January 21, 2011
In Philadelphia, the closest boy in age to my seven year-old twins was a fourth grader who threw rocks at passing cars and dropped the occasional F-bomb.
It goes without saying that I was thrilled to learn that in my new neighborhood, there are six first-grade boys, one of whom still takes an afternoon nap.
My boys are in heaven. Most days after school, the group roams the neighborhood like feral cats, peering into people's trash cans, throwing footballs into trees, and going door-to-door begging for snacks. Approximately once every half hour, they all run through my house.
"I have a head ache when they are all in my kitchen," the mother of one of the boys admitted to me this afternoon. "When they are by themselves, everything is fine. But when they are together, they are just so hyper."
I can honestly say that I am not familiar with the serenity to which the woman implicitly alluded. I struggle to think of a moment in my sons' lives when they are not hyper.
My brother, who has two year-old triplets, put it best: having multiples is like having friends over all of the time.
It's great, but is an experience that often requires medication to survive.