Tears streamed down his cheek. I knelt down, eye level with my now-sobbing son. Vivian came and rubbed his back. William rarely wept, so when he did, we assumed roles as investigators and psychologists.
“What’s wrong, William?” I asked.
“It’s, it’s, it’s . . . dark out.”
I wiped his tears away.
“Mommy and Daddy won’t be gone long. We’ll be home soon. Just after you fall asleep.”
“Fifteen minutes is a long time,” William said. “What if she doesn’t come?”
Epiphany.
“Are you worried your babysitter won’t come?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re not upset because you want Mommy and Daddy to stay home with you?”
“No.” He looked up and wiped his snotty nose on my sleeve. “I just want her to come right now.”
All that crying over the fear he was going to be stuck with his mommy and daddy.
Minutes later, the doorbell rang, easing his fears. Before I could remind the babysitter where the lifetime supply of Band-Aids was or the phone number for 9-1-1, the kids had begun a raucous game of tag with their babysitter chasing them around the house.
Hiring our babysitter over the Christmas season helped escalate the financial strain of the holiday. Why everyone has to throw a party in December instead of a boring month like February mystifies me.
Even though I despised shopping, I loved Christmas. It wasn’t the presents, the word naughty, or the eggnog; it was Santa. Now I may have had a thing for men in uniforms and facial hair, but Santa was more than that. At Christmas time, our Santa-fied society encouraged me to lie to my children, something I did all the time. Only now I did it guilt free.
Once November came, I used the Santa card. Whenever Vivian and William fought, like they did numerous times during their preschool astrophysics unit on the solar system, I said one word: “Santa.”
So there I was, sitting in the living room, drinking tea with a friend while Norah Jones crooned on the stereo. This peaceful tableau lasted about five minutes before being interrupted by murderous screams.
I climbed the stairs in three strides and started with my usual parenting question: “Hey, hey, what’s going on here?”
“He’s hitting me,” Vivian screamed.
“She hit me first,” William countered.
The tennis game continued, with blame being volleyed over the net with surprising endurance. Then the time out, a metaphorical one, when I attempted to figure out what the real problem was.
“William says there’s lava on Neptune,” Vivian shouted.
“Lava?”
“I mean fire,” said Will.
“Fire?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no fire on Neptune,” Vivian said.
“Yes there is.”
“No there’s not.”
“Stop!” I shouted.
I resolved this with one word: Santa.
Later, after my friend had fled the scene, more interplanetary warfare came my way.
With both kids safely tucked in, I curled up on the couch and watched It’s a Wonderful Life. Somewhere during one of Clarence’s sermons, the screaming started again. This time Vivian and William yelled and wrestled their way downstairs.
“Mom,” asked Vivian, “what’s the hottest planet?”
“Umm, I don’t know—Mercury?”
“See, I told you so,” said Vivian.
“No it’s not. It’s Venus,” said William.
“Well, Mercury is the closest,” I added, proud that I knew one scientific fact.
“But Venus is hotter.”
“No it’s not.”
“OK, OK. I’m calling Santa,” I said.
“Does he know a lot about the planets?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But he’ll care that you’re arguing and being naughty.”
Both kids wandered up to bed, defeated by the mere mention of a fictional man in a red suit.
The next night, both kids rushed into our bedroom to inform us that Pluto sometimes orbited closer to Earth than Neptune.
I preempted them. “If you’re going to fight about this, I’m calling Santa.”
Will shuffled his feet. “Has he started learning about the planets?”
“Maybe.”
“Will he even answer your call?” Vivian asked.
“What?”
“Well, isn’t he too busy to talk to you?”
I looked at Chris. “Trust me,” I said. “Santa always takes my calls. Now go to bed. Enough planets.” They left, pushing each other all the way to their room.
Parenting Tip: Always encourage your children to believe in Santa. Short of blocking all the children’s TV channels, he’s the best threat there is.
I turned off the TV.
“Where are you going?” asked Chris.
“To prepare for tomorrow’s fight, which I’m guessing will be ‘Is Pluto really a planet?’”
“Don’t bother,” he said. “They’re in agreement on that one. They call it a dwarf planet.”
“Isn’t that a little person planet?” I asked.
Chris smiled. “Come back here. Let’s watch Jimmy Stewart. I brought the DVD upstairs,” he said.
Christmas came, as did Santa. Chris, William, and Vivian were impressed I knew how to make waffles that didn’t come in a box.
“You should make these every morning,” William said.
I nodded. “Right.”
This was why I taught full time. It was easier to get ninetyseven teens to listen than it was my own children.
Unfortunately, Santa didn’t bring debt relief. We had limited income and were not one of those fiscally organized families. Some people were careful: they had savings accounts for emergencies. Some people were careless: they had children.
Apparently when one drives a vehicle—even if it’s a minivan—the ability to brake is important. Apparently when one’s brakes start squealing, it means the brake pads are worn through and are now wrecking the brake drums. Hello, credit card.
Five days later, our financial problems heated up when the hot water heater in our basement died.
Then, our garage door came off its hinges, warped, and ceased functioning.
I began to think my brain was sending an electromagnetic force field that would cause expensive things to malfunction.
The credit card bill came. Thousands. My electromagnetic force field had a meltdown.
We couldn’t afford thousands.
“What are we going to do?” I asked Chris.
“Pay it off eventually,” he said.
“At twenty percent interest?” I asked.
We sat in silence.
“I have an idea,” I said.
He looked up.
“We can use the money from the kids’ account to pay the credit card bill.”
“You’re serious?” Chris asked.
“Why not? We’ll put it back. Some day.”
DID YOU PEE ON MINNIE MOUSE ON PURPOSE?
I’m not one of those moms who is psycho about cleanliness. I believe that the best proof that kids are kids is if they’re dirty, just like the best proof politicians are politicians is if they’re dirty.
Parenting Tip: If your kids are dirty, it means they’re building up their immunity. Screw nightly baths.
When William and Vivian were babes, we bathed them daily. This torturous ritual was necessary due to Bangkok’s heat and the curdled milk that started to stink in the creases of our babies’ fat.
Once we returned to the land of winter, daily baths were history, as was disposable income, pedicures, and prostitutes offering Chris sexual favors for $5 when he walked to the supermarket.
Some of these changes were good.
William, however, became accustomed to not washing his hair. Every week or so, I’d insist on washing it, especially with him in preschool. I thrived on appearing like I was a half decent parent.
Will o
ften protested. One time I made the mistake of reasoning with him.
“If you don’t wash your hair,” I said, “things will start growing in it.”
William stopped playing with his shark toy. “Like vegetables?”
I laughed. “Well, maybe not vegetables. But bugs. Oil.” I paused. “And yes, vegetables. You don’t want broccoli growing out of your head, do you?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t even want carrots.”
Eventually he got out of the bath, and eventually Chris and I took Vivian and William on errands.
The mercury had dipped to minus fifteen. I was trying to get my two abominable-looking children herded into our minivan while Chris scraped the windshield. Then, it happened. Like a car crash in slow motion, William approached the van’s frosty sliding door with his tongue. It didn’t matter that the van hadn’t been washed since 2002. People like us could be one of the reasons Canada has a large supply of fresh water.
I watched. In short quick tongue-lashings, William started to enjoy a frost-covered van.
“William? Stop.”
Before I could find more words, Vivian mimicked him and enjoyed her own mixture of the winter triumvirate: dirt, salt, and frost.
Finally, my brain communicated with my tongue. “For crying out loud,” I said. “Don’t lick the minivan. Your tongue could fall off.”
They looked at me like I was stupid or lying.
“Really. When I was a kid, I licked the monkey bars at school and my tongue got stuck.”
What I didn’t know was that Chris was listening. “You licked the monkey bars?” he asked.
“Yes. And my tongue got stuck.”
“I imagine it did,” he said. I could see his breath as he laughed.
“It wasn’t funny,” I said.
“It is now.”
“I don’t make fun of you for going to School Patrol Camp.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Was it really a sleep away camp?” I asked.
“Time to get inside the van, kids. You too, Lee.”
We finished our errands and returned to our warm house, where the ratio of stuffed animals to people was 106:4. If any of my kids’ stuffed animals had a pulse, the SPCA would be on us in a second. As it was, we were lying low from the producers of hoarder reality shows.
Very few of the stuffed animals in our menagerie were purchased new. Fewer still were washed. This meant we provided shelter for several dozen stuffed animals carrying diseases.
Most of these stuffed animals were named. William and Vivian used to say night-night to each of them. It was our own endless version of Goodnight Moon.
We had stuffies whose names were based on appearance (Rainbow Bear), stuffies named after strippers (Roxy), and stuffies that revealed our kids’ hearing defects, like Little Pusky, the husky dog.
Then we had Minnie Mouse. How un-freaking-original. Chris wanted us to be a Disney-free house, but that declaration lasted about as long as my plan not to use a TV as a babysitter. Could I put Baby Einstein on repeat play before my kids were one? You bet.
Minnie Mouse featured prominently in a catastrophe when Vivian and William were stuck inside because it was minus thirty outside. Vivian, the owner of the beloved mouse in a polka dot dress, came and told me her favorite stuffy of the day was soaked. Some basic detective work told me the smell wasn’t water.
It was then that I strung together a series of words that I am certain have never been uttered in the history of the English language: “Who peed on Minnie Mouse?”
By now, Vivian had reverted to the fetal position and was sobbing.
“William? Did you pee on Minnie Mouse?”
“Yes, Mom,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Did you pee on Minnie Mouse on purpose or by accident?” Another series of words that have never been said.
“On purpose.”
“Why?” I tried to ignore Vivian, now in full freak out mode, rather legitimately this time.
William shrugged.
My question remained unanswered.
A small miracle perhaps.
YOU CAN BUY A BABY AT THE HOSPITAL
A frequent question I get asked is “Do your twins get along?” As with most twin questions, there are many answers to this. If I’m annoyed, I say, “Sometimes.” If I’m in a rush, I say, “Yes.” And if I feel like chatting, I say, “Like an old married couple.”
It might be a weird comparison, but William and Vivian do remind me of an old married couple. Here’s how:
° They’re not outwardly smitten, but there’s a quiet (and a not-so-quiet) sense of togetherness.
° They yell at each other when they retell the same old story.
° They make each other laugh in a way no other human can.
° They know precisely what annoys each other and are willing to twist that knife.
° They blame each other for their own errors.
° They burp and fart in front of each other.
That’s enough warm fuzzies for one book.
During a two-week preschool Spring Break, however, Vivian and William spent more time together then they were accustomed to. At school, they were in separate all-day classes, so they were getting used to being apart. Or at least that was my theory.
So, like an old married couple that’s seen no one but each other for two weeks, the annoyance levels ratcheted up.
It was William who was most vocal about this.
First, he told his sister, “I’m not inviting you to my birthday party.” Vivian realized the implication of this as a twin and burst into sobs.
“William!” I chastised him. “You can’t tell your twin sister she’s not invited to your birthday.”
The next day, he told her, “Give me my car back, or I’ll throw you outside.” Then he farted. Vivian farted back.
William’s annoyance at too much together time continued. After uninviting her to his birthday party, he announced, “I want to sell Vivian.” The first day he said this, I ignored it. Then, like a wart on the bottom of your foot, it remained a nuisance the next day.
“We can’t sell your sister,” I said.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Well, it’s illegal, for one.”
“I want to sell her anyway.”
“It’s mean.”
“So?”
“William!”
“I want to sell her.”
Logic wasn’t working, so I employed a different strategy.
“Look,” I said. “No one would buy her. You know that.”
And he wandered away and found his LEGO. Silently.
So do they get along?
Sometimes.
For a full year, Vivian proclaimed her undying love for her classmate. It was mutual and they had worked out the living arrangements: after they graduated from high school, he was to move in with us. We’d met with the parents, and we were content with the situation. Once you have kids, arranged marriages make a lot more sense. Mind you, once you have kids, boarding school makes a lot more sense. As does birth control.
I have a theory that most interesting conversations happen in a motorized vehicle or in a canoe. Like most of my theories, this one is a fact.
On a springtime drive to preschool, William announced that he wanted to marry me.
Vivian, who’s had this conversation before, said, “You can’t marry your mom.”
Without missing a beat, William said, “Then I’ll marry Dad.”
Vivian proceeded to educate her brother. “You can marry a guy, but you can’t marry your dad. Or anyone in your family.”
“Yup, she’s right,” I said. “You can’t marry your sister . . . or me . . . or even your dad.”
William sighed.
“Don’t worry,” I added. “You don’t have to get married. And even if you want to get married, you have to be at least thirty.”
Another one of my theories that I tried to pass off as fact.
I nearly revisited this topic wh
en William and I played Superheroes, which involved making up your own superhero name and superpower. William didn’t like it when I selected the name Miss Piggy or chose the superpower of being wealthy, so I was forced to be creative. I christened myself IncrediMommy who had the power to make everyone listen to her. This worked better than my other invented superhero: MegaLegga. Her superpower was that her feet were guns. To shoot, she had to stand on one leg in some unstable pose and wait for bullets to fire from the soles of her feet. William quickly figured out that he could duck under my shooting leg and push it toward the ceiling so I resembled a pretzel-ish can-can dancer. If he pushed hard enough on that high-kick leg, I’d fall on my butt and start wheezing and writhing on the ceramic tile floor. It was a fun game. For him.
Sometimes the game of Superheroes morphed into something more specific, like Tarzan. William would be Tarzan, and I’d be his sidekick James. I liked James. He just followed Tarzan around like a puppy waiting to be ordered around and possibly kicked. James swung on pretend vines, climbed trees, and brought Tarzan glasses of chocolate milk.
One day, I didn’t feel like playing anything.
“Please, Mom?” he begged. “I need you to be James.”
“I don’t feel like it,” I answered. “Plus, it’s Tarzan and Jane, not Tarzan and James.”
“No it’s not. It’s James.”
“It’s Jane, William. A girl’s name.”
With the look on his face, you’d have thought I told him that Diego had been torn limb from limb by Dora.
“I like James better,” he said.
“I know, Sweetie.”
“Jane’s a girl.”
“Yes, she is. But so are IncrediMommy and MegaLegga.”
“Can James be Jane’s twin?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Can Jane stay home?”
“Yup. She sure can. She could use some time alone.”
Vivian’s questions didn’t involve superheroes or marriage, but were more dangerous since they were about reproduction. I’m one of those parents who will give an honest answer to biological questions, but who also tells way too much. If my kids ask me about candy, I’ll volunteer information about root canals. If my kids ask me about rugby, I’ll end up describing the cannibal scene in the movie Alive. I’m pretty skilled at taking a banal topic and having it enter the difficult-to-talk-about realm.
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