When you've got twins, it's almost impossible not to compare them. Not because you don't respect their individuality or because you think of them as a unit, but simply because they're always both there. You can't help but see them in reference and relation to each other, and it inevitably affects your perception of their personalities and tendencies. For example, I don't know that I'd think of Elsa as an outgoing baby if I didn't have the reference point of Clio, who is a little more hesitant with strangers. And I might not think Clio was a particular refined eater if not for the contrast of Miss Elsa Margaret - reclining - like - a - Roman - Emperor - with - her - fist - in - her - mouth - and - squash - on - her - eyebrows - Moock.
Still, they are individuals, and I do think of them and love them as such. And so, in that spirit, I'd like to dedicate today's post to Elsa, without making any contrasting references to -- you know. That other one. Who will get the spotlight in a subsequent post.
We didn't exactly name Elsa for the lioness in Born Free, but we might as well have. The girl is fierce, determined, strong. You don't want to get in her way. When I was pregnant, she was initially Twin B -- that is, the one farther from the cervix, slated to be born second. But Elsa wanted none of that. By my 18 week ultrasound, she and Clio had switched places, making Elsa Twin A, in position to be the firstborn. It was her density. I mean, her destiny.
I felt a special bond with Elsa during the birthing process, knowing she was coming first, paving the way. She and I were in it together, both struggling through this crazy, intense experience. Her umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck, making for a tricky passage, and each time I contracted and later, each time I pushed, her heartbeat dipped precariously. It was more than a bit harrowing. At one point during the pushing phase, not satisfied that we were making fast enough progress, the doctor said we'd need to go to suction, and if that didn't work, a C-section. Well, that did it. On the very next push, Elsa practically popped out like a champagne cork.
OK, that's a complete lie; she did nothing of the sort. But we did start making some serious progress. I like to think that she, like me, heard the words "C-section," thought "hell no!" and redoubled her efforts. ("Here, maybe if I just turn a little this way....does that help?") We did it, Elsa and me. She was a little dazed as she was born, quiet and pale, and had to be taken to Transitional Care for a few hours, but she recovered just fine.
Ever since then, she's been the picture of health, growing fat and tall and strong. She was rolling over onto her stomach at 5 months, and now she can sit up on her own for short periods of time. She's below the 50th percentile for weight (though you wouldn't know it to look at her big ole thighs and chubby cheeks) but in the 75th percentile for length. And her feet -- my God, her feet. They're long and thin like a rabbit's (or her father's, if you like) and I think it's safe to say that as a teenager, she will never be able to borrow my (size 6-1/2) shoes. This is, I think, a good thing.
When Elsa is focused on a task, she is dead serious. In her exersaucer, she's like a scientist in her lab, deeply absorbed in whatever she's doing: pushing the button on the little safari truck to make the music play, chewing on the rubber elephant, spinning the clear plastic ball with the fish in it. But then, if she's inclined, she'll suddenly look up at you and beam, with a smile so pure and joyful and delighted, you half expect birds to start tweeting and a choir to start singing and all the rest.
Elsa is also inclined to get extremely frustrated by her limitations. For example, she wants very badly to crawl, and is very close, but it clearly pisses her off that she can't quite do it yet. She can get on her knees with her butt up in the air, and she can push up on her arms, but she hasn't figured out how to do both at once. She'll wriggle in a circle, and sort of shimmy forward, trying to get her hands on toys just out of reach. At first she'll do this quietly, then grunting with effort, and finally whining and even crying. We'll eventually "rescue" her -- turn her over or pick her up, or do something else with her. But put her back down, and within seconds she'll be at it again. Determination, thy name is Elsa.
Finally, it must be said that Elsa is a bit of a drama queen. When she cries, you'd think someone had just ripped her still beating heart out of her body. Her eyes become tiny slits and her face goes red and she shrie-e-e-e-eks! And then if things are really bad -- like you want her to take a nap, and she really, really doesn't want to, but is really, really tired -- she shifts into that awful silent screaming, so intense and breathless that there's no sound except for clicking. Oh, the misery! You think: I'm torturing her! I'm scarring her for life! So you pick her up or roll her over or give her her pacifier and seconds later she's playing with her feet and smiling at you, with this coy little "ha ha, gotcha," twinkle in her eyes.
Look out boys. (Or girls). This one's gonna be a heartbreaker.
