Identical voices?

Matthew and Jonathan have the same cry.
When I hear them call out over the monitor at night, I can never tell whether the same toddler has awakened twice or whether both woke up at different times. It drives me crazy, especially when they are sick.
So, before they started speaking, I often wondered whether they would have the same voice.
I finally have my answer.
They do.
But they don't.
If both boys say the same thing with the same inflection (and they often do), their voices are indistinguishable from one another. They also have a similar vocabulary and are at the same stage of speech development.
They string words together, but they do not form complete sentences.
What distinguishes them in speech is not their voices, but their personalities.
Matthew likes to yell.
Sometimes, he'll just stand there and holler, "Mom! Mom!" in a flat, loud, determined tone even though I'm right there. Then he'll grin. He just really loves to yell. It seems to makes him feel good, strong, in control.
If he wants to go into the basement playroom, he commands me: "Mom! Basement!"
Jonathan doesn't do that.
When I hear a question asked in soprano, that's when I know it's Jonathan speaking. He is inquisitive and his voice often climbs almost unbearably high when he struggles with that first syllable of a question.
When Jonathan wants to play in the basement, I hear a high-pitched squeak that grows louder, stronger and fuller as it finally escapes: "Basement?"
He doesn't command me; he makes an appeal to me.
Over time, I'm sure experience will change their approaches. They will learn, like we all do, how people react to their attempts to manipulate with intonation and inflection, and their voices will be like their cries.
They will be indistinguishable.
But that's okay.
That's okay because, by then, I won't need to hear different voices to know who is speaking. Jonathan and Matthew will have different interests, different concerns, different questions, different life experiences.
Their personalities will override their biological similarities.
They will sound different simply because they are different.

Their voices emerge

They are speaking.
Really, really speaking and, wow, is it cool.
It all started just after their second birthday, the day I picked up the phone to make the appointment with a speech therapist. I got distracted and planned to call again later. Suddenly, I heard "Bye, bye, truck."
And it just poured out from there.
Three months ago, Matthew and Jonathan would not string two words together. The single words they used were mostly one-syllable words and they often would leave off the ending sounds.
I tried not to worry.
Many online friends with identical boys of similar ages were experiencing the same delays.
The county folks who had evaluated Matthew and Jonathan said they communicated in all other ways, and that they had simply fallen into the habits of twinese or twin language.
They entertained each other and had no desire to please adults with their speaking abilities. The county team suggested sign language, but assured me that Matthew and Jonathan would eventually come around.
Our pediatrician recommended a few therapy sessions anyway just to encourage them to speak and to help ease the frustrations that bring about so many tantrums when children grow intellectually, but are still not able to communicate their needs and desires.
This was the appointment I was trying to make that day in January.
Now my concerns seem silly.
I was in the kitchen this morning when I heard, "Ready, set, go!" from foyer. Then around the corner came Matthew in the lead with the smaller toy shopping cart. Jonathan was at his heels, with the larger one, laughing like crazy.
When I told them they needed to get dressed, Jonathan said, "Shirt? Pants?" and went right for the dresser. He picked up a blue shirt with a ball and net on front and said, "basketball? Shirt on?" clear as day.
The boys can count to ten.
They know their colors.
They know the alphabet and most of the letter sounds.
They say, "One, two, three. Green!" when we stop at a red light.
This morning, as we headed out the door for a three-hour visit to the sitter, Matthew said, "Cole's house?" And that was exactly where we were headed. To the home of our three-year-old neighbor Cole and his nanny, who cares for Matthew and Jonathan two mornings a week.
I answered him and the three of us -- Matthew, Jonathan and I -- had a little conversation about Cole and his little sister and their toy dinosaurs.
We actually had a conversation.
It was so cool.

Two-year stats

Not all identical twins develop identically in their physical growth.
Just last week, I met identical twin girls at the local mall with their mom. The girls were 3 years old and one was more than an inch taller than the other. The difference, the mom said, was likely caused by twin-to-twin transfusion, which forced doctors to deliver them at 27 weeks or lose the smaller twin.
Our guys were lucky.
Each had his own sac and his own placenta. Their placentas were on polar opposite sides of the uterus. It can't get better or safer than that. Their placement in utero was so rare that it took DNA tests to persuade my OB that they are, indeed, identical.

So I wasn't surprised by the findings at their 2-year physical:

Height: Both boys are 37.5 inches tall, landing them off the charts compared to other boys their age. Our two older children are off the charts for height as well. It's in their genes. Their dad looms 10 inches above me at 6 feet, 5 inches tall.

Head: Their measurements were precisely the same even though most folks insist that Jonathan's head is bigger. Jonathan has slightly more fat in his cheeks than his brother. I sometimes wonder if that is because Jonathan was born via c-section while Matthew experienced a vaginal birth. It's not likely, but it's something to think about.

Weight: Matthew was the lighter of the two at 31 pounds, 4 ounces. Jonathan weighed in at exactly 32 pounds. It might be the cheek fat. It might have been a wet diaper. It might have been because Matthew takes so much more pleasure in throwing his food than in eating it. Who knows?

Overall, the doctor proclaimed Jonathan and Matthew healthy, but she referred them to specialists for speech and hearing. Though the county program denied them services, she felt their reluctance to use more than one syllable per word and their refusal to put to words together is probably the source of unnecessary frustration.
She figures twinese is the cause, but that a little therapy might make life better for all of us.
I have to agree.
So off we go to Children's Hospital.
We'll be checking back with the pediatrician in six months.
Hopefully, by then, we'll be asking for advice on how to tune out their constant chatter.

The results are in

It's official.
The boys can hear and understand spoken language just fine. They use plenty of inflection. They know at least 20 animal sounds and say them clearly. They even know many of their letter sounds.
Matthew and Jonathan can verbally communicate with others.
When they want to.
The trouble is that like many twins, particularly identical boys, they really don't want to most of the time. They use the smallest parcel of language possible to get their messages across and, at 23 months old, they still refuse to put two words together.
Really refuse.
They shake their heads "no."
"Twin language," the therapist wrote on the form in the evaluation room of the early invention program. They understand each other and have no urgent desire to please us grown-ups with their linguistic skills.
That's why they just stare at folks who try to get them to wave "hello" or "good-bye," yet they holler "bye-bye" and shut the door behind me when I take them to the sitter's (They love going there!). That's why they say only the first sound of so many words. That's why I am frequently puzzled when they open the fridge and ask for milk by some term they came up with entirely on their own.
No therapy necessary, she said. They will figure it out. But we really should teach them sign language if we want to lessen the frequency of tantrums as they struggle with the realization that this isn't going to work forever, she said.
The other therapists had a few things to say too. Mostly, they wondered how we do it. The room was like a preschool, filled with countless cool toys and contraptions that drew Jonathan and Matthew like magnets.
But the force wasn't strong enough.
Within 20 minutes, they were grabbing clipboards, standing on chairs, stealing shoes and flipping through notebooks of the three blissfully ignorant therapists. Their antics earned Jonathan and Matthew a ranking of 36 months for gross motor skills and 31 months for fine motor skills.
They made it only to 21 months for adaptive motor skills because I have, thus far, refused to introduce the potty. "I'm not potty training them until they can at least say the word 'potty,'" I told the therapist.
"Okay," she said. "Here's the sign."

He said his name

I was frustrated.
So frustrated.
I had bought a full-length mirror and mounted it in the nursery, hoping the image of himself would finally inspire Jonathan to say his name.
Instead, Jonathan stood before his reflection and said "Maaaatttt."
"No, no, no," I said, pointing to his brother. "That's Matt. You are Jon."
After a few rounds, Jonathan changed his response. Instead of calling himself "Matt," he actually pointed to his brother and then said Matthew's name. Further pressure only made Jonathan clam up.
Well, that was progress.
I sighed.
Jonathan knew who he was. He'd always responded to his name, but he just couldn't bring himself to verbalize it. Maybe the letter J was just too hard. But I knew in my heart that wasn't the issue. Jonathan wanted Matt's name, just like he wanted Matt's yellow bear, Matt's crib and Matt's shoes.
He had never said his name and he wasn't going to.
So I gave up.
I started to walk away.
Then I stopped.
I stopped because as I glanced back at Jonathan, I saw a familiar grin. It was that mischievous grin, the grin that tells me something big is about to happen.
"Maaaattt," he said, signaling toward his brother.
I approached him with caution.
"Yes. That's Matt, but who is this?" I asked, pointing at Jonathan's image. "Who is in the mirror?"
That grin grew. It grew bigger than I'd ever seen it before. Then suddenly it burst into a bright, startled face full of excitement, a look of comprehension and recognition that used every muscle in Jonathan's face.
"Jaaaah," he said. "Jaaaah."
Close enough.
I grabbed him and hugged him tight.
"Yes, yes," I said. "You are Jon."