Two Peas in Separate Pods?

When they started kindergarten we asked them for their opinion; did they want to be in the same class? Mary was certain, same class, but Kate wavered. On the first day of school it was Kate who clung to Mary as they walked in together, to the same class, a decision we all made together, based in part on the simple fact that they had never before been to school. It didn't seem that their initial classroom experience should be the first thing to separate them after five years of togetherness.

The next year they were apart, Kate moving into a split grade class. Mary was nervous initially but they did well and were often so happy to see each other at the end of the day the incessant bickering was slowed, thanks to the seven hour break from one another.

Reunited for second grade, and now third, they have done well spending every waking moment together. They save the bickering for me, they help one another in class and have successfully shared lunch items. Their unique strengths have benefited the other: Mary pulling Kate into the social circle of third grade and Kate pacing Mary to a more focused study time. It's not perfect but for two years this arrangement has worked well.

Recently Kate has started to muse about going to another school, one that would be, perhaps, more suited to her strengths. It's not going to happen next year but she is curious and we've agreed to explore the possibility. Last night at dinner the separate school question was raised, the first Mary had heard of this idea.


Before Kate finished her thought Mary was crying, "no Mom, no. If Kate wasn't there the classroom would feel empty".

A classroom of 19 children would feel empty to Mary if her sister wasn't at the next table; the conversation just became much more complicated.

A Story of Zen

We first met about four years ago, she stopped me as I was walking up our street, pushing the double bus with two almost two year olds, the beagle tied on to the side. At the time I was trying to help an older woman corral her dog who had escaped his leash and was running towards us, the older woman falling further and further behind. Krissy grabbed my stroller, I grabbed the dog and we introduced ourselves. Her first words were something along the lines of "they are twins? And you look rested, reasonable". She may have said normal, I was laughing too hard to be sure.

Her twins were brand new, just two months old, and she was not rested, nor reasonable, in her mind. She was exhausted and not certain that she had the will, the strength, to continue on without sleep, or sanity. We exchanged information, both happy to have found someone, a neighbor, who could understand the unique madness of raising twins. In many ways it is an oddly lonely situation, so few able to really empathize with the foggy days and catatonic nights. With almost two years experience, I was somewhat removed from the total exhaustion associated with the first few months of multiples, but not so far away that I didn't remember.

If I was evidence that it was possible to survive the early months, Krissy was proof that it could be done with energy and enthusiasm. Working full time as a nurse, she juggled the early schedules with their dad, a teacher, and somehow found more time at the park at the end of the street than we ever did. Last year she switched gears, taking a job teaching at a private school, assuring her twins acceptance into their kindergarten program, ironically as she had done far more research on schools than I had even considered. She was more than generous in sharing her findings when I was scrambling for a school.

In my inbox, sometime in late June, I found a Facebook message from her, the subject read simply “my son”. "My son has cancer" it began, and followed with a haphazardly written account of her last 24 hours. Maybe it was a hoax, certainly it was not real, certainly this was not happening to the family down the street.

Zen had blood in his urine, a tumor was found, and then the diagnosis that immediately blurs your eyesight and makes the still room spin, cancer. A very rare form, he is now in stage IV of Wilms, seen in only 20 children annually. It has spread, from kidneys to lungs and heart. The prognosis changes daily. He is undergoing chemotherapy and radiation. He has had multiple surgeries. His heart is responding, the lungs and the kidneys are problematic and struggling. Zen, the keeper of all of this, bravely fights.

As we know, having recently spent two nights at Children's Memorial (for a now insignificant bump on the head), time spent at the emergency room can be costly, even when you have very good private insurance. Our portion of that bill is easing towards $1,000; Kris and Carlos are facing medical bills difficult to truly comprehend. Imagine the emotional lob hurled at you when you deplete your child’s college tuition fund to pay for the medical care to save his life?

Support comes in many forms. Neighbors have come together to raise money, a local coffee shop is planning a fundraiser, coworkers and students are working together to support this family. Cancer is horrid, pediatric cancer even more difficult to grasp and, as the mother of twins, watching this battle being fought by one of two, more than I can reasonably understand. Solstice, Zen’s sister, is herself a mighty brave four year old. My children struggled this year with separation, two first grade classrooms, a departure from being together in kindergarten. Solstice’s own battle certainly makes two first grade rooms seem quite workable.

Two years ago, at our annual holiday party, Zen pulled on one of the Christmas stockings, bringing it, and the large metal snowman holding it on the mantel, down on his face. Zen was brave, just a little crying, I suspect possibly from fear more than pain. Last year the large snowman was gone, replaced by little hooks that, if tugged on, would fall and do no damage at all to the small curious face below. I will think of Zen then, as I do almost daily now, when I hang the Christmas stockings this year and marvel at what a truly brave and remarkable little boy he continues to be.

Yes, They Are All Mine

They were crawling the walls, almost, but not quite, literally. And arguing, which is now their normal means of communication, constant bickering pausing only long enough to make a disgusted face at the other which sends them into riotous laughter, and then they are right back at it.

The woman behind the counter looked at me, "are they yours?", as she gestured in their general direction, like people at the dog beach wave towards Eleanor. Not at all a "oh they're so cute, are they yours?" wave, but one of trepidation and maybe, horror.

Exhausted I proudly said yes, and then asked them to remove their small sticky noses from the glass display cabinet.

She had her God children last week, two of them, four and six, for five days. Her patience was shot, her fuse was short, she felt bad for the coworkers left to deal with her, she could not imagine how any sane person could manage one child, much less two. She was tired.

It is different when they are your own, not that they don't wear you down just as much, maybe even a bit more, but you are wholly vested in the end result, and there is some salvation in that. Even late in the day, when they have just knocked an entire row of bread off the table at the farmer's market, when they are soaked with rain water, not at all clean and deeply engaged in a heated battle over the correct lyrics to "Yes We Have No Bananas". Even then they are all mine.

But deep love for the children aside, where are these Godparents that take children for five days?