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  • Kiss me, baby

    You ever just feel so madly in love with your children you want to kiss them on the mouth? Not in an incestuous, inappropriate way, of course. More like a hungry, aching, gleeful sort of way. Like Cookie Monster, if you will. Me want to kiss delicious baby!  Me cannot resist any longer! Num num num num num! 

     

    And I do kiss them on the mouth sometimes -- a quick parental kiss on those teeny, soft little lips. But who ever thought I'd want to do even that? When I was a kid, I hated it when adults tried to kiss me on the mouth. My grandfather always puckered up for a loud, sillly smack on the lips, which I obliged but never really felt comfortable with. (He smelled like cigarettes and had very high blood pressure, so his lips were always slightly purple.) I even complained if my parents' kisses on my cheek were too wet. "Too much slush," I'd say.

     

     

     

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  • Words fail me.

    A couple of times, readers of this blog have commented that I write more about Elsa than Clio. The unspoken implication, intended or not, is that I'm more focused on, or even more fond of Elsa. My initial reaction to these comments has been, naturally, anger: How dare anyone, especially someone who has never met me (and who probably doesn't have twins, let alone write a blog about them) make such an accusation? Why do they feel compelled to make it? Why casually poke at such an emotional landmine? Haven't they seen Sophie's Choice, for God's sake? 

     

    Then I take a deep breath, pour myself a glass of wine, and remind myself that this comes with the blogging territory. When you write about yourself and your private life in a public forum, you inevitably open yourself up to scrutiny as well as support. You have to be at once thick-skinned and humble, and remember that your blog is not you, nor is it a mirror held up to your heart. It is writing. As such, it can offer readers a glimpse into your life and your self, but it can't possibly give them the whole picture -- nor would you want it to. You try to remember this, and you hope that your readers remember it, too. Most of them do.

     

    But after the most recent comment suggesting favoritism, I did look back over my posts to see if there was an imbalance; if Elsa routinely gets more pixels than Clio, and/or is featured more prominently in posts. And I'd say that yes, on the whole, I've tended to write a little bit more about Elsa than Clio. And often when I talk about both of them, I lead with Elsa. It's certainly not conscious, and it certainly doesn't reflect the degree of my love or focus toward them. But I couldn't help wondering: what's the deal? Mind you, I don't feel that I owe anyone an explanation. I only offer it here because I found it an interesting insight to arrive at, as a writer and as a parent.

     

    What I arrived at was this: I think I find it more difficult to write about Clio than I do Elsa. Maybe it's because I tend to *get* Elsa a little more. As I mentioned in a recent post, I feel like we're alike in many ways. Furthermore, she's very outgoing and assertive and active, which tends to make for better stories and easier lead-ins. But Clio -- Clio is subtler. I find it harder to capture her essence in words the way I can (or presume to be able to) with Elsa. Maybe I'm afraid to try. She is unlike anybody I've ever known. My feelings for her are unlike any I've ever felt. Even trying to write this, I'm struggling. So, here; some fragments.

     

    Ephemeral, mysterious, puckish, protean, quixotic, mercurial, chimerical. Where did she come from? What makes her do the kooky, quirky, delightful things she does? How can a person be so dear? How can someone this innocent exist in this world? She should disappear, like some unstable element. She is sublime. I don't believe in angels, but sometimes I swear Clio must be one. (NB: this does not mean she always behaves like one!)

     

     

    Sensitive Clio. Peacemaker Clio. She cries when other people fight or hurt themselves or get upset, when dogs tussle, when our cat growls at the big long-haired Tabby on the other side of the sliding door. Alastair and I can't even play-wrestle in front of her. Her eyes will fill with tears. She has such deep empathy.

     

    I have never been a touchy-feely person, but Clio makes me one. I worry that I give her more physical attention than Elsa, but she just seems to need and want it more. She'll sometimes just mouth my arm or shoulder and coo: "ahhhhhhhhhh." She loves touching my face and pulling me close, and I feel honored every time she does. I don't deserve this.

     

     

     

    Then suddenly, she writhes and stiffens and wants space. She takes her own time; processes things at her own pace. She can't be pushed from the periphery when she doesn't want to be.

     

    I am afraid I am going to lose her. Ever since she was a few months old, I've had this terrible, irrational fear that I'm going to lose her somehow -- to illness, to tragedy, to the fairies stealing her away in the night -- and it makes loving her hurt. It's the most primal, aching love I've ever felt for anyone. Maybe I am more protective of her in my writing as a result. Maybe I want to keep her a little more to myself.

     

     

     

    So, now it probably sounds like I favor Clio, right?  Do me a favor and don't answer that.

     

    xoxo,

    JR

     

     

     


  • And the winner is...

    I know a lot of you were rooting for the underdog -- we were, too -- but it looks like Elsa is going to be the big winner in the Ultimate Walking Challenge. On Wednesday, she suddenly started being able to stand unsupported, and on Thursday, she apparently took a few steps for Jean, our sitter. On Friday, on several occasions, she took three, four, sometimes even five steps toward us, smiling all the while, obviously excited by this new adventure. There were, of course, three times as many failed attempts, where her bottom half couldn't quite keep up with her top half. (Hot tip to would-be walkers: don't forget to move your legs!)

     

    As exciting as it is, each time we've watched Elsa walk -- sitting there smiling and encouraging and reaching out our arms for her -- I can't help feeling a pang of guilt, knowing that Clio is being temporarily ignored. Not that she seems to care in the least. The first time, she clapped and grinned right along with Elsa and the rest of us. It's lovely the way they both seem to take vicarious pleasure in each other's happiness rather than get jealous.

     

    Still, I find myself trying to "even things out" by turning my attention to Clio after it's been on Elsa for a little while; to praise her and play with her and encourage her to try walking, too. (I don't think she's far from it; she's great at standing on her own, and even better than Elsa at squatting down.) I have this fear that at some point she's going to start developing a complex about Elsa always being a step (ha) ahead. But maybe that's just the overachiever in me, projecting. Maybe, in fact, Clio will be happy to hang back and do her own thing while Elsa blazes ahead: You want to start coloring inside the lines, big sis? Hey, that's cool; I prefer to keep things experimental. You want to get your driver's license the day you turn sixteen? Sweet -- you can give me rides.

     

    It's insane how early you can feel these dynamics creeping in. As hard as I try not to pigeonhole or project, I can't help wondering: twenty years from now, after they've taken psych 101 and maybe a creative writing course or two, are they going to come back and accuse me of irreperably messing them up or unfairly shaping their destinies because of how I perceived them and, hence, treated them as infants/toddlers? They'll have this blog for evidence, too! Shit! (Of course, that's a whole other conversation: the revenge of the blogged babies.)

     

    All I know is, it's impossible to treat two babies exactly the same way, because they're two completely different people. And although I love them in equal measure, I love them completely differently -- something I never could have fully grasped before I had them. I just hope that the separate but equal (whoever thought that could be a good thing?) intensity of my love will come through to them, always.

     

     



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About the Blogger

Jane Roper

Jane Roper in Boston

One baby? Piece of cake. Try two. This working mother gives you the inside scoop on the ultimate in extreme parenting: twins.

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