Two by Two : The birth of twins alters every aspect of life for a couple of parents and a pair of siblings.

A one, and a two. . . .

Gina Marie was pulled kicking and screaming into the world by Cesarean section at 7 p.m. the day of the earthquake. Angela Rose followed two minutes later. The aftershocks will last a lifetime.

Identical twins now 11 weeks old, they altered forever the rhythm of your household.

Your 5-year-old daughter, Sheila Lynn, started kindergarten only last week, but she is already nostalgic for the good old days. Once upon a time, she had the undivided attention of her parents.

Even after a brother came along 19 months ago, Sheila’s was a nice little family for the ‘90s. Then came the earthquake and, wham, it’s the baby boom of the ‘50s revisited.

No wonder she sits in stony solitude eating frozen waffles and watching Patty Duke reruns on “Nick at Nite.” At times, the entire family seems struck by postmodernism.

She cherishes the hour a day spent with you in the swimming pool. Finger-painting with Mom and collecting snails in the back yard with her brother reassure her that the world doesn’t spin around the twins.

Yet, being the sister of multiples has its appeal. After an ultrasound confirmed that Mom was carrying twins, Sheila played “twins” with dolls. And she took to calling a neighbor’s dogs The Terrific Triplet Terriers.

She eagerly and lovingly holds Gina or Angela, feeding each from a bottle or just whispering and giggling.

But her stomach turns when another visitor sweetly says, “I’ll just bet you are mommy’s little helper.”

Exhilarated from his first full sprint is your 19-month-old son, Daniel Asa. Crawling, standing, walking, running--all accomplished during the time his mother’s waistline grew and grew.

Dive-bombing face-first onto her belly like a comedian onto a pie provided great videotape material, and he knew it. Now the camera you hold pans past him and focuses on the newborns in their cradles.

So Daniel makes do.

He hands Mom diapers for the girls. He shouts their names as he dashes from cradle to cradle, standing on tiptoe to peer over the top like a latter-day Kilroy.

Pronunciation is a chore. So he simplifies. Gina is “Nana.” Angela is “Anna.”

Frustration peaks when Mom feeds one girl and you feed the other. That’s when Daniel grabs his plastic bat and ball. He sets the ball on his tee and takes a mighty swing, sending it flying across the living room.

Mom scowls, but you and Daniel exchange sly grins. When he smacks the ball, he also hits your approval button.

Angela Rose, 2 pounds, 7 ounces at birth and every ounce a battler, is a less-than-happy camper.

Buried under her mother’s rib cage in the weeks before delivery, Angela was left scant room to move, and you nicknamed her The Little Gnarler.

She is healthy, having grown in two months from the size of a family steak to six pounds.

Her fully developed lungs drew in precious oxygen while she lay in a neonatal intensive-care unit, life itself touch-and-go. Now they produce a toe-curling cry every night.

Awake, she is in constant motion, squirming and arching her back as though she believes that stretching out of her skin will accelerate her growth. In the hospital she astonished her nurses by kicking open the portholes of her incubator.

She has been home for six weeks and the iron will she demonstrates should continue to open doors.

Gina Marie, 5 pounds, 3 ounces at birth, is a bundle of contentment.

She had hogged the inside of her mother’s belly, taking as much nourishment as she needed, and you nicknamed her The Big Bopper. Although born five weeks premature, everything about her is healthy, especially her appetite.

Gina sleeps, Gina eats. Gina sleeps some more, Gina eats some more. The life of leisure is all she knows.

And she gains and gains--10 pounds and counting.

Bright and alert, she offers a soft, easy smile while gazing at you through button eyes. Gina is easy to love, and she loves easily.

Her only dislike is being bathed, something Angela enjoys.

Not much appears identical so far. The tops of both twins’ right ears are pointed and the tops of their left ears are rounded. Given time, we are told, the girls will look more alike.

Unabashedly maternal, Diane wore her hospital wristbands like POW bracelets for five weeks until Angela finally came home.

You’ve been married nine years and the first four were a frolic. You both stayed out too late, laughed too loud.

Now a loud laugh wakes the babies. And while you and Diane rarely go out, the stereophonic wailing of babies ensures that you stay up late.

Both girls have colic, loosely defined as a distressing pattern of late-night screaming at a glass-breaking pitch for three hours at a time. Water dripping on your forehead all night would be a lesser torture.

Sometimes the girls wake at the same time. You and Diane each change, feed and rock one. Other times one girl wakes just as the other gets to sleep.

Zombie-like, Diane gamely presses through the night while you snore. For a fleeting moment, she longs for the simplicity of twin pregnancy, forgetting her alternate descriptions of her condition: “Somebody stuck a crowbar through my hip” and “the babies are making a wish with my pelvic bone.”

At 7 a.m. you are up with Daniel and Sheila.

Another day begins.

Another endless round of leaky bottles and squeaky rockers.

Another Wet Set Gazette arriving to share space on the night stand with Harper’s.

Another trip to the market prefaced by loading the minivan with three car seats, two diaper bags, a triple stroller, a Wiffle ball, a Barbie and two Little Pony Princesses.

Another inane comment--”I’ll bet you have your hands full”--from a stranger chuckling uncontrollably at your plight.

Another quiet moment with Diane, sharing a soft laugh and one of the day’s memories.

* THE PREMISE

There are plenty of things you have never tried. Fun things, dangerous things, character-building things. The Reluctant Novice tries them for you and reports the results. After all, the Novice gets paid to do them--and has no choice in the matter. If you want to tell the Novice where to go, please call us at 658-5547. If we use your idea, we’ll send you a present.

* This week’s Reluctant Novice is staff writer Steve Henson.