Looky, Daddy!

Wish You Were Here

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.

Set Your TiVO

This is just a reminder that you, Gentle Reader, can view me making a dork of myself on national television tonight (Wednesday, the 27th) at 10 PM ET on ABC's Primetime. Assuming, of course, I escaped the cutting room floor.

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."

Our Local Vietnamese Restaurant Buys Discounted Produce from Taco Bell

It's December 21st at 7 PM, less than 24 hours before my family and I are supposed to incur the rancor and hatred of one hundred or so hapless souls who also happen to have chosen flight CO1135 to travel from Newark to Dallas for the holidays, and something is amiss. There was something, some special something, in the Vietnamese take-out that The Mom and I dined upon last night. And that something, that special something, has been inside us ever since trying to convince all of our bodies' internal parts to become external parts as quickly as possible.

Apparently, that special something is very convincing.

I'm not sure how this will work itself out, but whether we fly tomorrow or not, this is probably the last you can expect to hear from me for the next few days.

Blogging on the toilet is not really what I got into this job for.

Twins, pt. 7

I belong to a local Parents of Multiples on-line group. The group never meets, we just email back and forth occasionally, and those emails are almost exclusively related to the procurement of nannies or other childcare for the twins of parents who are lucky enough to get out of the house daily unfortunate enough to have to work outside of the home. I hesitate to post about the emails I get from the group, because they are from local people whom I have probably met at some time or other, but sometimes one comes along that I just can't pass up. And this is one of them. An email entitled "Feed Your Nanny" posed the following question:

"For those of you that have full-time nannies, do you pay for their food?"

Food for your nanny? Food? For your nanny? If your nanny is asking for food, you should fire her, not feed her.

I've been doing this for almost two years now and I haven't had a daytime meal since these twins were born.

Twins, pt. 6

The twins are playing quietly and you are peeling an orange. You are secretly peeling the orange. It must be a secret because the twins love oranges more than they love Elmo. Okay, maybe not Elmo, but definitely more than, say, Oscar or Grover. Or the Count. Anyway, you are about to eat your freshly peeled orange when a twin spies you. You look closely and try to quickly identify which of your identical twins is now running toward you at top speed.

If it is Lila, you will shove the entire peeled orange into your mouth before she gets to you. Lila loves oranges, but not for eating. She loves to dissect the segments and then smear the pulp over every surface she can reach in her never-ending quest to render your home uninhabitable by any creature with less than six legs. If it is Victoria, you will reluctantly offer her a slice. Victoria will also make a tremendous mess out of the orange, but at least she will do so while trying to eat it.

You are relieved to see it is Victoria. She puts out her hand and you give her the first slice, amazed that the whole transaction is taking place not eight feet from where the Orange Shredder is happily playing. Victoria, very pleased with her new acquisition, does what anyone else would do. She walks right over and shows it to her best friend.

"Look, Lila! Orange!" you hear as you quickly shove the rest of the fruit into your mouth.

Life with twins.

I Possibly Had Too Much Time on My Hands as a Youth

When you were young, did you ever play an Alvin and the Chipmunks record on the wrong speed? You know, just slow enough to make the chipmunks sound normal and Dave sound like Satan?

No? Well, here's your chance. Happy holidays!