Spawn.

After the terrible twos, terrible threes, and damn near suicidal fours, my twins have come to that age to start the schooling that will last them the next sixteen to twenty years of their puny little lives. If only I could drill into there heads how much they will cherish naptimes and snack breaks when they're thirty-one and working under the thumb of some dickwad ten years younger than them (which I imagine will be my such luck).

It was a dilemma deciding whether or not to start them off on the mythical fast track of private school. I won't deny that nitty-gritty scenes from Gossip Girl popped into my head (because, of course that show will still be milking the no-longer-lactating cash cow in ten years). Do I really want my children meeting dashing young models on their first day of school and running off to Cancun for weeks of alcohol induced haze and wild sex?

Needless to say, I decided that, at least for now, public school might be a more humbling experience.

September 1st rolls around and I can barely get the little ones to sit still long enough to comb their hair. Remembering my own hatred of my mother dressing me as a kid, I let the twins dress themselves (largely for my own amusement, actually). Kodak moments ensue. There's a small twinge in my heart as I look on at the two entities in front of me, a blur of neon greens, mismatched socks, and rainbow stripes. I can hardly believe how fast the years go by. I mean, college went by fast, but this. This is too much.

Herding them into the car, I plead (fruitlessly) to them to behave on their first day and to listen to their teacher and to be nice to the other kids. As I pull up to the curb, I start to say,   Have a good day kids. Mommy loves you and will be here to pick you up at...

They've already run out of the backseat.

  Four...

I watch them from my rearview mirror. Clare's already settled with a fellow pokemon fan and Alexa has pushed a very small Chinese girl in the mad rush for the playground. They really do grow up so fast.

A thought crosses my mind as I realize that I will be away from my children for the next eight hours or so.

"God bless compulsory education."

I realize two or three weeks after having the twins that I cannot call them "The Babies" for the rest of their lives.

My husband and I agree to write down our top five choices for each twin. Naturally, not only can we not agree on our choices, but we are completely disgusted by the poor taste of the other.

He is a traditionalist because (I'd expect nothing less outrageous from the man that I will marry) he will be of some Germanic, Asianic, Cosmopolitan descent. Girls in his family must have elegant, pretty names like Elizabeth or Helen (incidentally, his top two choices). There are no option for boys. They carry the family name. Thus, it is "Jr." or "the Third."

I am a modernist because when your family background is as black and white as mine, something needs to stand out. Girls should have names that sound assertive. Evan or Alexa or Ryan. I am more easily satisfied with names for boys. Something with a cool nickname, like Robert and Bobby or Alexander and Lex.

I fight the urge to break out the celebrity psycho in me that wants to name my son Ash Pikachu Pokemon and my daughter She Who Runs With Scissors.

Finally, my husband and I decide to split the effort. He can name one and I can name one. We draw straws and I pull the shorter one, meaning I get to name the girl.

I write my decision down on a piece of paper as does my husband. He unveils his final product first.

It says, "Clarence Frederick Kaiser Wilhelm the Third." The tea that I am sipping gushes through my nose.

I am absolutely NOT letting you turn my baby boy into a British schoolboy pussy, I snort.

Hey, that's my full name you know.

Yeah, I know. When was there ever a time when you had to write the Frederick or the Kaiser?

SATs.

Funny, for all the extra letters, you still got the same 200 points that I did for writing it.

Well, Miss Sarcastic. I'd like to see how your efforts turned out.

Hold on, I say. I need to make a few adjustments...

I scribble some things on the post-it that I am holding and I hand it to him.

He fights back a smile as he reads it out loud:

Alex(andria) Zhang Zhu Princess Amidala Alfie Von Helsing Victoria Snoopy Wilhelm the Twenty Fourth... Very funny, dear.

I laugh.

Okay, I'm serious about everything before Princess and after Snoopy. Oh, and minus the 24th. Look. We can compromise. If you drop the Kaiser, I'll drop the Zhang.

It's a deal then.

Clarence Frederick Wilhelm III and Alexandria Zhu Wilhelm.

Clare and Alex.

Now, I know my babies deserve the best. Or, societal norm demands that I, as a mother, give my children nothing short of the highest care and love.

But do they really need separate cribs? I mean, I could just put the two of them in the same one, like baby cubs. Let them duke it out who gets the bigger half. They'll grow up tougher. Better yet, it'll save me a couple hundred dollars.

As for clothing, I think I'd probably hold off on buying them those too until they can actually roll over and sit up on their own. Once they're mobile, then they'll actually need warmth and comfort that follows them. For now, my old bathrobe will suffice.

I've never been inside a Babies R' Us, but I get a strong feeling it's actually a store made for retards. I imagine that the moment you step inside, you're greeted by a middle-aged woman, dressed in a Strawberry Shortcake costume, smiling and welcoming you, while hiding the bitter fact that she works there to support the six brats she has to feed at home.

Oh, yes. I see through her facade.

Then, there are all those parents, cooing over their babies and the little clothes they get to dirty. The little toys they get to destroy. The little utensils they get to choke on.

After five minutes, and not a second longer for fear that my head might explode, I step back outside. Thank god I left the twins at home.

Forget it. My babies can sleep in the kitchen sink, rolled up in bath towels.

I wet my bed at four in the morning.

My soon-to-be husband wakes up to the sounds of imitation tribal chants in well-placed five minute intervals.

The vroom of the engine is drowned out by my screams for drugs.

There's no time for the originally planned c-section. Of course.

Push Honey! Push!

FUCKER, I WILL KILL YOU IN YOUR SLEEP. GET THESE TAPEWORMS OUT OF ME.

Things get blurry.

Sound of a baby crying.

Sound of two babies crying.

We have a boy and a girl, baby!

My arms will never hold two things more important, more relevant, more precious ever again.

In a moment of weakness, with the pink and fuzzy thought of miniature overalls and little ducks, we decide to keep the thing. Now, after a few months, it's not abortion. It's child endangerment and/or neglect and/or murder. Fantastic. The little toad is a political statement.

Political statement that makes me feel like a fat cow.

Babies sure bring men to their knees fast. My boyfriend broke up with me; came back three days later to propose. So, there it is. I have two human liabilities now.

I contemplate my possible bovine blood and future as an unpaid servant as I wait for my name to be called.

...

My obstetrician asks me how I've been feeling lately. I tell her that before coming to her office, I ate half a can of spam mixed with pickles, on top of leftover cheese pizza. My fiance thinks I hide cheetos and pudding under our mattress.

She tells me to lie back while she gets the ultrasound do-hicky going. Putting the gel stuff on my quickly ballooning belly, she shows me the screen. Indiscriminate white silhouettes light up before my eyes, slowly coming together to form one, amazing, miracle of life. Inside me. My awe grounds me. The complaints seem to fade away and all I want to do is have this baby and protect it.

Congratulations, Ms. Zhu, my doctor says. You have twins.

I blink. I'm sorry, there are two of them?

Yes. Two healthy, beautiful babies.

I start to bawl.

Would you like to know the gender?

What does it matter? My life is over! Oh sweet jesus, what did I do to deserve such horrendous punishment?? Fuck my life, goddammit!

I imagine I'd be sitting on a toilet in my shabby apartment studio, overlooking the Hudson, with a pink stick in my hand, praying to sweet Jesus that the puking and missed period are the results of a long night of binge drinking and premature menopause.

I think I'd want to be 26 in this scenario. Just old enough to not look like a whore, but not so old that I do not understand my children when they are teenagers.

My boyfriend of four years has already gotten an early start, going to work as an intern at NBC Studios. Our relationship is complacent, marriage not of any interest in our minds at this point.

How am I supposed to tell him? Oh my god, what am I going to say to my parents?

Nonono. Flipping a shit over nothing, as per usual Tiff. You may not be pregnant at all.

Raising the little stick of doom to eye level, I sigh.

Optimism never did suit me well.