As parents, we inevitably compare ourselves to other parents.  It is natural for people to want to know how they are faring in terms of raising happy, healthy children.  My husband and I are no exception.  Although we had not planned on having children of our own, we were blessed with two at once, and while the first months were a bit of a nightmare (they both had colic), we thought we were generally off to a pretty good start:  Our babies did not suffer from diaper rash, our babies slept more than three hours at night, and perhaps most importantly, by five months, our babies already had three teeth each, all clearly signs of our superior parenting skills!  Compared to some of the other new parents we had encountered, we were sailing along.  But that was before we met “the Joneses”.*

To get the full flavour of the comparative narrative that follows, you need to first know that my husband is a stay-at-home dad.  It didn’t take long for me to burn out after the twins arrived, and luckily my dear Trevor came to the rescue.  An elementary school teacher, he decided to put all his professional reading about the importance of involved fathers in boys’ lives into action.  He quickly informed his principal that as of June, he was going on parental leave, and would be back the following spring, when our year was up.  So I returned to my employment outside the home while Trevor set to work “bonding” with our baby boys. An anomaly as a male in a role still generally dominated by women in our society, he was showered with attention, and soon became a big hit in our neighbourhood.  Before long, however, the novelty of being a stay-at-home dad wore off, and the monotonous reality of day-to-day routine with two very “active” (read: high maintenance!) babies set in.  It didn’t take much time for Trevor to find himself in a slump. 

As though a gift from God had landed conveniently in our laps, I came across a contact through work whose husband was also a teacher, who also had twins (only three weeks older than ours), who was also staying home with his babies!  Wow-- Perfect!  I thought, and arranged for the husband (we’ll call him Mr. Jones) and Trevor to meet.  While Trevor was not quite as enthusiastic as I, he agreed that this person who was in such a similar situation would surely be able to share at least some of the hardships one endures throughout the first year at home with multiples.  The well-meaning mothers of perfectly-behaved and easily transportable singletons whom Trevor had made contact with in the various Moms and Babes groups in our neighbourhood just didn’t get it when it came to twins.  So Trevor agreed to keep the “blind date” I had set up for him.

Almost five months have gone by, but I remember well how impatiently I awaited Trevor’s report as I drove home from work that day.  Finally, I thought, Trevor will have a confidant who truly understands what it’s like, a man-friend who will be his sounding board, a real pal.  Unfortunately, Trevor’s fervour was somewhat reserved.

“Well?” I eagerly demanded, “How did it go?”  Trevor’s response was less than ecstatic.  “Ah, awright, I guess”, he grumbled.

“WHAT?!” I sputtered!  “You just met a guy who’s totally like you, and all you can say is ‘it was alright’?!”  I couldn’t believe the lack of ready detail!

“Well,” Trevor ventured, “His babies don’t really cry, eh?  Actually he’s not finding it that much of a challenge.  They really wanted children, and he planned to stay home with them right from day one.”

“Oh, come on!” I retorted, “They’ve got TWINS!!! Surely things aren’t all rainbows and puppy dogs!  I mean, at least the sleep factor must be an issue, no?”

No, no, apparently the Jones babies slept soundly from 7:30 p.m. until 7:30 or even 8:00 a.m. (our guys woke up at 5:15 every morning).  They also hadn’t had colic, nor had teething been an issue.  Oh, and they were using cloth diapers and powdered formula (we, on the other hand, could barely manage to crack open the ready-to-feed cans, and our green bins overflowed weekly from the volumes of disposable diapers we availed ourselves of).  To top it off, both their babies had started to sit up already, unlike our guys, who kept falling over and banging their heads on the hardwood floor.

“Hmmm…” I responded.  “Well, surely you must have something in common…”  I convinced my husband to see Mr. Jones and his babies again sometime, and since Jones had emailed an offer to pick Trevor and our boys up and take them to the mall the following week (we only had one car, and I was using it to get to work everyday), Trevor conceded. 

At first, he aspired to live up to the Joneses.  “Tom’s reading a book on oral language development in infants”, Trevor informed me, using a sing-song voice while making faces at the babies one night over dinner.  (It appeared he was determined that our boys should be at least as linguistically gifted as the Jones babies if parental involvement had anything to do with it.) 

The men’s visits continued.  It seems a beautiful friendship has been born, and as a direct consequence, we’ve been significantly humbled.  As it turns out, Tom’s wife Bridget is as much to live up to as her husband.  Case in point:  I had received numerous compliments for keeping up-to-date with all our baby photos via my semi-scrap-booking hobby, but guess what?  Bridget also scrapbooks!  AND, as Trevor gleefully informed me upon returning from a visit to the Jones’ household, her pages are real works of art, each one!    Furthermore, he reported, she makes all the babies’ food—no jarred, processed food for them, of course not.  I evenly reminded Trevor that we had no immediate family close by, that in fact, my family was all dead, and although we’d received some support at the beginning from friends and neighbours, we were doing pretty well now for being “on our own”. 

Wouldn’t you know it, Tom is also an orphan.

Yes, it’s true, while I, an only child, come from a fairly functional albeit single-parent family, Tom Jones’ family life was a complete nightmare:  His twin sister died of SIDS at 2 ½ months, another sibling died when the family home burned to the ground a few years later, and the rest of his childhood rivals that of guests on the Jerry Springer show—no joke!   Makes my “Mom died of cancer” story seem pretty bland.  And while I tend to be a somewhat negative and complainy type, Tom is by all accounts a laid-back, happy-go-lucky, always positive sort of fellow.  Home alone.  With twins.  Argghhh!!!

As Tom and his babies carried on with his visits to us, Trevor continued to regale me with tales of their perfection, and I began my investigation for his one weak spot, which I am to this day convinced exists. 

“A-ha!”  I confronted Trevor over breakfast one morning while the twins watched “Blue’s Clues” (the Jones babies, by the way, never watch TV—every moment of their lives is meticulously programmed for appropriate intellectual and emotional stimulation),  “We have joined the gym, and have succeeded for three weeks now in finagling our baby schedule so that we take turns to go and work out every other day.  We are being responsible parents.  We are keeping fit, despite the demands of raising two children.”  This was greeted with the news that Tom goes out several nights a week to play competitive squash. I was convinced Trevor was embellishing.  I did some research.  Tom does play competitive squash.  He is also a former national wrestling champion, and he plays division 1 Soccer (scored four goals the night before I confirmed this discovery).  Hrmph!

While I continue to try and convince myself that we are at least as good as the Joneses, Trevor seems to have come to terms with their superiority and his own role as Tom’s social “project”.  Recently the Joneses were looking at buying a new home, and they emailed us some links to houses they had been considering.  I remarked to Trevor that I was quite surprised at the price range they were investigating.  How could they afford that, I wondered.  After all, they were also both teachers, and we were barely making our mortgage payments, even though our house was worth less than the ones they were looking at!  “Come on, Vera….” My husband patiently replied as though I were a bit slow, “this is Tom we’re talking about here…  the guy’s probably been saving dimes since he was two years old, and now he has some giant down payment for a house or something.”  Obviously this man who once looked up to Tom as someone he could aspire to become is now a shell of his former self—all aspirations have vanished, and he is totally resigned to the fact that there is no hope for us ever to live up to the Joneses!  Personally, I’ve just raised my own expectations, and am running to keep up.  In fact, I need to end this article now; I’ve got to go polish the silver and take out the good china—the Joneses are coming for dinner.

*not their real names

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