A week in the life of two two-year olds

Hey, Fat Luigi!





Hey, Skinny Vinny!







We're going...

....into the belly of the beast....

...there will be danger at every turn....

...I eat danger for breakfast...

Then ... are you hungry?

Starving...











I now have an inkling of what having two-year old twin boys would be like. (Any readers out there who actually have two-year old twin boys, please don't write and tell me I don't have a clue. I admit it daily). The Quinnster was pretty much an angel and his best friend, Moose, was well, he was himself and you only need to look at the fact that he is the only one with red-eye to know that he was basically leading Quinn into sin at every turn. He doesn't have much hair but he has just enough to nicely cover his horns. Quinn's mommy and daddy hoped as an experienced mother of three that I would manage to teach their little darling how to speak three languages, read Dostoievsky, be potty trained, increase his culinary palate, help little old ladies across the street, memorize scripture, tie his shoes, discover the cure for cancer, institute world peace, and make a mean risotto. They're lucky however if he hasn't learned to smoke, swear, imbibe, gamble, womanize, and drive. He now wears tight jeans, white Ts with rolled up sleeves to hide the cigarettes, and greases his hair. And goes by the name Butch. At least they didn't sneak out for tattoos and piercings while my back was turned, huh? And really, that's all I promised. That, and that he will return with a new passion for Bon Jovi, Sandra Boynton board books, naked vacuuming (ask Gianni 'bout that one), jumping off the couch, finagling in and outta the Pack n Play, carrying a stool around at all times because it comes in handy for numerous naughtiness, removing couch cushions for optimum jumping and bouncing contests, the joy of dog food snacking, and hiding things in the potty seat. Not necessarily in that order. Gianni calls him "Ken" (no, not Butch), and it would have been cute and amusing to hear G. yelling through the bedroom door, 'Mommy! Daddy! Ken's awake!' Cute and amusing had it not been 4 am. But we're very grateful for our time with the little booger, and hope he doesn't forget about his Auntie Lyssy and Uncie Mike and the strange little boy who kept slamming doors in his face and taking all the toys, when he moves off to Ireland to become a leprechaun.
We begin the packing process now. Wish us luck, say a prayer or a hail Mary or anything that might help. I hate moving. And I really hate the nightmare of driving across frozen solid Wyoming in December twice. When we go rolling off the interstate, into the path of penguins, polar bears, and prehistoric ice age creatures, and run into the same iceberg that annihilated the Titanic, I will put in a good word for you at the pearly gates. You may divide my worldly possessions amongst yourselves: children, dog, fish, Kitchen Aid mixer, Samsung washer and dryer, and my Nancy Drew collection. Oh, and Die Hard 1-4 complete with extra bonus material. And bills. Some lucky devil is going to get lots and lots of bills. Unless of course, all those things are smashed flat by the ice berg. In which case there will be nothing to fight over at the funeral - and for your information, I like daisies.