“I can tell them apart,” one of the tiger scouts told our den leader about my boys, Graham and Evan.
“Thanks,” she said, smiling, “I can’t.”
Obviously, I can’t speak for all parents of identical twins, but Jenn and I have a hard time not focusing on how different our children are.
It seems bizarre to us that two people with the same mitochondrial DNA (Nature’s own clones, you might say) could differ so entirely, and we honestly don’t get it when people ask us how we tell them apart. “It’s not obvious?” we wonder.
We have to make a conscious effort not to label them.
It’s not fair to them, because they are little boys and might change at any time, and we hate to impose our understanding of who they are on them. They can decide most of that themselves as they grow up.
Comparing them is rude, unfair, and patronizing, but it’s hard to avoid.
I smiled as Graham took his lemonade and told his leader thank you. He’s a pretty good kid, and while I have reservations about it, he’s already set his sights on becoming an eagle scout.
Earlier in the evening Graham brought me a sack of awards he’d received to show off. He’d earned swimming, map and compass, computers, and volleyball belt loops, and a swimming pin, and he’d moved up to wolves for next year.
“Very nice,” I said, nodding.
He began unbuttoning his shirt from the bottom up.
“Um,” I asked, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“This is Evan’s uniform,” he said as if it explained his burlesque act.
“What difference does it make? They’re exactly the same.”
“It has Evan’s name on it,” he wrinkled his forehead and shook his head in a manner that said, “Duh.”
I looked, and it was in fact, labeled, “Evan.”
“OK?” I asked looking for a follow up.
“It’s Evan’s uniform,” he said and continued working the buttons, while I struggled to rebutton him.
“You and Evan share all your other shirts,” I insisted. “You even wear the same underwear. That’s not a problem.”
“Yes,” he said, “but the underwear don’t say, ‘Evan.’”