More Than Double

        Does it seem odd that after seventeen months into mothering twins, it has started to feel really hard that there are two of them? Maybe it's because, for a long time, having twins meant that the chores and the challenges were mostly just doubled: twice as many night nursings, twice as many diapers, twice as many babies to console and cart around. But now, just as the girls are getting easier in some ways-- they feed themselves, wet fewer diapers, can transport themselves more reliably-- I'm feeling the challenge of mothering multiples in other ways. It's hard not to point fingers. Dee Dee is a beast, stealing toys and sippy cups, knocking Sylvia down and piling on top of her, taking Sylvia's shoe and making a run for it with an evil little grin before tossing it down the stairs. But even sweet little Sylvie dishes it out, pulling her sister's hair with a vengeance, as if to make up for all the times Dee Dee kicked her in the head in utero. And even when they're not intentionally pissing each other off, there is still the simple fact that there are two of them and one of me. Sylvia will be screaming her head off, only relenting when I get out the Ergo and resign myself to hauling her around. Ah, a moment of peace! But when Dee Dee sees her sister in the Ergo, she's irate. She clings to my leg and howls: "Up! Up!" Sylvia is content and quiet now; I imagine her looking down at her crying sister with a smug little grin. Down Sylvia goes-- I'll just switch them out, I think-- but the moment her feet hit the floor she's howling again. Now, instead of one screaming baby, I've got two.

       And so it goes. Sylvia will be perfectly content on my hip, but the moment Dee Dee gets in the swing, she's suddenly desperate to swing, too. Dee Dee will want nothing more than to push the ball around in the little stroller, until her sister gets on the bike. Then, mayhem. Do they make tandem tricycles, I wonder? If they do, I'm sure the girls would find a way to make it not work. In the side to side stroller, they hit and flap at each other until one or both are in tears. When one's in front of the other, it's the hair pulling again.

        The prospect of weaning, daunting in itself, suddenly feels doubly so. The other day, the girls and I were hanging out in the sandbox while Clayton and Townes jumped on the new trampoline. Dee Dee was merrily filling a bucket of sand; Sylvia was in a constant state of fuss. Finally, her shrill and constant refrain of "No! No! No! No!" wore me down, and I offered her my breast. Within seconds, Dee Dee had dropped her shovel and barrelled over. And if she was a nuisance while I was nursing her sister, grunting and demanding, when Sylvia finished and was finally content to sit quietly in my lap, Dee Dee ramped it up. She knew it was her turn, and she wouldn't relent. Gently, I set Sylvia down in the sandbox, hoping that mama's milk had worked its magic. She was screaming again even before Dee Dee could dive into my lap. I tried bringing her onto my knee while Dee Dee nursed, but that wasn't good enough. For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to have just one toddler. In that moment, I could have nursed and cuddled Sylvia indefinitely. I could have moved her onto my back and trimmed the hedge or thinned the lettuce or simply walked around the yard in peace. I think back to my ennui when Clayton was a baby-- it certainly didn't feel like a piece of cake back then. I have a vivid image of myself, cooking dinner with Clayton on my back in the Ergo, willing him to sleep with every once of my being, wearily resigned to the fact that I'd be stuck carrying his thirty plus pounds around for the next hour and a bit. I didn't know how good I had it. But isn't that always the way?

       A few weeks ago, a paperback at the used book store caught my eye. It's called High Heels to Bunny Slippers and it's part memoir, part self-help, written by a woman who left her career to care for her young children full time. It is not the book I would have written-- a whole chapter is devoted to the perils of daycare-- but parts of it definitely resonate. She writes of finding herself especially resentful of the perks of her husband's job: the travel, the lunches with coworkers, the freedom to leave the house unencumbered. But then she reminds herself that her "job" has its perks, too. Although the perks she identifies are not mine (she sleeps later than her husband, and has an hour or two while her youngest son naps to read or write-- ah, one can dream!), still I found myself thinking, "Of course!" I, too, often envy Don his ten-minute, kid-free commute, his faculty breakfasts, the camaraderie he has with his co-workers. But I've got perks, too. I get to be outside a lot during the day. I can go to the gym. I have the freedom to structure the day the way I want.

       That last paragraph was not meant to be a complete non sequitur. It's just a reminder to myself how much our attitudes about something are determined by what we choose to focus on. Sure, having three little kids is harder than having two. Even as I write this, I find myself watching with envy the families of four who come into the bakery, each parent with a child in arms, making it look so easy. But being able to go one-on-one defense with their kids is their perk. Having twins has its own. Like when Dee Dee comes with me to get Sylvia up from her nap, sees her in her crib, and enthusiastically announces, "Baby!" Or when Sylvia takes morsels from her tray to give to her sister, or Dee Dee offers Sylvia a toy when she's in tears. There are so many, really. They kiss each other with exaggerated smacks, make each other laugh, bounce up in down in opposite ends of the wagon, stumble around together on the trampoline. And even when they inspire each other to mischief-- I'm embarrassed by how many times I've looked over to find them both standing up on the kitchen table, their chubby arms plunged into the cereal boxes, pleased as punch with themselves-- it's pretty darn cute.

        I remember how I talked the midwife into doing an ultrasound on my first prenatal visit. "I just want to be reassured I'm not having twins," I'd said.

      "Yep," she said nonchalantly as she prodded me with the wand. "There's another one. Let's see if there are any more."

       "Oh shit!" I said. "Oh shit."

        But of course I came around. I'm lucky, I told myself. Not everyone gets a chance to have this experience, and I do. It may be double the trouble at times, but it's my path. There are rocks and troughs and times when the ascent is so hard I wish I could have stuck to the flat, but, oh, what a view!