By Susan Howard
Crouched down by the bedroom closet I am hiding from my one-year-old twins. I hear them crawling and screaming; they are inside the house, coming closer and closer. My dog betrays my trust by bounding beside me loudly and noisily wagging his tail, basically giving me away. Both children have ear infections and both are certain to let me know how miserable they are by yelling, rubbing their snotty faces into my shirt, and needing to be held incessantly.
All I want to do is change clothes. The fantasy of a glass of water is a distant dream. I have to pick up their sister from school and I refused to go in slopped on sweatpants. It’s after 2 and I have not had lunch. After suffering multiple stomach issues I made it a goal not to eat meals during stressful situations. At this rate I am on the Gandhi diet.
Let’s face it. I am not good with babies. I don’t get them. They don’t get me. We agree to disagree. For the next three days we have no Au Pair, so I am trying to pitch in and take on the front lines. I had no idea how relentless the enemy was. The enemy is abound.
They come in one behind the next, invading on all fours like a pack of mini wolves. “I need to get changed. You gotta give me a second,” I plead. But my voice is drowned out by their wails. These guys are professionals.
I do have a new shirt and jeans on so perhaps I have triumphed, good over evil. In a moment, a slobbery sweet potato snot face is embedded in my new shirt and I smile, really I cry.