Game on, people. It's war. Via the monitor, I heard the girls softly conspiring and egging each other on: "Get out of crib.... right now!" one demanded of the other. ("Right now" is currently their favorite expression. It's cute when they're not climbing out of their cribs "right now.") I'm pretty sure I know which one is the instigator (Twin A aka The Orange Skinny One, on the right) and I plan on punishing her in a passive aggressive way when she's a teenager so that she can tell her therapist she has no idea why I'm so angry or even if I'm angry.
By the time I got down there, they had moved their bedtime necessities (blankies and pacis) along with themselves into the laundry room where they pretended to be asleep when I entered. Then laughed like hyenas because apparently they think they're the female incarnation of The Smothers Brothers.
I a) took a photo, then b) placed them back in their cribs with nary a word. I read somewhere that negative reinforcement is even worse than snapping a photo so you should say nothing at all. I am currently sitting in my kitchen giving myself a pep talk and anxiously awaiting Round 2. They might win a battle here and there but they will not win this war. I am going to go watch a few episodes of Band of Brothers to psyche myself up for what may be a long, somber series of sleepless nights. Not to diminish the importance of World War II, but in my cushy little world I might as well be General Patton drawing up the strategy for storming the beach at Normandy. (If this analogy is historically incorrect, I don't want to know. If I wanted a history lesson I would have attended class in college.)
People, my sanity is already hanging from a proverbial thread. I will, however, blog from the loony bin provided they don't put me in a straight jacket or hook me up to some machine that renders me like Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
Pray for me. If you're into that sort of thing.