The Tiny Twin Caper

Anyone can tell you men and women are different. The contrasts range from physical to psychological to emotional... The list goes on and on. HOWEVER, anyone with kids can tell you the differences between mothers and fathers are even more drastic. This is a tale of those differences.

It is a chilly day in the Arctic Circle, otherwise known as Grand Junction, and the snow and ice linger in the negative 23 degrees. The kiddos and I had traipsed over to the gym and come scurrying back to make Abby's therapy appointment. Appointment concluded, I bid Rachel, the therapist, goodbye, just as Número Uno made his appearance. Night shifts have forced a new routine where lunch is breakfast and dinner is lunch although in extreme cases, dinner is breakfast. Groggy but wearing pants, he stumbles towards coffee and consciousness. After both have been obtained, I, in my sweat covered glory, ask, "Could you watch the munchkins while I take a shower?"

He replies, "Sure." even though he is already completely entranced by the blaring stories of Fox News and I could have just asked him for the Amex and a kidney for all he knows.

The girls are playing in their room so I head to the shower for twenty minutes of soapy, glorious peace.

Here is where the differences begin -

I step out of the bathroom, clean (at least until dinner) and immediately notice something ominous - silence. I enter the dining room and notice a chair pushed up to the kitchen counter; a location where it did not exist previously.

I locate Número Uno (still in his office, in the same chair, still watching television although we have now progressed to Rocky V). I ask, "Where are the girls?"

He now looks around and notices the silence. "They're in their room. They closed the door. They wanted some privacy."

Mom alarm wailing full blast now.

Over the internal sirens, "They aren't supposed to have the door closed and don't you think they are being a little too quiet?"

Open the door. Both girls burst into laughter from their snug location UNDERNEATH the crib. I take a hard look at them, back at the now empty kitchen counter, and back to them.

"Dear," I say, "Are they eating marshmallows?"

"No." He takes another long look at the giggling twosome still carefully staying wedged beneath the crib. The lightbulb goes off "Wait! Where did they get those from?!"

I crawl under the crib and retrieve the now half-empty bag, removing the six extra marshmallows Abby had smashed into a play cup despite her wails of rage. Back into the kitchen I go, shoving the bag onto a high shelf, before filling Número Uno in.

"Well, one of your angels pushed the chair to the counter, climbed up, grabbed the bag, climbed down, and ran with her co-conspirator to the bedroom, making sure to close the door behind them in order to divide up the spoils in safety. They then crawled under the crib to better hide when we finally figured out their plan."

His mouth is literally hanging open until he realizes in abashed amusement that a set of toddlers have pulled a fast one on him. Abby runs up, a sticky white grin across her face.

He picks her up, nuzzling her neck and says, "You're not supposed to make Daddy look like a FOOL!!!"

Oh, daddies. I look forward to the day I ask him to do their hair. I'm installing a camera just for that.