Parenthood is basically like being a zookeeper if the animals could teleport, read minds, and occasionally change species—except zookeepers get lunch breaks and protective gear. No manual on earth covers “what to do when your supernatural offspring develop an unholy fascination with electrical outlets” or “how to explain to your mate why the sofa now resembles a crime scene involving tomato sauce and something that was definitely not tomato sauce.” I was running on fumes, caffeine, and the stubborn determination not to be outsmarted by beings who couldn’t pronounce “consequential thinking” but had somehow mastered the art of synchronized disaster.
My morning had started with what I now recognized as the ominous calm before the storm—both twins sleeping in, giving me a blissful seventeen
