Make Way for Ducklings is classic Caldecott Medal winning childrenâ€™s book. It illustrates the story of Mr. and Mrs. Mallard Duck dealing with the daily stresses of life as they attempt to navigate the best path for their fledging family.
No wonder itâ€™s still so popular.
The most popular comment I get these days is, â€œTwins! I donâ€™t know how you do it.â€ (I specify, â€œcomment,â€ because the most popular question remains, â€œAre they twins?â€)
Well, a typical weekdayâ€¦
Wake up, 90 miles an hour
Take the world’s fastest shower
Coffee black, microwave it
I’m at at my best caffeinated
Out the door, pick up the pace
I’m here, I’m there, I’m everyplace
– Frantic, Jamie Oâ€™Neal
My alarm will go off at 6 a.m., Iâ€™ll roll over in a confused stupor, see the boys are sleeping soundly, and smack the snooze button. At 6:30, the dogs will go ballistic â€“ rushing down the stairs as quiet as a herd of stampeding elephants as though they are a starving pair of neglected strays. Jon will pour the milk (8 oz.) and heat it in the microwave (1 min.), while I change diapers on two little men intent on perfecting an Olympic caliber tumbling routine. Theyâ€™ll start to scream before they get their bottle. Iâ€™ll rush into the bathroom to shower and get ready for work. Jon will put them back down in the hopes that theyâ€™ll nap for another hour. They wonâ€™t â€“ but theyâ€™ll chatter and squirm; weâ€™ll hold our breath that no banshee wailing is forthcoming. Jon will collapse atop the covers. Iâ€™ll dart out the door, run back in to grab my computer, dash back out, debate whether or not I have enough gas to get to work, decide I probably do, spend the first half of the drive frenetically checking the clock to see if I can swing by Starbucks, decide I canâ€™t, pull into work, dump my bags and head straight for the coffee machine (which is likely still filled with Fridayâ€™s remnants). At 8, itâ€™s time to get up for the day. Daddy Day Care kicks off in the living room. The muppets will pick up toys, then make a grab for the one their brother has. (Itâ€™s the same toy.) Theyâ€™ll scream. Theyâ€™ll get distracted by the turtle tank â€“ crawling up onto the hardwood floor, scampering over the rug to pull themselves up on chairs, which guard the ever-alluring electrical wires â€“ deciding to push the chairs into the tank. Theyâ€™ll be told â€œNoâ€ and moved back to their toys. Repeat. Repeat again. Breakfast at 9. More playtime until 11:30, interspersed with severely stinky diaper changes approximately every 20 minutes. Lunch is big boy food: carrots, eggs, yogurt, and assorted fruits that Mommy hasnâ€™t overcooked or burned herself on. Lunch is followed by a tantrum for milk in a bottle. Milk is offered in a sippy cup, which is pushed away and hurled across the room. Naptime (with or without the consumption of the previously proffered milk) is from noon to 3. (Nothing can be scheduled during this sacred time of quiet.) After nap is a snack at 3:30. I continue to run from meeting to meeting, trying to get my ever-expanding, never-diminishing inbox somewhat under control so I can break for home at 4:30; it wonâ€™t happen, Iâ€™ll leave the office at 5. The boys will grin when they hear my heels clatter across the kitchen floor. Search will desperately try to eat whatever jewelry I have on. I run upstairs to change into comfy (extremely unsexy) sweats â€“ all the better to play in. Dinner is at 6. Pasta will fly across the room as Destroy waves â€œAll Done!â€ Cooper and Scout will tremble from under the kitchen table, waiting to be given the signal to clean up the mess left behind by their new best friends. Bath time is at 7. Iâ€™ll gather towels and new outfits, don my wetsuit and snorkel gear and fill the tub. There is much splashing. Evening milk still comes in a bottle (the muppets clearly won that battle). Weâ€™ll change them and snuggle, as they happily grow groggy in our arms. By 7:30 itâ€™s time to zip them into the sleep sacks (wearable blankets), turn on their Twilight Turtle nightlight and hit play on the iPod Classical playlist. Once the babes are down, the grownups will wolf down some form of sustenance â€“ the menu decided upon by an eloquent debate of, â€œWhat do you want for dinner? I donâ€™t care, what are you in the mood for.â€ Repeat. Iâ€™ll jump on the treadmill (or at least seriously think about it). Weâ€™ll collapse on the couch for some quality (read â€“ sitcom or History channel far) television. By 9:30 itâ€™s time to get ready for bed. Pass out, and get ready to do it all again tomorrow.
Piece of cake. (Really, the schedule is key.)
Whatâ€™s it like having twins? I have no idea. Whatâ€™s it like not having twins? Theyâ€™re all I know. But, then again, in the words of a wise friend â€“ I canâ€™t even remember this morningâ€¦
That’s how it goes
A day in my life
I’m on my toes
From morning to night
Living’ like this
Some might say it’s
So exhausting’ frenzied, manic
Call me nuts but I like it frantic
– Frantic, Jamie Oâ€™Neal (my theme song)