Conversations From the Tub

Martha and Emma, our twins, are five years old now. Five years of watching them grow together into two very different, independent little people.

When they were tiny infants they slept together in a basket.  They wouldn’t sleep, or wouldn’t stay asleep, unless they were touching each other.  More often than not, when we’d wake to check on them they would be lying face-to-face sucking on each other’s noses and chins.

When they got a little bigger we moved them into a crib.  One crib.  They still wouldn’t sleep unless they were touching each other.  We took photos of them sleeping in their crib together, limbs interwoven, sprawling across each other, often holding hands.

At age five they still sleep together.  Now in a double bed.  And when we go in to check on them they are usually curled up around each other, or sprawled with their legs overlapping each other.

But during the last few months, they’ve started to fuss with us at bedtime.  They’ll complain about having to go to bed so early when no one else in our family is going to bed yet.  Emma will ask why it is that she always has to go to bed with Martha.  Why can’t she wait and go to bed when 7-year-old Benson goes to bed?  Martha will kick at Emma once they’re in bed.  Upset that Emma is putting her feet on Martha.

“Martha, scoot over,” Emma will whine.

“Emma, no feet.  No feet,” Martha will fuss.

The big word lately has been, “Alone.”  Alone, accent on the second syllable.  It’s said territorially, almost as a word of warning.  A-lone.  Proceed with caution.  A-lone.  Be advised.  A-lone.  As in, not with what’s-her-name.

“I want to go to Dad’s office.  Alone.”

“But I wanted to help you make lunch.  Alone.”

“Can I take my bath now?  Alone?”

“Mom, can you and me play?  Alone?”

There are days when their jockeying for position, for independence, is annoying and irritating.  When everything is “mine” or “first” or “alone.”  When the level of competitiveness over everything from who won in the race to finish their cereal first, to who is line leader as we walk down the block, exhausts me.  When my whole morning is shot if I forget at breakfast time that Emma had the Dalmatians cereal bowl yesterday and so it’s Martha’s turn today.

But sometimes right in the middle of those trying days, in the very middle of the chaos, there are moments.  Priceless moments that I try to grab hold of.

Tonight after dinner Martha asked if she could take a bath.  Then Emma asked if she, too, could have a bath. Alone.  Martha quickly clarified that her bath request had implied that it be alone.  I told them that there wasn’t that much time before bedtime, and that there wasn’t much hot water because I’d been washing laundry all day.  Alone.

Ignoring their complaints, I went into the bathroom and began running water in the tub.  I called to them to get their PJs and bring them into the bathroom.  A second later, after I dumped in the bubble bath, they both entered the bathroom, naked, carrying their PJs.  No further unhappiness was expressed at having to share the bath.

Five minutes later, as I was in the bedroom sorting another load of laundry, I heard them visiting and giggling in the tub.  They were playing with some washcloths.  Using them to trap and smother bubbles.

“You know what, Emma?” Martha asked. Then after the slightest pause she said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Martha,” came Emma’s immediate reply.

That having been said, they returned to their bubble game, and giggling.

I stopped sorting clothes.  And just stood for a second.  There are moments.  Priceless moments which wash over all of the fussing and arguing and chaos which occurs on a regular basis in our house.  But I have to pay close attention, or I’ll miss them, as they shoot past me without warning.  And I do try to pay attention.  Because sometimes those priceless moments are nothing more than overheard conversations from the bathtub.