They're Really Not Twins, No I'm serious, They're Not

As it had been nearly three weeks since my kids had last seen their beloved pediatrician, we went in for a visit again this morning. Actually it was Emma's three-year check-up. We were greeted by a strange nurse. I knew immediately that she wasn't one of the regulars: she called Emma's name instead of saying, "Oh, hey guys, come on back;" and she stared lovingly at Hannah and Emma's matching pig-tail faces and said, "Oh! Twins! They're adorable!"



"Well, actually they're 18 months apart," I said. The nurses' jaw dropped at least two inches and her eyes quickly flashed from Hannah to Emma and back again several times. "No!" she informed me, in obvious disbelief of my authority on the matter, "They just look identical!"

"I know, it's crazy," I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster--as if I hadn't had this conversation several dozen times before. Then I threw in for extra flare, "Can you tell which one's older?" Again her eyes flashed, her brow furrowed, but she didn't even have a guess.  Usually when people do guess they guess that Emma's the older one because she has a bit more body mass. Apparently they're identical twins, born 18 months apart.

Why do I bother telling you this? Because it's becoming such a large part of my life. Initially, about a year ago, when people occasionally asked me this question I enjoyed the extra attention, but now that Emma has exactly caught up with Hannah's height and looks, the frequent questions are beginning to become a real bother.

On the way out of the doctor's office I was greeted by a mother of two young boys. Looking at me with Toby on one hip and Hannah and Emma following me, the mother's jaw dropped and she exclaimed, "Twins! How do you do it?!" "Well," I began my usual speech, "They're actually 18 months apart." A look of utter disbelief followed, then the usual eye dance, then a near exact replica of the previous conversation with the nurse.

On the way home we had to stop at Wal-Mart and Meijer. I don't usually attempt three consecutive errands with three small children, but I was desperate this morning. All throughout the isles of Wal-Mart people stared at my adorable twin girls, and yet another stranger initiated the familiar conversation, "Oh, how sweet, are they twins?"

At Meijer I had barely made it past the shop-lift-guard-disguised-as-greeter when another lady smiled broadly at me, "Twins! They're so cute!" By this time I was in a race to grab a few groceries and make it through the check-out before Toby declared war on the safety belt, so I simply smiled back and said, "Yeah, it's a real challenge!" The lady laughed,"I bet!" and was about to go on her way when Hannah announced, "We're NOT twins! I'm four and Emma's only three!" "I fwee!" Emma chimed in. Oops...caught, and another two minutes down the drain trying to explain that I am also astounded by their adorable similarity in size and looks despite their age difference.

As we walked away to find our last round of pre-biopsy frozen pizza and bread, Hannah began to sing, to the tune of three blind mice:

We're not twins

We're not twins

I am older

I am older

We are nah-at twi-ih-ins

We are nah-at twi-ih-ins

We're not twins

We're not twins

Though this song elicited some funny looks from other shoppers, nobody else stopped me to ask me if they were twins. Perhaps I should prep Hannah to sing this song whenever we go out in public, it would save a lot of trouble.