh, and the sports news was uniformly depressing as regards the pigskin. Looks like Michigan got pantsed on the Les Miles situation. I still think he might come here in a few years, but Lloyd Carr loathes him and the AD insists on treating this process like it's a debutante ball and not a knife fight.

Memo to Bill Martin: stop bringing a quill to a gun battle.

Oh, and the Lions? Come on, now--you don't stink up the joint for a half century without establishing some inexorable, coach-proofed trends: namely, the knack for getting yourself into spectacular death spirals.