He tells me to get ready for a big surprise. So, at 6:30 pm I'm sitting in our apartment, wine glass in hand, looking all primped, plucked and pretty in my pink Italian sateen rocker pants, baby doll cami and black patent leather T-straps wedges. (You’ll have to trust me. It was cute.)
Then in walks my surprise -- two very tall, very handsome twenty-something twin brothers.
“Hi. We’re here.”
My husband got me twins!
“Come to Momma …”
… I say to my son. The Twins are the sitters and I am going out with my husband for a lobster and oyster dinner! Pinch me! (Just a figure of speech. There are children present.)
My 4-year-old is also in heaven. The Twins are his Big Boy Friends. In fact, on his 3rd birthday he didn’t want to invite any children – just his Big Boy Friends. So for him, this isn’t babysitting. This is a play date.
He shows The Twins his treasure boxes and his monster truck collection. He tells them the rules of the house.
“This is my mom’s printer. Don’t press print. These are the plants. Here’s my tree. I pruned it myself.”
He plays with their Blackberries and takes pictures with their laptop. In return The Twins get to watch SpongeBob SquarePants and Cars.
When my husband and I return home, our son is lying in a nest The Twins have made for him on the floor with all his Lighting McQueen blankets. He's smiling, trying hard to stay awake, asking about his doggie bag from the restaurant.
Now I understand why so many men fantasize about twins. Oh, what could happen with twins ... “Oh yeah, you do the laundry. Press there. Ooo, that’s good. And you'll do dinner? Good. A little lower … lower. There. That’s it. That’s where the pots are.”
I am so there.