Twinfamy

“Hey… Wait a minute… Are they… twins?”

I cringed internally while sporting a winning fake smile.

It’s unavoidable.

No matter where we go or what we do, people continue to be intrigued by the novelty that is having twins.

I know I shouldn’t blame them. The realist in me reminds me that twins just aren’t something people see every day, so I do my best to cut them a little slack.

However, for some reason, my having twins automatically issues an invitation for a surprising majority of complete strangers to walk up to us, interrupt whatever we’re doing, and expect me to answer questions about my kids, as if I’m rolling a mobile freak show booth through the grocery store. “Ask me anything!” boasts a Jumbotron visible to everyone but me. “It’s not like I’m trying to figure out which aisle the bastard store manager moved the diapers to while my son throws Cheerios at my face or anything. No, seriously, I want nothing more than to make small talk right now with someone I will never see again while my daughter sits in the wet diaper I need to change as soon as I check out.”

Some of the most popular inquiries I receive during these impromptu press conferences include:

“Do they play together?” (No, although they live in the same house, have the same parents, and do everything together, they do not ever play together. In fact, I don’t even think they’ve met each other.)

“Do they have their own language?” (Yes. We call it English.)

“How far apart were they born?” (Just a few feet. It was in the same room.)

And, of course, my personal favorite:

“Are they identical?” (Please don’t make me explain to you why penises are not identical to vaginas.)

As much as I would love to fire these zingers back at my interviewers, nine times out of ten I refrain, smile, and answer politely in the interest of not being an asshole. Besides, for all I know, this could be a real-life Dexter Morgan who will follow my kids and me into the parking lot and inflict a ridiculously uncalled-for overreaction. Being hilarious just isn’t that important to me.

After almost two years of this bearded-lady-caliber celebrity status, I often assume I’ve heard it all, but then, every once in a while, someone surprises me.

Which brings us to this.

We were out on the playground at the Twins’ parent-toddler class when one of the mothers I’d been chatting with had just realized I’d brought twice the progeny as they both ran up to me to offer me the dirt clods they’d found in the school’s garden.

“Hey… Wait a minute… Are they… twins?”

I cringed internally while sporting a winning fake smile.

“Yeah,” I beamed. Here we go. “They are.”

“Wow,” she mused. We had just been discussing the difficult time she’d been having with her son’s disobedience, and I’d made no mention that I was not having the same issues with either of my two kids, for I am an excellent listener.

“Do they play together?” she asked.

“Yes. Yes, they do.” Grrr…

“Huh. I guess in some ways having twins is a lot harder, but also a lot easier.”

I smiled and nodded, but then actually processed it. Wait a minute. Did she just say having twins is easier than one kid? 

Unable to help myself, I replied, “Please, tell me how it’s easier.” She’d captivated me. I needed to know. And I wasn’t doing this with guns blazing, ready to shoot down whatever she said. I’m sure that was part of it, but at the same time, I was earnestly interested. Perhaps she’d offer insight that would help me put my daily life into perspective. Maybe she was a genius. She kind of looked like Yoda, so there was that, too.

“Well,” she said, “I guess because, like you said, they can play together and entertain each other…”

I nodded silently. Fair enough. I forgave the fact that she no doubt had a skewed vision of what it’s like when the Twins actually do play together. While they find countless ways to “entertain each other,” in no way is the parent in charge free to roam about the cabin for too long. I can usually count on about 90 seconds before the World Toddler Wrestling Federation springs from a disagreement over a misplaced puzzle piece or toy pried from a sibling’s death grip. Comparatively, on the rare occasions when one of my children has woken from a nap and the other is still asleep, I’ve found entertaining a single child to be a nice break from normalcy. I can focus my full attention on my companion and not have to tell a third party to put anything down or stop throwing things. Perhaps my natural showmanship makes it easier for me, but given my regular parenting regiment, I just don’t find occupying only one child at a time very challenging. Maybe she should learn how to jump her motorcycle over a shark. That always gets my kids’ attention.

Regardless, she had a point. Sure, it’s like a UFC fight at the moment, but eventually my kids will play together with relatively fewer injuries and meltdowns.

“…And then there’s…” she continued.

WaitwaitwaitWAIT! Is there more? Does she have two reasons? Go on, O Jungle Gym Oracle! The rubberized floor is yours!

“…Well…” She thought for a moment, and then switched gears. “At the same time, I guess it’d be pretty hard, too, having twice the diapers, twice the meals, twice the teething…”

And then she sort of trailed off, realizing what she’d walked into…a freaking wall.

I’ll admit it–I was disappointed. Perhaps my expectations were slightly elevated.

Witty retorts flooded my brain, but I ignored my inner Larry David and just let her comments hang in the air. After all, she’d already negated herself, and really, you had to love her for trying.

As if on cue to break the awkward silence, my daughter had returned and was attempting to mount the ride-on dump truck at my feet. “You wanna ride the truck, Baby Girl?” I asked, squatting to help her on.

While I pushed my daughter around in the truck, I couldn’t help hoping I’d helped the Artist Formerly Known As The Jungle Gym Oracle see that the grass on my side wasn’t as green as she’d originally envisioned, possibly even sending her home with the perspective that keeping her son entertained is not all that daunting compared to performing twice the parenting-related duties.

I’ll admit I occasionally shine my “Yes, But I Have Twins” Badge in front of other parents, but I think to some extent my wife and I have earned that with countless sleepless nights those first few months, several quadruple ear infections, and enduring idiotic grocery store small talk. Although, yes, I don’t have the personal experience of raising a singleton to compare to my current situation, I can tell you we work our asses off.

Which is why, if I ever meet a parent of triplets, quadruplets, quintuplets, or beyond, I will never make the argument that they have it easier.

Because I have no idea.

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