Matthew and Jonathan are competitive.
Very competitive.
For that reason, there is one question I dread more than any other.
One question that has not yet occurred to them.
One question that will, inevitably, come up.
Who was born first?
I have an answer, a clever one.
"It doesn't matter who was born first," I will say, "because you were conceived at precisely the same moment."
No doubt about it.
Jonathan and Matthew started life as one and then became two simultaneously.
They have existed for precisely the same amount of time.
So why should it matter who hung out in my uterus for an extra 20 minutes or so, doing the breath stroke, a little freestyle and maybe even the butterfly?
One got a little more experience with the outside world while the other experienced freedom in the womb, something his twin will never know.
Even Steven.
Logical, right?
I can see their reactions now.
Silence.
For a moment.
A placid look, one of contemplation.
The one time when they truly look identical.
Then their faces will scrunch up and the nature of that scrunch will change quickly, from cute to annoyed to angry, expressions greatly affected by the amount of padding in each twins' cheeks, the slightly narrower bone structure of one twin's face and the different ways in which they have trained their facial muscles over the years.
It will be one of those times when I truly wonder whether the DNA tests were right, whether they really are identical.
And when I see those expressions, I can think of only one way to react.
The only reasonable solution.
My salvation.
"Go ask dad," I'll say.
"Just go ask dad."
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Battle of the heights: an unwinnable game
We had an all-out brawl in our household the other day.
Fists were flying.
Legs were kicking.
Bodies were thrown to the floor.
It started when I noticed that Matthew and Jonathan had grown.
I stood them up against a kitchen wall and marked their heights with a pen.
My mistake?
"Look," I said, pointing to the lines on the wall. "You are exactly the same height again."
The reaction was simultaneous.
"I'm taller," they announced.
"No, I'm taller," they growled together.
"I am the winner," they screamed into each other's faces with fists balled at their sides.
I tried to speak.
I tried to intervene.
But, within seconds, the verbal battle had turned physical -- intensely physical.
And each time I tried to break it up, I simply got pummelled by both.
In my panic, in my frustration, in my anger, I screamed:
"Stop! Now! You are identical twins! You were born the same height. You will always, forever and ever, be the same height!"
First, they stared at me -- stopped and stared.
Then those wide eyes, both sets of them, filled with tears.
Finally, the tears fell and sobs shook their very tall bodies.
I got down on my knees and pulled them both close, hugging one with each arm.
I explained to them, or tried to, that their shared height, foot size and hand size were among the things that made them extra special.
They weren't buying it.
So I took another tact.
"You are both huge," I said. "When somebody tries to pick on a little kid and the two of you stand in front of him, cross your arms over your chest (I stood and demonstrated.) and tell him to leave that kid alone, what do you think he's going to do."
"Go away," Jonathan yelled.
"Say, 'sorry'," said Matthew.
"Together, you're pretty scary," I assured them.
With that, our talk disintegrated -- into a game of monsters.
Their shared-height crisis was, at least for the moment, forgotten.
Fists were flying.
Legs were kicking.
Bodies were thrown to the floor.
It started when I noticed that Matthew and Jonathan had grown.
I stood them up against a kitchen wall and marked their heights with a pen.
My mistake?
"Look," I said, pointing to the lines on the wall. "You are exactly the same height again."
The reaction was simultaneous.
"I'm taller," they announced.
"No, I'm taller," they growled together.
"I am the winner," they screamed into each other's faces with fists balled at their sides.
I tried to speak.
I tried to intervene.
But, within seconds, the verbal battle had turned physical -- intensely physical.
And each time I tried to break it up, I simply got pummelled by both.
In my panic, in my frustration, in my anger, I screamed:
"Stop! Now! You are identical twins! You were born the same height. You will always, forever and ever, be the same height!"
First, they stared at me -- stopped and stared.
Then those wide eyes, both sets of them, filled with tears.
Finally, the tears fell and sobs shook their very tall bodies.
I got down on my knees and pulled them both close, hugging one with each arm.
I explained to them, or tried to, that their shared height, foot size and hand size were among the things that made them extra special.
They weren't buying it.
So I took another tact.
"You are both huge," I said. "When somebody tries to pick on a little kid and the two of you stand in front of him, cross your arms over your chest (I stood and demonstrated.) and tell him to leave that kid alone, what do you think he's going to do."
"Go away," Jonathan yelled.
"Say, 'sorry'," said Matthew.
"Together, you're pretty scary," I assured them.
With that, our talk disintegrated -- into a game of monsters.
Their shared-height crisis was, at least for the moment, forgotten.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Nurturing the identical twin dynamic despite the eye rolls
Matthew and Jonathan no longer attend preschool.
The decision to pull them was difficult, but the people who matter were supportive.
Fortunately, I'm learning to ignore the people who do not matter.
You know, the ones who roll their eyes when you try to explain. The ones who exchange glances with another person in the room, thinking you don't see. The people who come right out and say you expect too much or you coddle your children too much or maybe you ought to just discipline them more harshly.
These are often the people who refuse to acknowledge the identical-twin dynamic or believe they understand it better than we do. The dynamic is real and its impact is deep. To deny that, is to deny a huge part of Matthew and Jonathan's identities.
In this case, the twin relationship was only part of the problem.
But it was, I believe, the part that pushed Jonathan over the psychological edge.
Their former preschool is a day care that began offering half-day preschool a few years ago, fullfilling a desperate need in this area. The boys learned a lot and made great friends. The teachers are loving, creative and caring.
But playtime there is like day-care playtime. It is unstructured. There are no centers that children are rotated among. If there is a theme for the week, the more outgoing children get the goods and the others have to wait for a teacher to notice that they haven't had a turn.
Jonathan already has to share most everything with his twin brother at home. He already has to fight for a turn when we're not in the room or not paying attention. And it's not just the material stuff. He has to share looks, height and even foot size with Matthew.
It seems that he'd simply had enough.
At first, preschool was new and that was a great distraction. Each day, he and Matthew would debate the letter of the week, recite words that started with the letter and badger the teachers until they got the appropriate letter up there on that wall.
When that excitement wore off, new friends he made were his motivation and Matthew's too. Every day was a "Jack" day or an "Adam" day or a "Jared" day. They couldn't wait to get there and see them, and they would be furious if a particular child was absent.
But the novelty finally wore off.
Matthew started acting out when it was time to leave for school.
We noticed that.
What we didn't notice was Jonathan's behavior.
He'd been digging his heels in at bedtime, refusing to go upstairs and he was becoming more aggressive after school, but we never associated that with school.
Until he lost it in the classroom.
One day, he ripped covers off three books when a boy wouldn't share.
Another day, he flipped over a chair in response to a similar incident.
The director informed me that such aggressive behaviors had been escalating for the previous two weeks, just before problems had started at home. He'd also been refusing to follow directions, like coming to sit in circle time. She offered to work with him at school, but I could see the pain in his eyes. I could see that this was more than just a phase.
He was angry and frustrated.
He needed out.
So we pulled them both.
It took about one week, but suddenly I noticed that an entire day had gone by with none of those particular behaviors. Then another day. Then three and four and five days. It's been almost three weeks now since they left school and I can honestly say that my happy boys are back.
They will return to preschool in the fall, but they will go elsewhere.
Not because the one they attended was inadequate, but because they are identical twins who need more. They need the kind of social instruction that a facility dedicated only to preschool provides.
They still have play dates with their friends and they spend four hours a week with a sitter across the road who has four other children in her care (because -- let's face it -- I have to get something done). Another set of twins will join them for the summer.
But, for now, they are spending more time with me and I am focusing harder on those social skills that will make their experience better the next time around. It's not easy. They are not easy (Have I ever mentioned how active, strong, curious, independent and stubborn they are?).
But already, it's worth it.
I am getting to know each of them better as individuals and both of them better as identical twins.
Despite what others might think, that shared part of them requires special attention.
And, sometimes, special action.
The decision to pull them was difficult, but the people who matter were supportive.
Fortunately, I'm learning to ignore the people who do not matter.
You know, the ones who roll their eyes when you try to explain. The ones who exchange glances with another person in the room, thinking you don't see. The people who come right out and say you expect too much or you coddle your children too much or maybe you ought to just discipline them more harshly.
These are often the people who refuse to acknowledge the identical-twin dynamic or believe they understand it better than we do. The dynamic is real and its impact is deep. To deny that, is to deny a huge part of Matthew and Jonathan's identities.
In this case, the twin relationship was only part of the problem.
But it was, I believe, the part that pushed Jonathan over the psychological edge.
Their former preschool is a day care that began offering half-day preschool a few years ago, fullfilling a desperate need in this area. The boys learned a lot and made great friends. The teachers are loving, creative and caring.
But playtime there is like day-care playtime. It is unstructured. There are no centers that children are rotated among. If there is a theme for the week, the more outgoing children get the goods and the others have to wait for a teacher to notice that they haven't had a turn.
Jonathan already has to share most everything with his twin brother at home. He already has to fight for a turn when we're not in the room or not paying attention. And it's not just the material stuff. He has to share looks, height and even foot size with Matthew.
It seems that he'd simply had enough.
At first, preschool was new and that was a great distraction. Each day, he and Matthew would debate the letter of the week, recite words that started with the letter and badger the teachers until they got the appropriate letter up there on that wall.
When that excitement wore off, new friends he made were his motivation and Matthew's too. Every day was a "Jack" day or an "Adam" day or a "Jared" day. They couldn't wait to get there and see them, and they would be furious if a particular child was absent.
But the novelty finally wore off.
Matthew started acting out when it was time to leave for school.
We noticed that.
What we didn't notice was Jonathan's behavior.
He'd been digging his heels in at bedtime, refusing to go upstairs and he was becoming more aggressive after school, but we never associated that with school.
Until he lost it in the classroom.
One day, he ripped covers off three books when a boy wouldn't share.
Another day, he flipped over a chair in response to a similar incident.
The director informed me that such aggressive behaviors had been escalating for the previous two weeks, just before problems had started at home. He'd also been refusing to follow directions, like coming to sit in circle time. She offered to work with him at school, but I could see the pain in his eyes. I could see that this was more than just a phase.
He was angry and frustrated.
He needed out.
So we pulled them both.
It took about one week, but suddenly I noticed that an entire day had gone by with none of those particular behaviors. Then another day. Then three and four and five days. It's been almost three weeks now since they left school and I can honestly say that my happy boys are back.
They will return to preschool in the fall, but they will go elsewhere.
Not because the one they attended was inadequate, but because they are identical twins who need more. They need the kind of social instruction that a facility dedicated only to preschool provides.
They still have play dates with their friends and they spend four hours a week with a sitter across the road who has four other children in her care (because -- let's face it -- I have to get something done). Another set of twins will join them for the summer.
But, for now, they are spending more time with me and I am focusing harder on those social skills that will make their experience better the next time around. It's not easy. They are not easy (Have I ever mentioned how active, strong, curious, independent and stubborn they are?).
But already, it's worth it.
I am getting to know each of them better as individuals and both of them better as identical twins.
Despite what others might think, that shared part of them requires special attention.
And, sometimes, special action.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Difference and empathy
As I slipped a new shirt over Matthew's head for preschool pictures the other day, he said, "Is this my own, mom? Can it be my own?"
"Of course," I answered.
"Not Jon's?"
'Not Jon's."
"Just my own?"
"Just your own."
"Thanks, mom, for letting it be my own."
And Jonathan did not protest.
Moments later, a teacher asked whether Mathew and Jonathan would be sitting together for their photo like the other set of twins in the class or whether they wanted to take them separately.
Jonathan barely let her finish the question.
"Separate," he yelled. "I want my own."
Matthew did not argue.
"My own" has been the mantra in our household lately.
Matthew and Jonathan have always had their independent streaks. They have always had their own favorite colors, their own sides of the minivan, their own scooters, their own favorite foods and their own special stuffed animals.
But lately, we're seeing a different kind of independence, a gentler sort that seems to develop in conjunction with something else: empathy. The more Matthew and Jonathan strive to differentiate from each other, the more attentive they are to each other, the more concerned they are with the other's needs.
While each boy had his picture taken, the other watched.
They cheered each other on, encouraged each other to smile and told each other they'd made a good picture. Matthew won't get out of bed most mornings until Jonathan sings him the preschool "good morning" song and Jonathan obliges. Jonathan got angry with me the other day because he felt the jacket I'd given Matthew wasn't warm enough. Matthew gave up the Spiderman pajamas two nights ago because Jonathan wanted them so badly.
When one gets a Popsicle from the freezer, he gets one for the other --- in his favorite flavor.
When they were babies, I had always thought their similarities would be the foundation of their bond. Now, I'm seeing it in a new light. Their differences and their mutual respect for that desire for difference is just as important.
They have their moments.
They are siblings, after all, and with each other nearly 24 hours a day.
Injuries happen.
Harsh words are exchanged.
A lot.
But more times than not, I find myself listening to their exchanges from behind a corner -- eavesdropping -- and wondering what to do with all that pride that's swelling inside me. They amaze me and intrigue me. Every single day.
"Of course," I answered.
"Not Jon's?"
'Not Jon's."
"Just my own?"
"Just your own."
"Thanks, mom, for letting it be my own."
And Jonathan did not protest.
Moments later, a teacher asked whether Mathew and Jonathan would be sitting together for their photo like the other set of twins in the class or whether they wanted to take them separately.
Jonathan barely let her finish the question.
"Separate," he yelled. "I want my own."
Matthew did not argue.
"My own" has been the mantra in our household lately.
Matthew and Jonathan have always had their independent streaks. They have always had their own favorite colors, their own sides of the minivan, their own scooters, their own favorite foods and their own special stuffed animals.
But lately, we're seeing a different kind of independence, a gentler sort that seems to develop in conjunction with something else: empathy. The more Matthew and Jonathan strive to differentiate from each other, the more attentive they are to each other, the more concerned they are with the other's needs.
While each boy had his picture taken, the other watched.
They cheered each other on, encouraged each other to smile and told each other they'd made a good picture. Matthew won't get out of bed most mornings until Jonathan sings him the preschool "good morning" song and Jonathan obliges. Jonathan got angry with me the other day because he felt the jacket I'd given Matthew wasn't warm enough. Matthew gave up the Spiderman pajamas two nights ago because Jonathan wanted them so badly.
When one gets a Popsicle from the freezer, he gets one for the other --- in his favorite flavor.
When they were babies, I had always thought their similarities would be the foundation of their bond. Now, I'm seeing it in a new light. Their differences and their mutual respect for that desire for difference is just as important.
They have their moments.
They are siblings, after all, and with each other nearly 24 hours a day.
Injuries happen.
Harsh words are exchanged.
A lot.
But more times than not, I find myself listening to their exchanges from behind a corner -- eavesdropping -- and wondering what to do with all that pride that's swelling inside me. They amaze me and intrigue me. Every single day.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Friendly indifference
I had always figured that Matthew and Jonathan's friends would easily be able to tell them apart.
Isn't that part of the magic of childhood? This extra sense that kids have, the lack of filters that allow them to see things as they are?
So I was disappointed the other day at preschool when Matthew's best friend tapped Jonathan on the shoulder and called him by his brother's name. Jonathan ignored him expect for the shrug indicating his annoyance at the constant interruption.
I politely pointed out his mistake and directed him to Matthew who just right next to Jonathan.
The boy gave me a puzzled look and then tapped Jonathan on the shoulder again.
"Matthew, Matthew. Come play," he said, his taps increasing in frequency. "Matthew."
I gave up.
These are the things I worry about.
It will be hard enough when adults mix them up as they grow older, but their friends?
I recently read about a 7-year-old girl who was shunned by a group of her peers for no apparent reason. She later learned that her identical twin sister had done something to upset them. They didn't change their stance when she explained the situation.
They chose not to differentiate between the two.
Jonathan and Matthew enjoy having different friends, though they all play together nicely. I hope that this boy is an exception. Another friend, the one Jonathan claims as his closest, tries. He doesn't always get it right, but he at least makes an effort.
If he is unsure, he figures it out within few minutes of play.
A little girl who greets us daily when we enter the classroom always asks me who is who first thing. She wants to be clear. She's always felt that need to know who is who.
I haven't paid enough attention to the others.
I have told the boys over and over again that people will mix them up and that they should forgive them. Simply correct them and forgive them. But I think I might have to revise that tutorial when they outgrow preschool and begin their elementary years.
We all make mistakes.
People will mix them up.
But if they are not sure, they should ask.
And if Matthew and Jonathan politely correct them, they should apologize and make an effort in the future.
I guess all I'm asking for is an effort.
Try to see Matthew.
Try to see Jonathan.
They are two boys, not one.
Isn't that part of the magic of childhood? This extra sense that kids have, the lack of filters that allow them to see things as they are?
So I was disappointed the other day at preschool when Matthew's best friend tapped Jonathan on the shoulder and called him by his brother's name. Jonathan ignored him expect for the shrug indicating his annoyance at the constant interruption.
I politely pointed out his mistake and directed him to Matthew who just right next to Jonathan.
The boy gave me a puzzled look and then tapped Jonathan on the shoulder again.
"Matthew, Matthew. Come play," he said, his taps increasing in frequency. "Matthew."
I gave up.
These are the things I worry about.
It will be hard enough when adults mix them up as they grow older, but their friends?
I recently read about a 7-year-old girl who was shunned by a group of her peers for no apparent reason. She later learned that her identical twin sister had done something to upset them. They didn't change their stance when she explained the situation.
They chose not to differentiate between the two.
Jonathan and Matthew enjoy having different friends, though they all play together nicely. I hope that this boy is an exception. Another friend, the one Jonathan claims as his closest, tries. He doesn't always get it right, but he at least makes an effort.
If he is unsure, he figures it out within few minutes of play.
A little girl who greets us daily when we enter the classroom always asks me who is who first thing. She wants to be clear. She's always felt that need to know who is who.
I haven't paid enough attention to the others.
I have told the boys over and over again that people will mix them up and that they should forgive them. Simply correct them and forgive them. But I think I might have to revise that tutorial when they outgrow preschool and begin their elementary years.
We all make mistakes.
People will mix them up.
But if they are not sure, they should ask.
And if Matthew and Jonathan politely correct them, they should apologize and make an effort in the future.
I guess all I'm asking for is an effort.
Try to see Matthew.
Try to see Jonathan.
They are two boys, not one.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Twins divided, naturally and happily
A new dynamic is moving through our house.
Jonathan has ditched his twin brother as his best friend in favor of his older brother Riley, who is almost 11.
He draws pictures for him, fetches him Popsicles and emulates his every gesture, word and move when he is around.
When Riley is in school or otherwise occupied, Jonathan turns back to Matthew again, taking up where he left off.
This worried me at first.
How would Matthew handle the loss?
My heart ached for him.
Needlessly.
As always, Matthew and Jonathan have surprised me.
Matthew isn't the least bit bothered by Jonathan's new allegiance, no more so than he is bothered when Jonathan plays with other children in school. A comfort level seems to exits between the two of them that allows them to explore other relationships without diminishing their own.
I would like to believe that we have contributed to that confidence by never forcing them to separate. Yes, they have gone off on their own with my husband or I at different times, mostly on errands. Occasionally, for a bite to eat.
But we have never felt the need to enroll them in different activities or classes simply to foster their individuality. We have never felt the need to tear them apart unnaturally.
Instead, they are teaching us to be patient, to step back and let them grow apart as we let them grow together. The pressure is on -- always -- from those who believe that forced separation is the only healthy way to raise identical twins. But forced separation is no healthier than forcing a shared identity through matching clothing, lumped nicknames or constantly calling attention to the fact that they are twins.
They are who they are.
And we love who they are.
We'll make mistakes along the way and plenty of them. But Jonathan's affection for Riley and Matthew's reaction to it have assured me that we are on the right track. And we have one very proud big brother, who is who amused and thrilled by his new status.
For now.
Jonathan has ditched his twin brother as his best friend in favor of his older brother Riley, who is almost 11.
He draws pictures for him, fetches him Popsicles and emulates his every gesture, word and move when he is around.
When Riley is in school or otherwise occupied, Jonathan turns back to Matthew again, taking up where he left off.
This worried me at first.
How would Matthew handle the loss?
My heart ached for him.
Needlessly.
As always, Matthew and Jonathan have surprised me.
Matthew isn't the least bit bothered by Jonathan's new allegiance, no more so than he is bothered when Jonathan plays with other children in school. A comfort level seems to exits between the two of them that allows them to explore other relationships without diminishing their own.
I would like to believe that we have contributed to that confidence by never forcing them to separate. Yes, they have gone off on their own with my husband or I at different times, mostly on errands. Occasionally, for a bite to eat.
But we have never felt the need to enroll them in different activities or classes simply to foster their individuality. We have never felt the need to tear them apart unnaturally.
Instead, they are teaching us to be patient, to step back and let them grow apart as we let them grow together. The pressure is on -- always -- from those who believe that forced separation is the only healthy way to raise identical twins. But forced separation is no healthier than forcing a shared identity through matching clothing, lumped nicknames or constantly calling attention to the fact that they are twins.
They are who they are.
And we love who they are.
We'll make mistakes along the way and plenty of them. But Jonathan's affection for Riley and Matthew's reaction to it have assured me that we are on the right track. And we have one very proud big brother, who is who amused and thrilled by his new status.
For now.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Imagination explosion
(Above: A birthday interview with Matthew and Jonathan)
Only an hour earlier, they had been at the beach, wearing their swim trunks in the bathtub. Before that, I heard long tales about Dino Dan's impending visit. He was bringing his mother and his little brother and it was his birthday.
Would I please bake a cake for him, they begged?
The day I have been waiting for has finally come.
Jonathan and Matthew have become so immersed in their imaginations that they often forget to wrestle, to pull the cushions off the sofa, to tear their beds apart, to dump water on the floor, to demand fruit treats, to tease the puppy, to tease their older siblings -- to do all the little things they used to do when they were bored and wanted to stir things up.
It is still a lot of work.
I often have to provide props or act a part in their imaginary worlds. But that's okay. I would rather be the bad guy fighting Leonardo and Batman than the stressed-out mother who runs out of options and patience when time-outs don't work, and then yells far more than she ever wanted to.
Even better, their new-found manner of play allows their older brother and sister to take part. On Tuesday, when all four kids were stuck home for a snow day, they all played Pokemon together. The older kids loved the fact that the twins understood the show and they laughed whenever Matthew and Jonathan chose their Pokemons and unleashed them.
I wrote an entire chapter of my next novel that day.
A whole chapter with all four kids at home.
And I didn't feel guilty because they we all busy and all happy.
We still have our moments and I'm sure we always will.
But what a relief.
What a huge, huge relief.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)