Yesterday I ambled through the satellite universe during Evan’s nap and screeched to a halt on the Discovery Channel’s ‘Multiple Mayhem!’ (yes, the title of the feature included the exclamation mark).

Woohoo! I thought. Jackpot! Who doesn’t want a little mayhem?

And I sat in front of it for a moment, open-mouthed, contemplating lanugo and guck and stirruped legs and green masks and the all-round, miraculous freakitude of two babies entering the world.

Then I dosed myself with Rescue Remedy and Nestle Quik and changed the channel, unable to connect the dots of personal inevitability.

I am on this train and I cannot get off. But I wonder.. what will they look like? Will they be dark, like Justin? God, I still can’t believe it. It’s a They.

And then it settles on me, like it does sometimes out of the blue: hunger to smell them, see them tangled up in each other. I read a flash of another twin mama who peeks in on hers as they sleep head-to-feet, one sucking on the big toe of the other. And the warm, gushy pop! of anticipation bursts in my heart, for a flash, unencumbered by the burden of logistics. Which shocks the living vernix right out of me.

Last night I dreamed my babies were born too soon. They were from another planet. They had acorns for knees, and elastic legs, and didn’t cry. I stared at them and they stared at me with the giant, almond-shaped eyes widely reported by abductees. They knew everything there is to know. Then I woke up.

They kick, roll, stretch. I know when they’re sleeping. Oh yeah, I recall. There are people inside there. And suddenly I am the alien.

Me: Evan, what does daddy drive?
Evan: Fiya tuck!

Me: Evan, what do you hear?
Evan: I heah moosick.

Me: Evan, what would you like for breakfast?
Evan: PIZZA!

Me: Evan, daddy’s home!
Evan: I hide!

Me: Evan, what are these?
Evan: <grins sheepishly> Booo-beeees!

The string cheese says ‘simulated cheddar flavour’, a moment of grocery store desperation. They are individually wrapped, and the plastic makes a lovely ssscccchwick sound as it’s torn open. Tastes like salty rubbery nothingness. Likely contains petroleum by-product and xanthan gum: the cheese of the proletariat. And now of my son, who started out on cave-aged swiss gruyere. How the mighty fall when the mightier whine!

(The corn puffs say ‘organic’: ticket to redemption.)

This is what your brain looks like on hormones.