When we first found out that kid #2 was going to be, in fact, kids #2 and 3 (and girls, for that matter) I had two initial reactions. My instantaneous response, of course, was to fall onto the floor, curl up into a ball and mutter over and over again “we’re fucked.” However, once I realized that other people were still in the room and that some form of masculine composure might be appropriate – and eventually pulled myself up from beneath the ultrasound table – I came to the realization that I knew absolutely nothing about dealing with little girls. (Which prompted another fun round of semi-muttered obscenities.)

Why? Because, to that point, my experience with and understanding of small children was limited to the male of the species. Kid #1 was (and still is) a boy, and I myself was a boy when I was a child. (It’s true.) What I’d learned to that point was that in boys are generally pretty straightforward. They think they’re destined to rule the universe, they’re usually wrong, and the discord between those two facts provides the dynamic that drives them through life. Almost everything else is just a variation off of those two themes. Girls? Crimony. They were a mystery to me when I was a kid, and I’d acquired little-to-no new understanding of them since. Who knew what went through their heads, motivated them, guided them, and shaped them on their way from infancy to adulthood? Not I, said the cat. Not I, said the dog. Not I, said I.

Twin girls? Yeah. I was fucked.

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