The twins were born at 29 weeks.

What this means, for those of you who might not be sure how long a normal pregnancy is supposed to last (about 40 weeks), is that the twins’ due date was November and they were born in August. Um. Yeah. Also? They each weighed about 2 lbs., 15 ounces. Their dad tells me he could hold one baby in his palm.

The biggest complication from this was acid reflux which emerged as a Huge Freaking Problem shortly after birth. When I was hired, when the twins were 11 months old, they were still in the throes of it, throwing up formula several times a day. We had a notebook with a line down the middle, splitting the page into two columns: O & R and after every feeding, we would record how many ounces they drank. (Rarely more than two at a time.) We would tally their daily totals and consider it an okay day or a really bad day, depending.

Years later, the twins continue to struggle with eating. To put it simply: they are not interested.

I’ve read a lot about ‘picky eaters’ on the internet and it seems to wage into an all out mom war, most people claiming that children are attempting to be manipulative and it’s about control and stop catering to them because ‘no child will ever starve themselves’.

At 6 years old, this last part is probably true.

But at 1 year, 2 years, 3 years, it wasn’t.

These kids would starve themselves rather than eat. And that is a fact.

The twins have benefited enormously from the state’s early intervention programs for a host of issues: occupational therapy for some sensory issues, food therapy because duh, speech therapy because they were not speaking, etc. They were extensively delayed in all aspects. Today, you’d probably never know it because, well, they’re not anymore except when it comes to their size.

They are small for their age.

For awhile, they didn’t seem to know it. But then they went to school. And other kids pointed it out.

Oh, other kids. You suck.

I began to observe how stark the difference was while they played on the playground or when we would run into other children on the street or at a play date and how it would bother them.

“HE CAN’T BE 6!” another little kid at the park exclaimed to me. “HE IS SO TINY!”

Owen ran away to play with someone else.

“They’re so SMALL,” a mother remarked to me.

So what? I felt like saying.

And this is just ME, the BABYSITTER, who is subject to these kinds of interactions once a week. I’m sure their parents are stuck dealing with this kind of shit all the time.

This past weekend, I stood by at a classmate’s birthday party and watched Owen (sort of shy) with his peers. He was aloof and nervous and the other children ignored him. We sat alone at our own table eating pizza. I asked if he wanted to sit next to the other kids.

“No,” he replied. “No one made room for me so they told me to sit over here.”

“We can make room,” I offered.

“No,” he said.

He just watched.

When he got up the courage, he would go over to someone and try to make conversation.

“LOUIE IS GREAT AT VIDEO GAMES!” Owen told me.

“You should go talk to him!” I said.

“LOUIE!” Owen shouted. “GUESS WHAT? I BEAT THAT PAC MAN GAME!”

Louie looked at Owen thoughtfully.

Then.

“I don’t even play that game anymore.”

Owen’s face fell.

“I think that’s great,” I said.

But it didn’t help.

Who cares if the freaking BABYSITTER thinks you’re great?

It happened over and over again. Owen attempting to talk or share and getting repeatedly shot down. And it wasn’t because all other kids were assholes. (I mean, some of those kids were assholes.) It was just because compared to his peers, O is less mature. He’s probably smarter than most of them, has been reading for years, finishes homework in seconds. But…he doesn’t quite have the hang of social interaction.

He says the wrong things.

He can’t keep up when they play tag.

If he does choose to play, eventually they all pummel him because he’s the smallest.

It’s heartbreaking to watch, to say the least. And it’s hard to continually save him from a game his classmates like to call LET’S JUMP ON OWEN UNTIL HE CRIES.

I wonder a lot about how to equip him for that kind of stuff. It’s not like you can just say a few things and teach someone how to not be socially awkward. Or tell a kid it doesn’t matter that he’s smaller than other people and he’ll magically feel better and never worry about it again.

You know?

At the same time, these are the types of things that shape us into who we are as adults. I have a friend who was always smaller than his male peers growing up and now has a huge hilarious awesome personality because he felt like he had to make up for his lack of height. I was teased as a kid quite a lot because my parents didn’t have much money and I wore the wrong clothes, etc. I started cracking jokes because it was easier if I made fun of myself first. It’s a story so many people have.

Don’t some people develop a sense of humor or sense of compassion from being picked on themselves? Or feeling like an outsider? Obviously, I would hope that people would develop a sense of humor and sense of compassion from being well-adjusted and loved individuals. Not because they were teased. I know this.  But that wasn’t the case for my friend. Or for me. But, how do you stop it? Because even though I’m now a well-adjusted adult, I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on any kid.

How to help him along? Help him navigate? Help him get through it without too many scars?

Right now, it seems to affect him on a daily basis. It’s a little bit low self-esteem mixed with self-consciousness when in groups, a socially awkward Not Sure What To Do thing around his peers. A lack of ability to connect?

I don’t have any answers. I just keep noticing it. And especially at this birthday party this weekend…geez. I felt really really sad.

…

After the birthday party, I took Owen bowling.

It was crowded and we were told we would have to wait an hour for a lane.

“You feel up to that, buddy? An hour is a long time!”

“An hour is 60 minutes of 60 seconds!” remarked Owen.

“Yes! Do you want to wait that long? Or should we go do something else?”

“LET’S WAIT!” Owen cheered. “I LOVE TO BOWL!”

So, we waited. I sat on a bench near the bar while Owen watched other people bowl. He played underneath a staircase, stomping on tiles that were lit up in neon colors. Occasionally, he would come near me to talk but mostly he occupied himself. He’s always been that way.

After about 45 minutes, Lane 16 opened up and we got to put on our magic bowling shoes and knock down some pins. Owen was absolutely ecstatic, waiting patiently as I tried to find the lightest bowling ball for him.

“IT’S AQUA!” he shouted, clapping his hands. “A GREAT COLOR!”

I agreed.

“I DO NOT WANT TO BE OWEN TODAY,” he said as I typed our names into the computer.

“Oh? Okay,” I said. “Who are you?”

“CLYDE! Today, I’ll be Clyde.”

“Clyde it is,” I said.

Clyde and Lara were bowling on Lane 16. Clyde because, who even knows and Lara because the “U” button on the keypad was broken.

We bowled our first game, Owen taking serious offense when I knocked over more pins and I would be all CALM DOWN, I’m an almost 28 year old woman bowling with BUMPERS and my final score of our first game was a whopping 104 so…YEAH.

But mostly he was proud of himself, doing a crazy fist pumping dance after nearly every turn.

There was a large group of thirty-somethings bowling next to us, drinking beer and having a great time. I didn’t think they were paying any attention to us until we decided to play a 2nd game.

Clyde got up to bowl the first frame and bowled a strike.

As soon as the pins all fell over, the entire group next to us (about 15 people) all stood up and clapped and cheered for him. Turns out they had been watching him the entire time.

Owen threw his hands in the air.

“STRIKE!” he yelled as everyone laughed and clapped.

“Way to go!” I said, slapping him double high fives.

“THEY NOTICED ME,” he beamed, pointing to the group next to us.

“Yes, I know,” I said. “You are someone people love to notice.”

Dear Clyde: I know you know this or at least I hope you do:

I will always notice you.