Same Egg, Dude…Same Egg.



Just over a decade ago, in the midst of a routine ultrasound with my second pregnancy, I had a perfectly lovely woman inform me that I was, in fact, five months pregnant with twins. I would love to tell you that I cried grateful tears and said something poetic and earth shatteringly poignant, perhaps about the unexpected blessings that the universe had bestowed upon me and my, evidently, fruitful womb…but, no. Instead, I looked her dead in the eye and called her a “fucking liar”. Classy under pressure…that’s me.

Fast forward a bit, and I have the least identical, identical twins on Earth.  Seriously, they suck at it.  In utero, one was content to stretch, roll, and chill, and the other one spent all day and night kicking the shit out of me AND his brother, doing what I can only assume, was a fabulous impression of Elaine Benes dancing.  Even at birth, they couldn’t agree on an exit strategy, and they threw open separate hatches to escape the mother ship.

They don’t like the same food, clothing, music, games, or…anything.  The only thing they consistently agree on, is ways to piss off their older sister.  There…they’ve got their shit together.

Because of this, I have raised them as individuals from the onset.  They were never dressed alike or treated “equally”.  First, because it would disrespect them as unique human beings, capable of great individuality…but, mostly just because I find the notion of clones fucking creepy.  Perhaps that is why one of them just doesn’t seem to always get it, and I’ll let you guess which one.

Exhibit A:

Liam: “Xavier told me I look like a donkey’s butt.”

Me: “I’ll bet that hurt your feelings.  What did you say to him, when he said that to you?”

Liam: “I reminded him that we’re identical twins.”

Exhibit B:

Xavier: “It’s not fair. Girls get to be beautiful, and boys are just…ugh.”

Liam: “Xavier…we’re identical twins, and I’m ADORRRRABLE.”

Exhibit C:

Xavier: “Why does she (camp counselor) always call me Liam!?”

Liam: *facepalm*

Exhibit D: (During a RARE moment when they were wearing the same dress shirt, for their First Communion.)

Xavier: “How does this look on me, do I look okay?”

Liam: (Throwing up his hands, gesturing to himself, with an expression of absolute “DUH!”)

I Need To Stop Writing About Toileting Issues (and, shut up, spell check, it is to spelled that way! wait…to or too? nothing looks right…awww fuck it)



One of my largest conflicts in parenthood, has been in toeing that thick, fat line that lies between hovering over my children like some sort of demented helicopter, and flinging those little suckers out of the nest, while screaming, “Fly, you little bastards, fly!” Sometimes, I walk the line artfully…but, usually, it’s more drunken sailor than Wallenda Brother.

One of the areas in which I have struggled the most, was in letting them use public restrooms alone. Try as I might, I cannot get past the idea that, behind every men’s room door, lies a mustachioed creeper, just waiting to offer my sons candy, but on the flip side, my sons were definitely heading into their own gray area, where they were leaving the “Oh, aren’t they cute,” stage, and rapidly heading into “Why are those man-children in the women’s lavatory?”.

By the time they were eight, my resolve on the issue vacillated, depending on the sketchiness of the bathroom in question. Nice restaurant…no problem! Inner-city Costco…no fucking way on this Earth. Finally, there came a day in which my sons hit a tipping point, where they were no longer Ladies’ Lounge appropriate.

Liam: “Mooooom, the machine took my penny!”
Me (washing my hands): “What machine?”
Liam: “The one that sells tampons. And I didn’t get a tampon, and it took my penny! What IS a tampon anyway?”

“Fly, you little bastards, fly!”

The Universe Is Trying To Give Me An STD


Me: Jesus wants me to have herpes.

Tracy: Jesus does NOT want you to have herpes.

Me: Then how come the last two people I’ve actually wanted to date tested positive for it, right after we met? And seriously, these are the LAST two men on Earth who should have anything. These guys were so straight and narrow, they were practically vacuum-sealed. The universe. Wants me. To get herpes.

Tracy: If the universe wanted you to have herpes, they wouldn’t have found out before you were exposed.

Me: I swear to you that both conversations were identical. For the rest of my life, if a man calls me, sounding panicked, I’m going to assume and say, “Oh, my, God, you have herpes”, and they’re going to say, “No, my mom just died,” and then I’m going to say, “Oops! Sorry about that! But, hey…are you sure about the herpes?”

Tracy: At least you were really nice and understanding about it. You could have told him to kiss off, and you didn’t. You tried to be supportive.

Me: But what’s the point? What is the message in all this? What lesson is the universe trying to teach me? Every time I like someone, this happens, and then they freak out, want to live in a cave, never want to be touched again, and it fucks everything up. I am the only person on Earth who would have MORE dating options with an STD.

Tracy: Maybe it’s not about you at all. Maybe the universe is putting you in their lives to be nice to them and make them feel better about it?

Me: No, I think it IS about me…and apparently the universe is trying to teach me to stop being so understanding, and to start being a much bigger bitch.

Tracy: Okay, maybe the universe does want you to have herpes.

Me: I TOLD YOU! And, this, for the record, is why I’m becoming a nun.

Tracy: Yeah, I don’t think that anything we just talked about goes along with that.

Note: Carry a random dollar amount of life insurance.

The Simpsons

The Simpsons

In preparing for next school year, it occurs to me that the only thing worse than reading these stories, is having to teach with them.  Kids, let me save you some time…

The Most Dangerous Game:  Oh, please…the most dangerous game is hunting an unarmed man across a private island?  Pffffft!  Everyone over the age of sixteen knows that the most dangerous game on Earth is playing “Just the Tip”.

The Metamorphosis: If you turn into a giant monster, your family will throw apples at you, wait for you to die, and then take a nice train ride in the country to celebrate.  It’s a pretty thin metaphor, teenagers…take note.

The Lottery: This story is actually ridiculously accurate, because, like Tessie, when you win the lottery, everyone you know is going to pelt you, only it will be with lawsuits and monetary requests, rather than stones.  And, yes, kids, it IS a little like the Hunger Games…only no one is remotely sexy, so the story is shorter to make up for it.

Flowers For Algernon: Oh, a depressive two-fer!?  We get to mourn an adorable animal AND a mentally disabled man?  Great.  Now, where did I put that katana and cyanide?  I know I put it somewhere.  Damn it.

The Monkey’s Paw: They wish for 200 pounds and the next day their son is killed, and they are given that exact amount of money, as a settlement.  Great, now I get to cringe every single time my kids throw a penny in a fountain.  Is anyone else concerned about what happened to the rest of the monkey?  I bet if you hadn’t chopped off his paw, he wouldn’t be such a dick.  Although, this story does have a zombie, and zombies are gold…just ask Hollywood.

The Gift of the Magi: Hey, guys, that watch is gone forever, but guess whose hair is going to grow back?  Yeah, that’s right…women are smarter when it comes to shopping retail.  Who’s naive now?