Beware the wail of the twin sirens

It started as a whimper and it was irresistible.
I can't remember the date, but I do remember that a few weeks ago Jonathan held his arms up to me and whimpered ever so slightly. When I picked him up, he wrapped his toddler fingers around my neck and buried his head in my chest.
And I held him there for the longest time.
Enjoying his warmth.
Loving that he needed me.
But that whimper became a full-blown wail today.
And it's not so cute anymore.
Jonathan has become my clingy one. His once-adorable whimper now makes my blood pressure rise. His outstretched arms are dangerous: he grabs my legs and trips me; he grabs my arms and spills whatever I am carrying; he grabs my shirt and pulls me backwards, throwing me off balance.
Until today, Matthew has simply looked on.
He has patiently waited for something else to attract Jonathan's attention, knowing that I would give him his share of hugs and cuddles the second my arms were free.
Sure.
Every now and then, the two of them would start to battle over that space on my lap, but, in the end, Matthew would relent.
And he never whimpered.
Until today.
Today was third day of preschool.
The twins are attending two mornings a week.
They had a blast the first day. Jonathan cried a little when he realized I was leaving, but he couldn't resist the lure of the new toys, the new kids and the novelty of it all.
They were tired when I picked them up, but tired in a happy, worn-out kind of way. The second day was much the same.
But this morning, Jonathan began to whimper just outside the room.
And I could see Matthew perk up.
Matthew was about to go through the classroom doorway when he turned back to me, bright-eyed and determined. He stretched out his arms and began to whimper.
Jonathan was stunned for just a second, but then he whimpered louder.
And Matthew whimpered louder.
And Jonathan cried.
And Matthew cried.
And Jonathan began to wail.
I couldn't pick them both up while carrying backpacks, so I tried to lead them in by the hands. They threw themselves down on the floor and refused to budge. The teacher came out and grabbed one. The director grabbed the other.
I kissed them good-bye and lingered outside the door.
Finally, I asked a passing dad to peek in and give me a report.
Each boy was snuggled in a set of arms, he said. They seemed happy, but they were whimpering just a little.
"It was so cute," he said.
And, despite the stress of the morning--despite my throbbing veins, my aching head and my queasy stomach--I was suddenly overwhelmed with a new feeling. One I didn't like because it hurt too much.
I was jealous.
I was jealous of the teacher and the director who held Matthew and Jonathan in their arms, feeling those toddler fingers wrap around their necks and those heads buried in their chests.
Feeling their warmth.
Feeling loved.
Feeling needed.

Identically clingy

I knew I was in trouble about a week ago when Matthew stood up in front of me, lifted his watery blue-gray eyes to meet mine and then raised his arms with that sad, lonely, needy look.
That look was familiar.
I remembered it from my oldest son when he was about 15 months old and from my daughter at about the same age, and I knew it was only a matter of days before Jonathan raised his arms with the same pleading, heart-breaking gaze. They seem to hit these emotional milestones together.
I was right and now I am exhausted.
They have reached the age of separation anxiety. Not the don't-leave-me-with-someone-else-or-I'll-cry-my-eyes-out-and-make-you-feel-like-a-bad-mom kind. I'll think we'll get away without experiencing too much of that. They have each other and they seem to take comfort in their relationship whenever I leave them.
No.
This is worse. With the other kind of separation anxiety, you can be pretty sure that after you've been gone for five minutes, the caretaker will distract them and they'll forget all about you until they see your face again and remember that the show must go on, restarting the tears they had put on hold.
No.
This is the I-want-to-be-in-mommy's-arms-24-hours-a-day-and-don't-you-dare-pick-up-my-brother kind. I get nothing done and neither is ever happy unless I manage to stay out of sight. If they can't see me, they are content. They play well together and are thrilled to be dumping their toys bins, throwing blocks and pushing chairs around the kitchen.
But when they see me, I am surrounded by desperate arms and a moat of tears. If I pick both up at once, they start to wail and cry and push each other away. If I am holding one and the other even comes near, the tears flow from the baby above and the baby below.
I can't win.
I either walk around with a baby on one hip, trying to dodge the other for a while until it's time to switch, or I hide out altogether, penning them in the living room and peering around the door way to check on them occasionally.
I've asked other twin moms how they've handle this, but the only hopeful answer I get is that they grow older each day and that everything will get better as they age.
I know. I know.
I don't want them to grow up too fast and I am flattered that they need me so much, but can't we just skip a few months here? Turn clocks ahead a little just past the separation anxiety stage? I'm even willing to move right into tantrums. Even the really loud, embarrassing ones.
Please?