I was a typical little girl, playing Mommy to my little doll, pretending to feed it, quiet it, and change its little diaper. As an adult, I was so happy when child number one and number two came along, and even though I was naturally exhausted, I enjoyed my life. So, we decided to have a third child. But, I was shocked when the obstetrician informed us I was carrying twins. I complained to my mother, “If I’d known that was a possibility, I never would have gotten pregnant.” My mother, a pragmatist, said, “Hon, you always knew that was a possibility. It is for anyone who gets pregnant. Be happy they’re not triplets.” Of course, she wasn’t going to be the one who would be raising them. So, it was easy for her to take a more blasé approach to my new situation. Rambunctious doesn’t even begin to describe my boys. They are now two, going on eighteen year-olds at a frat house. I can barely keep up with them, much less my older children. The twins got into the pantry and spilled the flour on the floor so many times, despite all my efforts at discipline, that I now keep our food under lock and key. They hardly sleep. They don’t take naps, and I often have to put them to bed three or four times before they’ll finally stay in their room, although they’ll stay awake for hours, romping around, making messes and lots of noise. You’d think I’d get a break, since they sleep in until 10:30 in the morning, but you forget I have two older children, both of whom get up at 6. One night, as I blearily stumbled down the hall to the twins’ room once again, I stopped, listening. I could hear the boys playing in their room, but I also heard some odd bumping around downstairs. Had one of my older children developed the bad habit of late-night excursions? I used my Mom-Ninja skills to creep down the stairs as quietly as possible, to discover exactly who was doing what before they realized I was awake and they stopped doing whatever they were doing. Instead, I was greeted by two bright eyes peering out at me from the kitchen. They continued to stare at me as I stifled a scream, flipped on a light, grabbed the nearest weapon (my oldest son’s nerf sword), and strode resolutely toward the raccoon in my kitchen. It didn’t flinch. Not when I waved the sword under its nose, not when I hush-yelled, “Get outta here!”, and not when I threw an orange at it. Finally, as if to say, “I’m not scared of you, but I choose to leave,” it grabbed one more leftover hot dog that my daughter had left out on her plate on the counter, hopped down, and sauntered out the doggie door. On top of all my other daily worries and duties, I now had to raccoon-proof my house. I had no way of knowing how to do it, and even if I was successful at putting out some trap, who was to say that my dog or, worse yet, the twins, wouldn’t get caught in the raccoon trap? No, I determined there was no way I was going to add this responsibility to my list of daily chores. The only thing on my to-do list for the morning, before the twins woke up, was to call United Animal Control to get rid of the raccoon. The late-night drama is bad enough with the twins, no need to add wild animals into the mix.