Year two with twins is the year of guerilla warfare, the
year in which they form a tiny two-man militia bent on breeding destruction and
disorder.  My one-and-a-half year-old boys
are climbers and their little army is forever advancing toward higher ground.  Our couch is like one of the beaches of
Normandy and they pour up and over the baskets they’ve moved, the books they’ve
stacked, with focused determination.   If one falls, the other continues pressing
upward and onward, climbing over his brother’s prone body, intent on “taking”
the couch.

As I stand in the kitchen preparing lunch – provisions for
the troops – I see them standing at the gate, plotting, checking and
double-checking the safety-lock.  Decked
out in their matching blue sleepers they look like navy seals swathed in footed
fleece, smiling and chattering in their little code language.  They’ve already surged through the gate we
keep around the computer and they’re eyeing up the one that leads to the
kitchen and beyond to that allusive mecca of choking hazards – their older
siblings’ room. 

I’m heavy-pressed to maintain defenses against the ongoing
onslaught.  It’s exhausting, overwhelming
– how many times can I run into the living room just in time to prevent
disaster?  How many times can a one-year-old
hit their head, get the wind knocked out of them, before it causes permanent
damage?

It occurs to me as I fight this daily battle for safety, for sanity and some small bit of life-preserving order, that this is what life feels like lately . . . won’t you join me at Central Penn Parent Magazine to read the rest of this post?