Twin Troublemakers Only a Mother Could Love

I’m on my way to work the other day when a young mother hustles and bustles her two little kids onto the train at L’Enfant Plaza. A boy about 4—his name’s Jeremiah, I later learn—and a girl no more than 2; matching jumpsuits to boot.

Mom has the girl in her arms and directs the boy to the seat next to me. As Mom sits down, the girl’s foot swings past me and brushes my leg. “Watch your feet,” Mom tells the girl. “Tell the nice man you’re sorry.”

My eyes shift. The little one’s not sorry. Not in the least.

Instead, she takes another swing at me, grinning broader than you’d think her perfect round face could spread. Mom fusses again. Daughter smiles and this time adds a delighted cackle.

After the third swipe at my leg, Mom finally puts her daughter’s foot in a vice grip and apologizes once again. Unfortunately for me, the positioning of the girl’s legs means she’s tilted forward a bit, which only encourages her to reach five pudgy little digits toward the edge of my magazine. “No,” Mom says. “You can’t have that. That’s his book.” She makes another run at it while Mom fusses with Jeremiah’s juice cup (“You’re not thirsty, you’re just playin’, aren’t you?”), but Mom stops the little girl just in time.

By this time the train has started to empty out, and the kids desperately want to get out of their seats. I understand this perfectly. I didn’t sit down in a Metro seat until I was at least in double-digits; this is why I never give up my spot to a kid—the last thing on this planet they want is to sit down.

Mom tells both of them to hold onto the pole, but this lasts for all of about five seconds. The little girl waits for the train to start moving and uses that momentum to propel her toward the other end of the car faster than her tiny legs would carry her otherwise. You’ve never seen a woman move so fast; Mom was up off that seat and had the little one in her arms in an eye-blink. The girl tries again—unsuccessfully—at the next stop, this time going for the open doors.

Mom has them both corralled for the moment when it’s my turn to get up. “Good luck,” I tell her.

“Thanks,” she says with a grin that’s one-third beleaguered, one-third grateful for the acknowledgment of her plight, and one-third radiating with absolute and complete love for her two troublemakers in matching jumpsuits.

Sometimes, you know, riding the Metro ain’t half bad.