The Lawson Family Tree: My Youngest

"You're on my list today, kid."

Has anyone seen my list, by the way?

What does it look like? Well, it's a piece of paper. And it says "Rory" on it.

Let's start at the very beginning... a very good place to start! [If only I could channel Julie Andrews all the time. I would probably be a much better mother! One who DOESN'T have a shit list. I'm sure Julie Andrews doesn't have a shit list...]

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Rory.

This child of mine. This chubby cheeked, quick-to-smile, butterball, meatball, squishy-butt boy that I adore with all of my being. He can be the WORST. Don't believe me? I'll elaborate...

We started this morning just fine, until Landon left for school (as all doomed days seem to begin...) Then it was one meltdown after another until I deduced he was just a bit early in wanting a bottle and a nap. Happy to oblige, Rory my dear, seriously though... Can't you just ASK instead of behaving like a raging lunatic? ;)

That's the thing about this age... I LOVE this stage of baby-hood most of all. 6-9 months is the absolute best. Starting to develop a little bit of a personality, but mostly, as my kids' great pediatrician puts it, "fat, dumb, and happy!" which is delightfully how he should be. Those little snippets of personality, though, are starting to clue me in to my little one's temper. LOOK. OUT.

My charming little boy is easy to entertain, extremely tolerant of his spirited sister, and is usually quite content. But when it comes to needing FOOD, or SLEEP, my Dr. Jekyll turns into Mr. Hyde in 0.25 seconds. I have to deliver the antidote fast.

Back to this morning. Rory passed out mid bottle. I had just gotten his crib sheets washed, dried, and put back on his mattress, and was glad to lay him down on his fresh, sweet-smelling bed for a good, solid nap. I put him down, gently rubbed his snoozing, fuzzy little head, and turned to leave when I heard a great big gurgle. Enormous spit-up. All over those fresh sheets. Oh Rory. Why??

I couldn't just leave him there. I mean, I could have. But Julie Andrews wouldn't. So I get him up. Try to lay him on his sister's bed without waking him (fail) and get the sheets back in the wash [my poor, tired washer. If that thing could talk, it would probably never stop cursing me.]

Rory has no intention whatsoever of going back to sleep, but is NOT happy about it. I get him somewhat calm and sleepy again, try laying him back down on fresh sheets, and go downstairs where Emma is not-at-all patiently waiting for me to come and bake brownies with her (because like an IDIOT I had already told her we'd bake during Rory's nap.)

Two minutes later, Rory is wailing. Then Emma gets upset over me leaving the kitchen to tend to her screaming brother. This went on for quite some time. At one point I was upstairs trying to console a screeching Rory, and Emma stood at the base of the stairs covering her ears with her tiny hands and crying "CALM DOWN!" to her poor brother.

That's it. Enough of this circus. Time to achieve sleep for the baby and sanity for Emma and myself no matter what it takes. I hauled them both into the van, Rory still screaming, Emma still yelling at me. I clicked them both in their car seats, stuck a pacifier in Rory's mouth and a dumdum sucker in Emma's [If you're judging me right now, then leave. Just leave] and drove.

Drove to Starbucks and got myself a coffee, drove around my old neighborhood, drove downtown, drove around for a peaceful hour with Rory sound asleep and Emma happily clicking away at her sucker. It's just what we all needed. Except maybe poor Emma. But she's put us through the same hell before too, so sorrynotsorry there, babe!

Fast forward to afternoon nap time. Both kids are crabby and in need of mood-adjusting sleep. Emma's easy [nowadays] when it comes to naps, so I get her down quickly and smoothly.

But this other little problem child of mine. He's screeching and squirming, fighting sleep like his life depends on it, and I'm pulling every possible play I can out of my sleep-inducing playbook: walking, dancing, swaying, jiggling, lay-down-and-cry-it-out-for-a-while, feeding, pacifier, back rub, belly rub, EVERYTHING BESIDES DRUGGING THE LITTLE BEAST until finally I just flop down on the couch with him on my chest ready to just.effing.quit.

And then it happens.

It sounded like what I assume an elephant with diarrhea sounds like.

And I'm assuming it smelled the same too.

It. Was. Everywhere.

Fellow parents, it was one of those poop explosions where you just sit there for a minute trying to figure out where the hell to even start. Where you seriously contemplate just throwing everything contaminated by baby poop right in the garbage, instead of cleaning it up. You know what I'm talking about, if you have a poopetrator like Rory in your family.

I look down, and that cute little bastard is falling asleep with a smile on his face.

But, as I am striving today to be Julie Andrews, I've got to get him [and myself] cleaned up. And I swear I heard my washing machine cursing at me from the other room.

Just look at this kid, though...