Two are better than one

“Jontan, I loves you,” said the small girl, busily arranging lego pieces into a tank trap at the bedroom door.
“Cattin, I loves you too,” replied the small boy as he stirred up a paste of mud and water in the washbasin.
“Us don’ mind if we’re naughty, do we?”

And so it began.

Rearranging the kitchen, putting groceries to the back of the saucepan cupboard, bread in the rubbish bin, hiding milk under the table.
Putting salt in the sugar bowl.
Daubing naked bodies with mud and paint, then dancing in the garden as neighbours arrived home from work.
Draping furniture with sheets and blankets to make a refugee camp: removing all light bulbs in the room to make it authentic. Leaving it for their father to stumble into when he arrived home from the pub.
Walking along the top of the neighbour’s wall, trying to see through bathroom and bedroom windows. Choosing their time carefully.
Climbing through hedges, blacked up commando-style, after dark, to retrieve errant footballs.
Hiding in trees, then suddenly dangling upside down to swing above the head of an unsuspecting passer-by.
Pretending, until Jonathan’s voice broke, to be the other twin speaking on the phone. Agreeing to requests on the twin’s behalf.

Enjoying the ensuing chaos.

There was nothing I could do about it all. Two are better than one – and boy, did they get the better of me.

I never had any more children.