GAYS MILLS - Yesterday, I was strolling the aisles of the local dollar store after work in search of Epsom salts for a sick Chasca, when I ran into one of the women who work at the boys’ daycare.
She lit up when she saw me, happy to share how much she enjoys our sweet, dear, little Waylon. And his big personality.
“I would lean over and look into the other room and he’d catch my eye immediately and give me the tiniest little wave,” the woman shared, beaming at the memory. “He is such a sweet little boy with such personality!”
Bops has been going to the daycare since he was about five months old, so now almost a year later, he has all of the gals wrapped around his fat little fingers. Between his growls, well-timed, slow-motion head laying on shoulder sweetness, and the squished up scowl he knows all the moves to melt all the hearts.
They never seem to believe me, when I say he leaves his wild tiny dictator rough and tumble ways at home then. Because The Legendary Boppy Wayls is The Sheriff at our house.
Waylon usually starts the day by standing up in his pack and play and squealing with fervor for the day.
The boss baby still isn’t speaking much English yet, but that doesn’t prevent him from getting his point across in a series of grunts, squeals, growls, sign language and his own words for people and things.
Once he’s given his morning demands, which usually are a sippy or bottle of warm milk, “BAH BAH BAH MEEM MEEM MEEM!” (translation: bring me my bottle now!) and brought into our bed, he is happy. Squeaking along and reaching out to aggressively pull on his dad’s nose and yank on his beard or pull on my arm hair.
Once completed, he’ll let out a relieved “Ahhhh!” followed by a growl, a kiss, and standing up and diving into a belly flop onto Chasca or me before hurriedly scampering off the bed to go attack his poor, sleeping, cherubic brother.
Thatcher truly is the light of Waylon’s life, and Waylon is the light of Thatcher’s life.
Recently, Thatcher burst into tears upon learning that not only would he be denied marriage to me, but also he couldn’t marry his sweet little “bomb-bomb bumble bee.”
“But mom, I don’t want to marry someone of my owwwwnnnnn! I want to marry YOU and WAY WAY!” Insert overtired three-year old wails from the back seat of the Volkswagen. “Why can’t I marry my BEST SWEEEET HEARTS? WHYYYYYY!”
Waylon apparently also thought this was quite unjust as he joined in on the screaming fest.
“I don’t care what you say sweetheart, I’m going to marry Waylon,” Thatcher concluded before giving me the cold shoulder the rest of the ride home.
I thought to myself, I’ll remember this the next time Waylon is attempting to beat you with a shoe or any other object the little hooligan deems fit to torture his loving brother with.
This is a frequent battle that plays out already at our house, the fights between siblings. Except, it’s usually Sheriff Wayls who starts and ends them.
Lately, they’re primarily snack based as well. Where Thatcher loves nothing more than to relax after a hard day of play than to plop in front of the old telly with an apple and glass of milk to unwind, Waylon loves nothing more than to proceed like some type of unruly bandit and commit highway snack robbery on his brother.
Usually, as soon as Thatcher is spotted making his way toward the miniature orange plastic Adirondack chair, Waylon charges like an angry buffalo–straight for his brother. The Sheriff is in search of his treat, his chair and total power.
“NOOOO WAAAYYYYLLLLOOOOONNNN!!!!” Thatcher shrieks in horror.
This is usually followed by crying, spillage, and Waylon shrieking too as though he suffered some injustice, when he is removed from the scene of the crime.
He will quickly wiggle down from my arms, only to trot over to his brother and gently lay his head on him and give him a kiss, apologizing for his trespasses. But before he walks away, he makes sure to throw in an open palm slap, just to remind Thatcher, who’s the boss in this town.
I have to give Thatcher major credit, through his brother’s tough guy act, he continues to love him unconditionally and has never retaliated against the little turd. He is always quick to be compassionate to him and remind me “Mom, I know he’s just learning, even though he’s a mean baby sometimes.”
All of Waylon’s tiny dictator persona aside, he continues to be quite a big personality. His facial expressions, reactions, and well-timed offerings of love continue to endear him to many–including his brother.
He is no longer our chubby, gap-toothed baby. He is slowly growing into a lean, blue-eyed, possibly still red-haired, pot-bellied, spitfire of a little critter that I am sure will continue to provide us all with endless entertainment and Thatcher with a lifelong best friend, as long as they can get past all the squealing and slapping….I can dream, right?
