There’s two to wash, there’s two to dry,
There’s two who argue, there’s two who cry.
One’s in the mud having a ball,
The other holds a crayon, another marked wall.
Some days seem endless, my patience grows thin.
Why was I chosen to be a mother of twins?
The answer comes clear at the end of each day,
As I tuck them in bed and to myself say,
There’s two to kiss, there’s two to hug,
And best of all, there’s two to love!