If They Are the Devil’s Spawn, That Makes Me…


They look like nice, normal kids. But don’t be fooled. 

I’ve resisted writing much about my kidlets since I started this blog again. I sort of had my fill of the parenting navel gazing while I was at Baby Center. I wanted to look into my navel and see other stuff, like trips to Vietnam and published books.

But, as it turns out, my kids are a huge part of my life (who knew?) and I’ve really got to get something off my chest.

THEY ARE FUCKING DRIVING ME TO DRINK.  Seriously, they are the worst possible kids ever. Just awful from beginning to end. Actually, they are perfectly delightful on their own. Maybe even exceptionally great. But collectively, they suck ass.  The Mister and I have a few pet names for them: rat bastards, fuck wads, stuff like that.

The thing is, they never stop fighting. They are positively awful to each other and I am the soft, cushiony bosom against which all their awfulness bounces. Seriously, I can’t take it anymore.

Oliver taunts his sister with delicious baked beans

I didn’t have siblings to fight with. My half-brother is 6 years younger than me and we only lived together part-time. We fought terribly, but only on weekends and summer vacations. It wasn’t, like, the main activity of our young lives.

And the thing I wanted more than anything else as a child, was a sibling. More than Atari, more than a 2XL Robot, more than anything. I still sort of do. I am a little jealous of everyone who has a sister.

I tell you this to illustrate how very unprepared I was for what this whole sibling thing was about. In my mind it was all camaraderie and sharing clothes. It was a built-in playmate and best friend.

When I found out I was pregnant with twins I hyperventilated. But later, after I could breathe normally, I was delighted to imagine the closeness they would experience. What could be more delightful than a sibling so close in age?

Well, now I know. Eczema is more delightful. Hangnails, planter’s warts, and canker sores are all more delightful. Delayed flights, Lean Cuisine, and post-nasal drip are apparently also more delightful than having a sibling.

An actual photo of Maggie “playing” with her brother

My dream of making up for what I lacked as a child has been shattered. Maybe I was the lucky only child after all.

I am at the end of my rope, I really am. I don’t even want to be around them because it’s all screaming and fighting and “I hate you” and “I wish you were never born” and all sorts of other lovely, relaxing, brotherly love sort of sentiments.

And I don’t know if it’s our fault. We tried so hard never to compare them and to lavish praise and consequences evenly. We are a fun, loving family. But, if they are the devil’s spawn, that makes the Mister and me the devil, right?  Maybe in some way we modeled the snottiness and ill-will. Maybe we are too quick to anger, or maybe we’re too soft. I honestly don’t know.

All I know is that after hearing about all the estranged adult fraternal twins, I made a promise to myself: I would raise them to love each other and to understand how meaningful and special their relationship is.  And, now, seven years later, that seems like a joke.

I don’t even care if they love each other as adults anymore. All I want is a little peace. One, single day without a screaming fight. I would give up pedicures and catalogue shopping for a year if they could only get along.