You get a lot of attention when you’re out and about with twins – lots of backward glances, lots of smiles, and lots of questions, generally the same ones over and over again: Are they twins? (Because I guess they could be cousins…?) Fraternal or identical? A boy and a girl? (Even when she’s dressed head to toe in pink or purple, Clio gets mistaken for a boy) Do they have very different personalities?
Although I’m not the world’s biggest extrovert, if I’m in a good mood and not in a hurry, I’m perfectly content to chat with curious onlookers. Even though the conversations are about as stimulating as workday elevator chit-chat (“hot enough for ya?”) it’s hard to get too grumpy about people grinning and fawning over your children. I’m especially happy to stop for older people, and parents with toddlers or small children. It’s also always fun to talk to other parents of twins, or people who are twins themselves. There’s an instant feeling of kinship.
There is, however, one type of twin-looker that Alastair and I have come to dread: the Museum Woman. I call them this because we have primarily been accosted by them while with the girls in museums, although they’ve shown up elsewhere as well: stores, parks, strolls through Davis Square.
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