Twins Make People Crazy, Again.

"You have twins?!"

At some point this week, I’ll have a new post up about an hour-long trip that took three. But this will take some time…something I don’t have right now. However, I would like to share one interesting aspect of the trip that harkens back to an earlier topic discussed in this little corner of the world wide webernets: the odd, and sometimes disturbing lengths, people will go to view/interact/creepily be near your twins. During the last of a series of violent roadside baby eruptions, we happened upon a lovely gas station. And by lovely, I mean crawling with filth and operated by the most joyless human being who isn’t a baby crying in a mini-van. Poor Logan was freaking out and Jess had him in her arms trying to calm him. At about that same time another mini-van pulls up alongside. Out pops mom and son.

The kid walks over to a vacant lot adjoining the gas station and bends over to hurl.  After a few words of puke-related encouragement, mom looks over to us.  “Oh, that’s such a precious age,” she remarked, “enjoy every minute!” This ain’t one of ‘em, honey. 

“Bleachchhrrrgggggguhhhhh,” her 10-year old responded. She walked junior to the creeper bathroom on the outside of the gas station. As the boy purged his intestinal demons in the company of e-coli and condom dispensers, mom darted back to us. Once the woman realized there was another child inside the van, she damn-near blew a gasket. Her god-son’s brother-in-law, or some-such diluted relation also had twins. There she stood peering into the van to see Jackson, as her son heaved one step closer to death in a filthy bathroom and our eldest howled.

"Thanks, mom. Boil me. please?"

Yet again, the lure of the twins turned a seemingly normal person into an  annoying weirdo. Unlike a walk downtown or somewhere else, we were stuck there at the mercy of a nice person, afflicted by twin-in-brain disease. So we listened, politely nodded, and dreamed of peeling out of the gas station. Thankfully, Logan calmed down and we were on our way. Not sure how the kid made out.

Too bad he wasn’t a twin, mom woulda never left his side.

Don't Call the Authorities, I'm Just Incompetent

I fully expected a knock on the door. Not a “tap, tap-tap-tap” knock, but something that sounded like a Mag-Light or night stick jabbing the exterior of our hotel suite. That’s how I’ve always imagined a cop knocking at your door would sound. Maybe they’re particular about their knuckles. More likely it just sounds cooler to bang a door with an inanimate object. Regardless, it seemed there was at least a 50-50 chance that law enforcement officials would eventually respond to a child well-being check in Room 203 on Friday night.

And it would have been warranted.

For the record I did nothing wrong. I mean, not in the legal sense. Chances are there were a number of things I screwed up royally after Jess left for her nightly “I need to get out of here before I throw myself through a closed-window” excursion. I’m not really sure what she does when she leaves. I have visions of her violently ripping into a paper-bagged bottle of Southerrn Comfort, chain-smoking in the hotel parking lot, and peering up at our hotel window with equal parts remorse and disgust. But Jess doesn’t like whiskey, doesn’t smoke and she’s not much into just sitting around in parking lots. But I wouldn’t blame her if she started any or all of those things. Where were we?

OK, too much as been said to continue without fear of legal complications, so let me tell my side of this story.  Jess left, and I was in charge of the kids. This worries my darling bride a little. Fact is, no one spends more time with these two than her. She knows them inside and out, sees things before they happen, and tackles potential problems with extreme prejudice. She’s like the Ray Lewis of mommies (minus the obstruction of a murder investigation charge…but anyways). So when Jess leaves, she is naturally inclined to be concerned that the guy who leaves the house with his fly down at least once a week may be blind to some of the subtle nuances that watching a couple of three-month-olds requires. OK, fair enough.

So Jess leaves with the two guys sleeping away. If we maintain the status quo, this could be a David-proof stretch of parenting. It was a beautiful thing. I could play on the interwebs, watch SportsCenter, drop a deuce over a couple of Rolling Stone articles. The hour was mine. I was midway through my first bite of this proverbial free-time fajita, when Jackson started crying a little.  Within three good heaves he was in fifth gear: red face, larynx-grinding screams, and real tears. Loud, but nothing I haven’t heard or dealt with. After thrusting my head back and whispering an elongated F-bomb, I got off the couch and picked him up. No biggie, this will be equalized within minutes. Only something was wrong. Again, let me tell you, to the best of my knowledge I was just holding him. But he found another level to go to. I checked myself to make sure I didn’t have an errant Dorito on my person that was somehow poking him in the eye. Nope…for once all the food went in my mouth (didn’t check the floor, though). Dude was just screaming.

"Bad fathering is illegal!"

I love the band Phish. One of the great things about them, is that when they are raging through a song, they will hit a beat then ratchet it up another notch. You can’t even imagine it coming, and it’s amazing. Well Jackson did something similar, only it didn’t want make me want to dance awkwardly like a disenchanted white kid from the suburbs or scream, “Yeaaaaaahhhhh!!!! Whoooooooo!!!!”. He found another level of crying I had never heard before. I don’t know what a cheetah stepping into a tigers mouth would sound like, but my youngest twin offered a believable rendition at around 6:20 last night. It was uncomfortably loud. I held Jackson on his back, on his side, on his tummy, walking around, on the bed. I even considered going down to the crossroads and making a deal with Ol’ Scratch.  It just made things worse. This went on for a good 20 minutes and he just got louder. The only saving grace was that Logan’s ear drums were seemingly impervious to Jackson’s cries of torture. Of course, I’m not mentioning this just to tell you how good Logan was being…

“Ehhh. Ehhh. Mmm. Ehhh. Ahhh. Ahhh. Waaaaaaahhhhh,” Logan commented. Typically our twins have the innate courtesy of chilling out when the other is having a meltdown. But on this day, as their old pal Dad was flying solo, both of them flew into fits of inconsolable rage. Logan almost immediately reached Jackson’s boiling point, and I was appointed the responsibility of dealing with it. All by my pitiful self. So I picked them up, sang Van Morrison songs, nothing. (On second thought, everybody does “Brown Eyed Girl” and “Domino”. Perhaps I’ll commit the lyrics of “Tupelo Honey” to memory next time. More soothing.). Basically, they wanted to be held individually, not as a team. So I put one on the bed and held the other one. The chosen one calms down somewhat, but the one on the bed erupts. Put that one down, pick the other one up. That one smiles, the other one cries. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

I'm the Jess Sprague of linebackers

It was at this point that I got fearful. Anyone next to our suite, or just passing in the hallway probably thought I was heating a wire hanger on the stove and beating them with it. It sounded just awful. And I couldn’t stop it. The perception from the outside was that, at best I was a bad parent and, at worst, I was committing unthinkable felonies. Luckily, Jess returned a few minutes later and calm was restored. My first double-nuclear meltdown, and I survived. I guess. Had she not gotten home when she did, there might have been three people screaming in tears. “What the hell happens when I’m gone,” she asked. My response wasn’t really English. I was speaking in tongues at this point.

This was quite an evening….one heck of a way to end a busy week. I’m not sure if I learned anything about being a better parent after this experience, but here’s what I do know:  A)The task of taking on twins with only two hands is always an elongated scream away from disaster and it reinforces the respect I have for what my wife does every single day.  B) From now on, I won’t watch these kids alone without a lawyer present or at least on speed dial.

We're In No Hurry

This is allllllright....

Feeds aren’t always fun, especially the ones that occur before the sun makes its debut. For me, I silently wish life had a fast-forward button for such moments. Fidgeting, fussing, and general non-eating can occur while your bed waits empty and desirous of weight. 

Recently I found myself with Logan, our eldest twin, on my torso taking in nourishment. This wasn’t a late-night feed. Just your run-of-the-mill weekend morning feed. None-the-less, I had plans of goofing off on Facebook or some other non-baby endeavor. As the feed progressed, my mind focused on why I was so anxious to get done with this. What could possibly be more important at this moment than providing this little boy with a meal?  This is what I signed up for. This is what Jess and I wanted for so long and now, in the middle of it, I wanted nothing to do with this task. 

Once you get comfortable with the assurance that you are indeed a parent, you find yourself slowly, subtly bitching internally. Perhaps the extra work twins require make it even more taxing. But the fact of the matter is, we always wished for twins, despite how much harder it would be. I’ve battled selfishness in my life, and here it was creeping up on me again. I appeared helpless to resist.

What began as an annoying feed morphed into introspection.  I looked at the kind of person I am, and the kind of person I used to be. If I’m being totally up front, I’ll say that I’m not particularly proud of where my head, heart, and actions used to be: closed-minded, self-centered, utterly devoid of a sense of responsibility.  But more to the heart of the matter, I knew all these things and hated myself for it. I spent a lot of years being absolutely miserable. There was no light at the end of the tunnel for me. I would never find someone, let alone be a dad. Not that I had anything to offer a child other than my own fears and insecurities.

 I don’t think I was never a raging jerk, but I just didn’t have enough love for myself to ever be able to care for another. And with that kind of mindset, I lived my life in a way that makes me shudder today. Luckily, I got a few things turned around in my life before I met Jess, and worked a few more things out with her.

Then it sort-of hit me all of a sudden. Yeah, I know how cliché it sounds, and if these were someone else’s words, I’d probably chalk the “light-bulb-over-the-head” bit up as hack. But, I’m telling you it was the closest thing to an epiphany I’ve probably ever had. As I was strolling down shitty-memory lane, I realized the true beauty of being a parent is this: No matter what you were---are what you are now, for that matter---you have the chance to improve other people’s lives by raising your children the right way. By filling this little vessel with all the love, attention, and care you can, they will have the tools necessary to do great things. Nice things. Even if it’s as simple as holding the door for someone with too many groceries.  Maybe you can’t wash away your sins, but by molding them into right-living people, you can even the world  up a bit. 

And another ray of light appeared that morning: being a parent gives you the opportunity to make the world a better place by forcing you to be a better person. Having these innocent babies makes you want to be something beyond what you are. You are forced to look at how your actions impact them directly AND the environment in which they live. There have been more than a few instances since March where I’ve thought, “Is this the kind of thing I want Jackson and Logan see me do? Do I want them to do that, themselves?”

Logan had as much of his bottle as he was going to take and fell asleep perfectly on me. His legs straddled my right thigh, his stomach directly on mine, and his left ear covering my heart. We were at peace together. Why rush through this most-beautiful encounter? Fact is, life only throws a handful of amazing moments your way. Some are big and obvious like weddings, graduations, births, etc. Other times, those moments are quiet, subtle, and easily missed. Like this feed.

I sat there for an hour watching him. Every now and then he’d let out a grunt or a coo, adjusting his little body ever-so slightly. Eventually his wide eyes opened, directly looking into mine. “I need you, daddy,” his big blues seemed to say.  Then he smiled at me like just letting him lay on my chest was the best thing ever. “I need you, too buddy,” I whispered,” I need you, too.”

Who Knew?

We are getting ready to move for the summer to a hotel. Before you start inquiring as to who lost a job or which one of us developed a fondness for freebasing bathtub crank, allow me to elaborate. Jess’ job includes housing as part of her compensation, but we are only permitted to stay in our home for ten months a year. The other two months, we are moved to temporary housing. Since we now have kids, her employer must legally place us in a residence free of lead paint (even though these kids barely latch on to a nipple, let alone a brain-slowing window pane, slathered in lead paint).  Since they didn’t have any other lead-free properties available, we are being put up in two-bedroom suite in a hotel. It has a full kitchen and isn’t too bad. We even get maid service. I feel like a Rockefeller already.

We’ve gotten pretty good at this move, annoying as it is. Having the two kiddos has made it infinitely more challenging, but we’ve done a pretty good job thus far of finding time to pack, eat, and resist the temptation to leave Jackson and Logan on the doorstep of some rich people with a note. One tactic we’ve employed is the, “Get These Kids The Hell Out Of This Apartment , So I Can Get Shit Done” approach. It’s a pretty simple concept: I get the kids the hell out of the apartment so Jess can get shit done. The easiest and cheapest way to do this is to load them up in the Chicco * double-stroller and cruise down the sidewalk about a half-mile to downtown. 

"You must be such a GOOD daddy!"

As I’ve pointed out previously, twins seem to attract a wide-array of lookey-lou’s. And, you may recall, they are almost all women. Before I go any further, it is critically important for me to point out that I am thrilled to be married to Jess. Even when we butt heads ---and butt hard at times---I am still in love with this woman and could not imagine life without her. However, like most dudes, I have a fragile ego that requires emotional bubble wrap from just about anyone willing to apply it. So as I’m strolling along with the double-dose in tow, I’m not offended when women “ohh” and “ahh” and tell me how cute they are.  And do I sometimes take a path that might attract this kind of attention?

I’m not answering that. But it’s not like I’m strategically rolling past the yoga studio as class lets out and asking, “Do you know where the single fathers’ support group is?”  Should a woman on her jog stop dead in her tracks and say hi, I don’t smack her in the ass and say, “Keep runnin’, Gump!” That would be rude.

But this isn’t my fault. It’s real simple. These kids are chick magnets. And I do believe that men get some residual respect. Not deserved, mind you, but residual. Why? Easy. First off, you have two infants, so you are immediately viewed as a sympathetic creature. Second, you are out by yourself, which shows that you are taking initiative to being a strong parent. Forget that you’ve been ASKED to leave. Third, babies are always cute. So even if you are a horribly disfigured bell-tower attendant, they are more likely to see something cute and adorable in you, as welll (or they think, “God damn, this kid is gonna be fugly once he hits puberty.”) Finally, it shows that someone actually has enough trust in you to leave them in your care. And being responsible for babies is right-sexy.

Smell the loneliness...

To even further bolster this point, most of the people who follow this blog and have “liked” the Facebook page (shameless plug..come one like my page, would ya? I’m not going to ask for money) are WOMEN.  Are you kidding me? I spent the better part of my single years trying, unsuccessfully, to attract women. Had I known the power of twins, I would have downloaded pictures of babies from the Pampers website, and started blogging about my “dear, sweet angels from heaven” like a mad man upon emerging from my Y2K bunker. And you think dogs in a park are a nice icebreaker? Babies are the bomb! They’ve done far more for my desirability than the hundreds of ounces of Drakkar cologne I splashed on my fat body in the 90s.

Conversely, the twins-get-you-attention-from-the-opposite-sex theory falls pretty flat for gals. Jess recently noted that attractive men seem to “run the other way” as soon as the double-stroller reaches their periphery. Whatever positive attributes men receive for being out, about, and alone with twins, women get the proverbial ying to the yang. There are any number of theories we could explore in this space as to why this is the case, but it would take a lot of thought and, quite frankly, I’m not going to invest that much time into telling you why guys are pigs. I’ll leave that up to the folks at Cosmo. But we are, and let’s just leave it at that.

 I would be foolish to assume this new-found attention has anything to do with me on any level beyond surface. But I am a fool, and assume I shall. With the move approaching, I must come to grips that my “hey ladies” downtown strolls will come to an end for a couple of months. But one good thing about calling a hotel home: every couple of days there are new sets of eyes moving in. See you at the pool! Look for the stroller. 

*On a recent trip to a way-too-expensive baby store, we were looking at new strollers. We explained to the sales person that we had a Chicco. We pronounced it “chick-oh”.  The sales woman immediately corrected us, “You mean, ‘kee-ko’.” We told her that we had heard it pronounced “chick-oh” in several different places. “Oh no,” she laughed condescendingly, “it’s kee-ko.” No one should take strollers this seriously, and furthermore, no one should try to make you feel like a dope for not sharing their illogical arrogance on the matter.

The Shhhh-Maker

Nothing earth-shattering....just some random ideas on how to create a situation where both kids are quiet at the same time, for an extended period of time:

1. Screaming, "Would you just shut the hell up for ten minutes?"

Pro: Feels damn good.
Con: Loud noises only seem to encourage louder noises.


2. Traditional "Silence Dance"

Pro: Even if it doesn't work (which it won't because I just made it up), you'll get some cardio.
Con: See the part in parentheses.

3. Ear plugs

Pro: Even if it just muffles the peace-piercing shrieks, you could be preventing a painful ear-drum implosion.
Con: Hmmmm. Gimme a minute.


4. Shame them into silence by taunting their cries.

Pro: It is good for infants to see and hear how ridiculous they're being.
Con: After about ten minutes it will rub your larynx raw. Quite frankly, I don't know how they do it.


5. Play Led Zeppelin II as loud as your speakers will allow.

Pro: Zep just makes any situation better. Though, Robert Plant's vocals and your children's howling may sound one-in-the-same.
Con: Depending on your system, you could damage to your woofers. No one wants that.

Admittedly, these are radical techniques. You want traditional? Go hug-up on Dr. Spock. But if you can tap in to your inner-narcissist and let your Selfish Flag fly, you'll find these tips quite helpful. You deserve this.  Get some.

What's In A Name (Other Than Your Dignity)?

Sometimes you wish you could go back in time and edit things. Originally, I wanted this space to be about the unique struggles of folks with twins. But from time-to-time, maybe more than I figured, interesting things that have nothing to do with twins occur. I could go back to the original post and delete the part about this stuff being all about twins…which I may do. But that would be dishonest. And since I just said I might do it, you might go back and check to see if I did it, which would make getting away with such trickery even more problematic. Then again, I could erase the part about me going back and changing the original post that I just posted. But again, that just makes the whole issue stickier. Goddammit, why can’t I ever get anything right the first time?

So let’s just say that a lot of what I write about will be about twins, but when other stuff happens I’ll share it, too. What, you’re perfect? Who are you to judge?  Get your ass into the blogosphere and see how easy it is!  OK, let’s just agree to disagree and move on. You were judging me, right?  

Hey, speaking of disagreements, I’d like to share a big one Jess and I are having. This could very-well impact the future of our relationship and how our boys are raised. And whoever wins will have the upper-hand in this parenting arrangement. It seems that more women read my blog than men, so you can bet your sweet-femininity that I’m not doing some sort of slanted poll to let y’all decide. I’m just letting you in on this, and who ever swings longest and hardest in the Sprague Household will win.

Ahh...dey so coooot!

Recently, our friend’s mother bought two toy bears for the boys. They are very soft, and the guys seem to like them a great deal. Especially Logan, who is going through some tummy troubles. When he starts to cry he finds a lot of comfort in it. So what’s the problem? The moment we started using them Jess referred to them as “Lovey Toys.”  Ugh.  Really?

I just cannot, with any self-dignity, bring myself to call them “Lovey Toys”.  I imagine a scenario where in a moment of weakness, I acquiesce to this ridiculous idea and my ball-busting friends jump out of the closet primed to carry out an assault of never-ending of taunts, gang-initiation style.  Each of them more verbally violent with each beer, until I lay curled up in a corner crying. Only no tears come out. Just heaving in shame, wondering how this came to be.  My soul a puddle of diluted testosterone.  No, I’m not blowing this out of proportion, this would actually happen. You don’t know these people.

"Name them bears after someone else!"

The first time “Lovey Toy” was uttered, I countered with “Beary Sanders”. Hey, it was the best I could come up with at the time and Barry Sanders was probably the best running back of my lifetime.  But I had to sell this mother-effer like this was the greatest name ever.  So I have proactively begun referring to them that way. “Logan,” I ask confidently, “do you want Beary Sanders? You LOVE Beary, don’t you?” Jess’ response is typically a disappointing roll of the eyes and an exasperated exhale.  Jess can be convincing, especially when you don’t want her to be. “I just always dreamed of my children having a comfort item that they called ‘Lovey Toy’. C’mon. Don’t take that dream away.” No way. This is a PLOY! Is this up there with a perfect white-wedding dress and French kissing Adam Sandler (oh, she likes ‘em odd, I tell you. Except for me, of course)?  Who puts that much hope in what your kids’ toys are called? So why should I budge? Do I really want to be “Lovey Toy Guy”?

Take your weak sauce somewhere else, lady!

Then slowly, guilt seeps past the sandbags protecting my sensitive side, and the consideration slowly make sense.  Then I think some more (which always does me in). I ponder. Is it really that big of a deal? OK, so what if I call them “Lovey Toys”. So what, right? Isn’t being in a relationship  all about picking your battles, and compromising? Maybe my desire to not call them “Lovey Toys” is greater than her desire TO call them that. But how will this affect me in the long run?  You win! They’re “Lovey Toys”! Whoop-dee-doo.  It’s not like anyone’s ever gonna know.  Unless they read this.

Shit.

Looks like I have some editing to do. I think I hear Jess calling me a “pansy” in the other room.

Riddle Me This

People are attracted to twins. It’s a compulsion. No matter where you are or what you’re doing, people will stop and take a look. On line at the bank, waiting for an ambulance…doesn’t matter people want a piece of your miracle.  Sometimes they just hop on over and gaze wordlessly, mouth agape. If I looked at you like that in the park, you’d grab your belongings a little tighter and dial 9-1 on your cell phone with your index finger hovering over the next 1. 

But this kind of attention is just par for the course in the world of twindom. All babies get attention, but there is something even more compelling about twins. Let’s say on the train there is the most beautiful baby in the world. This little darling has perfectly round cheeks, a halo on its head, and is perched atop a unicorn. Sitting directly across from this gorgeous specimen are two squinty-eyed, pointy-eared, snot-covered cretins with “666” scrawled across their melon-heads in puppy blood. The next person on the train would immediately dart over to the mutants waifs, and start asking questions.

      Ohhhhhh, the questions. There are approximately ten questions that are consistently asked. Interactions with strangers typically consist of at least four of them. Jess and I have considered creating a sign for the double-stroller * that answers each of the ten questions before they are asked: 

1.   Boys.
2.   Yes, they’re twins.
3.    No, they’re fraternal.
4.    Jackson and Logan.
5.    First, second and last. At least that’s the plan (fake laugh).
6.    No, it doesn’t run in either family
7.    Yes, Jess’ mom helps out three days a week.
8.     A little…about five hours a night.
9.    That’s kind of personal, don’t you think?
10.    No, you can’t touch them.

It is worth noting that 99% of the folks who approach are very, very nice and well-intended. But after a while you start to feel like Lady GaGa walking through Times Square (only difference is we don’t want the attention…and we’re wearing pants).  So there’s a part of you that feels guilty for being so annoyed…but for the love of Pete, come up with some new questions:

1. Which one is smarter?
2.  If it came down to it, which one would you sell?
3.  Are you concerned that the smaller one doesn’t look like you?
4.  So, how  much do you figure you’ll spend on Pampers?
5.  Are their soft-spots hardening at the same rate?

Offensive? Gross? Sure. But that would at least give me a more interesting story to tell. And one hell of a blog post.

*Jess has threatened to throat-punch the next person who, upon seeing her with the double-stroller, asks, “You gotta license for that thing?”  Consider yourself warned.