J. and I had spent the two previous not at all restful days in a bustling hospital room on a bed and fold out chair clearly intended to ensure that you left as soon as physically able. We looked at each other over the kids' heads with the same thought going through our minds: what have we gotten ourselves into?
Things have gotten much better since that day, but that was our first hint that our occasionally hectic but relatively calm life as a family of three was a distant memory. Gone too, at times, was our tenuous grasp of what it took to manage an infant. Now, we had to tag-team to manage the older kid, who, while quite verbal, was still just two, along with the new kid who was clearly very unlike the one who came before.
She was and still is all things tiny, pink, fluffy and girly. We didn't baby proof anything. A stern look or raised voice was all it took to keep her away from household hazards.
Dylan, aka Big Boy, is all things big, rugged and noisy. He is happiest sitting intently in front of a cabinet alternately banging the door on its hinges, slapping the pot and pan lids up and down and if left to his own devices, pulling them out onto the floor with a tremendous clatter and bang, followed by a smile. Every chance he gets, he beelines for the TV and DVD player, knowing that he's not allowed to touch them. The stern look and raised voice that froze his sister are met with a sidelong smile, hand poised in mid-air near the screen - his 10 month old's version of "I'm not touching it... Stiiiiill not touching it."
Over the last three weeks, he went from no teeth to two and a half: one upper, which he promptly chipped somewhere (sigh), and one and half lowers.