A two and a three year old are not to be trifled with. They are not nothing. They are elemental forces of nature, moving from one hemisphere of the home to the next. None are safe. The Raccoon and the yellow-haired child, creatures of destruction and curiosity, move with deliberation. All things must be learned hands-on, and no thing shall be left unturned lest they be deprived of their precious knowing.
They drink all my soda, and for that, even when they are 80 and I am 115, they are indebted to me. What is more, they consume large amounts of pizza. I wake some nights in a cold sweat thinking of it.
The yellow-haired child spends the day plotting in her panties while the Raccoon forages for sticks and steel bars.
They root for Captain Hook.
It is true that I am not without my own powers. I have data on these creatures: I know their weaknesses, their greatest desires, their fears; I know where they are ticklish. And I am bigger - for now that is sometimes sufficient. But these urchins are intelligent and their data changes with the rapidity of the Raccoon's diapers.
I wake some nights in a cold sweat.
I sit hear, typing furiously, wondering what they're doing now, afraid of what they're doing downstairs. Three eyebrow hairs pop into gray thinking of it. I am frightened. Where is their mother?
Drums, drums in the deep. They are coming. I cannot get out.