Aimee had to go out of town yesterday and today, leaving me at home alone with the twins--something she has done more than once (as in, she has taken care of the kids on her own while I was out of town more than once). While I am used to picking them up and getting dinner started on my own, bathing them, reading their nighttime story and putting them to bed is a two-person job.
5 p.m. Keillor is eating his herbed chicken and pasta like a big boy, but Emaline--who has been a sassy-pants lately--does not want her harvest vegetables. She spits them out, screams, and shoves her pacifier in her mouth. As I am focusing on that, Keillor grabs his bowl and goes after his dinner like a pig eating slop. He has a runny mess from forehead to lap. Emaline's mad, Keillor's a mess, and I'm alone.
I open up some prunes and apples for Emaline, forgetting that she had been pooping all day and that prunes were probably not the best meal for her. She eats them up, though, followed by her milk.
Dinner is done. On to bath time.
Keillor goes into the playpen while Emaline takes her bath. She sits up straight, lets me clean her feet, face, and fanny, and has a great time. Because she has a wicked diaper rash, I decide to let her air out while I bathe Keillor. Into the playpen with her, into the bath with him.
Keillor loves the bath. He splashes and laughs, bounces and squeals. With one eye on bathing him and one on naked Emaline, I scrub the chicken out of Keillor's hair.
He is just a rascally on the changing table as in the bath, so trying to put him in a diaper and pajamas is a struggle. Just as I get a diaper on him, I turn around to see me naked daughter, squatting like a quarterback, pooping in the playpen. She pinches off the first one, waddles a couple of inches, and squeezes out one more, all the while, her elbows on her knees.
I pull Keillor off the changing table, put him on the floor (can't put him in the playpen), scoop up the pooper, and take her to the changing table.
As I am cleaning the poo off of Emaline's feet and getting her into a diaper, Keillor is crawling into the kitchen to play with the furnace grate. He falls, bumps his head, and starts crying. I am telling him, "It's OK. Come to Daddy," while wiping ointment onto Emaline's bum. He calms down and returns to his mission.
As I am zipping her into her pajamas, he is standing under the kitchen table trying to climb onto a chair. I get her quickly zipped up, rush over and grab him, and take them both upstairs to bed.
5 a.m. They wake up. They normally wake up between 5:30 and 6 during the week, but this is a special occasion. I'm alone Breakfast features milk only, no oatmeal, because they shouldn't be awake anyway, and they will probably go back to sleep at 6:30. They do. No problems (except that Emaline does poop herself again, but just a peanut-sized one).
I am leaving school right now to pick them up and go through another dinner and bath service alone. I can handle it. I can. I...