At the Cape savoring my last 2 weeks of denial before we’re home for a long winter.
RB is 10 months old and within 12 pounds of 4-year-old BB. BB tries to push her around. I warned BB her days for this are numbered.
“I had a tall growth spurt and RB had a wide one.”
RB is STRONG. Given a large stationary toy intended to stay put RB is most likely to heave it over her head and toss it across the room. She has accumulated many nicknames including Bam Bam and Destructo.
We had a well visit with the pediatrician. She goes through her standard list of questions:
“How’s she eating?”
I grab a chunk of baby thigh rolls, “These don’t happen by magic.”
“How’s she sleeping?”
“As to be expected.” Meaning she’s up multiple times a night.
The doctor reminds me,
“She’s old enough to cry it out if you want.”
“Yes.” I’ve avoided mentioning we’re bed-sharing. I may someday when our pediatrician has kids of her own.
“Does she transfer toys from hand to hand?”
“Yes.” And from feet to hand and from hand to as far as she can fling it.
I left BB in the middle of our playroom, formerly known as our living room, and headed to the car to load up for the Cape. I hear an immense crash and rush back in. RB is sitting there smiling, launching large toys across the rug onto the hardwood floor.
I’m continuing to enforce the hard truth that some of BB’s toys are for RB too. BB expresses concern for their welfare. I chalked this up to not wanting to share, but now I must agree BB has a valid point.
At the Cape my mom shared some of my brother’s old toys with BB. RB also got something to play with. BB was not thrilled,
“No it’s not. It’s Uncle J’s.”
My mom adds,
“Yes, and he wants both of you to play with it.”
BB who had been on the verge of a fit, sighs,
“Well that answers that.”
And there was peace. For 5 minutes.