Page 93 of Taming Georgia

Suddenly, Wyatt’s face morphs from need-filled to uncomfortable as he winces. I look down to find Asher smashing a Lightning McQueen matchbox car against Wyatt’s pants, specifically his groin area.

“Keen, Dada! Keen, Dada!” Asher whines.

Wyatt bends and picks him up. “You have McQueen in your hand,” Wyatt says sweetly.

“Keen! Dada!” Asher repeats.

“Which McQueen do you want, baby? The blue one? The big one?” I start listing off the different versions of Lightning McQueen that Asher possesses.

He doesn’t seem to know what he wants.

“Hey, birthday boy.” I press my finger against his nose. “Daddy will help you find the car you want, okay? But do you want to see your cake first?”

Asher’s eyes widen at the mention of cake, and his car drama is forgotten for the moment.

“Look.” Wyatt shows him the cake that’s set up on the outside table.

“Keen!” Asher points to the cake, a huge smile on his face.

“Just for you, buddy,” Wyatt tells him.

“A McQueen birthday cake for you.” I lean in and kiss his cheek. “How old are you today?”

Asher raises three fingers because he hasn’t quite mastered bending his ring finger down yet and yells, “Two!”

“Good job. You are two! You’re a big boy,” I tell him.

“Way-Way,” Asher says and points to the Minnie Mouse cake. He also hasn’t mastered hisRsounds yet.

“Yes, that’s Ray-Ray’s cake.”

“Way-Way baby,” he says knowingly.

“Yeah, Ray’s still a baby. She’s one now.”

“My two,” Asher says.

I giggle. “You are two.” I look to Wyatt. “By the way, where’s Ray? I want to show her the cake.”

A smirk finds Wyatt’s lips as he holds in a laugh. “Last time I saw her, she was running, bare-bottomed, away from your mother. You’d think your mom has never changed a diaper.”

I laugh at the vision of my mother chasing a half-naked Ray around the house. “Well, she did have nannies with London and me, but she has to know how to change a diaper, right?” I scrunch up my nose.

“One would think, but I didn’t step in, thinking she could figure it out.” Wyatt grins.

“You’re so mean.” I chuckle, lightly hitting his chest. “You know Ray’s giving her a run for her money.”

“That’s our girl”—he nods—“determined like her mama.”

“Okay, well, I’ll go rescue my mom. Can you take him to his room, to his toy chest, and figure out what car he’s talking about? The guests should be arriving soon.”

Just then, Mila and Cooper come ambling out of the house, and Asher points. “Miya! Coop!”

“You want to play with the puppies?” Wyatt asks as Asher struggles to climb down his body. “I guess the car is forgotten.” Wyatt chuckles as he walks over to Cooper, who stands patiently as Asher hugs his neck.

I watch for a moment as my boys throw tennis balls for Cooper and Mila. Asher giggles every time he pulls the slobbery ball from one of the dogs’ mouths. At twelve, Cooper’s definitely a senior dog now, but it doesn’t show besides the extra white fur on his snout. He’s still as active as he ever was, for which I’m thankful. I pray that he breaks records for the amount of time a dog lives. Pit bull breeds usually live to fourteen or fifteen, but we have a friend whose rescue dog lived to nineteen. So, I’m hoping for at least seven more healthy years for Cooper.

I make my way inside to find my mom holding Ray, looking more than a little exhausted. “You okay, Mom?”

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