Fifty-one years ago today the population of our wonderful planet expanded by two when Mark Walter Warski and his adorable twin sister {that would be moi} squirted out to gasps and clutched hearts and exclamations of "Holy bloody hell... there are
TWO of them!" And so began my reign of shock and terror as I grabbed my baby brother by the slimy arm and took my first breath.
Believe it or not, fifty-one years ago obstetrics was more medieval curiosity than medical science. There were no ultra sounds to detect multiple births (or doctors sober enough to suspect multiple births just by, oh, say...
looking, or fundus measuring). No, times were much too primitive and archaic for those highly technical methods of prediction. And the fact that my mother looked rather like a burgeoning hippopotamus in her seventh month of pregnancy gave nary a clue that the blessed event was coming much sooner than anticipated or that gee golly gosh by jiminy, there might be more than one infant all up in thur. To make this dark comedy even more tragic {read: hilarious}... it turns out, my brother and I were an unplanned pregnancy. Yep. Totally and completely an Uh-Oh situation that would pretty much bitchslap the tidy little family of four and teach my parents a thing or two about contraception - or the lack thereof. {Get it?
Thing or two?} That's what happens when you toy with fertility, you know. When your family planning has you satisfied with two adorable daughters, but your libido lures you into an unprotected state of insanity... well you're just asking for it and you get what you deserve. Along with an extra couple tax deductions... hehehe. So glory hallelujah, twins were bestowed upon Nadine and Walter and that pretty much rendered them asexual for the rest of their marriage.
We were no ordinary twins, either, I want ya to know. We were hellions! More specifically, I was a hellion and my twin brother was my minion. We had double projectile vomiting down to a science. We honed our skills at tag-teaming our wailing, screaming and inconsolable crying jags so there was never a moment of solitude. We did the whole
take-off-your-diaper-and-paint-your-room-with-poo thing before it was cool. We also learned very early how to escape our cribs. I was the mastermind and always got out first, then I would help my brother and we would stealthily roam the house while our mother enjoyed her afternoon
cocktail lunch break. You can just imagine how well this went over upon being discovered. On a similar occasion, my Aunt Lydia came over for a visit and wanted to see us. Mom resisted saying, "Oh, I just put the little angels down for their nap," hoping to distract Lydia. But being Godmother to my brother, Lydia insisted on seeing us, so mom reluctantly acquiesced and tip-toed her up to our room for a peek. Lydia looked through the crack in the door, her eyes growing wide as she started backing away. She looked at my mother with horrified disgust and said, "Um, I don't think it's legal to do that, Nadine." My mother then explained that it was either tie us to our cribs or murder us, so Lydia promised to protect my mother's training secrets and not call Child Protective Services. In our later years, Mark became a champion booger thrower {as evidenced by our textured walls} and I grew cheekier and cheekier becoming somewhat the scourge of the neighborhood. It is widely believed in my family that I am the one who regularly and consistently let our pet parakeets escape out into the wild. I may have, I don't recall. But if you ask me, after the 4th parakeet finds his way out into the great outdoors, it might be time to either 1) clip it's wings, or 2) buy a freaking lock for the cage door. Just sayin.'
Inevitably, whenever I mention to someone that I'm a twin, I get asked two questions without fail:
Are you and your brother identical twins?
And are you close?
I will answer those separately. No, idiots, my brother and I are not identical twins! It is a genetic impossibility for a female child and a male child to come from the same fertilized egg - which is what identical twins do. Identical doesn't just mean looking alike, it means
being alike. Twins who are the same in all respects
BECAUSE THEY HAVE EACH WHOLLY SPLIT INTO THEIR OWN SEPARATE BEINGS FROM THE SAME FERTILIZED EGG. Get it? Make sense? Fraternal twins, on the other hand, start out as and remain two separate entities - two individual fertilized eggs. With two individual umbilical cords. And two individual placentas. And two individual amniotic sacs. The only thing fraternal twins share is a womb. Fraternal twins can be the same sex or different. The XY chromosome, the XX chromosome, and the law of averages determines which. Now, not to confuse anyone further, but fraternal twins can also look alike. This does not make them identical. It just means they have the same mother and father and have the same potential for a family resemblance as all their siblings. When Mark and I were younger we looked less alike than we do now, even though my mother did that cutesy thing of dressing us alike. He in boy clothes and me in girl clothes, thankfully avoiding Chaz Bono and RuPaul confusions for us in our adult life.
As for being close - we definitely have a deep love and respect for one another. And although we don't spend a whole lot of time together, we always have fun when we do. My brother is super smart and passionate about a lot of things. Yeah, I know... another argument for the identical business, right? He's a supporter of the big F's: fishing, family and faith. And Mark is a wonderful loving man. Generous. Patient. Calm. Balanced. {See? I told you we're fraternal as I do not naturally come by those last attributes.} He is a very hard worker. A very doting single father. An amazing friend. He can take more crap from a woman without slitting her throat than anyone this side of Pluto and still be respectful and polite. I didn't get that gene, right Theresa F.? Mark's truly got a heart of gold. He's also an amazing chef - he can barbecue like nobody's business and don't even get me started on his Stuffed Shrimp, k? He and I align in other ways, too. We both love Halloween. We both get arrhythmias and bulging neck veins when discussing Obama. We even had homes with identical flooplans. He not knowing since his girlfriend selected the design when she contracted on the house. Coincidence? Yes, but a fun one. Twins with twin homes. Kinda funny.
We don't have that eerie twin subconscious thing, though. At least not that I know of. I've never sat up in bed awakened from a sound sleep with a premonition that something is wrong. I've never felt his pain (except through compassionate sibling love and concern) or read his mind or finished his sentences. We are not completely like-minded, but we are alike enough. Being a bit Marky is a wonderful thing. I do admire him so. I do love him. I do appreciate him. And I know that anyone lucky enough to nail him down will have the
best second best damn husband there is on this planet.
So Mark, happy happy fifty-first birthday, my brotha. May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, and rains fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again {this Thursday on Thanksgiving woot-woot}, may God hold you in the palm of his hand.
I love you!
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