As I've said before, as far as anyone knows there aren't any genetic factors that produce identical twins. That would mean that identical twins don't run in families, but we all know of extended families that boast several sets of identical twins. Either the odds have delivered them some astounding coincidences, or there is a genetic component yet undiscovered. I heard somewhere that some scientists are now thinking that a genetic factor that produces fraternal twins is carried by women (hyperovulation, duh!) and a genetic factor that produces embryo splitting and therefore identical twins is carried by men.
If this is true, I'm more likely to have twin grandchildren through Devon than through Carrie or Melina. Interesting. It's neat to think that Devon, whose early childhood is marked by the arrival and care of his little sisters, could someday be a father to his own twins.
Devon's a good little parent. "New Babies some cider (go outside) he says, pushing them out to get some fresh air on our cool screened porch. Then he suggests a walk around the neighborhood. Whenever he's enthusiastic about something, he says it loudly over and over, as if I'd veto something the first six times and then carefully reconsider it on the eighth.
WALKIN' THE BABIES!
WALKIN' THE BABIES!
WALKIN' THE BABIES!
WALKIN' THE BABIES!
WALKIN' THE BABIES!
WALKIN' THE BABIES!
WALKIN' THE BABIES!
WALKIN' THE BABIES!
Okay, Buddy-O, let's give the babies some sunshine on this cloudless Florida day. Carrie and Melina enjoy a ride in their new Combi (our fourth stroller-- amazing how much gear multiples need!!!) Devon and the New Babies ricochet like pinballs between the opposite sides of the sidewalk. They cross the street, double back, recross, inspect the fire hydrants, and stop so Devon can peer into garbage cans.
I'm wearing black yoga pants, a faded nursing tank top, silver flip flops, my Jackie O sunglasses, and a wide Audrey Hepburn sunhat, accessorized with a sprinkling of oaties since I rarely shower before ten anymore. That's why I stay resolutely behind the camera this morning.
We make a statement pretty much every time we go anywhere, but me pushing twins in a double stroller behind Devon pushing his twins in a double stroller is enough to stop traffic on our quiet neighborhood street. One sweet older couple leaves their breakfast dishes in the sink to come out and chat with us. They make the observation that we've already been out a half hour and haven't made it more than the length of five houses. That's the great thing about staying home with the kids; you get very little done but it isn't stressful because you have very little to do all day. They ask me how long I plan to be out, and I remember that I have Bible Study in four more hours. If a quarter of a mile takes two hours, that's okay.
Oops! Devon overbalances and the stroller wipes out.
My strategy when the kids run amok is to stay calm, because then people think you are on top of things and ignore you. Devon accomplishes this as he picks up Purple New Baby and growls a low "aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh", patting her on the back and rocking jerkily. I used to wonder what would cause him to make such an unusual noise, and then realized it's the noise I make when I'm soothing one of the kids. It's another reminder that my kids learn everything from me, right down to the basic skills of nurturing their own "babies".
I can't explain what he does next. I think he's headed over to replace Purple New Baby in her little seat, but instead he sits down, rocks Purple New Baby, and spends several minutes spinning the suspended wheels of the stroller with his other hand. I wonder what aspect of my parenting he's copying at this point. We've all seen the picture on the Internet this week of the crazy-haired, vacant staring SAHM gathering her wits and sipping her coffee as five children create chaos around her (Thanks, Bettie, for tagging it for me!). Maybe this is Devon having a Daddy Time Out.
Suddenly, Devon stands up and rights the stroller, leaving the babies on the ground as he fixes the sunshade and adjusts the buckles. Funny how I can't do that. Even if nobody called CPS, my wigglies wouldn't be where I left them when I got around to collecting them.
"No," Devon says, "New Babies fussy." He decides that they need the comfort of his arms and sets off, still pushing the stroller. I can relate. I do this regularly.
I dare anyone to say that all this nurturing is turning my son into a sissy. Devon is still "all boy." He can't pass a truck without remarking over it. He watched March Madness, or what he called Kentucky-A-Ball, with Daddy whenever we'd let him. He's fond of dirt, fascinated by bodily fluids, and learning to hit a ball off a tee on the screened porch.
Fathering is one of the most masculine things a man can do. My husband carries the twins into church every week in their hot pink car seats, arm muscles bulging at the effort. I'm right behind him with a toddler holding my hand, but the frankly admiring stares are all for Craig and the girls. I think being a good father is more a confirmation of masculinity than a black mark against it. Devon's good at being a Daddy because he's learning from a really good dad.
As the novelty t-shirt slogan says: Real Men Make Twins.
No comments:
Post a Comment