The boys have been only mildly entertaining/aggravating this week. Because nobody stepped up, they’ll have to share a post.
One night, my wife got up to feed New Baby. He’s still skeptical of bottles and she doesn’t have to go downstairs and plug anything in to warm up her milk. Seeing my opportunity, I went back to sleep.
A minute later, she woke me up. “I’ve been up with this baby for an hour and a half,” she said of my minute of sleep. “He’s wide awake and I’m exhausted. Can you take him?”
If he won’t sleep for her, he definitely won’t sleep for me. For me he’ll cry. That’s the Daddy Bonus.
We went downstairs to insulate Mommy from the Daddy-inspired wailing. We rocked; we swayed; we walked; we ran the full gamut of futile activities. He cried the tune to the montage.
He was gassy, if the three successive dirty diapers were any indication. A few burps, some hearty crying (60-40 in favor of him), and a couple of hours later, a triumphant Daddy laid everyone down to sleep.
Just in time to get up for work.
Mommy was with Buster when she started getting hungry. “I need a snack,” she said, thinking out loud.
Buster shook his head at her. “No. You no need snack. I need snack,” he countered in his heavy toddler accent.
Mommy thought it was funny and told me about it. Apparently, Buster thought it was funny too.
Sometimes, Buster brings Mommy the phone and says, “Dada.” They call me at work, and Buster tells me what’s on his mind. Whenever the conversation lulls, I say, “I need a snack.”
Buster pipes right up. “No. I need snack.” You can’t talk about snacks anymore without getting an argument from Buster.
It’s been a while since Big Brother has fallen into the toilet. So long that he was barely even a big brother last time it happened.
This time wasn’t completely his fault.
But it wasn’t completely not his fault either.
The morning after I spent the night being cried at by New Baby, Big Brother put up a stink about waking up. I was in no mood to hear he was too tired for school after 11 consecutive hours of sleep.
I dragged him out of bed and jostled him into the bathroom. We were both groggy and somebody (who was not me) lost his balance. He put his hand down to catch himself. Somebody (who was not me) had neglected to close the cover last time he’d used the toilet. Big Brother’s hand went right down to the bottom of the bowl.
Good news: he stopped his fall. Better news: somebody had remembered to flush.
Nonetheless, he was horrified. Even after he had thoroughly soaped his arm, it remained a sore subject. In spite of my sleep-deprived giddiness, I refrained from calling him Toilet Arm.
But now that time has dimmed the horror, I may begin to do so.
Sorry, there are no photos of Big Brother with his arm in the toilet. I know, I’m a little disappointed too.