Our first child was a daughter, and we made the laughable assumption that welcoming the second child would be easier because all our household childproofing work was already done. Then the boy arrived and promptly embarked on an exploratory tour of destruction that hasn’t stopped yet, mocking the so-called safety measures we had implemented for his sister. Connor James is now eight and obsessed with all things sports, tormenting his brothers, and running fast. Really, really fast.
Identical twins Nathan and Nicholas showed up two years later. The easiest description of them occurs when I tell friends in our Florida panhandle community that in hindsight we should have named them Ivan and Dennis. Their destructive powers routinely hover around Category 2 and easily reach Category 4 during peak performance. Nathan and Nicholas are known to throngs of followers as “the brothers.” We even have a neighbor family that belts out a sinister, downward musical scale – like when a movie reaches a moment of doom – whenever they hear the term “the brothers:”
Indeed, the brothers are that amazing. Everyone loves them, especially everyone that’s not in our family, because they get to watch all the chaos, but don’t have to clean any of it up. We love our boys as well, and are having a blast documenting their exploits in life so far. Our primary hope is to survive long enough to laugh about all this stuff when we are old and don’t have to chase them any more.
The three boys also have two sisters: Carissa, the oldest and Caitlin, the youngest. Neither of them has ever done anything wrong.