The Pill's Progress

More new pix are here.

When you are an only child, a mishmosh and a Gemini, and not a blond & blue eyed Aries twin (began your mother's somber tale) the world tends to feel like it has a very sharp and special kind of teeth. The world says: A baby? A joy. Two babies? Triple happiness.

But you are not so concerned with your own bliss. You look into your babies' perfect, silent faces, which look like wizened, grown-up faces of people who are silent because it's judicious; who could talk if they liked. You look at gas pain that tightens the lips and clenches the eyelids. You see the eye-widened gaze at rustling leaves and flashing lights. When you push the stroller too fast, you see fawnlike panic. Eventually they giggle at you -- and also at anyone else. You stare and stare, waiting for some sign of recognition that you, and not the subway token clerk, you and not the take-out man, you and not the super, the neighbor, the babysitter, or the lady in the elevator, are the mother of these babies. And you think, GODAMMIT! Why won't you talk to me?! How else, when you make googly eyes at everything that moves, can I notice that it's me you love?

It's only a question, I'm told, that a Gemini lonely would ask. And maybe even then only if they were the workaday stiff who just put in family appearances in on mornings and weekends. Apparently you're just supposed to know.


Luckily for us and unluckily for the therapist, Odessa has started to laugh and smile at us more regularly, and in response to happy things. And our Georgia, who has been so pliant and good, has started to complain sometimes when we put her to bed before she's ready. They have opinions at last, so every smile is that much sweeter. We do stand around like collectors waiting for them. Especially the desperate, craven Geminists who turn out to be ruled by their children's rationed affections.