Strangers often mistake A. and F. for twins. Between the matching Ohio State jerseys and the new identical buzz cuts today they’re nearly indistinguishable.
This wouldn’t normally be a problem except they’re at Sunday school and have a habit of switching names to confuse the teacher. On purpose. At church.
Their teacher stands eye level with my third grader and lit more than a few boxes of candles on her last birthday cake. Boys, I tell them, it’s not nice to pick on little old ladies. Anywhere. But it’s especially not nice at church.
I give each of the boys the eye, the evil one. “No name switching, right?” It’s not a question.
“No, Momma,” A. sings sweetly.
For the boys to be well behaved and pass on an easy trick certainly falls into the category of random kindness.
I’ve told the boys that this week it’s all on them: the ideas and the follow-through. It’s day one. I say a small prayer during the service that they make a good choice.
“How were they?” I ask at pick-up. “Any name changing?”
“Good,” she says.
“Really?” I ask. “You can tell me the truth.”
“I knew who was who the whole time,” she says.