“Mama, soap in my eyes!” Rowan protested, and I quickly rinsed his hair, trying to keep my expression normal instead of ‘holy shit my kid has superhuman hearing.’
“Sorry, buddy. All done.”
I got them dried and into pajamas, Rowan insisting on smelling each pair before choosing the dinosaur ones. Because apparently his nose needed to approve his clothing choices now. Thea picked her unicorn set, because she was nothing if not consistent in her magical creature obsession.
Dinner was spaghetti because Tuesday meant spaghetti in the Winters household. Don’t mess with tradition, or toddlers. We gathered around our small kitchen table, Thea attacking hers like it had personally offended her ancestors, while Rowan carefully wound each bite like he was performing surgery.
“Mama, can we have ice cream?” Thea asked around a mouthful that would make a chipmunk proud.
“If you eat your vegetables.”
She stabbed at her green beans with determination that would make a samurai proud, and that’s when it happened. The fork bent. Not a little give, not a slight curve, but a full ninety-degree angle that defied the laws of physics and my sanity.
“Oops,” she said, trying to straighten it with her fingers. The metal groaned in protest. “Hungry, Mama.”
I stared at the mangled utensil, mentally adding it to my collection of bent cutlery. At this rate, I’d need to buy stock in a silverware company.
“Here, baby,” I managed, handing her a new fork. “Remember, forks are friends, not enemies to be destroyed.”
“I’m always gentle,” she said, which was such a spectacular lie that even Rowan looked up from his surgical spaghetti procedure to give her a look.
“Thea broke another one,” he observed, because siblings were born to rat each other out.
“Tattletale,” she shot back.
“Okay, okay. Finish your dinner, both of you. Before Thea declares war on the rest of our utensils.”
They cleaned their plates, even the vegetables that Thea had apparently forgiven for existing, and I let them have small bowls of vanilla ice cream. Watching them eat dessert with the same intensity they brought to everything else, I felt that familiar mix of love and terror that seemed to define my existence these days.
“Bath made me tired,” Thea announced when she finished, rubbing her eyes.
“Then let’s get ready for bed, sweetie.”
Teeth brushing became its own adventure when Thea snapped her toothbrush in half. Her third one this month. At this rate, I’d need a bulk supplier.
“Too strong again?” I asked, pulling out a spare from my stash.
“Sorry, Mama.”
“It’s okay, baby. You’re just growing so fast.”
We settled into Rowan’s bed for stories, because they always ended up together anyway. Why fight the inevitable? Three books later, they were both yawning.
“One more?” Rowan asked hopefully.
“You said that two books ago.”
“Please?”
But Thea was already asleep, curled against her brother’s side like a tiny, exhausted koala. I kissed them both, tucking the blanket around them.
“Night, Mama,” Rowan whispered. “Love you.”
“Love you too, baby. Try not to develop any new superpowers overnight.”
I left their door cracked. In the kitchen, I poured myself a generous glass of wine and opened my laptop. The search history from the past few weeks stared back at me like evidence of my declining sanity.
“Children with unusual strength” brought up superhero wikis and fitness programs for toddler athletes.
