Baby Squared : life with twins

When do twins understand the concept of twins?

Roper — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 02:44:00 GMT

Not that it's that important, really. But I've often been curious about when twin children are old enough to understand the fact that they're twins, and what that means (in broad strokes, anyway). Just as Alastair and I don't know any other way of parenting except the two-at-a-time sort, our girls don't know any kind of existence but the there-is-another-person-who's-always-around sort. They are peretually aware of each other, looking out for each other, competing with each other.

Meanwhile, most of their "friends" (i.e. the children of our friends) are singletons. But if they find this state of being strange (Where's the person you fight over stuff with all the time? Who's the other person in your room? You mean you get your parents all to yourself?) then they certainly don't give any indication. Now that the girls are more verbal, we've started talking about the fact that they're twins sometimes, usually in reference to other twins they sometimes play with: Ethan and Emmett are twins just like you! Milo and Amelia are twins, just like you! Etc. I wonder if, when they hang out with their singleton pals, they wonder where the "other one" is?

We recently got a book from the library called Hello, Twins, about a brother-sister pair of twins, Charlotte and Simon. It's not that great a book, really. I mean, it's fine -- just not terribly original or interesting. (Then again, Clio and Elsa love it, and they're the target audience, so who am I to judge?) Anyway, it's about how these two kids are very different, but they like each other just the way they are. And, oh yeah, they're twins.

What is interesting, is that since we've several times introduced the book by explaining that "Elsa and Clio are twins, just like Simon and Charlotte," they've started calling it the "Elsa and Clio book" and have identified with each of the characters: Elsa is Charlotte and Simon is Clio. I find it fascinating that they arrived at this on their own, since many of the characters' traits actually synch up fairly well with that comparison. Elsa is in some ways the "girlier" kid, and Clio the more tomboyish. (Except when they're not, of course.) Elsa likes to eat everything on her plate and Clio doesn't, just like Charlotte and Simon, respectively. Like Charlotte and Simon, Elsa likes to build things and Clio likes to knock them down. (Well, actually, they pretty much switch-hit on that one.)

Anyway. Once they understand that they're twins and what it means -- maybe when they're three or four? -- surely slightly dicier questions will follow: Does that mean we're exactly the same? Who's older? Do you like one of us better? And -- the trickiest one of all -- why are we twins? Not that this would be an issue for quite some time, but do parents eventually -- or ever -- tell their kids that they are the result of fertility treatments? It's obviously not on par with telling kids that they're adopted, but I do wonder if it's a difficult subject to broach, and one fraught with all kinds of existential questions for the child/children: was I "unnatural"? Do you wish you hadn't had both of us? Was one of us a mistake? Worst of all, when they're teenagers, they can actually throw a little weight behind that classic counter-argument: Hey, I didn't ask to be born!

I don't know how or if you're supposed to talk to your kids about the fact that they're twins, and what kind of effect this knowledge has on them. Our philosophy has always been to celebrate their individuality -- we don't dress them alike, we try very hard not to compare them, we rarely call them "the twins" -- and not make a big deal of the fact that they're twins. Hell, we live in the state with the highest twin birth rate in the country, so it's not like they're going to grow up feeling like either freaks of nature or wonders thereof. Maybe it will mean no more to their senses of self than being the oldest, youngest or middle child does.

But somehow, I suspect that the knowledge that you're a twin is a little more complicated than that; a little more puzzling, a little more influential. (This is probably even moreso for identical twins.) I just hope that, on the balance, it's a good thing.

The Reign of Clio

Roper — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 23:24:00 GMT

I am in need of some serious Babble reader advice, sympathy and/or commiseration here. We have the world's bossiest toddler living under our roof, and she's driving us bonkers. True, we have been basically trapped inside by snow for the past two-and-a-half days, so we're all feeling a little cabin-feverish. But this has been going on for some time: Clio has become incredibly high maintenance.

She wants to play with Play Doh now. She wants more milk now. She wants to watch the Baby Animal Songs DVD ("Baby ee-o") for the 4th time that day. She wants me to read Chickaboom to her for the 5th. But mostly, she orders us to hold her. We try to oblige when we can, but it's just not always possible. Making breakfast, going to the bathroom, playing with your other child, etc. are all fairly tricky when you've got a 26-lb. person in your arms. Unfortunately, Clio is also very specific about how and where she wants to be held: standing up vs. sitting down, with mommy vs. daddy, in the kitchen or in the living room. And she most definitely doesn't like to share a lap with Elsa. (I wonder if, in fact, this is all directly related to being a twin -- a sense of competition or jealousy, a need to have her individual desires met...)

When Clio doesn't get what she wants, she cries and yells and screams. If it gets really out of hand, we'll put her up in her crib for a while to chill out, but the effects are typically short-lived. Soon enough, she's yelling "Picka up! Picka up!" or "sitty mommy" (sit with mommy) again. We try to explain that Mommy/Daddy is doing something else and can't pick her up right now. We tell her she's a big girl who needs to walk / play / etc. by herself sometimes. We talk about taking turns so we can play with Elsa, too. We promise to pick her up later. We try to distract her with toys or books or milk or non-lethal kitchen utensils. We try pretty much everything. It works maybe 25% of the time.

My children are adorable and delightful and I love being their mother. But I have to admit: this is a tough phase. When faced with long stretches of time at home with the girls, both Alastair and I are finding it a real struggle. We want to give Clio the sense of control and closeness she's obviously craving, but we have another daughter who also needs our attention and has wants of her own (though usually not voiced as insistently, thank God). There are also meals to be cooked and dishes to be washed and phone calls to be made. We can't spend all our time bowing to the whims of Queen Clio. (Aside: Ooh! What a cool name for a queen!)

As a result of this, we're finding ourselves turning more frequently to videos and TV, since it's one of the few things that can keep both girls calm and contented for more than two minutes at a time. But I don't feel great about it. What I would really like is for Clio to be able to play on her own or with Elsa for even just ten minutes at a stretch without needing me to pick her up or put her on my lap in the middle of it. I would like her to be a little more flexible when it comes to what she does, where, and when. I would also like world peace and for someone to invent a car that runs on water.

Is there any hope? Or is this just typical 2-year old behavior that we'll have to weather as best we can?

Meanwhile, it's still snowing out there.

Embracing Chaos

Roper — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 14:36:00 GMT

I have always drawn a great deal of satisfaction from decorating and ordering the spaces I inhabit. As a child, my room was my sanctuary, and I loved being in it, door closed, among my books and games and knickknacks, all arranged just so. My favorite book was "Molly Moves Out," a story about a bunny who leaves her home full of messy, pain-in-the-ass siblings and gets her own little house. Total fantasy fodder! My sophomore year of college, my dorm room was described in an article in the campus paper on people who "decorated" their dorm rooms. I've always loved setting up my desk or office at work. And in each of the various places Alastair and I have lived together, we've enjoyed nesting and organizing and decorating -- never spending a lot on new decor, but finding ways to make the hodge-podge of stuff we've acquired over the years "work."

We bought our first house -- the one we currently live in -- almost two years ago, while in the midst of trying to get pregnant. In fact, while we were painting and sanding and cleaning our new "baby," I was doing my first (unsuccessful) round of fertility drugs. A few months later, our house was starting to really feel like a home, and I was pregnant with twins. I remember at one point in my third trimester, sitting (no doubt uncomfortably) on the couch, admiring the very adult-looking space we'd created for ourselves: Shelves full of books, lovely hardwood floors, various exotic knicknacks and framed artwork. Antique furniture in the dining area. Curtains I'd made on the windows. It was lovely, and it was neat, and I knew that soon, it would be history. I didn't know if I'd be able to cope with the change gracefully. (My world! My beautiful world!)

Flash forward a year, and, as predicted, our house is overrun with baby-ness. There's a Jumperoo in the corner of the living room, a ball house thingy by the window, an entire shelf of our bookshelves cleared for the girls' toys and books, and various plush and plastic doodads scattered around the floor at any given time. The sideboard in the dining room is a changing table. The dining room table is a catchall for stray bits of baby clothing, bibs, a box of Cheerios. Two giant white highchairs that vaguely resemble Star Wars stormtroopers take up a whole corner of the room. Our knicknacks and magazines and framed photos have been relegated to higher shelves, safe from little hands. The neat, sophisticated order of our home is, indeed, a thing of the past. And you know what? It really doesn't bother me.

Sure, in the evening after the girls are in bed, we like to straighten up a little -- pick toys up off the floor, wipe the errant flakes of rice cereal off the dining room table, put baby shoes and hats stripped off after a walk back where they belong. But we can't erase the evidence of the babies completely, nor do we want to. Their toys and books and clothes and feeding paraphenalia are part of the whole messy, tiring, chaotic, ridiculous joy of having these two in our lives. What can we do but relax and embrace it?