She had no concept it would be draining.
Day one initiated at six in the morning.
I appeared with vessels and pans, striking them together cheerfully in the culinary space like an antagonist on a festive morning.
Lydia stumbled downstairs, blurry-eyed and furious.
“Good morning!” I stated luminously. “Twins are awake. Breakfast won’t make itself. Also, one of them has already thrown up.”
Day one started at six in the morning.
She scorched the bread.
Displaced citrus fluid.
One toddler hurled cereal pieces at her head.
The other vocalized because his banana was “broken.”
Evidently, separating a banana into segments constitutes a violation of rights when you are age two.
Day two was more severe.
A diaper eruption of massive dimensions sent Lydia retching into the culinary basin.
“Make sure you get it all. It’s in the folds,” I presented.
She glared at me with a gaze that could liquefy iron.
One toddler nipped her finger.
The other smeared cultured dairy product into her locks.
“This is insane,” she mumbled, near to tears. “I gave birth to toddlers, not wild raccoons!”
Day two was worse.
“Welcome to parenting!” I stated, tasting my caffeine. “By the way, that’s Greek yogurt. Very moisturizing. You’re welcome.”
On day three, she attempted to utilize the carpet cleaner while holding a toddler undergoing outbursts.
I sat upon the settee and applauded unhurriedly, as though it constituted artistic execution.
“Beautiful form, Lydia. Really leaning into the struggle.”
At one juncture, she merely sat upon the timber floor and gazed at the partition while one twin tugged her locks and the other attempted to consume a coloring stick.
READ MORE ON THE NEXT PAGE…
