The Indoor Girls

Dear Indoor Girls,

Your mother claims twins, smugness hiding under her dark circles. I wonder about insemination. I wonder about the validity of twins even; you could not be more different. Well, actually, you both like pretzels. That's a start.

But even I like pretzels, and there's no one like me. No one like me anywhere in the world.

The toddlers scream at the sudden realization of mom's disappearance. Of course she comes sprinting back. This repeats, every time she gets a little farther - like suicide drills in gym class. "Not my problem. Not my problem until she leaves," I think.

Ignored her warning about getting them mixed up. "She gets the purple cup, and she gets the pink." Short, brief, as if labeling boxes. I wonder if they would grow to detest being assigned these colors. How could anyone make such an oblivious mistake and confuse these girls. Splash of red hair on one, dominance, crude innocence is one tiny tongue poking out as eighteen months of motor skills reach for a sticky picture book. Only one sock. I'd love to be back at the point in my life where I wouldn't notice if I had only one foot socked.

Angelic is the other. Beautiful wispy blonde hair frames blue eyes. No distraction is required. She sits and just watches. Everything. I swear, her eyes got bigger every minute. She is perfectly symmetrical. She walks gently, tentatively, as if the polished wooden floor will break like ice bergs if her feet make a sound. I imagine she is so quiet because she's afraid of not being able to hear the sound of her own breathing.

Mom titters about home improvement. Lesson one in white suburban mother chatter. I think the only way to improve her home is paying more attention to her children. Hell, I've been with them for four hours and they've shown me more of a personality then she ever will.

I still like boys better.