Looky, Daddy!

At Least I Got a Copy of the Home Game

Before the twins, I had never won anything in my life.

I'd never had my name drawn at random; never been the seventh caller; never shouted out BINGO! and walked away with a brand-new TV/VCR combo.

I did win second place in a raffle once. The prize was a lifetime supply of Turtle Wax, which I learned, when I went to claim my prize, was exactly zero cans. When I complained, the guy in charge asked me honestly how much Turtle Wax I was planning to use in my lifetime, and I was forced to admit that zero sounded pretty much right on the money.

When the twins were born, my luck changed. The twins were born, you see, on New Year's Day. In fact, they were the first babies born in our town on that day, and, while there was no ticker-tape parade through the town, we did get our picture on the front page of the local paper and a grand announcement that we were the winners of the First Baby (in our case, babies) of the New Year contest. Accompanying our article was a moderately long list of all of the prizes that would soon be showered upon us.

Not that we cared, mind you. We were hurting. I would not be lying if I told you, Gentle Reader, that those first few months home with the twins (and Kathryn, who was four at the time) were some of the darkest times I have ever experienced. Three months earlier we had uprooted our family from our home in Austin and moved into a small duplex in New Jersey, not knowing a single soul in, and I am NOT exaggerating here, the entire tri-state area.

Our nearest family was 1500 miles away.

We were in a bad place.

We would have been equally happy if, instead of showering us with gifts, the newspaper photographer had watched the girls for a few minutes so that we could shower ourselves with water.

But the photographer did not bring the gifts. Nor did she give us a moment to freshen up before snapping the pictures. No, The Mom and I will be forever memorialized on the front page of that newspaper looking like a pair of lab animals who were just one more experiment away from being discarded as useless. The babies, bless them, screamed themselves hoarse through the whole shebang and Kathryn looked like she was seriously considering hiding herself in the photographer's camera bag and making a break for it.

Winning prizes for having babies seems a dubious honor at best. In the past I've always been skeptical about parents who had the first baby of the year, like maybe they had circled March 26th on their calendar with the words "Screw Now for Free Stuff!" or the mother had performed some sort of Herculean feat by either fending off labor until New Year's Day or just pushing really hard once the day arrived. In my mind, I always had the feeling that it was the father who was actually behind the whole thing, coaxing his wife into having the baby at just the right moment. That just seems like such a dad thing to do.

In reality, though, babies are born on New Year's Day just like they are on any other day: there's broken water, contractions, breathing, and 'fuck you's to smart alec husbands who think of really good jokes to tell at really inopportune times.

A month or two went by before either The Mom or I wondered about the prizes. Another month went by before The Mom called about them. The reporter who had written our story (with, I might add, an almost inspired lack of factual information) gave us a phone number for the gatekeeper of the free goodies. He was out when we called and so The Mom left a voice mail.

He never called us back.

And that's where we left it. We were too tired to pursue it further.

Now the babies are about to turn two. On New Year's Day. It won't mean that much to them this year, but soon they will think it is really cool that people around the world go nuts and get all sloppy and smoochy on the exact minute that marks the beginning of their special day.

And so what if we never got any prizes? We didn't really earn them anyway. Still, I wonder sometimes if somewhere there's a little man, sitting at his little desk, with his little red voice-mail light blinking on his little phone, in a little office piled high with dusty two-year-old free baby swag, thinking, "You know, I really need to call that lady back."

If I ever have a free moment, maybe I'll track down his number and call him.

Right after I Turtle Wax my car.

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I know that you are a busy man.

I know that you have a lot of responsibility on your shoulders.

You've got lists to check and presents to deliver.

You've got elves to organize and chimneys to squeeze through.

And I won't even mention the weather.

 

But if you ever come to my house again...

with two presents that are not exactly alike...

I will personally come up to the North Pole and kick your ass.

Happy holidays,

The Dad

Happy Holidays

Wishing you peace and love and no pooping in the tub in this holiday season.

Conversation with My 6-Year-Old Daughter at 2:19 AM at My Parent's House in Texas

"Daddy? Mommy?"

"Hmm?"

"Daddy! Mommy!"

"Kathryn? What is it, sweetheart?"

"Can I flush the potty?"

"Can you what?"

"The potty. Can I flush the potty?"

"Of course, sweetheart. Why not?"

"I didn't want it to wake you up."

3-Martini Playdate

"You didn't."

"I did."

"Aw, hell," I said and excused myself to the kitchen to make a bowl of olives and a couple of martinis to go with them. This one was going to be ugly.

It was Thursday afternoon and Thursday afternoons mean two things in the Looky, Daddy! household: babies and martinis. It all started just under a year ago when I attended a night out for moms of multiples. It was me and about 15 moms of twins or triplets, drinking and eating, sharing stories to make blood run cold, and cursing our spouses. Each of the four types of moms was in attendance: Power moms, Working moms, Yoga moms, and Mom moms. And me, of course, The Dad.

One of the Yoga moms, whom we will call Jennifer because that's her name, was in awe of me. Absolute awe. She was sitting there, right next to me, and these big 'ol waves of awe were radiating out from her and toward me. Frankly, I wasn't surprised--I am, after all, The Dad. Okay, so it wasn't me per se that she was aweing over, it was my ability to get out of the house, twice a day, on time, in the dead of winter, with a 5-year-old and not-yet-one twins. She confessed that she and her 5-month-old twins never left the house, and on the few times she had tried, it had taken her hours to get everything together and each time she had eventually just given up, turned on Teletubbies, and wept bitter tears as she brewed herself a new pot of coffee, her third or fourth of the day.

An intervention was clearly required.

The problem, I told her, was not that she couldn't get out of the house, it was that she didn't have enough of an incentive to get out of the house. The only reason I had my crew out the door and into the car by 7:45 AM, I explained, was that doing so meant I earned myself one less child for the next 7 hours. So even if I had to drive to school in my flannel pajamas and houseshoes (which I did on countless occasions), I was getting out that door.

"What you need, Jennifer," I summed up, "is the right incentive to leave the house."

Thus the 3-Martini Playdate was founded. It has been going strong ever since.

I returned to the table with the bowl of olives and the fresh martinis. "Oprah? You TiVoed Oprah?"

Jennifer looked sheepish. "She had Julia Roberts on."

I gasped audibly. Julia Roberts was a name that hadn't been mentioned  in my house since the twins were born. Hearing it then, even when The Mom was safely far away in her office on Madison Avenue, sounded wrong, like a betrayal. For those of you who do not know, Julia Roberts has twins. In fact, she had twins at just about the same time that my wife, The Mom, had twins. And this is why her name is not mentioned in our house:

Before twins:

After twins:

Julia Roberts is a living, breathing assault to the self-esteem of twin-moms everywhere. The Mom mutters a curse and spits on the ground whenever she passes a photo of this hell-woman.

"Oh, that is so not good."

Jennifer begins the litany. "Did you know that six weeks after having her twins, Julia was already starting a new film?"

Six weeks after my twins were born, my wife still hadn't seen daylight. I remember one time when, in between the round-the-clock nursings, I opened the curtains of our bedroom only to have her bleat at me like a startled and blind veal-calf. I shut the curtains quickly. It was scary.

Those were dark, dark days.

"Please don't compare yourself to Julia Roberts. She's got nannies, housekeepers, handlers, personal trainers, and loads and loads of money," I pleaded.

"She claims her twins love each other," she countered.

We both stopped and look at our two sets of twins. Jennifer's were fighting over one of two identical toys. Mine were pulling each other's hair.

"She's probably not around them long enough to see this kind of stuff," I hypothesized. "Plus, her nannies probably keep each one in a separate wing of the house. Those kids probably don't even know they are twins."

"She said she likes her kids as much as she likes her friends," Jennifer continued.

"Sucky friends," I countered and raised my martini glass.

"She claims having twins has made her marriage stronger."

"This from a woman who married Lyle Lovett?"

"She even said the B word."

I cringe again. "Blessed?"

"Yes."

"Then she's dead to us. And to your TiVo."

"You're right. She's dead to us."

And we muttered a curse, spit on the floor, and clinked our martini glasses together.

Then, while Jennifer got up to rescue one child who was being sat upon by the other three, I got up to make another bowl of olives. And two more martinis to go with them.

I Should Have Stolen Her Purse and Run

It was Saturday afternoon and I was sitting outside our local cookie joint with my six-year-old Kathryn, munching on M & M cookies and washing them down with chocolate milk.

15 minutes later, we were both signing release forms.

In between these two events, a group of strangers and I intervened to prevent a very drunk woman from getting into her car and driving away. With her twins.

It was a pretty run-of-the-mill intervention. Three of us, a husband and wife and myself, went over to a woman who was apparently horrifically intoxicated as she was trying to load her shopping bags into her car that was parked just in front of the cookie joint. (Shopping while drunk--a very bad move, but perfectly understandable during the holiday season.) Of the three of us, the gentleman acted first by leaning in and deftly taking the drunk woman's keys, while I, well, lent moral support. And then I tried unsuccessfully to find someone with a cell phone with which to call the cops, because of course I had forgotten to bring mine.

In fact, now that I think about it, I didn't do anything at all except, um, watch the woman first load her twins into the car and then stagger around looking for her keys which were, as I mentioned, now in the possession of the guy who, unlike me, had found a person with a cell phone and was now calling the cops. Just for good measure, I did stand in front of the drunk woman's car just in case it got all Stephen King on me and came to life on its own. How standing there would have helped I'm not really sure, but I did it anyway. I probably looked like a dork.

Just how dorky I looked is something you, Gentle Reader, can decide for yourself, because it turned out the whole thing was a set-up. After we waited 10 minutes or so for the cops to show, all the while assuring the almost non-functional woman that we had no idea where her keys were, we were surprised instead by those crazy cats from ABC who were filming the whole thing for PrimeTime Live. People came out of nowhere, swarming us with cameras and release forms. The woman, whom I thought was on the verge of being sick all over the street, became instantly sober, smiled at us, and went inside for a coffee. The twins climbed out of the back of the car and were congratulated on their excellent performance.

As for me, I declined an on-camera interview and instead opted to sit back down and finish my cookie and milk with my big girl, who having watched the whole thing, was understandably very, very confused and had a big 'ol bunch of questions for her daddy about the "funny lady" and all of the TV cameras.

So now, as I have had time to digest and ruminate over those very chaotic moments, I keep asking myself one question: Knowing now that my actions were being captured on camera and are soon going to be broadcast nationally, could I have come up with anything better to do than stand in front of the car like a dorky potential human speed-bump?

The answer, surprisingly, comes from my mother-in-law. She, being the omniscient reporter of all things unpleasant, told me this evening about an incident over the summer in which a man, confronted by a tradegy which clearly called for his intervention, stepped up and seized the moment. And then ran with it.

Witness Takes Victim's Wallet After Car Crash

On Sunday, August 14, 2006, at 6:26 a.m., Southeast Precinct officers and members of the East County Vehicle Collision Team responded to a serious injury collision at the intersection of Southeast 12th Avenue and East Burnside Street.

Initial witness statements indicate that an Isuzu Rodeo, traveling northbound on Southeast 12th Avenue, collided with a TriMet bus traveling westbound on East Burnside Street.

The collision forced the Isuzu into a Ford Focus and Chrysler minivan that were stopped at a red light facing southbound on Southeast 12th Avenue.

During the collision, a 36-year-old male was ejected from the Isuzu. He then sustained life-threatening injuries when he struck the minivan after being ejected from the Isuzu.

After the person ejected from the Isuzu collapsed on the ground, 66-year-old Marvin Lewis, who was walking nearby at the time of the collision, took the victim's wallet from his pocket.

Arriving officers arrested Lewis and recovered the wallet. Lewis was arrested on one count of Theft in the Second Degree and transported to the Justice Center jail.

At least next time I'll know what to do.

By the way, the episode of PrimeTime should air on December 27th. I'm the one in the Mets cap.

Ask The Dad

Yesterday's Ask The Dad generated more than the usual amount of email, with many readers writing me a thank-you email for actually providing a helpful parenting tip. That response has prompted me to turn this website around and stop being so flippant with my answers. I really think I'm doing a reasonably good job at raising my kids and I guess it could be helpful to some if I used this blog to actually dispense real advice. So from this point on, I will do my best to be a good citizen and to provide honest, helpful parenting tips to my many readers who write to Ask The Dad. I'll start with these two letters from Tapey's Mom and The Godfather.

Dear The Dad,
My husband and I are Costco shoppers, buying everything in bulk from paper towels to frozen lasagna to a gallon-size jar of pickles.  We have a bit of a bulk-shopping problem that I am hoping you can help with.  We buy our son's diapers at Costco (in bulk, of course).  Well, lately, Junior has been doing a bit of growing, and he has grown right out of the most recent box of diapers that we got at Costco.  So here's the question: what do you do with over 100 extra diapers that won't fit your kid anymore?
Thanks!
Tapey's Mom

Dear Tapey's Mom,

Extra diapers? The possibilities are endless. They can...

...keep your ears warm while you herd sheep at Brokeback Mountain...

...or prevent hearing loss at a rock concert....

...or be a spare helmet when you visit the Russian space station, Mir.

Hope this helps,

The Dad

Dear The Dad,

We've found that our little girl laughs and laughs at the Oompa Loompa song from Willy Wonka. You know, "oompa, loompa, doobity do, I've got a special present for you…"

What tips do you have for other things that make babies laugh?

The Godfather

Dear The Godfather,

My babies laugh when I drink.

Hope this helps,

The Dad

Got a question for The Dad? Email me.

Email The Dad

Twins, pt. 4

Even more things that should come in twos: Halves of oreo cookies and cheese enchiladas should come in twos. There should be two spoons in a banana split. There should be two jokers and two one-eyed jacks in a deck of cards. Alien movies should come in twos, but not threes or fours and never with Winona Ryder. Winona Ryder should come in twos, but not in Alien movies. Elk antlers should come in twos, but not on the walls of dining establishments. Cups of coffee should come in twos. There should be two wings on every airplane and two ends to every shoelace.

Babies should still not come in twos.