Birthdays are for memories.

My youngest sisters turn 24 today. I, frankly, am shocked.

Shocked because I'm pretty sure I'm still 24, and they're definitely...a year or two younger than me. Or so. Ballpark.

Also shocked because a good part of my childhood was spent doing really, really fun things that had incredible potential to damage one or the both of them. (And can't twins feel each other's wounds and stuff like that? So- definitely both of them.)

Do NOT leave us alone with her!

For example.

Once, when I was babysitting for the pair of six year-olds, I got a rather important phone call. (From an unnamed eighth grade boyfriend. Fear not, I was also in eighth grade.) Before taking the call, I instructed the two of them to stay inside; directions that they immediately disregarded and that I immediately forgot to enforce.

This was way back in the day- so when you got a phone call, you were practically married to the one spot near the kitchen counter where you picked up the phone.

It couldn't have happened this quickly, but the next thing I remember is hearing the THWACK of a branch snapping, a scream from one or both of them, and- once I stuck my head outside the sliding glass door- the image of Rachel flyyyying through the air. And hitting the ground. With a branch impaled through her armpit.

Thankfully, a nice neighbor lady/doctor was walking her dogs past the house at the time and it all ended just fine. Plus, Chelly now has a simply incredible scar. But Emma's scars might be a bit more of the psychological variety.

Moments before dropping Emily.

They were also the subjects of my short-lived career in photography. I would thumbtack their baby blankets around various pieces of furniture and surround the girls with desk lamps. They would then be forced to hold objects I deemed worthy of immortalization: silk flowers, important-looking books, and my stuffed animals. Once set up, I borrowed my parents' camera and took a positively blinding number of shots. Most of them were awful, especially the ones towards the end of the roll where they would be blinking, wincing, and looking a little glazed.

The twins were my only clients when I was a detective in my bedroom closet. They were the only ones who could fit in there with me.

I forced them to stay under the dining room table for hours when we were bears. I named them Cubby and Cubs and thought myself quite clever.

There were talent shows where I not only told them what their "talent" was, but I would also cut them off mid-act and make them go serve people from the Fisher-Price kitchen. (You wanna act? You've got bus your own table.)

I once tried to make Rachel swallow her own hand.

I left Emily in a pile of my stuffed animals and went out to ride my bike, completely forgetting that I'd told her not to move.

Despite all of these atrocities, they've turned into stellar human beings. (Also, inexplicably, I've had a really successful career as a nanny.)

Rachel is one of the wittiest people I know- yet she rarely makes me feel dumb. Nor has she attempted to make me swallow my own hand. (Yet.)

Em is the person to whom I've emailed pictures of entire outfits- begging her to tell me what to wear. And despite my teasing of her hair into absolutely marvelous pigtails...she helps me.

Chel lives in NYC and acts and auditions and tutors for the SATs and knows the best place to have anything, ever.

Emily lives in Cambridge and saves the world and once lived on a boat and is the nation's greatest dancer and dissects lyrics with a surgeon's precision.

We usually bring Kate, too!

So...happy birthday, gals. Despite my outward attempts toward the contrary, you've clearly done a-ok with yourselves- to which I can only respond with these two phrases:

I'm sorry.

And you're welcome.