My wife Emily and 3 year-old daughter Alice went on a little out-of-town trip yesterday. They were gone for 24 hours. For the first time in their short lives, our 11 month-old twins Stuart and Anna Charlotte were entrusted to me overnight. Mommy said I could do it.

Here’s how it went: The car rolled out of the driveway at 3:30 pm yesterday. While Mommy was gone, I changed 13 diapers (including one at 2 a.m. and one today I refer to only as the Poopy That Shall Not Be Named), rescued Stuart from inside of the dishwasher, refereed a number of surprisingly vicious proto-toddler disputes, administered 6 doses of antibiotic (two of which were for me), did 4 loads of laundry, got bitten, tried (and failed) to keep the twins from turning our house into a disaster relief area, lost Stuart for awhile, managed to produce 3 full bags of trash, gave 10 bottles of milk, pulled Anna Charlotte’s head out of a number of places where she had gotten it stuck, went through 6 jars of baby food and a cannister of Lil’ Snackums, did 2 loads of dishes, cleaned up more different kinds of substances from the floor than I care to count, suctioned a couple of stopped up baby noses, managed to let Anna Charlotte get a bruise on her forehead the origins of which are still a mystery, and sang & danced around the kitchen like a fool to ward off baby hunger pangs while getting supper ready.

What I did not do: Drop a baby, let a baby crawl into the street, have to call 911, let something heavy fall on a baby, take a shower, let a baby eat rocks, get out of my pajamas, leave the house, or go crazy (mostly).

Verdict: Success, just barely.