So, I just told M that if Nate is a completely messed-up kid at age fourteen (you know the type: youngest of four…seen, tasted, and tried it all way too early), I can’t fault him. I can’t even be mad at him. Because in these years? He’s taking one for the team by going with the flow of his older siblings’ schedules.
Oh. My. Goodness.
The kid is resilient. I have to wake up to drop off or pick up the twins. I ask him to be content with a high chair full of Cheerios while I make dinner for the other five of us. Today he saw Kemah Boardwalk (and the back of Sam and Ellie’s heads) while they rode ride after ride…and he cooed in his stroller.
He gets picked up (Catie). Licked (Maddie…and maybe a few of the kids). Tickled (Sam). Transported (me). All he asks for is some middle-of-the-night nursing.
Yes, seven months and still not sleeping through the night.
But I owe him. If he weren’t such a good sport about our crazy schedule, I don’t know what we would do.
And I don’t want to find out.
