I love when random twins stop us on the street and tell us their own stories about growing up with a twin sibling. Their tales always lead to interesting if not spooky stories of how connected they remain. As our conversation winds down, they often leave us with the sound advice of, “Please, whatever you do, don’t dress them the same!”

No need for a paternity test
No need for a paternity test

Duh. I would never do that. I did worse. I did John-Benet bad.
I dressed Max identical to Pierre, and saw that Pierre was dressed identical to Pius (minus the pants) and we all go to the park like a 3-musketeer parade. A real triplet ensemble, a tri-doppleganger, an 8-legged tripartition and luau of beige and white.

My mouth is way cleaner than yours.
My mouth is way cleaner than yours.

And yet, no matter how grotesque the scene may appear, it cannot compare with the joy I have in sending photos of such events to Pierre’s parents. A good portion of my days and nights are spent with some degree of tension or restlessness, because that’s just the kind of girl I am. But these frivolous, flighty and superficial moments are the raison de vivre .

Hello baby Jesus
Hello baby Jesus
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