A difference of weight

For the first time ever, Matthew's and Jonathan's weights are significantly different.
I first noticed it two weeks ago when they were recovering from colds. Both boys had preferred milk to solids while they were sick, but Matthew tended more toward the liquid diet than Jonathan.
So when they stepped on the scale after a bath, I attributed the difference to their illnesses.
Matthew weighed in at 33.5 pounds.
Jonathan was 35 pounds.
But two weeks later, the difference remains.
Part of me wondered whether I was feeding one twin too much or another too little, but then a babysitter put things into perspective: Matthew is much hyper than Jonathan, she noted as she watched them play.
And she was right.
Very right.
Matthew is spontaneous.
Always.
He moves without thinking and he moves constantly.
He rarely stops to eat, though he can't resist a sippy cup full of milk, especially when he is offered his yellow bear and a corner of the sofa with it.
Jonathan, on the other hand, contemplates things more often. He watches his twin brother and he learns from his mistakes. Then he decides whether to act. He does not waste energy; He lets his brother waste it for him.
And, boy, does he ever love peanut butter and jelly.
So, it is possible that this illness was just the beginning. That Matthew will never make up that caloric difference because he can't be bothered: he is too busy. And that future illnesses will create even greater differences until the two boys are double-digit pounds apart.
But then you never know.
Identical twins like to keep parents on their toes.
In utero, Matthew staked out his place as first-born from the beginning (or rather, from the 20-week ultrasound when we first learned two little guys were hiding out in there). He was head-down right near the cervix when we first saw him and there he stayed.
He never gave Jonathan a chance.
Jonathan was all over the place, kicking my ribs, my bladder, my pelvis.
Even after his brother was born, he wouldn't stop moving long enough to come out. He yanked his second foot away every time the doctor tried to breech extract him and took off swimming. When he finally decided to join the world 20 minutes later, he took a spontaneous pike dive, engaging fully head and foot first, and had to be removed via emergency c-section.
The boys were seven ounces apart and Jonathan was the lightweight.
I'm learning that just when I think I understand Matthew and Jonathan, that I know who they are and why they behave like they do, they pull a switch on me.
So I'm not going to worry.
Instead, I'm going to sit back and enjoy the ride.

Assumptions and blessings

As a journalist, one of the first lessons I learned was never to make assumptions.
Don't assume that all siblings share the same last name. Don't assume that beer bottles in a car mean the driver was drinking. Don't assume that you can even begin to comprehend someone else's pain.
It is a lesson I have tried to apply to my personal life as well.
So when a woman I had become casual friends with through my oldest son began to drift away, I assumed nothing. We were not very close. Our children are in different classes now. She had taken a part-time job.
I tried not to assume that it was personal.
I learned yesterday that it was.
Her daughter and mine are in the same class this year and have become friends. They insisted on a playdate and it finally happened yesterday. I noticed that the mom watched the twins play when she dropped her daughter off and seemed interested in them, even drawn to them. But she kept her distance.
Soon after she left, her daughter told me that her older brother was a twin, but that his twin had died before birth.
When the woman returned to retrieve her daughter, I apologized for my ignorance and for any insensitivity I might have displayed during my pregnancy and after. I offered my condolences, unsure whether I was doing or saying the right thing. But relief seemed to wash over her.
And she talked.
She talked about learning that her son had died inside her body at 20 weeks. She talked about the doctors removing the baby and the sac, careful not to touch the surviving baby. She talked about seven long weeks in the hospital on full bed rest and the 1-pound, 12-ounce baby who struggled so hard to survive.
She talked about how blessed and grateful they are that the tiny little baby did survive and that he has no problems resulting from his prematurity. She talked about medical miracles and her familiarty with the NICU.
She did not talk about the pain of her loss or the pain that I now recognize on her face as she watches my boys play.
This time, I decided, it was safe to make an assumption: she is strong in a way that I am not sure I could ever be. I meet people like her around every corner, people who have lost children. And every day, I think of them. I think of them when the frustration mounts. When the twins are crying, the older kids won't do their homework, dinner is burning, the laundry is piling up, I have no time to write and I've barely slept for days.
I am reminded that I have four healthy children, a wonderful husband and a stepdaughter who loves us all. I might have frustrations, but I do not carry that sorrow in my heart that she will have forever. I do not have to be so strong.
Life is good.
I can handle it.