Leave Him Alone, Frog!

I try to teach my students courage. Specifically, I hope they will find the courage to stand up for the downtrodden, the outsider, the bullied. Sometimes I tell them about Sean.

I was an outsider in ninth grade. My one close friend, cruelly nicknamed Pumpkinhead (I have written about him here), was my friend because we had our outsider status in common. The previous year we had not spoken to each other because we had different best friends. I remember standing on the playground with my best friend and making fun of Pumpkinhead and his best friend with my best friend and feeling secure that we were better than them. At the end of eighth grade, Pumkinhead's friend left the school; my friend left the school too. As the only outsiders left, we found ourselves forced together by fate.

While Pumpkinhead and I spent most of our freshmen year throwing rocks at each other, I also found the time to learn a lesson in courage. Our ninth grade class was in the same PE class with the eighth grade. Most of the classes involved wrestling, basketball, and softball. One of the eighth graders was named Sean. I am sure that he too had a cruel nickname, but it eludes me at the moment.

Sean was shorter than average, stunted in growth, and possessed long, thin arms. His eyes were large and bulbous. His ears were impressive wings that always seemed to be clogged with a generous portion of wax. He was not merely the outsider of his class, but also of the school. He talked to no one. I don't remember him ever saying a word to me or anyone else. Various tales circulated concerning his level of intelligence, and some said that one or both of his parents had died. His head was permanently bowed, his eyes aimed only at his feet; this was not caused by any physical infirmity, but by an unwillingness to meet anyone's eyes with his own.

His lack of coordination, strength, and speed, and his body were sources of constant jokes at PE. It wasn't the insiders that mocked him; they were too important to be bothered by one so low. It was those on the periphery of the insiders that picked on Sean in hopes of capturing the attention of the insiders.

One of these insiders was Frog. Frog had come to school in the middle of the semester. Mrs. Plopper brought him by to introduce him to the class. We saw a curly-blonde head stick quickly into the door, blink, and then pop back out again. I think everyone had the same thought at the same time: "Frog." I don't remember his real name, but I shall forever remember those blinking eyes under a pile of curls. We had a nickname for him before we learned his real name.

Frog was a desperate wannabe. He didn't seem to understand that he could never be a true insider. He was cruel to Sean.

One day at dinner I mentioned to my family that Sean was being continually picked on by my class members. My older brother (a senior) wanted names. I reluctantly gave him a name and the next day my brother gave him a black eye. After that, I determined to never again use someone as a proxy in a fight that I should be fighting.

The next day at PE, Frog was ruthlessly mocking Sean during basketball. I knew what I had to do. With my heart beating so hard that I thought I was going to throw-up, I waited for Frog to lash at out Sean again. When he did, I lashed back with all of the power I could, "Leave him along, Frog!" All of my own years of pain as an outsider were put into the loathing that I put into the word, "Frog."

All three of us stopped running down the court. I was sure that Frog was going to beat me up. He just gave me a startled look, turned, and went down the court. Sean looked me in the eye. It was the first time he had ever looked me in the eye. I don't know what he was saying with his eyes. It seemed to be a mix of shock that someone would stand up for him, gratitude, an question asking what took so long, and a deep sadness.

Maybe he knew that I was, at heart, a coward. I left school that day proud of my accomplishment and sure that I would soon be able to stamp out injustice at my school. I never again stood up for him. For that I am forever shamed.

My shame does not end there. That summer, Pumkinhead's family was caught in a home fire. His parents and baby sister were killed, and his home destroyed. I heard about it on the news and read about it in the paper. I never tried to contact him though I knew I should.

Several years ago, I saw a wedding announcement for Pumpkinhead in the paper. It sounded like he was doing well. I hope he is having a good life. After ninth grade, I never saw Sean again.


Peace

...__

U2-charist

I don't even know where to begin with this story:

From Breitbart:
The Pope may have condemned rock music as "anti-religion" but the Church of England has announced it is to use the songs of a global supergroup in an effort to boost congregations.

The first "U2-charist" in England, an adapted Holy Communion service that uses the Irish rock group's best-selling songs in place of hymns, is to be staged at a Lincoln church in May.

A live band will play U2 classics such as Mysterious Ways and Beautiful Day as worshippers sing along with lyrics which will appear on screen at St Swithin's parish church in the town-centre.

With theology like this, I can't understand why the Church of England would need to "boost congregations." If the Beatles could be bigger than Jesus, why can't U2 simply replace Him?

It is not clear from the article if this was U2's idea or if they have given the event their, er, "blessing." I hope not. If it were not completely consistent with the literal and symbolic emptiness of the Church of England, I would be tempted to disbelieve the entire story.

More:
The atmosphere will be further enhanced by a sophisticated lighting system that will pulse with the beat, and striking visual images of poverty and drought.

In America, we have a term for this type of event: a rock concert.

Peace

Donuts with Daddies Redux

It was Donuts with Daddies day again at my son's school on Friday. I told about my previous adventure with DWD here. Once again, I got a tie and a book about me. According to my son:

Daddy works at "American School."
Daddy is "60 FEET" tall.
Daddy is "66" years old.
Daddy is happy when "I give him a gift on his birthday."
Daddy's favorite food is "sarl" (cereal).
Daddy likes to "Paly (Play) games on the comeputr (computer)."
Daddy and I like to "Fish".
If daddy were an animal, he would be a "bird."

The boy refused to eat his donut because it was too sticky. He wondered, "Why did they get these type of donuts." I think he was expecting to get the munchkins they had gotten last year. He had promised me a chocolate one.

The class entertained us with a song and then got the dads to join in on the Tootie-ta song. I wore the tie all day so I could brag all day about my boy. The tie will go on the rack next to the one from last year. There is plenty of room for more.

Peace

Intelligence Quotient: Updated

Charles Murray, the controversial author of The Bell Curve, had a very interesting series at the WSJ's Opinion Journal this week. I disagree with a few of his premises, but agree with some of his conclusions.

Intelligence in the Classroom Half of all children are below average, and teachers can do only so much for them.

What's Wrong With Vocational School? Too many Americans are going to college.

Aztecs vs. Greeks: Those with superior intelligence need to learn to be wise.

Enjoy.

Peace

Update:

I meant to add a bit more commentary shortly after I posted these links, but I am in the midst of research paper season so I am glad to get the prompt to expand my comments. It wasn't really fair to say I agree with parts and disagree with parts of what Murray says without giving a hint of what I believe.

In brief, I appreciate Murray's attempt to restart the discussion he began with the publication of The Bell Curve. He has taken many undeserved and unfair hits since then (and some deserved), but he touches a number of taboos that most of us know but cannot discuss without seeming insensitive or elitist. Specifically, he argues that not all students are created equal in ability; some are more gifted intellectually (he measures this exclusively through IQ--a point I strongly disagree with) than others and no amount of schooling can change that.

I think that too often our schools have tried to make everyone feel equal. The only way to create this type of equality is to make everyone equal to the lowest achieving student. In other words, if our goal is universal education in which no child is left behind then the standards have to be set at a level that the least gifted child can achieve. No child will be left behind, but the rest of the students will have had to stay behind so as not to outpace that child. I don't believe that a child can do anything he or she dreams of. The sooner a student (and his or her parents) comes to understand his or hers limitations, the sooner he or she will be able to apply him or herself in an area of real ability. That doesn't mean that I believe that our efforts should only be on the gifted students. I believe that the purpose of education should be to push all students to achieve all that they can achieve. I think we have made great strides at reaching students who need more help, but we need to put the same energy into pushing the gifted to greater heights or we are in danger of achieving national mediocrity. Murray reports that only 1/100th of 1% of the Department of Education's budget in 2006 went to gifted programs and that the 2007 budget includes no money for gifted programs. That should not be. Our nation cannot continue to prosper by settling for basic standards, and Advanced Placement programs are no answer.

Murray also makes some fine points about the need to instruct gifted students (all students, in my opinion) in humility and responsibility. He is right in saying that our leaders need to be wise. I, however, do not think that they must possess a high IQ. I know too many intelligent people that I would not trust to care for my dead cat. Alexander Hamilton was most likely more intelligent than George Washington, but I would much rather have Washington leading my army or my nation. Granted, Hamilton did not exactly possess a high degree of humility, but few highly intelligent people do.

Murray does not quite come out and say it, but it seems that he would restrict gifted programs to those with high IQs. I think that would be waste of all of those with other types of giftedness. Brilliance has many more facets than IQ. Creativity, artistry, and talent are all areas in which schools need to create more avenues for advance.

Lastly, I see no other result from his package of proposals than student tracking based upon IQ. The tracking would have to begin in kindergarten, and a student would probably be labeled before middle school. This would be a great tragedy.

Peace

Carnival of Georgia Bloggers 2nd Edition

The 2nd edition of the Carnival of Georgia Bloggers is up. Be sure to click here to see the great variety of blogging Georgians.
Peace

A Shot in the Dark

My students never quite trust me when I teach the US Civil War. I suppose I deserve their distrust. I have two dark secrets that I feel compelled to disclose every year.

Before I reveal those secrets to you here, a little background is necessary. I teach in the Deep South, a region with strong feelings but often little knowledge about history. I have lived in Cobb County, one of Atlanta's many suburban counties, for the past thirty-two years of my life. Like much of the Atlanta area, it is a county that has undergone a rapid change as its rural heritage has been replaced by a typical suburban mix of homes, shopping centers, and Starbucks. These days, it actually makes the papers when an old family farm finally gives way to the never-ending need for neighborhoods that only recall their heritage in names like Brook Field, Morgan Farm, and others too many to mention.

But it is not only the county's rural heritage that has been under assault. The entire Atlanta region has seen its southern heritage watered down by an influx of hordes of Yankees. Sherman came in the 1860's. Lockheed came in the 1940's. IBM and many other companies came in the 1970's. I am not sure which has been more destructive of the local southern culture. It is not uncommon to go to a pro-sports event in Atlanta and see the hometown fans matched or exceeded in numbers by fans from places like New York or Chicago. Nearly every Civil War battlefield is now under a parking lot, apartment complex, or Starbucks.

The transition has not been without its tensions. I well remember my own high school history class debating the Civil War:
Yank transplant: "Who won the war?"
Local Rebel: "Who won most of the battles?"
Yank transplant: "Lee owned slaves!"Local Rebel: "Grant was a drunk!"
Yank transplant: "Who won the war?"
Local Rebel: "Who won most of the battles?"
You get the idea. I don't remember it going any deeper than that. I don't recall joining the debate. I didn't know which side to join. My soul was deeply conflicted by the fact that one of my dark secrets is that I was born in Poughkeepsie, New York. My dad worked for IBM and was transferred to Atlanta when I was five. Our neighborhood, named Bunker Hill in honor of the Bicentennial and, perhaps, to make us Yanks feel more welcome, was filled with Yankee transplants.

I was conflicted as soon as I began attending elementary school. I had been in the habit of calling my parents simply, "Mom" and "Dad." I soon picked up the habit of referring to them as, "Maya-me" and "Daya-de" until my dad told me quite vehemently to stop talking like that.

My students are always shocked to discover that I was born in the North. Some of them doubt that a place named “Poughkeepsie” actually exists. In a desperate attempt to reestablish my southern credentials, I explain that I was only born there by a fluke of timing. My mom is from Arkansas and my dad is from North Carolina. They reply, “Yeah…NORTH Carolina!” or “Arkansas? Isn’t that where Clinton is from? She’s a New York Yank!” Okay, I might be exaggerating, but my students’ conception of who their teacher is has been shaken. I continue to explain my true heritage by telling them that my great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather came to Virginia in 1636. I tell them that I love sweet tea and will eat anything fried. In fact, my mother, at her wit’s end in her struggle to get me to eat vegetables, battered-up every vegetable fit to fry and dropped it in boiling oil. I ate fried okra, squash, zucchini, not to mention the fried chicken hearts and gizzards I got for a treat. I don’t volunteer that I find grits repulsive. It is all to no avail. I cannot now be trusted to teach the Civil War with any measure of objectivity.

It is usually at this point that I drop my second bombshell secret. My great, great grandfather may have been the one that killed Stonewall Jackson. As you may or may not know, Jackson was reconnoitering the battlefield at Chancellorsville at the end of a day that many say was his finest hour, when a group of North Carolina infantry challenged him in the half-light. Thinking Jackson and his staff was a force of Union cavalry, the North Carolina infantry opened fire. Jackson was hit once in his right hand and twice in his left arm (whatever you say about their judgment, at least the North Carolinians were good shots). His left arm would be amputated, but he would die from complications due to pneumonia on May 10, 1863, reportedly saying, “Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees.” Lee was devastated by the news and remarked, “I have lost my right arm.” Indeed, when Lee needed Jackson later that year at Gettysburg, Jackson was not there, and Lee failed when he might have had his greatest victory. Lincoln would have never given his famous address, the Confederacy would have won the war, and all of American history would have been drastically different. I might be exaggerating again but who can tell?

According to a clipping from 1899 saved by my father’s family, “Mr. W.I. […], of near Bethel, an old Confederate, was in town Wednesday and told us a little about the part he took in the volley that killed Stonewall Jackson. He was in the brigade to guard the road with orders to let no one pass. Having just driven Hooker into his defenses at Chancellorsville, Gen. Jackson was very anxious to follow up the fruits of the battle and reconnoitering at night, and refusing to halt as demanded, was fired into by his own men and mortally wounded, on the night of May 2nd 1863, dying the 10th. Mr. […] was in the Brigade and fired at Jackson. Who hit him can not be known.”

I have replaced the last name of Mr. William Ivey with ellipsis to protect my family. He was my great, great grandfather. My students think he was Yankee spy.

I don’t know if revealing my secret Poughkeepsie-born, Stonewall Jackson-killing past makes it anymore difficult for my students to accept my criticisms of the South or not, but I hope they know I love the South and would like to see all that is good about the South preserved.

Peace

Monday Miscellany: A Little Bit Taller

My eldest son turned six last week. He hopped out of bed on his birthday and asked, "Am I any taller today?"


His party went well. The temperature was in the low seventies so we strung up a Superman piñata in the back yard. Superman got pummeled, and no one got hurt. The bigger kids wanted to whack his head off, but his head was still attached even after he had given up his sugarcoated entrails (who knew that the source of his power was not the yellow light of Sol but Whoppers, Twizzlers, and Bottlecaps?). I must admit that it felt a little odd stringing up a human figure (or Kryptonian figure) from a tree in my back yard. Next year I shall insist on an inanimate object.





One can never predict what present will be a six-year-old's new favorite. He has certainly enjoyed his new light saber (Mace Windu's purple light-up one). It joins his red, spring loaded, light-up one and his battery-less blue and green ones. It is becoming quite the armory over here. But his favorite toy seems to be a single Lego brick. It is a red light-up brick that projects a beam of red light that has spent the past twenty-four hours vaporizing all manner of bad guys.


My wife already wrote a nice appreciation of our now six-year-old boy at her blog here. I will just add a few of my own thoughts to hers. I appreciate any boy that can create an Episode 7 of Star Wars in which the evil Dark Robot's head explodes at the end. I have seen it recreated in Lego numerous times; it is quite dramatic.

He had to go for his six-year-old check-up on his birthday. The last time he was there he had gotten a painful flushot and was not looking forward to the event. As soon as he entered the exam room, he saw the finger prick kit causing his anxiety level to rise appreciably. One can tell he is nervous when he starts playing with his fingers in his lap (the proverbial wringing of the hands). The anticipation was much worse than the actual pinprick. He is not fearless, but he is growing brave.

He is also having to learn discernment. He came home and showed us the birdie. He said a kid at school said that it meant that you didn't love Jesus. About the same time he started saying sarcastically, "Oh my God!" He has not repeated either since (at least in our view). He got in trouble on the bus for the first time last week.

He measured in at the doctors at 46 pounds and 46 inches. Both are average for his age. By objective standards he is just your average six-year-old kid, and I am just a typical parent who wants to freeze the passage of time so that an imaginative, bright, mystical boy won't grow up too fast.



Peace

Mr. Holland's Opus?

Sometimes it seems that the stories about teachers are as positive as news reports from Iraq. I came across three such stories within moments today. It made me sad. Here are the titles, links, and a brief quote from each.

CNN.com:
School board fires teacher over controversial artwork
Murmer, a teacher at Monacan High School, was suspended in December after objections were raised about his private abstract artwork, much of which includes smearing his posterior and genitals with paint and pressing them against canvas.

Yahoo News:
Pa. teacher on trial found dead
Snyder was accused of taking pictures of boys in bikini briefs and other revealing clothing while they performed chores at his house. He was suspended from teaching at Southern Lehigh High School shortly after the charges were filed in 2005.

Ex-coach allegedly hits students in groin
A former high school basketball coach faces 39 charges for allegedly hitting male students in the groin, showing them pornography and pouring water on his players then driving them to games in the winter with the windows rolled down.


Peace

Monday Miscellany: Storm Warning

A sound like a bag of potatoes slowly rolling down the stairs got my attention. It is becoming an all too familiar sound, as it was my three-year-old girl falling down the stairs. She has fallen down the stairs a lot lately, but I could tell from the sound of the tumble that this one was more serious than previous falls. My wife quickly put down a baby, and I ran from the computer, visions of broken bones and bloody faces dancing in our imagination. She was already screaming by the time we got to her. As my wife tried to calm her, I thought I heard something above the cries. Was one of the babies crying? Yes, when of the babies is always crying, but there was something else. I glanced at the TV and saw the scrolling warning of imminent weather and the advice to take cover immediately. I picked up the crying baby, turned the channel to a better local channel, and helped my wife look over the girl while trying to keep an eye on the Doppler radar. It was a tense few minutes but the storm blew over and the girl ended up with a cut on her gum and a loose tooth but, thankfully, no other obvious injuries. She got a free sno-cone for her troubles.



My five-year-old boy is not going to be five for very much longer. As soon as Christmas was over, he began planning his birthday party. He wants a surprise party. He wants to have people over to our house. He wants to get up in the morning and not be allowed to come downstairs until everything is ready (like Christmas). He wants a Piñata. He doesn't want any clothes for his birthday. He wants a chocolate cake with chocolate icing with blue stripes and sprinkles. He told us that there is no school on Friday. We asked, "Why isn't there school on Friday?" "It's my birthday." He insists that one doesn't have to go to school on one's birthday. He wants a new blue and a new green light saber like the red one he got for Christmas (he currently has four light sabers). I hope he is not disappointed.



My five-year-old boy is also becoming a bit of a mystic. He claims that on leaving my office (slowly becoming the Lego room) that he couldn't get out because God/Jesus was in his way. God told him that He had good news and that he was going to heaven. After that, he was allowed to leave. His momma asked his what he felt when God was in his way. His response was to blush and say, "Everything." Today, it happened again. God was in the bathroom with him, but didn't have anything to say.


My five-year-old boy is permitted to watch old Looney Toon cartoon when they come on (Bugs, Daffy, Elmer, etc). They seem to have done me no harm (if you count always visualizing Bugs in drag on a large horse whenever Ride of the Valkyries plays). I have begun to question our decision of late. The casual use of tobacco, the continual employment of drag, and the objectification of women used in those early cartoons is quite shocking by today's standards. Sure, there are no burp or fart jokes, but there are also few female characters. The other morning, an early Looney Toon was panning quickly through a montage of images when the image of an attractive and shapely woman flashed by, the scene stopped and backed up to show the image again before continuing to pan. My son let out a loud, "Woo-hoo." Oh, dear.


Peace

The Carnival of Georgia Bloggers

Elementary History Teacher has begun the very first edition of The Carnival of Georgia Bloggers over here . I encourage you to check it out and to join the next edition if you are an interested Georgia blogger.

Peace

Monday Miscellany: The Living and the Dead

The first morn of the new year saw the sun rise bright and shiny after several days of overcast and rain. After being restricted to indoor activities for several days, I needed a long walk to clear my head. So I struck out with a determination to walk down at least one road that I had never walked down before.

The world was still wet, and the debris of the previous night’s bacchanalities was scattered about the neighborhood: the shattered paper casings of fireworks, broken liquor bottles, beer cans, and an unfired 9mm hollow point bullet. The sight of the bullet brought my walk to a sudden pause. The bullet lay in the street feet from where my son normally stands to wait for the bus. The neighborhood has shown some troubling signs of late. The police have been at the neighbor’s house at least three times in the last four months. They were there at least once with guns drawn. During a walk last summer, I found a knife in the grass only twenty yards from where I found the bullet.

Unsure what the exact protocol was for finding an undischarged bullet, I pocketed the bullet and continued my walk. I moved my camera and keys to the other pocket when the irrational story line flashed through my imagination, “Teacher maimed by bullet accidentally set off by camera in pocket.”

I am not sure what drew me into the cemeteries on this day. On a day of celebration for the possibilities of a new year, I ended up meditating on those lost to the past. I visited two cemeteries over the course of my perambulation.

One is ancient (by local standards) and has been ostensibly adopted by the county police department as a part of the county “adopt a cemetery” program. It sits long out of use, neglected and overgrown, sandwiched between a suburban neighborhood and a church. The cemetery is quite small and cars roar past on the four-lane road bearing drivers oblivious that the little copse of trees houses the eternal resting place of the remains of a few dozen souls.



The other cemetery is nearly as old but is still in use. That is, fresh bodies are still being added. The further one walks into it, the older the remains one comes across until one finally comes to an area of unfinished and uninscribed stones. Simple rocks rise from the grass where they were placed with care over a hundred years ago. Some have fallen over, never to rise again. A few family plots are still well maintained. A handful of headstones have been filled out with all but the date of death and the body to be added. Plastic flowers look to have been recently added to several graves and not so recently to several others.



I have an odd fascination with cemeteries. My interest is part historical curiosity and part fear of mortality. The inscriptions, the dates, the names, and the groupings tell a story that moves me to melancholy. An incomplete story, but a story made all the more tragic by the fact that all of the principal characters are dead and no one remembers their tales. One is struck by ironic headstones claiming, "Gone, but not forgotten" while crumbling with neglect and standing over sunken graves. I am stirred by the challenge to interpret the little information I am given into the semblance of a narrative that will honor those buried beneath me.

I came across the grave of a Korean War veteran and his wife. They (or someone) chose to add the date of their marriage to their headstone); that date was 1953. One can guess that he came home from the war and got quickly married.

Every male in the very large Rogers family served in the Coast Guard during World War II (I think I counted six of them).

One comes across heartbreaking tragedy. Beside one couple’s headstone were five miniature headstones; each was for a child that died in infancy and was a reminder of the precarious nature of life a hundred years ago.

I was startled to come across a couple that shares my family name. Edward H. lived from 1903-1953 and Ethel M from 1903-1986. I have a fairly unique surname. I wonder if they are related to me somehow. I shall probably never know.

On my way out I came across three headstones that still have me wondering. The one for Sarah Frances Green first got my attention.



The simple inscription, “Our loved one”, drew me in for a second look. She was only twelve when she died. Her parents are buried right next to her. Her father was a Mason. There are no other family graves. The inscription "Our loved one" seems to imply she was an only child. What tragedy took her? Illness or an accident? Perhaps a mishap with one of the new motorcars? How many times did her mother travel to her daughter's grave over the fifty-three years ensuing years before she herself was laid to rest between her loved one and her husband, or was the pain too strong to bear?

Standing over their graves, the feeling that overwhelms me is not sadness in Sarah Frances' death, but the very loss of her memory. Mostly likely, no one alive today knows why she died. What is on that tombstone is probably the only record of her that survives that anyone is likely to see or read. No one lives who remembers her laugh, or her voice, or the color of her hair. No one can tell me what it was about her that made her “Our loved one.”



It is prospect of discovering stories that draw me into cemeteries. It was stories that drew me into the history profession. One day, I hope to bring a group of students to a cemetery on the first day of class to get them thinking about the creation of stories from evidence and the tragedy of forgotten history. The way I see it, a cemetery is a great big primary source. Until then, I shall wonder where this bullet in my pocket came from.

Peace

Meet the Twin Boys at Four and a Half Months

Shortly after the twin boys were born I posted brief introductions to the personalities of the newborns. What struck us most then was how different they already seemed to be. You can read the original posts here and here.

2006 was very good and very challenging to our now family of six. The twins have been a great blessing to us. Here is what they have grown into:

Twin A (the first-born and smallest)
Weighed 14 pounds and 1 ounce at his last dr's visit (just before Christmas)
Has prominent blue veins on his head
Has a crooked smile
Tends to be very stiff and intense
Only poops about once a day now (his overpooping and underpooping have been concerns)
Has been on antibiotics once
Seems to be getting another ear infection (this was chronic with his sister who took ear tubes and surgery; she just got over another one)
Is teething with nothing to show for all the drooling
Is talkative
Is mostly bald
Seems to say "ma.ma.ma.ma" when he is crying
Has beautiful blue eyes
Loves to run in place while laying on his back (especially after coming off Benadryl or while nude)
Enjoys watching TV
Has a narrower face than his brother though they are starting to look more alike
Is a fitful sleeper
Has has a clogged tear duct in his left eye since birth

Twin B (the second-born and largest)
Weighed 15 pounds and 6 ounces at his last dr's appointment (just before Christmas)
Is very floppy and laid back
Looks at you like you are the greatest thing in the world
Melts right in to whoever is holding him
Is very talkative
Is mostly bald (has a bulging vein on the back of his head; his doctor told us not to let him shave his head when gets older (for aesthetic, not medical reasons))
Enjoys watching TV
Has big beautiful blue eyes
Has a round, happy face that lights up the room
Calms down very easily (once he gets fed)
Is a very intense eater
Tries to take out his pacifier and put it back in (he has the taking out part down, but struggles with putting it back in)
Likes to be held or in visual range
Is helping me write this post
Is a manly burper
Is a good sleeper
Likes to hold onto a blanket or towel

They are both much loved by us all.

Can you tell which is which?



Peace