There were wonderful mommy play-date moments where I felt like, wow, they get it, and believe me, no one who doesn’t have twins gets having twins.
(Don’t tell me your one and two year olds are “just like twins!” Don’t tell me you were “supposed to” have twins. The fact that your aunt’s secretary’s dog lives in a house with twins does not make you get it! You do not have twins! Goodbye.)
But a lot of the time in the midst of such gatherings, I felt this ill, empty kind of feeling as though large chunks of my identity had left the building.
Of course I could relate to topics like getting your twins to sleep (please, for the love of God!), dealing with teething, when to start solids, etc. They may not have been riveting, and yet, I found myself hanging on the every word of those more experienced mommies… until about 6 months rolled around and I started to have this nagging feeling that… this just isn’t all that complicated… and this nagging desire to, oh, I don’t know, talk about something other than our kids for the love of fuck!
This one night, I attended a twin mommy’s night out. It was AT A BAR – swoon! I was so excited, I thought, ok, now we’re actually going to get to know each other, the mommies will be loosened up, away from their babes, bring on the slightly inappropriate, sexually suggestive adult conversation. FAIL.
I remember at one point wanting to stab myself with my fork when they moved off the topic of what’s the best minivan, to a lengthy discussion of how to find baby socks that fit right. I actually lost the will to drink. It’s then that I started looking around at these really quite lovely, but not very interesting moms, and realizing just how white, rich, and straight they really were.
There were many other play-date topics to which I couldn’t relate, my personal favorite being why our husbands suck (and let me assure you, some of these husbands really and truly did suck quite hard).
Now don’t get me wrong, my husband can be an ass. Then again so can I. Of course I fight with my spouse. But the truth is, (hushed whisper) I like my husband. He is a fantastic husband.
But okay, not everyone has the perfect marriage. It was the gendered aspects of the husband complaints which eluded me most, husbands not “helping” around the house, never “watching” the kids, not “letting them” buy jewelry, etc. Really? Am I living the in the 1950s twilight zone?
I was only willing to do marriage if it was going to be the same deal for my husband and me. The traditional wife/mother role seemed like a much better deal for a potential husband than for me. I guess it didn’t occur to me that others wouldn’t feel the same.
And who wants to be a total asshole and sit there repeating, “My husband does do that,” and adding obnoxiously, “My husband cleans more than I do. He’s a much better wife than I am. ”
Then again, am I really even there if I just sit and nod and sip my white wine? I feel like I’m “passing” in a way. Not in a way that could be clearly labeled, but in a more subtle, and yet poignant way, I feel closeted.
I long for the day when I can find a way to be out and proud, but I’m not even sure what to come out as. There is no magic word for my lifestyle, or the collection of identity bits that make me up. I find myself wondering if we are all really undercover, looking at each other from inside our closets thinking she’s just a little too normal.
Copyright 2011-2012 undercoverinthesuburbs.com. All Rights Reserved.