Yesterday, two things happened that made me think I should call the hospital to see if any other parents who delivered at the time we did have reported possibly swapped babies.
I know that thanks to the secret decoder bracelets, triple-check confirmation at every hand off and the baby LoJack clip on the umbilical that these kids are ours. They were as closely tracked as nuclear warhead, maybe more closely.
I was preparing dinner in the kitchen, opening packages, chopping vegetables and so on, so I left our pullout cupboard where our trash can is pulled out. That way, every time I had a tip from a carrot stick to pitch, I could just toss it in. Jewel came toddling into the kitchen, however, marched straight over and slammed that cupboard.
“Hey,” I said. “I was using that.”
She didn’t even look over her shoulder at me as she marched off to clean up the next mess she found. Somewhere out there, some OCD parents have a PigPen that they’re wondering how to handle.
And then, as I was eating a quesadilla, 3B walked up and announced that he was hungry, despite having finished dinner 10 minutes prior. Before I could ask, he looked at the salsa and sour cream atop my meal and announced, “And I don’t want any of that because I’ll never eat pizza.”
OK, first off, pal, it’s a quesadilla, which is flat bread, cheese, toppings and salsa, not pizza, which is flat bread, cheese, toppings and sauce. Second, somewhere out there, some communist parents have a pizza eating machine child that they’re wondering how to handle…because who doesn’t love pizza?
But then I remember that I saw these two beautiful babies being born, and I know that for all the tracking technology they were the brutes of the nursery and there was no mistaking them–seriously, I did wonder, but then I walked down the row…teeny baby, tiny baby, teeny baby, ohgoodlord my baby.
Besides, their beautiful faces are a dead giveaway that they’re Mama’s and the stubborn old goat gene is a dead giveaway that they’re mine.