Dad Kess and trying to get older child to not squish the new baby. Basically the kid is a human wrecking ball and chaos ensues.
michael has the baby in the crook of one massive arm, cradled against his chest with the ease of a man who spent years handling hockey pucks at a hundred miles an hour and now handles something infinitely more precious and far less predictable, when your son decides it's time to help.
he's waddling over from the play mat with the focused determination of a small, round wrecking ballâbrunette hair sticking up in every direction from where he's been rubbing his head against the carpet for reasons known only to himself, chubby cheeks flushed from exertion, his little fists balled up around a stuffed bear that's lost one eye and most of its stuffing.
he's wearing the dinosaur pajamas, the ones michael bought because he thought they were funny and you thought they were cute and now the kid lives in them twenty-four hours a day, rain or shine. he is twenty-three months old, thirty-one pounds of solid muscle and baby fat and zero impulse control, and he has decided, with the unshakeable conviction of a toddler who has just discovered the world's most interesting new object, that the baby is his favourite thing that has ever existed.
"easy, buddy," michael says, his deep voice dropping into that careful, gentle register he uses specifically for the small humans in his life, the one that's so different from the one he uses for josh and the guys, softer, more deliberate, like every word is being weighed before it leaves his mouth.
he shifts the baby higher on his chest, her tiny head barely filling the space between his collarbone and his jaw, and leans down to look at your son with those warm eyes. "hey, what did we say? we're gentle with sister, remember? gentle hands."
your son stares up at his father with an expression of absolute bewilderment, his big brown eyesâmichael's eyes, round and earnest and currently squinting with concentrationâlocked onto the bundle of pink blankets and impossibly small limbs nestled against michael's chest. his mouth falls open. the stuffed bear drops to the floor with a soft thud. his whole body vibrates with a intensity that suggests he is about to vibrate directly out of his dinosaur pajamas and through the ceiling.
"baby," he announces, pointing one chubby finger at his sister with the gravity of a man identifying a suspect in a lineup. his voice is loud, delighted, absolutely certain. "baby. MY baby."
"she's not just yours, little man," michael laughs, and it's that real laugh, the one that crinkles his whole face and makes his big nose scrunch up at the bridge, and you can see the exact moment your son takes this as an invitation, because he lunges.
it's not malicious. it's not even clumsy in the way you'd expect. it's something worse. it's a full-speed, zero-brakes, toddler-powered dive at michael's midsection, arms outstretched, aiming directly for the baby with the single-minded focus of a child who believes he is being helpful.
michael absorbs the impact with a grunt that comes from somewhere deep in his diaphragmâone huge hand still supporting the baby, the other shooting down to catch the boy's shoulder before he face-plants into michael's stomachâand for a moment the three of them wobble in a precarious stack, michael swaying like a willow in a windstorm.
"whoa, whoa, heyâ" michael catches himself against the wall, his forearm flexing as he steadies both children simultaneously, the baby letting out a tiny, offended squeak that sounds like a mouse being stepped on, and your son, undeterred by the fact that his ambitious tackle has been thwarted, simply adjusts his angle and starts climbing.
he scales michael's leg like it's a jungle gym, which, to be fair, at six foot five with thighs like tree trunks, it basically is. his little hands grab fistfuls of michael's sweatpants, his bare feet finding purchase on michael's quad, and he hoists himself upward with a grunt of effort that would be impressive if it weren't so terrifying.
michael's arm comes around him automatically, reflexive, the instinct of a father who has already caught this child approximately nine hundred times today alone, and now he's holding both of them, the baby tucked against his right side, the toddler clinging to his left hip like a very determined barnacle, and he's looking at you over both their heads with an expression that is one part amusement, two parts helplessness, three parts pure, overwhelming love.
"help," he says flatly, but he's smiling, he can't not smile, because your son has now turned his attention back to the baby and is leaning across michael's chest with both hands out, patting her head with the same enthusiasm he uses to pat the dogs at the park, which is to say enough force to fell a small tree. "gently, buddy, GENTLYâ"
the baby's face scrunches, her tiny fists balling up under the pink blankets, and michael extracts your son's hand from her head with ease, redirecting it to his own stubbled cheek instead, where your son pats with slightly less enthusiasm, staring at his sister with a furrowed brow and a pout that is pure michaelâthe same expression your husband makes when the pasta water boils over or when ranger eats the last of his cereal.
"baby sad?" he asks, his lower lip jutting out, genuinely concerned, and michael's face softens into something so tender it makes your chest ache.
"she's not sad, she's just tiny, bud," michael explains, settling onto the couch with both children still attached to him, one arm acting as a barricade between the toddler and the infant while your son squirms in his lap, trying to get closer, always trying to get closer. "she's brand new. she doesn't know how to play yet. but she loves you, okay? she loves her big brother."
your son processes this information for approximately half a second before he decides the best way to demonstrate his love is to climb directly onto michael's shoulders. michael catches him mid-climb, both hands wrapping around the boy's torso, lifting him off the baby like a referee separating two hockey players, and your son goes willingly, giggling now, legs kicking, dinosaur tail on the pajamas flapping as he dangles in the air.
"michael," you say from the doorway where you've been watching the whole spectacle unfold, your coffee gone cold in your hands, and michael looks at you with wide eyes, still holding the toddler aloft with one arm while the baby sleeps peacefully against his other side, completely undisturbed by the chaos that nearly consumed her thirty seconds ago.
"he's getting stronger," michael says, genuine awe in his voice, because of course he's proud, of course he is, this is the man who watches his son stack blocks and acts like he's witnessing a moon landing. "did you see that climb? that's core strength. he's got my genes."
"he's got your genes and your complete inability to sit still," you reply, crossing the room to extract the toddler from michael's grip before he manages to headbutt his father in the noseâwhich he's done before, and which resulted in michael bleeding on the carpet while calmly reassuring your son that it was okay, daddy was fine, it was just a little bump, all while looking like he'd been hit with a hockey stick.
"gentle," you tell your son, setting him down on the carpet and kneeling to his level, taking his hands in yours. he's breathing hard, his cheeks flushed pink, his hair even wilder than before, and he's looking at the baby with an expression of pure, uncomplicated devotion that makes your heart split open right down the middle. "we're gentle with baby. show mama. show me gentle hands."
he cups his palms together, the way you've shown him a hundred times, and holds them out, open and waiting, and you take them and guide them to michael's knee, letting him pat softly. he looks up at you for approval, eyebrows raised, hopeful, and you nod, kissing his forehead. "good job. such good gentle hands."
