The trouble with triplets

My friend Sissy and her husband have triplet boys Michael, Colton and Tyler. To say Sissy’s life is busy is to minimize the Vortex of Chaos she lives in. When she asked me to watch the boys for an afternoon, I agreed. I figure she needs every break she can get.

I was a little apprehensive. Since I don’t have kids, I researched activities for them to do and worried Ocean might be rough on the kids.

I was so wrong.

Unbeknownst to me, little boys have the innate ability to find dangerous objects and/or activities. The more life-threatening, the faster they find them. It’s like a super-power for those who wishing a quick death. If someone had told me, I wouldn’t have believed it. But I witnessed it first hand.

Within seconds of arriving, the triplets found every sharpened knife in the house–even those my husband had given up for lost years ago. When they found the electrical boxes. I brought out the playdough.

Incredibly, my playdough was covered with fungus (mental note: never buy playdough at the Dollar Store) and before I could even recognize the white fuzz on it, they were eating it. I stared in horror wondering where to find the number for poison-control, when one stuffed a piece into his ear.

Time to go outside.

The boys were delighted with the idea of a walk and so was I. Snow is fluffy and soft and boys can’t eat trees, so I figured we were all good. It took the three boys (aka: demons) less than three seconds to find the tiny river that cuts through our property and then they were all jumping in the icy water. When I tried to get them out, Ocean joined them.

Trying to avoid hypothermia, I rushed everyone back to the house and fed them hot chocolate and cookies.

Big. Mistake.

Turns out that nothing can rival the energy level of three boys with sugar in their system. These new beings (I swear they were no longer human children), ran madly from room to room bumping into things, falling madly down stairs and sticking their fingers into every dangerous conceivable space. I won’t talk about the dents in the wall or the dirt or the tears in the sheets…better if I just say that, in spite of their best efforts, I managed to keep them alive until their mother arrived.

I have never been as glad to see anyone as I was at seeing Sissy. Never mind that Ocean was covered with playdough, that there were dents and dirt all over my white walls, that my white sheets would need careful soaking and heavy stain remover or that I might need several cups of tea and a very hot bath to feel human again, they had survived. No one had died.

Sissy was more positive than I. “You’ve done great!” she declared shoving boots and hats onto heads and feet.

Guilt made me be honest. “Ah…I think they might have eaten some bad playdough.”

Sissy laughed. “At home, they eat the dog’s food.”

Little angels.



10 thoughts on “The trouble with triplets

  1. That’s hysterical. You didn’t have to tell her about the playdough when it revealed itself on the other side. That’s how I got caught by my wife after “watching” one of my girls once…

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