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As I write this, my babies are chillin’ out on the floor with a bowl of dry cereal and their favorite teevee show. At least they are supposed to be chillin’ out, in preparation for their nap.

But moments ago, they decided that feeding themselves was not really all that entertaining. In order to increase the fun, they began feeding each other while giggling enthusiastically at each bite; the most amusing bites seemed to be the ones where someone’s fingers got nipped.

Charming.

Then they upped the ante by taking turns sticking their tongues into the bowl and scooping up pieces, which might sound disgusting to anyone else, but in my house it’s pretty much accepted that the babies will share toys, baths, mommy’s attention and all germs.

These two run roughshod over the house. They leave behind them trails of toys, crumbs, giggles, unusual smells and sometimes boogers. Mostly they bring the boogers to me, as one of my primary functions seems to be the official collector of boogers.

I cannot leave magazines out or they will rip them apart. Crumbs from the floor they will eat without compunction. Toys built to withstand the rigors of normal children rather than my two super-powered babies are dismantled in moments. I’ve installed locks, gates and other impediments on every possible danger.

As in a prison, my table is bolted down (I’m not making this up). I wish I had a way of immobilizing the chairs too, as these are used in various crimes involving climbing and spiriting away things left out on the kitchen counter. If only someone made a boot for chairs!

They suck my energy; the tireder I get, the more rambunctious they seem to become. Then when they wake each other up in the morning (the eldest baby rises first and calls, “Bay-bay! BAY-BAY!” across the room until her sibling pops up his head), they rattle their crib bars in a quest for freedom while I’m still trying to get my eyes to open.

And yet I can’t be anything but thankful for their energy and creativity. Each time I take them for well-baby visits, the doctor compliments me on their happy demeanors. When she tests them for developmental progress, they do fine on most things and very well on the rest.

The little one can jump like a child many months further along—or like a frog, depending on how you look at it. The bigger one knows her letters and colors already. The little one even followed directions the doctor gave him (not that he does this at home, natch), much to her amazement.

In short, they are perfectly normal children, and for this I am grateful.

I worried about them, especially the younger one, as I knew some of the stresses their mother was under while she carried them, and I knew some of the not-so-healthy ways she dealt with her stresses. If I believed still in miracles, I’d say it was a miracle that these babies (especially the younger one) seem to be healthy. If I still believed that God controls these things, I’d thank God that they do so well.

As it is, I’ll ponder the amazingly resilient nature of small children. I’ll be grateful in an open-ended way that they are ok. I’ll hope that their good spirits and developmental milestones continue unabated.

I could keep going about how amazingly stupendously incredibly wonderful these children are, but the eldest baby has just trapped her brother in an overturned laundry basket upon which she is now standing in triumph. He was amused by this a moment ago, but now his patience is at an end and he must be rescued.

I’m sure one of them has some boogers to hand over to me too.