Devonne Brown

Adult Children

A nurse in the doctor’s office ran me out of the room when the twins got their vaccinations to start school. They started crying the minute Dr. Brick said, “You know I would never do anything that would hurt without telling you.” They got five shots. Two in one leg, three in the other. I thought I would die. Two nurses held each boy down while they screamed. I endured the screams from the hallway. Tears streamed down my face, sobs choked me. Then I heard them giggle.

They emerged from the injection room, grinning, sporting bandages with puppies, clowns, and race cars, a bandage for each injection site. They were so proud. They had been brave, their tears dried as soon as the bandages went on. They couldn’t wait to show me their booboos. 

I’m still not over it. I still hear those beginning tears, and middle dreams, regardless of the after laughter and bandaid bragging. 

On the eve of every new adventure, whether it was the school year from kindergarten to college, we had to work through the anxiety. First tears, then more tears before they could express their self doubt. They knew second grade would be beyond their scope and ability, just as they knew all the other grades would be as well. Although they excelled in everything, those changes were intense. They would have preferred to jump out of an airplane than start a new school year. A change in the familiar was the scariest thing of all. 

As a single parent, the guilt was and is enormous.

Twins have a weird protection system that mere mortals cannot even fathom. They don’t need to talk to communicate. What one feels, they both do. What one does, often the other does too. I can’t imagine knowing someone since conception. Being so close physically, and only God knows what happens emotionally and mentally for those first nine months can’t help but create something magical between multiple births.  That’s the only explanation for it. 

So, how much of their grown up anxiety did I cause? I supported them, read to them, did homework together, and had regular dinner times. I had read the research. I taught in an alternative school for dysfunctional kids. I knew the importance of child rearing. As a single parent, the guilt was enormous. It still is. It grows. 

My boys moved away from home years ago, yet when they are in any kind of pain, it goes through me like a knife on fire. I don’t anticipate its end.