Ah yes. The pregnancy with James. Known historically as “The Season of Viral Plagues and Belly Mashing.”

By week 30, I was essentially a walking immune system with a side of Tums. Jack, beloved pathogen distributor of the household, graciously shared everything from daycare: stomach flu, sinus infections, mystery colds, and vibes strong enough to make my OB flinch. My womb was less a sanctuary and more a tiny storm shelter under siege.

Each appointment, I begged for confirmation: “Is he head down?”
The doctor, full of confidence and very mashy hands, always declared, “Yes! Absolutely! He’s in perfect position.”
Suspicious. I knew this baby was already showing signs of rebellious architecture.

By 36 weeks, a nurse—clearly worn down by my relentless campaign—rolled in a portable ultrasound machine like a knight surrendering their sword. “Let’s just peek so you can stop pacing.”
Mash, mash, mash.
Then… whoopsie.
Baby was breech. Head up. Feet down. Possibly blinking smugly at the screen.

No memory of flips. No grand fetal choreography. Just quiet confidence in his vertical resistance.

Week 37: a follow-up ultrasound. Still breech. Fluid low.
Doctor sighed, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, “Well, he’s clearly doing his own thing. Let’s pack a bag.”

I went home. Texted emergency backups. Kissed Jack’s sticky forehead.
The C-section was booked for Friday the 13th at high noon. A perfectly ominous slot for the child who scoffed at my hopes of making it to May 25.

James arrived—feet first, loud, opinionated, and possibly holding a grievance scroll.
From the very beginning, he said “No thanks” to alignment, schedules, and maternal peace.

And I looked at him—swaddled, squawking, refusing the pacifier—and knew with certainty:

This one will test us. Gloriously. Relentlessly. And with sparkle.