I am entirely unprepared to be a parent, but I am doubly so to be a parent of twins. I can’t keep myself entertained, much less two fat potatoes that will morph into humans. I think my biggest fear is mixing them up at birth. Imagine the following scenario: two identical twin daughters. One named Summer, the other named Autumn. It’s my turn to give them a bath, and they’re playing and splashing around, and I check the Dodgers–Giants game for like three minutes, and oh shoot which is which? Like, fifty-fifty isn’t so bad. Plus, I can totally tell, right? Here, you get the bright blue and yellow clothes, while you get the reds and oranges. Okay, time for bed.
Lo-and-behold, eighteen years later, I’m at their graduation. Autumn is abounding with timeless beauty, elegance, and romanticism; she is joyful and exuberant; always carefree as she prances between friends in her sky blue florals. Quiet and to the side, Summer is reliable and loyal, full of integrity and drive—fiery, too; always busy, always focused; she wears muted clothes with splashes of violent colors. And I will be standing there alongside their mother, who is beaming with pride, and ask myself the same question for the millionth time. I’ll shrug and say it doesn’t matter accidentally out loud as I sometimes do. My wife will turn and ask What doesn’t? Just talking to myself, that’s all, and she’ll tug at my arm so she can kiss me. I’ll say we didn’t do half bad, did we? Yeah, we did alright.