It’s a safe bet to say that those who say that raising twins is just the same as raising 2 children “close” in age don’t have twins of their own.
Take for example, toilet training.
Having the twinlets as very different individuals and personalities, the “High Five”, squeeze-a-brown-shark-out-get-a-toy technics have only worked for one.
The other insists that doing his business is no one’s business.
And that’s fine. We’re happy to go along with Nunu and when he’s good and ready to make the transition from Lightening McQueen Pull ups to Thomas the Tank undies, we’ll readily be there.
I took the boys to their favourite park the other week.
All was going smoothly when K-Bear insisted he needed to go to the toilet. Having just been to do a discreet wee outside the park fence 5 minutes earlier, I knew he was talking about dropping the brown bomb.
Logistics can be a real bitch at times like these. Trying to drag the other twin to come along was not only tough, but time crucial.
Crossing his legs, K-Bear desperately cried, “Mama…poo, poo!”
Finally, I was able to convince Nunu to get down from the equipment to follow his brother, albeit begrudgingly. I don’t blame him. Would you give up the slide to watch your brother take a crap?
I took the boys back to the quiet corner just outside the park. Legs spread wide in a perfect yoga triangle pose, K-Bear started to do his business.
Realizing that I somehow needed to clear up the mess, I pulled out the baby wipes and made a little nest where the poo could land.
Despite the few flies we attracted, all was going as well as could be expected.
Then, I noticed that up the road – 10 cars away from mine – a parking ranger was doing the rounds. I suddenly panicked realizing that I hadn’t put in any money in the meter. If I didn’t take drastic action, I was going to be slapped with an $88 parking ticket.
“Finished, sweetie???” I failed at trying to sound calm.
“No, Mama…”
More flies started gathering.
“Shoo fly!” K-Bear said, slightly distracted.
“Sweetie, are you finished, NOW???”
My boys are only 3 but they’re not stupid. They knew their mum was frantic.
While his brother plopped away, Noah was still playing near by but was starting to get agitated and impatient.
With my eyes darting back and forth, surveying my son’s poo situation and seeing that the dreaded parking man was only 10 metres away from my car, I knew I was done for.
“Okay, Mama. Finished!”
Quickly I scrambled up the bark and the soiled wipes, trying to wrap it into a neat parcel. Then, wiping my boy’s bum in Olympic record time, I swung our massive back pack around my shoulders, bolted to the bin to then head for the parking meter.
Not even thinking about my boys, they started running behind me.
I looked like Dora the Explorer with her own little troop of Boots and Diego, running behind her.
Vamanos!!!
“Mama, wait for me! Wait for me!” the boys cried out.
For any innocent by passer, I surely would’ve looked like a fugitive, crazy mum, escaping double trouble.
Still ignoring the twinlets’ cries to slow down, I made it to the parking meter just as the nasty parking ranger booked the car in front of me.
Crisis averted.
But damn it. I wasn’t so lucky the following week…
Gah!
Joining Essentially Jess for IBOT
