A Memorial Day...To Forget!

Our forefathers would be proud...

For many, Memorial Day is an opportunity to honor those who sacrificed their lives in service of the United States by taking advantage of once-per-season savings on cargo shorts and flip-flop at Old Navy.  A small segment of the population finds itself at work on Memorial Day. My industry, radio, offers the opportunity to avoid the fun often associated with days off. The perks of working while others don't, of course, are wearing a “Who Farted?” t-shirt to work, and checking out the Ladies Room (a little on the underwhelming side, except for the softer colors and lack of urine stains on the floor).

Memorial Day was always just another Monday until this year. For the first time since 1994 I didn’t work on Memorial Day. However, there would be no softball games or potato-sack races (has anyone actually seen a potato sack race that didn’t involve an episode of “The Brady Bunch”?). This Memorial Day would be all about packing for our annual summer move. My wife oversees a residence hall for a college and part of her compensation is free housing. However, the proverbial string attached at the end of the paycheck is that we have to move each summer to make room for an academic camp.

The move is typically quite stressful, in large part, to our divergent styles of move-preparation. Jess is a firm believer that everything needs to be in its proper place, properly wrapped, properly taped, and properly stacked for proper efficiency and properness. I employ the “Just Jam All That Shit In The Box Or A Garbage Bag” technique. Up to this point we have been surprisingly on the same page, in that we’ve avoided the issue altogether. By completely ignoring the inevitable, we hope it will go away like a deadbeat dad with a fast car. So, we’re a little behind.

"Do you question my beloved list?"

 If there is one criticism for which I have absolutely no defense, it’s that I can be extreme in how I approach tasks. I'm either completely ambivalent or way too into it.  In this case, I really wanted to take advantage of my day off and  created a list so ambitious, the  drill sergeant in “Full Metal Jacket”  would blush.  Jess expressed her concerns and I instructed her to, “..drop and give me twenty, Private Pyle!!”

 To me, the list seemed do-able…if it weren’t for the aforementioned children. This is a fact of our life that I admittedly fail to account for when making plans lately. Somewhere in my brain is this place that believes we can still be spontaneous and fun despite needing to feed these dudes every 180 minutes. This is also the place where professional wrestling is still real and I can enjoy Michelob Ultra with my masculinity still intact.  Or maybe I am a little on the stupid side. Either way, my "time-to-get stuff-done math" needs sharpening.

If you’re going to have twins, it is important to work together in almost every task. It is just a must. And I must say, Jess and I were like Jordan and Pippen on Memorial Day. We took down glassware, packed the wall decorations, vacuumed the rug, rolled it up, dusted the hard-wood floor and even did some pre-rearranging for our return in the fall. Not bad. OK, so we didn’t get to the nursery and we didn’t get air in the wheels for the dolly. Still a decent performance. Not quite a series-clinching Game 7 classic, but a nice 3-games-to-2 lead performance.

But this teamwork came at a cost. In putting a bunch of check-marks on my list, Jackson and Logan didn’t get the care they’ve grown accustomed to when we are both there. Our parenting style was  akin to the bucket guy on a sinking ship: Just keep enough water out of the vessel to keep it afloat.

Due to our inattention, the day went kind of like this: One cries, the other one sits patiently. Then the one is soothed and the other one explodes. That one is chilled-out and we start packing. The original agitator starts to whine, the other one chimes in and before another piece of tape is pulled, a full-on, double-nuclear meltdown has ensued. Multiply that by the entire day, and you have a pretty good picture of the challenges we faced. It’s also worth mentioning that there is no A/C and the temperature rose to a muggy 90.  All this frustration came with a thick layer of sweaty slime.

Even Clorox is speechless

So here we were, trying to get these kids happy so we can return to being miserable. Logan seemed the least impressed,and his dissatisfaction extended beyond fits of crying. By 3:00, the poor boy lit into a fit of gas that damn-near propelled him to the ceiling. For a good three minutes this kid sounded like a Harley headed to Sturgis. Then, the thud. Any parent knows the thud. It’s when the child has officially struck mud. Jess swept the lad up and headed to the changing table for a diaper-replacement. Unfortunately for her, Logan wasn’t quite finished. As she lifted the eldest child’s legs to apply the new diaper, he pulled the sphincter trigger and landed a perfect bulls-eye on her white tank top. It was as if he said, “That’s what I think of dad’s stupid list!”

All nurseries should be this color

The shriek that came from the nursery was sounded unlike any I’ve ever heard from Jess. It was the sound of…well…a woman who had just been shit on. So now I know what that sounds like. The force of his diarrhea dart was so strong, that Jess dropped wipes full of his #2 on the nursery rug. Luckily the baby-crap colored rug masked the remnants of the stain.



Lovely....



But the protestation wasn't complete. One culprit needed to be dealt with: The maker of the list. Since Logan was all pooped-out---quite literally---he took the only recourse of bodily fluid he had at his disposal. During the next feed, he proceeded to unleash a flood of warm, off-white vomit all over my Cotton Bowl t-shirt. Had he soiled a Mizzou "Texas Bowl: or "Insight Bowl" t-shirt it would have not only been OK, but appropriate since the Tigers’ performance in those games made me vomit, too. Alas, the article of clothing representing their greatest bowl performance in recent memory was now a sponge. 



"Revenge is mine...and it stinks!"

There’s a lot to be said about ambition, but perhaps there’s even more to be said about not tempting fate, especially with newborns involved. The general rhythm of the world seems to know when your priorities are a little out of whack. That rhythm shouldn’t be toyed with, or you find yourself adding “get pooped and puked on” to your to-do list.

Think I’m gonna work next Memorial Day…and do nothing.

TV Time...Nothing To See Here, Kids

 
 Jess: "Do you think we should stop watching 'Sons of Anarchy' when we feed the kids?"

Me: "How much worse could it be than 'Weeds' or 'Calirfornication'?"

Jess: "Good point."

Front-Runner...

We have an early leader in the "Funniest Line of the Weekend" race. Jess, to Jackson during a particularly fussy feed this morning, "Eat this, you bald-headed freak!" 

Can't imagine either one of us touching this gem, but it is an extended holiday weekend, so we'll see.

Mini-Van, Table for Four

Tempting? Absolutely! Possible? Not absolutely.

A Friday-night invitation to have dinner, drinks, laughs, and assorted merriment was extended this evening to The Sprague’s. For a moment we exerted our brains as best we could to devise some “Mission Impossible”-type scenario that would somehow lead us to the promised land of adult fun. Could we take the kids? Strike one. Is there anyone we know who we could call at the very-last minute to come over and take care of two kids with various attachment/intestinal situations? Strike two. What if we went and left them in the van with the A/C running and the doors locked, in the way, way back so no one could see them through the tinted windows? Foul tip, still alive. Everyone is leaving in 15 minutes and we just started a feed. Ohhhh, a smoking fastball down the middle for a called third strike!

OK, so it wasn’t to be, and we pretty much knew that. This is what we signed up for and we’re cool with that. It’s not easy, but it’s all worth it. Besides…we’re gonna make our own fun tonight.  Again, it is important to point out that the rest of this entry is not really a complaint, more than an honest look at how things go when you got a double-dose under a year old.

The issue remained: just what the hell were we doing for dinner? This is a common question, and the answer is seemingly impossible to ever answer. Meal preparation is for people who have time to, well, prepare meals. We’re learning daily that parenting twins is a lesson in reaction. The only things you can really prepare for are feeds…theirs, not yours.  

How does a soy sauce and ketchup sandwich sound?

Other than Kosher pickles, pretzel rods, old hummus, and Sour Apple Jelly Bellies, there wasn’t much that could be described as dinner. Our food situation is starting to resemble my college years, when we never actually had food, we just had a lot of stuff you can put on food.  We could order in, but our tolerance for pizza is near the tipping-point.

So we’re going out to eat! But again, can we take these twitchy, explosive creatures into public? If they behave, will the restaurant’s chaos of stimulation morph them into a weekend-at-Charlie Sheen’s sleeping pattern? Not-winning.

So Jess suggests we hit the drive-thru and eat in the parking lot. I know what you’re thinking: “Sounds sexy.” Well, ha-ha, dumb reader…you can take your condescending sarcasm and shove it! This sounded frigging amazing! We’re getting out of the house. We’re not gonna have to lug them out of the car, set them up at a table, then leave mid-double cheeseburger. If we need to leave, we’ll just throw this bitch in reverse and trot!

So down Route 9 we cruise…next stop Wendy’s. We pull up, order our food and in a voice that sounded eerily similar to English, we’re told to pull around. We get our food, check for straws---holy shit they remembered---and looked for a good spot. Problem is, there was one spot after the drive-thru and wheeling around one more time in the parking lot was going to be a task (won’t go into explaining why…it’s just an effed-up parking lot…this is going on long enough without getting into that. So instead I’ll waste a few lines in parentheses).

So now, we’re really making this a night out. We’re gonna eat the food in another parking lot! I suggested we have a little fun and dine at the Feng Shui parking lot. It’s this new, hip Japanese steakhouse. That’s kind of exotic and romantic. It wold also be fun to yell at young, pretty couples embarking on an exciting evening. “Hey kids….use protection or this could be you next May!” Jess was driving and my great idea was vetoed before the bill was put to a vote.

For gifts you pray you never get, Building 19....

 We drive about a half-mile and pull into Building 19. For those of you in the Boston area, you know that we’re gonna get some special people-watching to go with this exquisitely-prepared feast. To those who don’t know what Building 19 is, it’s a chain of stores that finds crap no one else wants and sells said crap at discount prices. It’s basically a flea market franchise…only they own all the fleas. Think of it this way: Imagine a truckload of Budweiser “Whaaaaassssup?” T-shirts fell off a truck back in 1999, and landed under an overpass. Those shirts sat in the elements for 11 years and were discovered. Instead of giving them away or throwing them away you wanted to find a way to make money off them. You would sell them to Building 19. 

We pull up right next to a car that is filled with crap from the floorboards to the roof. This is clearly a Building 19 VIP. From the get-go, this decision was a bona fide winner! No five-year waiting period, straight to the Hall of Fame! Either this person is a hoarder, or their license plate is also serving as their address. As we scarf down our meal, we see various so-called humans bounce in and out of the store with bags full of insanely-discounted rummage sale rejects that probably need a good boiling before heading to the trash can. Seriously, it was like dinner and a light comedy. By God…it was a date night!! Livin’ large in the burbs! Unfortunately, about half-way through our “movie”, Logan started warming up for a good cry and that was our cue to fire the trusty Sienna up and head back to the home front. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

It wasn’t steak and wine, nor was it tapas and salsa dancing. But it was dinner and entertainment that didn’t involve the same stale air of our apartment. It was a fun idea that turned into more than we imagined.  And it cost $14.94, or only two dollars more than that box of Budweiser shirts at Building 19. What time do they close?

Don't Gimme No Lines, and Keep Your Hands to Yourself

I like movie lines. I can speak almost entirely in movie lines for hours on end. (It is worth noting that this talent tends to be a blatant impediment to attracting someone who will grant you the type of intimacy typically required to make a baby.) One of my favorites is from “National Lampoon’s Vacation” and is just two words long. While small in stature, this line has become our mantra upon venturing outside our four walls. The quote in a moment, but first the set-up: The Griswold’s family trip to Wally World is crumbling after near-fatal car wrecks, groping Kansas cousins, potential infidelity, teenage drug-use and a bitchy-turned-dead aunt strapped to the roof of the car. Family members suggest to Clark that the best course of action is turning the Family Truckster around and heading back to Chicago. Clark spirals into an obligatory meltdown, as Rusty puts his hand on Clark’s shoulder, asking him if he’d like an aspirin. Clark responds with a wild-eyed, “Don’t touch!!” 

Other than self-indulgently drumming up memories from one of my favorite comedies, what is the point of bringing this up? Glad I asked.  Most parents---especially parents of multiples, who seem to attract every passerby imaginable---have either thought or said those very words.“Don’t touch!”.

 

I don’t know why, but people are always trying to touch our babies. All. The. Time. Yes, they are cute and cuddly, but…umm…like…you know…THEY’RE NOT YOURS!  How do you see a random baby and think it’s perfectly ok to start pawing them like a blouse at Penny’s (not that I’ve ever walked around the women’s section of a department store and touched the cool, soft fabric of a wonderful-smelling garment that will someday adorn the skin of a lovely woman…mmmm….whoa….sorry wrong blog. Where was I?).

Think of anything else you claim as a possession. Would anyone ever go up to it in your presence and just  feel it up without asking first? Hell, I’m reluctant to mess with someone else’s remote control. But for reasons beyond logic, a human being with a brand new immune system is fertile ground for strange fingerprints. I’m barely qualified to hold this baby myself and the only reason I’m allowed to is because I own half of his DNA.

My wife, Jess, succinctly addresses odd human behavior of any kind by simply asking, “Who does that?” Well, Boo, good friggin’ question. Who the hell does that? I’ll tell you: women, that’s who. Not every woman. But so far not one man has reached in for a quick, or not-so quick, touch. For obvious reasons, it just seems creepy for a man to go touch a baby, and we know how it looks. Best just to say, “He’s got a strong jaw,” and move on. But the skeeve-factor isn’t as great with women.

I suppose it has to do with maternal instinct or some such thing. Maybe once you get baby fever, it never leaves. Every now and then you get a flare-up, like herpes. But whatever the reason, ladies of all ages want to do it. At a recent doctor’s visit, a woman approached Jess asking to touch our babies. 

Now, let’s take a look at this scenario: we are at a doctor’s office with twins under two months. So one of us is likely ill. To make matters more bizarre, this dingy freak had a dog with her. A dog. At the doctor’s office! Unless you wear dark glasses and carry a cane, there is no earthly reason for you to bring a dog to the doctor’s office. Unless you’re at a really shitty office that also treats animals. (Probably out of network.)

Come on, just one feel, honey...

You’re a stranger, you’re probably sick, and you have a flea-motel jammed down your parka. “Oh, but the dog’s clean,” she insists. Oh hellz, nah. I don’t care if that mutt shits lilies, there is enough evidence to, at the very-least, suggest that your hygiene is suspect, and you may very-well be a certifiable fruitcake. For all I know that dog has a diaper on and you call him Mr. Wetsy. Sorry, no touchie…lunacy may be contagious.

So, you have to be vigilant. And always on guard. These baby-touchers are out there and they are very devious. They will use sad eyes, guilt, and quivering smiles. They will butter you up with compliments about how “precious” they are. Don’t fall for it! They are soul-stealing vampires disguised as innocent housewives and grandmothers (at least that’s what we’ve convinced ourselves of to fend off feeling like jerk-wads). Look them in the eye, smile pleasantly, and at the top of your lungs bellow, “Don’t touch!”  That will take care of the hand laser-beaming toward your spawn, and pretty much everyone else within earshot.

Or, just stay home and watch movies.

Job Well Done

Works like a filthy charm....

Real quick....the attorneys who represent Fleet Pedia-Lax Infant Suppository should not waste an ounce of anxiety over the possibility of false advertising lawsuits. It's also worth mentioning that Pampers makes a damn-fine product, as well. I think I'll send a message of praise to the Better Business Bureau...after a thorough hand-washing, of course.

There's a Good Chance We Don't Know What We're Doing

They are ten-weeks old. This is the first I’ve written about my twin boys, Jackson and Logan. Not that there hasn’t been plenty to write about. Quite the contrary. But finding time to write anything other than “Help me!” on fogged-over windows is tough. It is time-consuming. Or, more apropos,  all-consuming. 

Even if you find time to put finger to keyboard, what can be said that hasn’t been rehashed by a million other sleep-deprived parents? Pee, poop, barf, doctors, crying, early feedings. You know all that. So to make this even remotely compelling to anyone desirous of more than queasy tales of bodily fluids escaping from baby orifices and the trails of stains left in its sour-smelling wake, the content within should open the door to things you might not realize. 

So the entries you’ll see will hopefully paint a picture that isn’t obvious; expose situations you can’t really know or understand unless you’re immersed in the curious position of parenting multiples. Entries may be sporadic. As a full-time type of worker, graduate student, and shepherd of two fresh tax-deductions, extended periods of time may pass before regular contributions are posted. I’ll try to be as honest as I can without destroying my marriage, career, or my children’s future respect. I’m pretty sure they respect me right now, but that’s based solely on their inability to mutter, “whatever” under their breaths. 

Maybe this stuff will help out folks with twins on the way. Perhaps those who have twins will look at this and see similarities in their experiences. Most importantly, I hope folks will leave public comments about how well-written this is and tell me how lucky my wife kids are to have me. After all, isn’t that what blogs are all about? Stay tuned….