Low maintenance. That's what he is.
When he was born, the fact that he was a tad more vocal than his brother had been as a newborn 18 months earlier, made me think he was "fussy." Turns out he was just "gassy." His fussiness lasted only weeks after which he settled into the existence of a very content baby - constantly laughing at his older brother's antics and admiring his every move.
[For the record, I didn't even have a clue what "fussy" meant until Katie came along 5 years later.]
We pulled out his baby book, with the Peter Rabbit cover, last night and I showed him pictures of himself when he was a 9 week-old fetus all the way until my last ultrasound somewhere around 22 weeks.
"That's me? That's really me, where are my legs?" He gasped.
"That's you, that's really, really you - and your legs are there, trust me, you just can't see them in the picture."
He stared at the blurry black and white images as if he were trying to convince his mind that it really was him he was seeing in the ten year-old photographs with titles like "Hi Mom and Dad" and "face" inserted for effect.
We read about how he loved to have his toes tickled when he was a baby and how he spat out peaches every time I tried to feed them to him. We read about his first attempts at crawling and how by 10 months, he was threatening to up and walk out the door. He looked at the aged Polaroid photo taken at a Christmas party when he was 2 months old, looking so tiny - despite his "sturdiness," and when he read that he weighed 9 pounds, 8 ounces and was 21 inches long at birth, he measured just how long that was on his lower leg.
"Was I this long mom?" He said, hitting his knee.
"Not quite that long." I answered.
"Was I this long mom?" He said, striking his shin area.
"Ummmm, that's a little closer." I answered.
I folded the book shut, making sure that none of the precious ultrasound pictures fell out, and placed it under my arm. I leaned over him and kissed both of his cheeks, holding his freckled face in my hands for a moment and tried to remember just how long he was when he was born. As I hugged his almost 10 year-old form, my arms remembered, just like riding a bicycle, and suddenly there I was, holding my big baby again, smelling his newborn smell and falling in love with another part of me that I didn't know was missing until he showed up to let me know.
And just like his brother and his sister, I don't know what I'd do without him.
My low maintenance, caring, sensitive, awesome little big guy is now 10 years-old, officially. My middle, easy to please, thoughtful, smart, strong little big guy is double digits.
I know it sounds cliche, but they do grow fast. Today Wyatt got up almost an hour earlier than normal and shouted, "I just can't wait any longer! It's my birthday!"
He jumped in the shower and was in the kitchen, ready for breakfast and his first gift of the day. I asked him if he wanted a hot breakfast for his birthday and he said, "What's a hot breakfast?" Which, in turn, made me feel about 2 inches tall.
"You know, like pancakes, and eggs, and bacon. A hot breakfast." I explained.
"No thanks, I just want Lucky Charms." He said.
So Lucky Charms it was, his choice - not that I didn't offer something more elaborate, it was his big day you know. But like I said before, he's my low maintenance child. Now if he were his sister or brother, I'd have had to whip up a quick Eggs Benedict with fresh scones or some other gourmet fare after picking fresh berries from the berry patch I'd planted by hand and sang to every day to produce the most tastiest berries known to man...
I told you he was low maintenance.
And now I'm rambling, it's been a heavy few days around here and I just wanted to make sure I documented Wyatt's birthday properly on le blog.
So, let's just consider it done.
I mean, he is the middle child you know. He's used to this.
[I am only kidding! Sheesh.]