Currently listening to: Pearl Jam, Yield.
Over the last weekend, Andrea's best friend and her three girls (a four-year-old, and three-year-old twins) came for a visit. While they're all sweeter than a monkey holding a puppy, there were still three of them, and the sheer chaos of it all was a little overwhelming. Actually, I found it quite manageable, since I had to work, and really only had cameo-appearances throughout the weekend.
The exception was on Saturday morning. I was up early, so I had about half an hour before the kids got up, but when they did, it was en masse. I figured that the thing to do was to get them breakfast – no problem. But first, one of the twins is fiddling with her unmentionables and fidgeting. “Do you have to pee, Sweety?”
“Well, go ahead.” No problem, they're recently toilet-trained, and I should be able to point her to the throne and wait for the magic to happen. A moment later, she's still in the bathroom door, grabbing-away, shifting foot-to-foot. “Do you have to pee?”
“Well, do you need help?”
Of coarse, I couldn't help her relieve herself. The technical term for that is 'Sexual Interference,' and it's a world of trouble. I'm sure her mother wouldn't make an issue of it, but there's certain laws I just won't question. No court would turn on her four-year-old sister, though, so I appealed to her. “Could you help your sister, please?”
“Sure. I'll help you.” She really is a marvel; I'd expect a child her age to be jealous. Not only competition for family attention, but the novelty of twins would surely draw all eyes from her. I would have been off, by a long shot! She loves her sisters, and has slipped seamlessly into the helpful Big Sister role, and in that moment, her full-bladdered sister would have none of it.
I should have know better, but still, I tried to reason with her. “I'm sorry, but I can't help you. If you need help, it has to be your sister.” All while trying to do crowd-control on the other two girls, and my thirteen-month-old dog. “Do you want to use the upstairs bathroom?” Thus was my desperation for ideas.
“Yeah.” Alright, but after I whisked her upstairs, she said, “I can't, there's no stool.” This is where the twitch developed. I searched for something suitable, oddly in short supply, and finally found Andrea's get-her-pregnant-ass-into-our-stupidly-tall-bed stool.
“Here you go Sweety. This is Andrea's Super Special Stool, so be very careful!” Somehow, this did the trick, and she was able to drain herself, with no laws transgressed on my part. To sweeten the moment, Andrea got up. THE CALVERY HAS ARRIVED!
By the time their mother had had a little sleep-in, I had taught the fussy tinkeler to say to her “You deserve a medal!”
All this left me wondering what the hell we were in for! Everyone assures me that it's easy to learn as you go along, and that their slow development allows one to acclimatize gradually. For now, I have time to be scared, soon enough, I won't be rested enough for such an indulgence!