Twins

By mid-October, I'll be the father of twin identical girls, names to be determined. Jenny is twenty-six weeks into her pregnancy. At thirty-four weeks, the babies will be delivered.

The whole business is utterly shocking. We wanted another kid. We planned for another one. We got the positive test on the home pregnancy kit. And then a week later, after Jenny visits the doctor, we get floored with the news. Jenny told me in our little bedroom here in North Druid Hills, in the dusk of a Spring day, with Tallulah crawling over the bed and babbling. It's funny when a change in your life occurs like this; the revelation does not come suddenly. It's just a little fact that's kind of attached to you, just attached, barely. You're aware that a huge change has taken place, that it is inside of you and likely irreversible; but you do not understand it. I mean, me, of course. I did not get it. I knew it was happening to us, to me, to Tallulah, to our lives. But I did not feel it, not the way I am beginning to as the moment of their arrival approaches.

When Jenny was being examined by her doctor, he said to her, 'Congratulations.' Then he said, 'Hold on.' He did a little more looking. 'Congratulations, again,' he said. It's not much of a story, really. But it's a powerful one for me. It's funny, and crazy, and deeply personal. A small two word comment that will reverberate for years in my life.

I wish I'd been there. I wish I could have seen the look on Jenny's face. I can imagine it, sure. I've seen her stunned several times. But this just seems like a wholly different enterprise. Twins.

What I always first think about, when I think about these twins, is the total unpredictability of it. Whatever you feel about life and living and all that mess, you have to admit, you don't know what's going to happen next. You really just don't know. It never occurred to me that I would be the father of identical twins.

I should correct myself. The thought did cross my mind, but only after Jenny was pregnant and before her doctor's visit. We were at a Braves game. We were standing in line for the so-called "Running of the bases" on a hot Sunday afternoon. A few places up from us in line was a mother with two beautiful twin girls. Jenny makes light of it now, but this is what happened. I said, 'What would that be like? What if that happened?' She didn't really say anything that I can remember; and I let the thought go, although now I can clearly remember their appearance.

Now I am not one to believe in the things you'd need to believe in because of this incident. I only think it's odd, strangely coincidental. And I didn't consider the twin thing that deeply at that moment. If I think about it now, I only thought, 'Those kids are beautiful.' And they were, two blonde hair tots in plaid green dresses.

What I think about the most now is the fragility of life that Jenny carries in her body. There is a difference in carrying one and multiples. Statistically, of course, it's more dangerous for the life of the babies, what Jenny is undergoing. But that is not what I mean to say. There is something more immediate or visceral about the bodies, the actual twin bodies, inside of Jenny. There are two of them in there, almost like a club of kids, twisting and turning around each other.

Jenny gets sonograms every week. Sometimes I go with her. A few weeks ago, I sat and held her hand while they squirted a gel all over her bare belly and then started probing with the x-ray rod. It's horrible, crude photography, to be honest; but every so often, we could get a glimpse of both of the girls, suspended in the dark amniotic sac. We could see, crystal clear, however fleeting, their teeny hands and feets, or the exact articulation of their small, curved spines. Then the image would shift, or a kid, would move, the whole splatter of shades of gray was turbulent, unreadable. A few moments later, staring at strangeness, Jenny would relax her hand.