I received an email from an old friend today – sharing with me photos of her grandchildren and all the current news from their retirement home in the southwest.
A huge grin stretched my face when I read her announcement that one of the twins is getting married.
In the early eighties when they moved onto our street, the twins were little boys. The daughter was the same age as our eldest.
I had only girls so I wasn’t prepared for the mischief and excitement that two mirror images could reflect on a quiet neighborhood.
They weren’t naughty. They just had unlimited curiosity and energy, no fear (before it became a slogan), and a healthy dose of twin competitiveness.
On their bicycles, the twins were identical Evil Knievels. I once witnessed (I don’t know which) one lose control of his handle bars at full speed and straddle the metal pole of a mailbox. It was as if a giant had thrown a horseshoe and scored a ringer.
Every July I’m reminded of that Independence Day celebration when one of the twins accidentally torched his brother’s windbreaker with a sparkler. My husband, the firefighter, grabbed him and took him to the ground, putting the fire out with a couple of efficient moves. The little guy popped up off the ground and was ready to fight; not understanding that his attacker was beating out flames climbing up his back. Only moments later, before his dad or mom could stop him, he picked up a recently spent roman candle and stared down the short barrel.
My friend and her kids took a weekend trip to Seattle with me and my girls where we spent the night at my brother’s home. He lives on a forested hillside. The twins enjoyed playing outside and my brother remarked that they had been perfect little guests. That thought prevailed until the following morning - when he discovered the rocks, that took many artistic hours to place, had been rolled down the hill.
They were little boys, they didn’t know it was a rock garden, and (we had to agree) they were certainly industrious. My brother and I still giggle about that one when we are reminiscing.
One of the most memorable events happened while their mom was styling my hair in their kitchen. We heard a hair-raising scream followed by gasping sobs as one of the boys hobbled up the stairs.
He’d zipped his very private part into his blue jeans! This was eons before that scene in “There’s something about Mary.”
His mom lectured him with a tick in her cheek: “Now you know why you are told to always wear your underwear!”
She stood him on the kitchen counter and gently worked to free him. It took patience and about 20 minutes of her subdued giggles. Fortunately, I was able to turn my face away and hide in the towel on my shoulders.
Not so long ago the twins came up in a discussion I had with Amanda. She has never forgotten (or forgiven them for - LOL) the traumatizing taunt, “Mandy-poopie-dough, Mandy-poopie-dough.” They were four when she was born, so I’m sure it stemmed from their interpretation of her diaper changes.
I shake my head with disbelief when I realize the twins are in their thirties.
Oh my! Now, one is getting married.
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