Independence Day

So yesterday, my boys were 5. 5! How did these little bundles of baby turn FIVE?

Now. While this post should be sweet and full of my love for my boys, it will turn inevitably to one about me, so let's spare you the sap and get right down to it.

I had to buy my two boy children completely different gifts. And I was completely and utterly traumatized.

Now, those of you with singletons are likely staring at the screen thinking that I have finally lost my mind. And I may have, but that would be an entirely separate matter. Even moms of boy/girl twins likely think I'm a loon, since this is something they have dealt with all along.

But I'm hoping that some of you with same-sex twins understand my plight - they are completely separate children. When the hell did that happen?

Most people I know with twins spend a crazy amount of time ensuring that things are fair and balanced. My poor husband couldn't even stomach the idea of the boys having different mobiles over their cribs - what if one of them got into Yale, and other couldn't even get into community college... And it was because of the mobile?

Twin moms everywhere have lengthy conversations about what to call their twins. "The twins?" Definitely not, we all say, they are separate people, not a unit. But at the end of the day, I was in a pretty good groove of buying two of everything boy, and if it wasn't the exact same thing, it was a close relative. One gets Spiderman, the other gets Batman. Done.

But this year? This year, they throw me. After his epiphany (and much pushing and yelling), W wanted a scooter. So a scooter it was. But no amount of creative suggestion could sway F from his chosen prize - a Fantastic Four skateboard. "A fast one!" he crowed. W also couldn't be swayed, and Lord knows I tried.

So last night, the boys received their bounty - a Fantastic Four skateboard for one, and a blue scooter for the other. They are thrilled, my husband and I, perplexed.

When on earth did these toddlers turn into people with opinions? And different ones, at that? We knew they had opposite temperaments, but they seemed to do things in waves. W walked first, F three weeks later. F showed his teacher his penis, W pulls his pants down in class 6 months later. But this, for some reason, was completely unexpected. (Not as unexpected as the dual pantsing, but I digress.)

Try as I might to remember that they are indeed separate individuals, I too was lumping them into a group for ease of use. I grab two of everything, from shirts to toys. They are "my boys", not W & F. Yet apparently, 5 brings independence, not only from me, but from each other, which is interesting and sad all at the same time.

So the science experiment at our house continues while I adjust my shopping habits. And if W doesn't get into Yale, blame the scooter.

Other Voices, other tunes

I had the luxury this weekend of getting a vacation from my family - spending the weekend at a scrapbooking retreat, with a group of new friends. The scrapbooking was great, the laughter loud, the reminiscing a bit teary. And then we started talking about church.

Now before I start this, I will say this about my new friends. They are lovely. "Lovely" isn't a word I use all that often - it feels contrived. But lovely they were, generous and kind to the new girl and her friend. I genuinely enjoyed their company, and can't wait to do it again.

I spent two full days with them - shared pictures of our children, tales of our husbands, discovered that we all used the same OB to deliver. I have seen almost all of them in pajamas. But then, the specter of the really and truly faithful loomed around the table. These women are religious with a capital R, and honestly, in all of the best ways. They are honest about their faith, not pushy, not judgmental. Their faith is the foundation of their lives and families, and they truly care about each other, and those around them. And if they are lovely, and caring, and kind... Why do my defenses go up when they start sharing their faith with me?

I would like to think I am quietly faithful. I'm a big fan of God, even if he did not deliver me from twin toddler Hell as quickly as I asked. (To be fair, if I had gotten that screeching request full of expletives, I might not have honored it either.) I like the idea that something bigger than my tiny self exists and is steering me a bit, even if I insist on turning the wrong way.

When G and I got married, I railed against a church that I felt was "closed." The priest that helped perform the ceremony explained that it was like being invited over for dinner. You're welcome to come and share the meal,he said, but not go back into the kitchen and help make dessert. As I drove home yesterday, I found myself thinking of this - how is it that I can rail against something because I think it is closed, and then not be open to the idea of a different way to celebrate my faith?

I admire these women. They really and truly believe that God will take care of them, those they love, and those for whom they petition. They are good models of what I think faithful women can become. The women, my new friends, are open to others. They didn't care that I practiced a different way, or admitted that I sometimes didn't feel comfortable in a church with contemporary music. Their hearts and minds are open.

At the end of the day, the problem lies within. In my mind, I just can't let go. I try, albeit half-heartedly. I ask for help, but don't believe it will come. I try and attend a mass, but then drift off making mental grocery lists during the service. I will try and read a faith-based book, but put it down as soon as I think it is "too preachy", or "not my style." At the end of the day, I am intimidated by their honesty and willingness to listen to another voice.

I write this not to start a debate, although it might, and it might be an interesting one. I write this to start a process of being more honest, mainly with myself. I can't continue to be cafe religious, only taking the things that suit me, and leaving the brussel sprouts behind. In doing that, I think I am becoming the type of person that really and truly bugs me - the ones that are professedly faithful, yet judge and berate those who choose a different path.

So here goes. Where this leads me, I'm not really sure. But I guess that's part of the point, right?

As promised...

In my last post I promised more W stories, so here's this week's installment in the Life of W. (There are actually several new proud F&K stories, but those can wait.)

While W is my sweet and caring child, he is not, shall we say, an athlete. Which is odd, since he is the splitting image of his father, who was an athlete with a capital A. At the end of the day, W is my child. Which, while could land him a college scholarship, is unfortunate as a male child in the M household.

It is kind to say that we (W & I) are not coordinated. In any fashion. We are fortunate to get through the day with only bruises that we remember getting, since we often run into things and just don't notice. In a shock to only my husband, I was essentially kicked off my childhood softball team by being placed in the far left outfield. (The shock has worn off, I promise.)

So the weather here is warmer, finally, and the neighborhood is out and about, driveways covered in chalk and bike helmets. W is thrilled at the chalk. Draws me lots of pictures, writes his name, even tries his "opposite" hand in my effort to make the OT happy. And then, the bikes are brought out.

"You know, Mom, I like to walk and hold your hand."
"Don't you want to try your bike? Just to the next driveway?"
"You know, Mom, the weather is lovely. Martha said the weather is good for walking."

Hmmm.

This is all fine and well, I don't like riding bikes either, but I was left with fairly stern instructions by G. "Get W on his bike today. All he has to do is ride 2 driveways and I will be happy. He will do this by Spring if it kills us."

Hmmm.

Now, I must stop and confess that I am not a "pusher." If he doesn't want to do it, fine. It is not a battle I am willing to fight. But as the lone not-quite-5-year-old on the block who flatly refuses his bike, G has dictated that it is time. The bike must be ridden, or we, the M family of Northern VA will be entered into the Hall of Shame of playground parents.

Hmmm.

After much cajoling, wheedling, and bribes of the promise of Girl Scout cookies, the bike is out of the garage. And in no time flat, offered to F, who takes off like a speed demon. Not what I had hoped for.

And this is how G finds us as he pulls in. Me with a book in the lawn chair, F whizzing by on the bike, K on her scooter, and W drawing flowers. Not what he had hoped for.

I now interrupt this idyllic scene to insert the pushing. G pushes W, who then throws a bit of a fit, which ends... With W on a 2 wheel scooter, no helmet, going three driveways.

This is what I was hoping for.

Too good to be told

I laugh at things. A lot. Perhaps more than I should, and these things are often at my children's expense.

I tell stories. A lot of them. Mostly to hide my own fear of how badly I've screwed my kids up, or to illustrate that yes, I do realize how ill-behaved my sweet boy appears to, well, most everyone. A funny story hides a million sins.

But what I've noticed lately, is that W is getting shafted. His brother F has stories and colorful nicknames. (The "toilet plugger", for one) His sister K has sweet stories and glowing reports of her royal achievements. (Did you know she's reading on a 6th grade level?) Even their father has some stories.

But W? Nada. Nothing. Shafted.

It's not that he's not interesting, really. He is a delight, I swear. And funny to beat the band, when he's in a goofy mood, which is often. But as the quiet twin, he often gets overlooked for his oddball brother, who can be infinitely more attention-getting, and not always in a good way.

W has a new habit, which is funny and endearing, but perhaps a little telling as well. When he starts a story, it goes in fits and starts, something like this:

W: "Mom. Mom. Mom. Today in school we... Mom. We just tried... Mom"

I thought, at first, that perhaps his little brain just couldn't get the sentence slowed down enough to get it out. But as I sit and wonder, perhaps he's just trying to make sure I'm still listening?

I had (have?) a New Year's Resolution to write things down. "You should write a book" my neighbor said, after a recounting of F's horrible day, involving the tae kwon do penalty box and some choice tantrum throwing. While those things are funny and memorable, maybe it's the W stories that I need to be sharing.

It's ok, buddy. I hear you.