Romper Room

In my high from smoking the new baby joint, a bad analogy I realize given the fact that the hubs is a police officer, I have yet to blog about my other two children. My firstborn, Caleb, turned twelve years old on Thursday (yes, in birthdays, he and Wyatt are almost exactly 15 days apart making March yet another Christmas for me in terms of buying presents). He looks like his Mommy and even talks like his Mommy down to having adopted my natural talent for sarcasm, which has a tendency to get him into trouble. Twelve years old. That just has a nasty after taste in my mouth. A tween. Just yesterday I was changing his diapers and taking embarrassing photo's of him in his baby bath with a waxed miniature Dixie cup over his little you-know-what. And now, twelve.


My other munchkin is my step-daughter, Ryleigh, my gorgeous five year old blondie. This baby is a miracle child, for sure, having weighed an entire 7lbs less than Wyatt when she was born--yes, that means she was under 12oz--less than that fizzy green can of Sierra Mist sitting next to you. After months in the NIC unit, she emerged unscathed, although to this day she is still super-tiny. At five years old she weighs a whopping 21lbs and wears 24-month clothing. Don't let the pretty face fool you, she makes up for her size with her endearing fire-cracker personality.


As you can see from the picture above, Ryleigh just oozes pride for her baby brother. I, however, was completely unprepared for having a 5-year old and a newborn baby simultaneously and immediately realized why most couples opt to have their children about two years apart. When we got home from the hospital I quickly discovered that Wyatt strongly disliked having his diaper changed. I can't knock him for that, it's cold out here, especially without clothes and a diaper, made even warmer by a fresh tinkle. The little booger was cooped up all cozy and warm in Mommy's tummy before my doctor and I rudely disturbed him by forcing him into the world a week before he was expected. Needless to say, when diaper-changing time rolled around, Wyatt was a Mr. Fussy Fussy. Allow me to set the scene for you: Preparations are made, I open a new diaper completely so all I had to do was put it on his shiny hiney, I open the tub of wipes and pull one out and then proceed to unsnap Wyatt's jumper. Wait for it. The scream. As soon as that happened, Dinky--my other four-legged, furry child of whom I have yet to introduce you to--immediately begins to bark at the crying baby. Ryleigh, who obviously was under the impression that Wyatt was like a baby doll who merely sat around in silence, runs up to the pack and play and yells "WYATT, IT'S OK, CALM DOWN!!" To which I respond with, "Ryleigh, please don't yell at him, it just upsets him more." She promptly puts her hands over her ears and loudly informs me "BUT HE'S HURTING MY EARS!!!" And as my widened eyes peer back down at her standing next to the barking dog and back at Wyatt who is still crying because I have yet to snap the last snap on his jumper, my only thought is, "Well you're ALL hurting my ears!" Oh yeah, good times.