I am a Virgo. While I don’t really believe in Western astrology, I really, really fit the description of my sign. I like things in their places, and I like those places to be nicely labeled, either with my DYMO LetraTag Plus (thanks Andrea) or with washi tape and a fine-point Sharpie.
My 10-month-old twin daughters are not Virgos. They don’t really care about proper labeling, and they also don’t care about things being neat or clean. I’m sure anyone who has been through the baby thing—or even been around a baby—understands what I mean.
This morning, I fed my daughters a portion of proper-hippie lentil mash that I have stored in the fridge in a glass Tupperware container, labeled and front-facing in the upper right quadrant—where baby food goes. Eliza took a huge bite, then promptly coughed with her mouth open, spewing lentils everywhere. Meanwhile, Phoebe’s favorite new food thing is squeezing food out through her front teeth onto her chin, then smiling broadly at her accomplishment.
People often ask me how I “do it” and remark that I must be “amazing” and say, “You are a supermom!”
If they were to ask my husband how I do it he would truthfully tell them that I “do it” by regularly having complete meltdowns that involve lots of tears, swearing, and sometimes even foot stomping, and then, like a haggard phoenix rising from the ashes still wearing her pajamas at 6pm, simply getting up and starting again—because I have no other choice.
As far as I can tell, that’s pretty much how all twin moms do it.
I picture people with one baby having lovely bedtime routines that involve cuddling sweetly with that baby in a rocker while reading favorite childhood tales in a soft, lulling voice. In my house, bedtime is like triage: there’s lots of screaming and crying and people running around and general mayhem and panic. If all goes well, no one chokes or drowns. Eventually, the babies tire themselves out and collapse in their cribs, and I pour myself a glass of wine.
Sometimes, I try to read them a book. Usually I end up yelling the words over their conversation as they shout incoherently across the room to each other, crib to crib, completely disinterested in the book. They do love books though. They love to eat them, is what I mean. They’ve eaten the corners off most of their books already, and they just started eating books a few months ago. We’re getting low on edible book corners, so yesterday I caught Phoebe gnawing away at an empty roll of toilet paper. Again, not Virgos.
When I go out in public, I inevitably meet another mom of twins who gives me the look (it’s pity) and says “Don’t worry, it gets better.” The IT GETS BETTER refrain is one you hear a lot about twins. Frankly, I’m not sure if I believe it. But I don’t care. Because I love them so much, and am happier than I’ve ever been, and feel so lucky every day to have them in my life. Even if I never sleep again and am always covered with body fluids and am the only one in my house who is ever going to care about labels.
