It had never occurred to me. I had walked past the building every day on my way to work and yet it had never occurred to me.
It was an old apartment building, probably ten or twelve stories tall. It sat in the midst of a dozen identical communist-era apartment buildings, panelaky the Czechs call them, in a neighborhood on the northern terrace of Usti nad Labem, a town once called the "ashtray of the Czech Republic" by a remarkably accurate guidebook series.
The neighborhood was going through a clean-up, workers on scaffolds scrubbing the sides of the panelaky, ridding them of decades of coal soot and industrial pollutants, restoring the dingy black buildings back to their original dingy gray.
David, a close friend who has become almost like a brother in the fact that I never call him or write him anymore (and whose name I have Anglicized from its original Czech, David), had also walked past the building daily. It had never occurred to him, either.
Yet there we both were, in the middle of the night, racing each other up the exterior scaffolding of that building all the way to the top.
My point is this: In a matter of seconds, two people together can come up with ideas that neither of them would have ever considered separately.
When I stayed home with Kathryn, I suspect I went to the bathroom everyday, maybe even multiple times a day. I have no proof of this, but I'm just a going-to-the-bathroom kind of guy, so I'm pretty confident. Never once did I emerge from the bathroom, drying my hands on a towel, to find Kathryn standing on top of the dining room table, hopping up and down on her little chubby toddler legs.
Guess how many times I've found the twins doing just that. Together, of course.