Make Way For Ducklings

So at any moment, I am prepared to drop anything that I am in the middle of doing, thinking, planning, folding, washing, typing, tidying, organizing to read, play, jump, sing, cuddle, fix, look or listen. I am a mom. Two years and 10 months and two who are ten months. My life is almost entirely devoted to the activity of being a mom. So this morning when the twins went for their short morning nap, I was planning on exercising, to promote the eternal pursuit of the pre-pregnancy body. I should have known better. Instead I saw Sam sitting with a book. We flipped through the entire book, 308 pages of 44 stories, until he announced, "I read the whole thing all by myself. You can read on, Mommy". This is always an iffy statement, because it may mean that he wants me to read to him, or alternately he could just be giving my an assignment as he takes off in another direction. Today it was the former.

He chose "Make Way For Ducklings", the Robert McCloskey classic that has Mr. & Mrs. Mallard hunting for a place to raise their ducklings. Mr. Mallard chooses lots of spots that the prickly Mrs. Mallard nixes. The human equivalent of a pregnant couple driving through the 'burbs with the man saying, "how about this one? good yard, new siding, big garage." and the woman, patting her belly saying, "the sidewalk is cracked, the porch is too small, and the baby will definitely eat the paint chipping from the neighbors house". They finally settle on an acceptable spot on the Charles River (a woman with my taste!) and the babies are born. Cleverly named "Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack and Quack", Mr. & Mrs. Mallard revel in their little miracle until he gets wanderlust and goes exploring. Are you kidding me?! I don't even like when my husband Scott stops for a haircut on the way home from work! Mrs. Mallard raises the children, who I am forced to name easily 14x more than they are actually named in the book for the sake of pleasing Sam. So I bounce through the ducklings names *again* only to realize that I am not trying to reach the end of the story, but trying to get Sam to belly-laugh uncontrollably again with the silly names and by channeling the voice of a salty Boston policeman.

At the risk of an anti-climactic first posting, the twins are both awake, I haven't exercised, Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends have derailed and its lunchtime.