I’m more or less positive that, when the time comes, I won’t be able to tell these people apart.
It’s something I’d wondered over the years, particularly whenever I would see identical twins. How do you really know who’s who? Sure, it works itself out when these goofballs are old enough to talk and learn their own names. But are you telling me that, as a parent of identical infants, you’ve never been giving the little ones a bath or something, peeped your head around the corner to check the game score, turned back around and thought, “Hang on, did they just trade places? DO I HAVE TO DECIDE RIGHT NOW, THIS MOMENT, WHICH ONE’S HORACE AND WHICH ONE’S BORIS FOR THE REST OF THEIR TWIN LIVES?”
Fortunately, it looks like all three of ours are fraternal, which is a small relief, but the concern still stands. I’ll be straight with you: identical or not, all babies more or less look the same to me. It really mystifies me when the community rallies to determine which parent their newborn looks more like. You ask me: Winston Churchill, that’s the answer. Two weeks old and the kid is the spitting image of Winston Churchill. Every baby looks exactly like Winston Churchill.
Triplets, you’re guaranteed at least two of them will share a gender and odds are reasonable that it could be all three. But, really, what’s the difference between a baby girl and a baby boy anyhow? I can’t put my finger on what it is, but there’s something that feels inherently wrong and damaging about pulling someone’s pants down to find out who they are.
I’ve done a lot of Googling “triplets” over the past few weeks and made a helpful discovery or two. Did you know that some parents with multiples will tattoo their kids while they’re still infants? I see the reasoning, but hoh man. The Dahm girls (identical porn star triplets, god help us) have tiny black dots tattooed on their asses for this reason. I guess you do what you have to do, but I’m not entirely comfortable sticking a baby under a tattoo needle and, again, I’d prefer a pants-on solution for ID’ing my children.
It’s inevitable, I’m going to have to magic marker them each morning. Permanent ink, too. The last thing I need is that stuff rubbing off in the bath tub. I’m not saying I’d do something as uninspired as just writing their initials on their arms or something, either. These are my children, pete’s sake!
Hey, man, don’t judge me. If you have a better solution, I’m all ears. But I have a feeling you’ll be thanking me later when you’re trying to figure out which one of my kids is which and you recall that, whup, right, Peter Pumpernickel’s the one with the handlebar mustache.