The Parent Trip: Leah Siemiarowski Wright and Timothy Wright of Havertown

She thought he was a gentle, patient dad. He thought she was far too young.

Leah, a 21-year-old paralegal, and Timothy, a divorced lawyer 16 years her senior, worked for small law firms that shared office space in Philadelphia. On days when Timothy's kids - Celia, 3, and Max, 6 - weren't feeling well, and he brought them to work, Leah noticed his loving way of setting limits.

Once, he was explaining to a tearful Celia that she could either go to the men's restroom with him or to the women's bathroom with the receptionist. "Sweetie, these are your two options," Leah heard him say. "I was really drawn to what a wonderful father he was."

Timothy, meanwhile, had done some sleuthing, learned Leah's age and figured a relationship was out of the question. "My fear was that we would date, but that either because of the age difference or the kids, it would end, and the kids would be left heartbroken."

Leah asked him out five times before he said yes to drinks at Chaucer's, a now-defunct pub just a block from her home on Lombard Street. The two ate outside; Leah remembers the delicious $5 burgers and not wanting the evening to end. Timothy recalls feeling too timid to kiss her goodnight when he walked her to her door.

After that, the momentum picked up: more dates a deux, and days with the kids watching a bike race, attending the Odunde festival, laughing at ComedySportz. Leah, who had begun a master's degree in education and had worked as a nanny, wasn't ready for kids of her own, but these two "were already potty-trained, functioning little people."

And Timothy began to glimpse how his life might change if Leah came along for the ride. On one of her first evenings at the small house he rented in Narberth, he called the kids to dinner: a typical Dad meal of pork chops and mashed potatoes. Max and Celia plopped down on the couch, their plates on the coffee table.

Leah ushered them into the dining room. "All of a sudden, we were at the table together," Timothy recalls. She suggested they hang the children's artwork around the house, instead of tacking it haphazardly to the fridge. For Father's Day, she put together a picnic in Rittenhouse Square. "That's a game-winner," Timothy thought at the time.

Still, he was cautious. Leah never spent the night when the kids were there. But one evening, Max and Celia perched on the stairs in their pajamas. "Can Leah stay?" they asked their father. "Well, OK," he replied.

When Timothy traded his house for a larger apartment, he asked the kids if they'd like Leah to be there every night. "They were jumping up and down," he recalls. The day Leah moved in, the family cooked together and dug into a pseudo-Thanksgiving dinner in March: oven-roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, salad. "It was our first night with everybody in the same house, and it was something to celebrate," she recalls.

They were married six months later, at the Allens Lane Art Center where Leah had been a camper for years. After a brief ceremony, guests' children swarmed over the playground. Max was the best man, along with a buddy of Timothy's from California. Celia, in a dress sprigged with rose-colored blooms, was the flower girl.

Shortly afterward, she came home from school one day and called Leah "Mom." Leah responded, "You already have a mom. I can be your bonus mom." Somehow, Celia transmuted that into "Bob," a name both she and Max still use sometimes for Leah.

For a while, Timothy thought their family was complete. Besides, he figured that parenting an infant - the sleep deprivation, the relentless need - was "a young man's game." But Leah wanted to have a baby; after the couple had bought a house in Havertown and she'd finished her master's degree, the time seemed ripe.

Max had already been putting in requests for a "pet baby" on his gift lists. Timothy was more concerned about jealousy from Celia, who had been the baby for so long. But when he told the kids that Leah was pregnant - her morning sickness and mood swings were already a clue - both were thrilled.

They even helped to vet baby names. Leah wanted to follow Jewish tradition by naming the baby after a deceased relative - specifically, her grandfather, Isadore. The kids worried that "Isadore" would become "Is-a-dork" on the grade school playground. "When she turned out to be a girl, Isadora Violet (Timothy's grandmother's name) was a winner for everybody," Leah says.

Leah's water broke a month early. Though she'd already painted the baby's room turquoise and Timothy had assembled the crib, Leah didn't feel ready. But the baby was; she arrived that February evening, in a room at Delaware County Memorial Hospital crowded with an ob/gyn, nurses and a few nursing students who had asked permission to observe.

Timothy, an easy crier, thanked everyone through his tears. Leah nestled the baby on her chest. Max and Celia couldn't visit right away - it was flu season, and the hospital had rules - but they tussled for who would be the first to hold their 5-pound, 8-ounce sister as soon as she got home.

Timothy says he's more relaxed as a second-time-around parent, while Leah's more apt to dial the advice nurse when she's worried. Her biggest challenge has been sleep deprivation and the crankiness that comes with it.

The sweetest moments, they agree, are when Max conks out on the couch after football practice, Isadora asleep on his chest. Or when Celia coaxes giggles from her sister by making faces or bouncing her on the bed. Or when the kids - with Timothy and Leah two weekdays and alternate weekends - burst in after school to greet their sister: "Itchy" to Celia, "Chalupa Batgirl" to Max, "Izzy" to her parents. She's everybody's baby.

If you've become a parent - for the first, second or fifth time - within the last six months, e-mail us why we should feature your story: parents@phillynews.com.

(Giving birth, adopting, or becoming a stepparent or guardian all count.) Unfortunately, we can't respond individually to all submissions If your story is chosen, you will be contacted.EndText