The boys and I were dumbstruck. We hustled across the street and carried on our way with my mind churning with all the things I wish I would have said to him (like, “I hope that makes you feel really good about yourself”, or “who are you calling a hippie? See these gloves? That’s FUR TRIM”).   My eldest son asked me why the man yelled at me like that.  Trying to seize on this as a teaching moment I came up with psychological explanations.  ”Some people don’t have very good self-control”, I said, knowing that they have been talking about self-control at school.  ”They just get so angry that they say very irresponsible and hurtful things.”  I think that’s a pretty good explanation but then think of something else maybe even better that he can glean a bit of self-learning from.  ”Sometimes when people are already having a very bad day, they lash out at others for no real reason.  And sometimes people over-react when they know they’ve done something wrong, and to cover up their own feelings of guilt, they act extra angry and abusive toward the person they’ve wronged.”

Wow, I thought, I’m good. What insight. What presence of mind.  I’m teaching them about defense mechanisms! My kids are going to learn a thing or two about human behaviour here!

“Or maybe he was drunk”, says Justin.

Yeah, there’s that  too.

One dark night in February, I am on my own at dinner time. I am trying to feed Sam and Ben who are set up in their high chairs in the corner such that my back is turned to Justin and Aidan who are seated at the dining table. Not an ideal seating arrangement. It has since been improved.  Dinner time has just started and already it has devolved into hilarity and hijinks.

Justin keeps getting up and I’ve threatened him several times to sit down or I’ll take his dinner. Sam and Ben are periodically spitting out their food and pelting me with rice. Aidan says to Justin, “this is how you do your extersizes.”  I hear him but because my back is turned I don’t see that he is standing on his chair waving his arms and legs around.  But I hear, “uh oh” and I look up to see that he’s knocked over his milk.   Milk, for those not in the know, seems to have different properties than any other liquid – it splatters everywhere, it goes in a million different trajectories, and can actually bend around corners.

I lose it. Maybe because I had spent 45 minutes before dinner cleaning half a giant tub of super high quality extra thick and sticky diaper cream out of Ben’s mouth, hair, face, hands, arms and legs, and cleaning the microfibre furniture that Ben had smeared with said diaper cream (my bad for leaving the lid off). Or maybe it was because I then had to clean up the diaper cream that Ben threw up all over the floor after choking on a piece of paper towel he found sticking out of the cupboard. Or maybe it was because I had just spent 45 minutes making dinner that nobody was really eating. Or maybe it was because the floor was already carpeted with rice, and I now had to clean up the rice floating like little island chains in the milk.

Whatever, I explode. I pick up Aidan and set him firmly on the floor and say NO in a mean mommy voice. I continue to yell:

“You know better than that Aidan, look it’s splattered everywhere.”

“Stop talking to Aidan like that, you’re making him upset!” says Justin.

“Good, he should be upset, he knows better than this”.

“Stop talking like that, you’re talking like a, like a tiger!” says Justin.

Aidan is sitting on the floor hanging his head and his bottom lip comes out; he starts to cry. I walk past him, over to the sink to rinse out the cloth I’m using to wipe up the milk, immune to his tears. I’m still pissed.

“You’re talking so mean, I’m going to call you a box head!” yells Justin and runs into the living room.  He throws himself on the couch. A second later he bursts into tears and says  ”I spoke to you not nice.”

I’m at once brought back to my human form. “That’s ok Justin, I know you were sticking up for your brother.” I bend down and give him a hug. The intensity has passed, the milk is cleaned up and I scoop Aidan up in my arms, give him a hug and we sit back down to finish our dinner.

Whoever said don’t cry over spilt milk never ate at my house.

[Author's note: This happened in 2009. Dinner time is slowly getting better now that the twins are 3 but sometimes I can only see this clearly in retrospect].

At the start of every play date, they had to recite The Rules.  It was within this context that G’s mother took him to Pirate Day at the Marine Museum. About 15 kids were sitting on the floor in front of the big pirate boat, their parents standing in the back, listening to the Pirate leader tell them what Pirate Day was all about.  The leader explained that before being allowed on the boat, there were rules to learn.

To engage the kids, the leader asked if any of the kids had rules that they had to follow at home.  As if a fire was lit beneath him, G’s arm shot straight up, wiggling his hand in excitement, in the kind of way keen kids do when they know the answer.

 ”Keep your pants on, and no touching penises”, G proudly announced, to the horror of his mother.

Well, those are the rules….

One particularly stressful day in April, Dave was working and I had to shlep all four kids to Aidan’s skating lesson at 9:30, kill an hour in the rain, and then get to Justin’s swimming lesson at 11.  Justin also had a soccer banquet from 11-1 where they were handing out medals and hotdogs, and Justin was keen to get both. I foolishly had said that maybe we would go to the banquet after swimming if we could.  At 6, Justin interprets maybe as a yes.  Usually he’s right.  

This is how it goes down:

Pack all kids into car with Aidan’s skating gear, Justin’s swimming gear, babies’ toys, diapers, wipes, changes of clothes, bottles, snacks, stroller, rain cover, umbrella. Drive to the community centre where luckily both skating and swimming take place. Unpack all gear from car and race to skating rink in the pouring rain. Get Aidan’s snow pants, skates, helmet and mitts on. Placate squirming babies with bottle. Pace around skating rink with stroller soaking wet while Aidan has his lesson. Ply Justin with hot chocolate from concession to keep him quiet.  He accidentally spills most of it on the bench.  Get Aidan undressed  and load up stroller with two bags of gear and head out in pouring rain to local baby-friendly cafe where we kill an hour.  Aidan has to go poop; I try to keep an eye on him in the bathroom while the babies roam around the cafe. I put Justin in charge of them.  Strangers are asking me if they can help me because it’s obvious I need it. It’s time for Justin’s lesson; babies go back in the stroller, on go the wet jackets, pack up the two bags of gear again and walk back to the swimming pool. Park the stroller in the hallway while I get Justin dressed for swimming in the steaming changeroom.  Pile 3 soaking coats, three sets of boots, and two bags of gear on top of the stroller and wheel the monstrosity to the side of the pool.  Sit by the pool for the next half hour manically jiggling the stroller while Justin has his lesson. Keep handing toys and food to Aidan and babies to keep them under control. Babies have had enough, and start throwing toys; one lands in the pool. Aidan is complaining that he is bored and we have run out of food. Justin is finished his lesson. I forego the impossible trek back to the changeroom and make him get dressed in the viewing gallery, much to his chagrin. We are done, I am done. 

We get back to the car, I pack everyone and everything back in the car to go home, we all just want to go home. All except Justin, who is hungry and tired, exhausted really, and insists that we go to the soccer banquet. He starts to cry and begs me, please can we go, he wants his hot dog and medal.  For some reason, or for some lack of reason, I relent and drive to the Legion where the banquet is held and park around the corner. It’s on the way home after all; we drive right past it.  I see people leaving the building and ask a random person if the banquet is over, and am told pretty much, food all gone, medals are being handed out now, mostly it’s done.  I already have one baby in the stroller and one still in the car seat. Justin and Aidan are already out. 

“Ok Justin, we missed the banquet, it’s over, we’ll get your medal later, we have to go home now” and I begin to put the baby back in the car seat. Justin melts down and insists that we go in to get his medal despite my reasonings that they’ve already handed the medals out and we missed the ceremony and that we would pick up his medal from his coach later. I wasn’t about to pack the twins and Aidan and Justin into the legion for nothing.  

But instead of seeing a child who is hungry and tired from the long morning, The Guilt falls over my eyes like a shroud, and I see a child who never asked to have twin baby brothers who put such limitations on his life, and so I relent again. 

Back out comes baby#1, and then baby#2, and then Aidan out of the back seat.  We walk the the few feet around the corner to the front of the legion and I pull the stroller up the one little step to get into building–I look up and see about 6 stairs and say “oh Justin, there’s stairs, forget it I can’t go. I’m not dragging the stroller up the stairs”.  I walk up the 6 stairs to see what’s around the corner and look up to see 32 steps that lead to the banquet room.  Are you kidding me? Isn’t this a legion where veterans come, and there’s no f**%$ing elevator? Forget it. That seals the deal, there’s no way I can drag my 30-pound stroller up 32 steps with 2 twenty-pound babies in it–there’s not even a landing in between to break it up, it’s just straight up. 

I come back down stairs and tell Justin we simply can’t go in. But now that Justin is so close to being there, he simply can’t accept not actually going in. There’s no reasoning with him. Or with me apparently. Again, The Guilt falls down, this time doubly thick and I can’t see that Justin is being ridiculous, that he doesn’t understand that there’s nothing to go to, it’s over, no medal, no hotdog, no ceremony. Instead I see a child with whom I would have been able to quickly go up the stairs, with Aidan in tow, to show him there was nothing going on, had I not had baby twins to hamper me.  I see a child who is being neglected of an experience he should have if I was not saddled with two small babies.  Incredibly, I relent again. 

I pick up baby #1 from the stroller and then pry baby #2 out while pressing baby #1 against my chest, and put one baby on each hip. I call for Justin and Aidan to follow me up the stairs, leaving the stoller parked at the bottom of the first flight. Up we go, I’m practically running because I know my arms won’t hold out for very long.

We get up to the banquet room to mass confusion, people milling around, the tail end of the medal ceremony going on. Some kids are sitting on the floor listening, but mostly it’s parents and kids milling around.  I can’t find anyone I know and the babies are starting to get heavy.  I finally spot the coach and ask him if we can get Justin’s medal. He tells me his wife has taken them home, he didn’t think Justin was coming. I feel the babies slipping and keep hoisting them back up. I tell Justin we have to go, there are no medals left, and surprise, no hotdogs. Justin finally gets it.

With Justin and Aidan in tow, I lead the way back down the steep staircase, going fast down the stairs because I’m about to drop the babies. The ceremony is now over and most people are leaving.  I’m in the front of the big crowd of people on the stairs with my two older sons behind me.  

“Aidan”, I yell, “hang on to the railing”. I have to yell it really loud because the stair case is noisy and Aidan is deaf. I sound like I’m shouting at him because I’m mean.  Aidan doesn’t hear me, so I shout again, abnormally loud,  ”AIDAN, HANG ON TO THE RAILING. GO SLOWER.”

I turn around and continue my quick pace but Aidan can’t keep up and he falls, but not just a slip, he falls horizontally down the stairs and kind of hot dog rolls down about 3 or 4 steps.  I don’t notice until I hear him screaming. I stop and sit down on the stairs with the babies on my lap, and see if Aidan is ok.   Aidan’s scared-crying, really loud. I give him a quick kiss and shout at him again to go slow and hang on. Everyone is stopped behind me watching and listening to all this. They see this completely frazzled, apparently mean mom who is shouting at her small child who has just fallen down the stairs to get up and hang on.   The people on the stairs don’t know that Aidan is deaf.

We manage our way down the last third of the stairs and I literally drop the babies into the stroller.  We leave, no hot dog, no medal, still a disappointed and upset Justin, a crying, injured Aidan, and a mom who can’t see past this shroud of guilt in front of her eyes.

The ultrasound screen is pointed away from me and I can’t see anything reflected in the technician’s face.  She is blank, going through the motions.  So am I.  I’ve done this all before.  This is just a dating ultrasound, I’m not invested in it, just give me the date and I’ll be on my way.

The technician breaks her silence.  “Have you ever seen an ultrasound picture before?” she asks as she turns the screen toward me.

I take my hand out from behind my head.  “Yes, but I can never make sense of what’s what”, I say as I turn my head toward the screen. I stare at it.  I stare harder.  There on the screen are two tiny circles sitting perfectly side by side. I feel like I’m in a horror movie where the background comes reeling into the foreground.

“Please tell me those aren’t twins.”

I sit up sharply and the paper beneath me shifts – it seems inordinately loud as it slides and crinkles.  My shirt falls down a little onto the gel on my stomach and it clings to me, cold and wet. I can barely hear the technician over the roar in my ears and the effort it takes to swallow past the giant lump forming in the back of my throat proves too much.  I lie back down.

“Congratulations”, the tech says as the tears spill down my cheeks.

“These aren’t tears of joy” I stammer as I tear my eyes away from the screen and stare at the blank wall in front of me.  But my mind is swirling and in the middle of the vortex is the seed of fear, anxiety and dread that shapes the rest of my pregnancy.  It lasts to the very end when in my 38^th week my doctor tells me she wants to induce me the next day and I burst into tears, as if I haven’t actually been carrying them for the past 38 weeks.  As if I haven’t been thinking about this day every day for the last 197 days since I found out it was twins.  But it’s here, they’re coming and I’m scared.  I can’t do twins.

Flash forward 7 weeks.  I’m alone in my kitchen with four children under the age of 5.  I’m standing by the sink staring at the dirty dishes.  Loading the dishwasher seems too daunting.  Anything other than direct child care seems too daunting. I’m still in my pyjamas stained with various bodily fluids from the feeding-burping-diaper changing melee of last night and I think I actually smell rancid. Last night was a blur of babies with 45 minute sleep stints in between. I am still sore down there- it is even uncomfortable to stand.  I think I have a bladder infection to top it all off.  My sister who had come from Ontario to help me just left yesterday. She came for one week and my mom came for 5 weeks before that.  But now my round-the-clock safety-net is gone. I feel like I’ve been cut loose and I’m dangling.  Dave, my husband, is at work. I am fortunate to have a wonderful nanny two days/week, but this is not one of her days.

The twins are 7 weeks old. They’re real and they even have names: Sam and Ben.  They’re asleep, side by side in their bassinette in the corner.  Justin just turned 5 two months ago and Aidan is 2 ½.    They’re wandering around in the underwear and t-shirts they slept in the night before.  It’s 9:30 but it feels like mid-day.  I’m depleted, looking ahead to the rest of the day, wondering how I am going to face it?

Justin is walking around the kitchen with a bowl of dry cheerios that I don’t remember pouring for him.  I tell him to sit down and eat them. He ignores me.  A few drop on the floor.  He gets down on his hands and knees and pretends he’s a dog and eats them off the floor, lips to hardwood, sucking them up.  Aidan sees this and wants in on the action.  Justin looks up at me, and seeing no reaction on my face, dumps the whole bowl of cheerios on the floor which has not been swept or cleaned in recent memory.   He and Aidan proceed to lap the cheerios off the floor as if they were my pet dogs. I stand there, among the cheerios and the lip-smacking laughing boys and consider telling them to stop, that this is inappropriate, that the floor is dirty. That’s what I would have done before the twins arrived.  But not now.  Now, I stand there and let them lick cheerios from the floor and I think to myself, so this is how you do twins.