Where are my kids?

About a week ago my kids disappeared. In their places, I found a couple of stereotypical two-year-olds. You know, the "terrible" kind.

I spend most of the day telling them to stop hitting. The game goes like this: Connor smacks Isaac on the head or in the face. Isaac laughs. Connor does it again. Isaac laughs. This continues until it hurts or until Isaac decides he doesn't want to be hit anymore. Isaac cries, or yells, or hits back (or all three). Now, don't go thinking that Connor is a big bully. You can switch the names for an equally accurate story.

They have also recently developed an allergy to sharing. Exposure usually results in agonized screams, crying, and falling on the floor. Isaac believes the cure for this allergy is Time Out. Recently, when he wanted a toy that Connor had, and Connor would not give it to him, Isaac ordered Connor to go to Time Out.

Both of these stories provide sound evidence that the children living in my house are not mine. I would appreciate it if the person who kidnapped my children would return them ASAP!