My wife and I had narrowly escaped the house with the Twins intact. We’d fed and bathed them in a hurry so we could make it on time to Thanksgiving 2: This Time, It’s Leftovers at my wife’s mother’s house, and were now en route, listening to the soothing sounds of choral squawks from the back seat over the jingle-jangle of Arizona’s perpetual Christmas music radio station.

Glancing downward at her leg, my wife felt her jeans. “My knee’s still wet from when I pulled him out of the tub and dried him,” she chuckled.

“Yeah, well, that’s better than finding poo smears on your sleeve.” I’d had to change my shirt after changing Twin diaper loads.

“Can you imagine how awesome it’s going to be when the kids can walk and we can just tell them to step out of the tub themselves?”

“Yeah, that’ll be nice.” I mused. “But that also means they’ll be able to step out of the tub whenever they want.”

“…Nuh-uh. We’ll hold them down or something.” But even she herself didn’t sound convinced.

I eyed her with a grin. “Mo’ money, mo’ problems, babe.”

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