When Twins Turn 8, and other Cosmic Ironies

I’m a Gemini.

I have no brothers or sisters.

My “one more” turned into a two-for-one special.

Grand total: Five kids, including a set of twins.

Today? Today my glorious 2007 SuperBowl babies turn EIGHT.

The twinling GingerBrynns

The twinling GingerBrynns

Of all…the…days…to…be…born. Not for them. For me! 😉 Total NFL fan, right here. I’d had the chips’n’dip bought…the salsa…the guac…the wings’n’fries…I was READY!

Not a day goes by that I’m not reminded of how incredulously special these boys are. They came in at 6.1 pounds and 5 pounds respectively. Only a few hours of NICU time for Ethan, the wee lad, to ensure he kept his body heat and his blood sugars. I’d required insulin injections four times per day during my pregnancy. It was awesome. #notawesome

We’ve endured speech language and language comprehension and expression learning disabilities. Now, we’ve endured hearing loss and its subsequent “fixing.”

All in all, it’s been pretty neat to watch their bond and interactions between themselves grow as they do.

All in all, I’ve also *not* become a raging alcoholic or have ever found myself on the News at 11.

Because believe me…they’ve given me PLENTY to lose my shit over. Times two. It’s like…it’s like one kid is one kid. Add another kid, whatever. Add that third kid, meh.

Add in a set of twins and the feckin’ third moon of Jupiter’s alignment with the outer rings of Saturn on the day the Sun eclipses the Earth makes for a challenge on a molecular level.

Specifically, the molecules of mocha-choco-vodka-valium-lattes.

I’ve managed the “well-intentioned.”

I’ve managed the filter-less people who, even if it was written on a t-shirt (because I *totally* thought of doing it) still wouldn’t understand why saying, “So, are you fixed yet?” at a public splash pad might *not* be quite the statement that eleventy-billion mums and younglings need to process.

Or the, “Did you plan for twins?”

(I ordered them from a catalog?)

Or…this one was my favourite…standing in a grocery store line with the boys and being asked if I’d had a cesarean section or a vaginal delivery. You could FEEL the awkward resonate off the bread, ricochet off the pimples of the dear teenage boy cashier, and right into my *evilstabbyglareofice*.

“Were they natural?”

The word you’re looking for is “spontaneous.” Pretty sure IVF multiples are made the same way…y’know…with sperm and egg. Just sayin’.

Yes. Yes, they were spontaneous. Believe me, when I was in that ultrasound room with the technician’s knee in my vice grip, I *needed* someone to blame for this sweet, sweet form of hell. Nowhere in my family tree are there twins. I know. I looked.

Making twins is my SuperPower.

One thing that has always baffled me, though, over these years. Whenever I see twins with their parents, I want to go to over and say, “Hi! I’m a twin mum, too!”

I don’t anymore. The reception I’ve consistently gotten is of the “How dare you invade my special-ness with that of your own, seeing as how you got to have it before me!”

Complete with look of utter disdain.

I shit you not. *shrugs*

It’s rather a lonely feeling in a product of amazing-ness that should bring mothers, especially of multiples, together in solidarity of sleepless unison.

Meh.

From Podee bottles to rockstar cloth diapers…from shitting in floor vents to helping make dinners…from buying the same things but in different colours to crafting individualized birthday gift lists…

Not a day goes by that I don’t thank the Cosmos for the delivery of the easiest ironies through which I’ve learned some of the hardest lessons.

Happy Birthday, my gingerboys.

I have *totally* slid into this era of your new found “young dudeness” upside down and on fire…but I sure as shit made it nonetheless. \m/

*sips upon a mocha-choco-vodka-valium-latte and reminisces about asking the young lad who delivered my morning breakfast, in-hospital with twin boys latched upon each breast, who’d won the SuperBowl*

Ah, memories…

ultrasound both holding playpen podee blanket overalls dishwasher

 

 

 

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