They were crawling the walls, almost, but not quite, literally. And arguing, which is now their normal means of communication, constant bickering pausing only long enough to make a disgusted face at the other which sends them into riotous laughter, and then they are right back at it.
The woman behind the counter looked at me, "are they yours?", as she gestured in their general direction, like people at the dog beach wave towards Eleanor. Not at all a "oh they're so cute, are they yours?" wave, but one of trepidation and maybe, horror.
Exhausted I proudly said yes, and then asked them to remove their small sticky noses from the glass display cabinet.
She had her God children last week, two of them, four and six, for five days. Her patience was shot, her fuse was short, she felt bad for the coworkers left to deal with her, she could not imagine how any sane person could manage one child, much less two. She was tired.
It is different when they are your own, not that they don't wear you down just as much, maybe even a bit more, but you are wholly vested in the end result, and there is some salvation in that. Even late in the day, when they have just knocked an entire row of bread off the table at the farmer's market, when they are soaked with rain water, not at all clean and deeply engaged in a heated battle over the correct lyrics to "Yes We Have No Bananas". Even then they are all mine.
But deep love for the children aside, where are these Godparents that take children for five days?