“BE QUIET, THE BABY IS SLEEPING!”
My girls stop their game of tug-o-war over a Barbie accessory and stare at me blankly.
They’re right. There is no baby in the house. Oh sure, there’s a 45 pound 3 year old that still occupies a crib down the hall.
But, he has the ability to climb over the rail of that crib, disassemble the bars, and fashion them into a weapon. Prompting us to place a net enclosure canopy contraption over the whole thing and call it a “car bed.”
He can now unzip the “window” to free himself.
This is a clue that he may be outgrowing the crib.
He still wears a diaper. Which, if you see him running around the house calling himself “Diaper Boy”, may seem a little odd because of his largeness. I buy him size 5 diapers. When I really ought to break down and spring for the 6’s. A size 6 is the largest you can go, without shopping in the Depends section.
The other day, he had finally taken enough of his older sister’s teasing and torture. When he had been quiet for too long, I found him sitting on said sister’s bed, indian style, arms folded across his chest, wearing a scowl.
“Whatcha doing buddy?”
“I going poo-poo on CayCay’s bed.”
A clue that it might be time to begin potty training.
I still attempt to trap him in his stroller when shopping. Especially now that I have to read itty bitty ingredient lists on EVERYTHING I BUY. This stroller in question has seen better days. He ripped the canopy off months ago in disgust when he kept banging his head on it. He is tall enough to put his feet either on the wheels or the floor, forcing the entire contraption to come to a full and complete halt. Whether I want to or not.
A clue he may have outgrown the stroller.
And now, much to my horror, he has acquired the skill of unbuckling himself and sliding out under the tray. When I’m otherwise engrossed in ingredient reading. And, he can reach up and clear everything from the 5th shelf down. In three seconds flat.
A clue that I may need to be looking into military school much sooner than expected.
And yet, I still hold him close, and rock him in the night. Breathing in the sweet smell of his hair, and listening to his soft baby breath on my neck. While his footy pajamaed feet drag the floor. Clearly, he is outgrowing both me and his rocking chair.
But I keep on rocking my baby. Because I’m clueless.