Awwwww that's so sweet I bet you love those little guys.
No Trouble With Triplets
I am trapped.
I am kneeling in the living room of a family’s home in the suburbs of Philadelphia. I have two-year-old Bridget in one arm, and two-year-old Christopher in the other. No problem – I can hold them. Except Christopher’s mirror image, two-year-old Dylan, seems to be mentally preparing himself to charge at me. I can tell by his sly little smile that he knows this may topple me over.
“Dylan, honey…” I begin, but before I can continue and attempt to explain the reason I can’t pick him up at the moment, here he comes. Full of two-year-old joy, he runs to me with a big smile on his face and jumps into my arms. Since my arms are already full of Bridget and Christopher, he ends up on my neck, and I don’t have time to enjoy his hug, because down we go: I have just been knocked over by a two-year-old.
I am now lying on my back with three giggling babies on top of me. They try to move, tumbling over each other and crushing me, using my face and neck to lean on as they try to stand up, but of course I am laughing as hard as they are. And you haven’t heard laughter until you’ve heard these kids laugh! Through his laughter, Christopher gives me an extra big hug to make up for my falling over, while Bridget plays with my hair while trying to stand up, because that’s where her face ended up, and Dylan continues to laugh about how he got me, while still hugging my neck. We are making a lot of noise, and in the other room, their older and wiser sister, MaryKate, tries to ignore us and focus on her craft project.
Maybe some thirty-year-olds would be embarrassed to say they were knocked over by two-year-olds, but I will say it proudly: My name is Erica, and I regularly get knocked over by two-year-old triplets. As a writer for children, I decided a few months ago to baby-sit for extra money, so that I could be around kids and get paid to do it. Now, the triplets still let me come over to play for four hours every Sunday (but their parents still call it “baby-sitting”).
The first time I sat for them, they all cried at the same time because they all woke up at the same time. “You can handle this,” I told myself. I remained calm, and tried not to cry with them. As soon as we were out of the nap area, they cheered up, and so did I. That’s probably the biggest challenge I have with them, if there is any. If more than one of them cries at the same time, whomever I don’t go to first cries harder. Often, poor Christopher will be the second one I get to because Dylan’s crib is closest to the door. He will give me sad looks, stunned week after week at the dejection.
No one likes to see a child cry, and there probably aren’t too many kids who look cute when they are about to cry, but this one does (his brother does it too, but I think Christopher taught him how). He sticks out his bottom lip, and you can literally see his eyes fill up with tears. You just go, “Awwwwwww!” and you might start to say, “Don’t cry, Christopher,” but it is too late: You have made this child cry. Are you happy now?
Usually, as soon as I pick him up, he unconditionally forgives me. Out of all of them, Christopher gives me the most hugs, which we call “huggies.” One afternoon, he gave me 2,193,251 hugs! He loves to hug his brother and sisters too (oh, and his parents), of course, but I feel special anyway.
Out of the three, Christopher thinks I’m funniest. He has the cutest laugh. Too bad this is written, or I could imitate it for you – but just picture telling someone a really funny joke, and seeing that person laugh a really hearty laugh. He has the heartiest laugh of any two year old in the world. One afternoon, I tested him. I said a series of words in funny voices to see if he would laugh, such as “cheese” and “strudel” and “homogeneity” (I can’t remember what it means but I learned it in an economics class).
He laughed every time. He sometimes points at me and laughs. I amuse him just by being in the room. I could be paranoid and think I have something hanging out of my nose, or that he’s laughing because my outfit doesn’t match, but I’m pretty sure he’s laughing because I make him laugh, not because I’m laughable.
After we all wake up, we go down to the corral and play. The corral is a section of the living room, gated off so that the triplets can stay in and play with a WHOLE BUNCH of toys. To any other child, this would seem like a wondrous toyland, filled with hours of possible fun (it even has a jungle gym!). But sometimes the triplets are none too happy to go in there. On these occasions, I require the assistance of, say, a Barney, or an Elmo, who appear to us via satellite (videotape – but don’t tell the triplets!). Big Bird and Clifford the Big Red Dog have also been total lifesavers.
Bridget gets tired of the corral more easily than the others do, because she would much rather be hanging out with her totally cool older sister, MaryKate. MaryKate is very good to them, and proud of them. They are in awe of her, especially Bridget. Often, with her eyes, Bridget will ask if she can please be excused to go watch TV or do crafts with MaryKate. Usually, the answer is no. She will try to negotiate for a few minutes, and will give up and ask to retire to her quarters so that she may ponder the meaning of life and meditate on how best to deal with her brothers.
Bridget loves to be outdoors. In warmer weather, I would take them for walks around the neighborhood, and she would sit in the front seat of the triplet stroller (or wagon) and scream joyfully with her arms above her head as if she was on a roller coaster. She cursed the day it became too cold for us to take our walks. She came up to me, in the corral, and asked for me to pick her up. Once I did, she said to me, “Go outndpay?” In case you don’t speak two-year-old, that means, “Erica, my favorite babysitter, can we please go outside and play full of joy, and carefree-like, all afternoon?”
I had to say, “I’m sorry Bridget honey, it’s too cold to go out and play!” she pouted and downcast her eyes, saying quietly, “Go outndpaaaa-aaaay…” When I said no again, she shook her fist at the heavens. I distracted her with an Elmo tape.
Every week, when I feed them their feast of pizza, pretzels, and milk, Bridget and I have girl time – yes, it’s time for our pizza facials! She starts with herself, carefully applying tomato on her face, starting around the mouth and nose and working towards the chin and forehead (she seems to have mastered the upward circular strokes required of the facial process. Very impressive, for such a young age).
Then she will motion me to come near her. While Christopher gives me the most hugs, Bridget gives me the most kisses, puckering her lips and saying, “Mmmmmmmmm” until you bend down and kiss her. She loves to kiss me when she has her pizza facial mask on. And because I can’t resist any of these kids, I, too, end up with pizza on my nose or cheeks, and sometimes on my shirt.
And it is Dylan who has given me my treasured nickname that I wear proudly. One day, as I was giving the triplets their feast and putting Christopher and Bridget in their high chairs (I had to make sure that Christopher went before Dylan because he was still hurting over my earlier nap time snub), Dylan was in the corral by himself. “Eckowa!” I heard him call out. Then louder: “ECKOWA!”
I snuck back to the corral and peaked in at Dylan. “ECKOWA!” he shouted again. Then he saw me in the corner and he said, “Oh!” and outstretched his arms so I could pick him up to bring him in to the feast. That’s when I realized (yes, I was slow here) that he was calling ME! That he couldn’t pronounce Erica, and it came out Eckowa. “Are you saying ‘Erica?’” I asked him.
“Eckowa!” he said, and then tried to grab his sister’s milk. It was so sweet! Dylan is wonderful, but a few weeks before he had upset me, and I think this was his way of making it up to me. You see, Dylan is the first two year old ever to play a practical joke on a 30 year old! It’s true.
We had just come back from our afternoon constitutionals. I grabbed Christopher and Bridget and put them in the corral. Behind me, I heard Dylan’s footfalls. I turned around, just in time to see… nothing. Dylan was gone.
Time to panic.
I could see the headlines now: “Clueless babysitter loses two year old – parents kill her” or “Two year old found wondering in Wildwood – says babysitter neglected him.” I alerted the father, who surprised me by not killing me, and I continued looking around for Dylan. After what seemed like twenty minutes but was probably only a minute, I found him hiding behind the corral in the dining room. He had a smile on his face that said, “Haha! I got you! Let’s do it again!” and then he pointed at me and laughed. I finished having my heart attack. But I forgave him when he gave me a hug and a kiss goodbye that day.
Back to that first day I sat with them, after I had calmed myself, and them, down: I invented a game to cheer them up. It worked, and it allowed me to not move for a second and catch my breath. It’s called “Flying Triplets.” Each gets a turn “flying” in the air. Christopher laughs so hard his face turns red, Dylan screams with glee, and Bridget looks around with a smile on her face and takes it all in. When I put one down, they run to the back of the “line” and do it again. After the third turn each, they start to knock each other down. It usually turns into a laugh-fest.
And that is why I love to sit for them. When I am with them, and with MaryKate, I don’t even think about work stress, or school stress, or life stress; I’m just hanging out with my favorite kids, either watching Kim Possible with MaryKate (OK, so maybe I would do that if I was home, but it’s a good show!) or attempting to make the babies laugh. There is no better feeling than making THREE two-year-olds happy. Really, there isn’t! If you don’t believe me, you can take one of my shifts on Sunday! Just remember to watch Dylan near open doors, try to take Bridget outside for her roller coaster ride, and try not to be too affected by Christopher’s pouting. It won’t work if you look him in the eye – you’ll heart will melt.
