Monday, December 31, 2007

Hurricane Kyra

I have a friend, let’s call her, say, “Jennifer.” Now, Jennifer has two twin boys, aged two-and-a-half, and she is constantly regaling me with tales of their mischief and mayhem. Every day she has a new one, like the time the boys woke up from their nap and sneakily upturned both their beds and the gigantic humidifier full of water before discovering that it was far more fun to smear the Costco-sized tub o’ Vaseline on themselves and the walls instead.

The boys work as a team, apparently, and this, as I understand it, is the problem with twins. One two-and-a-half year old boy by himself can do plenty of damage, as I learned when my boys were that age, but two can egg each other on and invent new forms of torment for their mother at twice the pace of a singlet. Let’s just say that every time she tells me one of her stories, I sympathize, then go home and fall to my knees, thanking the Lord that I had the good fortune to space mine more than a few minutes apart.

But then I realized. If you space ‘em, they just learn from each other and split up into various rooms in the house to unleash their inner demons. So, for example, yesterday, while I was cleaning the kitchen, really scrubbing away and feeling quite virtuous about the state of my house, Shay was upstairs upending a box of legos to find the Perfect Lego. Aidan was eating graham crackers with peanut butter on the living room couch, dropping a trail of crumbs over the freshly vacuumed floor. And Kyra – dear, sweet, smiley little Kyra – she found a spare tube of lip gloss and was adding to the glossy finish on the entry way furniture.

When I discovered the mess she’d made, I scolded her smiley self and then went to find some towels to buff the lip gloss off. That’s when she disappeared upstairs, where her dad was taking a shower. I called her to come back downstairs, which she did, and carried on with my pointless cleaning.

A short time later, I heard Bart yelling from upstairs. He sounded… unhappy, to say the least, so I trotted up to see what was wrong. It turns out Kyra had decided during her brief trip upstairs to turn on the faucet in the bathroom, but she’d then neglected to turn it back off. The drain was no match for the water, which quickly filled the sink and spilled onto the counter, into the cabinet and all over the floor. The bathroom had become the bathtub.

At some point during out attempts to mop up the sea that was once our bathroom, Bart muttered “betcha this makes it on your blog.”

And so it has.

I’ve learned several lessons from this latest mishap, so listen up if you want my advice.

First: No matter how dirty your baseboards get, don’t bother to clean them until your kids are in college. You’ll just end up with an even bigger mess.

And second: If you happen to run into Jennifer, and she happens to tell you one of her infamous twin boy horror stories, whatever you do, don’t gloat about the fact that you don’t have twins. What you have could be much, much worse.

On the plus side, at least I don’t have mop upstairs any time soon.


Deborah said... [Reply]

Here's the trick for getting your baseboards clean: put big old socks on your kids' hands, tell them they are dust monsters and to eat all the dust off the baseboards. It apparently works pretty well, though it sounds like your kids would probably try to drown the the dust instead.

Please. Write your own stuff.