If I had known it would be this easy, I would have done it a long time ago. Right after driving over my own skull with a mini-van.
The cribs are gone. The twins are in beds now.
Four years ago, we transitioned Kathryn from a crib to a bed. We did it on her second birthday. It was the kind of smooth, easy change that made The Mom and I think that we were the greatest parents ever and that we should write a book called How to Be Great Like Us (First chapter title: You Can't!). Truth be told, though, it was all Kathryn. To Kathryn, a bed was the same as a crib, just with a better selection of sheets. Kathryn believed she was no more able to get out of her new bed by herself than she could attempt a climb up Mt. Everest's south face. Unless, of course, she had a team of Sherpas and a sheet of Hello Kitty stickers. Hello Kitty makes the impossible fun!
The twins are under no such delusions.
Ever since I chose to stay home with my girls, I've felt more-or-less like Prometheus, who, after performing one incredibly selfless deed for all humanity, has been chained to a rock and had his liver eaten by birds every day since. For me, the only difference each new day brings is the size of the bird. Most days it's a small bird, a hummingbird. It almost tickles. I've even been known to laugh.
This no-crib thing is a big-assed bird.
So, I'm writing this as a kind of preemptive apology. I write when the twins nap. If they don't nap, I don't write. And they're not napping. Oh no. Not when there's paint to peel off the door frame and extension cords to fish out from behind the changing table. So forgive me if, for a while, the occasional few days or more slip by without a post. I'm doing my best. And keep your eyes to the sky for a big-assed bird holding a little bitty, vodka-soaked liver. It's mine.