Looky, Daddy!

Nuts

Thank God The Mom wasn't in the car. This was way worse than running over that pigeon.

The pigeon was really a non-issue. I didn't exactly run over it as much as I helped it along its way. I drove through a crowd of pigeons, and when they dispersed, one just happened to fly in the same direction as my car. Although I was driving slowly, the pigeon was flying more slowly, so naturally I helped it along its way for a while. Like a wave helping a surfer. And it was fine until The Mom asked, loudly enough for the back seat to hear, "Did you just hit that pigeon?"

The Mom is always saying stuff like that.

But this time was worse. The running squirrel was very visible to the taller elements of the back seat. The sudden braking was very noticeable as well. So was the thump-bump.

Kathryn is, shall we say, a sensitive child. She doesn't deal well with tragedy or death. Kathryn firmly believes that chicken nuggets are a product of chickens in much the same way that eggs are. At dinner the other night she entertained us all with a very detailed and convincing picture of farm hands going out in the morning, baskets in hand, to collect the nuggets. Tell her otherwise and there will be hell to pay. Big, nasty hell.

So I was surprised at how well Kathryn handled the squirrel-flattening incident. She understood that it was an accident, and an unavoidable one at that. Still, I'm waiting for the question. She won't ask it tonight; she likes to ruminate a while, waiting until at least one twin is in mortal danger before asking, but she'll ask it soon. Perhaps two days from now, maybe as Victoria stands on Lila's head to get to the hot coffee cup that's just out of reach, Kathryn will turn to me and ask, "Daddy? Do squirrels go to heaven?"

Of course they do, Kathryn. Of course. They all go to heaven, where they feast on heavenly berries and nuts and chicken nuggets, fresh from the basket.

Carpools with Camilo, pt. 3

Camilo is bilingual. His first language is Spanish, and although he speaks English like the native that he is, he sometimes does so with a bit of an accent. Especially when he is excited.

The converstaions in the car lately have centered around Camilo trying to explain even more exciting facts about Our Lord (Yesterday it was that we were all, at one time, inside Jesus' stomach) punctuated by Kathryn yelling, "I CAN'T UNDERSTAND YOU." or "I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE SAYING."

Kathryn, like all good Americans, believes that speaking louder makes one more comprehensible.

So I've been working with Kathryn, explaining that there might be better ways of dealing with the situation. Apparently she took it to heart, as today, before Camilo even got to the main point of his theological lesson-of-the-day, Kathryn hollered, "WHATEVER YOU ARE SAYING, I'M SURE THAT IT IS GOOD."

Whatever problems Camilo has with pronounciation, they are nothing compared to Kathryn's problems with tact.

I Should Write About My Wife More Often

Yesterday, a web surfer found this site searching the terms "hot housewife". This makes my wife very happy, but possibly disappointed the surfer. I guess it all balances out.

And third out of 51,431 ain't bad.

Ask The Dad

Dear The Dad,

Curious on a guy's perspective...

After your kids were born, did you ever have a time when your wife wanted to be intimate and you didn't? 

Thanks so much!

L, mother of three girls

Dear L,

Since the kids, has there ever been a time when my wife has wanted to fool around but I haven't? Well, not exactly, but certainly there have been some major changes in how she and I approach intimacy these days.

Not long after the twins were born, The Mom started to get into fantasies. One night, after the kids were all tucked in, she approached me with an idea, and it nearly floored me. She wanted to role play. "You be the plumber, out on a service call" she said coyly, "and I'll be the helpless housewife."

I was game, what guy wouldn't be? So I went down to the basement, dusted off my tool box, and headed back up to the bedroom. But my wife wasn't in the bedroom. She was in the bathroom. In a nightie.

"Oh, Mr. Plumber!" She batted her eyelashes. "Our toilet keeps running!" Hair flip. "And I'm home all alone. Can you help me?"

Funny enough, our toilet did keep running. I'd been meaning to get to it for weeks. So I opened up my toolbox, rolled up my sleeves, and fixed it the blasted thing. All the while, The Mom was all, "You're so strong!" and "What a big wrench you have!" and "You're getting so dirty!" and "What a man you are!"

It was hot.

My wife's fantasies didn't end there, though. A few days later, it was Mr. Handyman and the Helpless Housewife. I changed two light bulbs and rehung a fallen picture. "Oh, I love the way you screw that lightbulb!" Then it was Mr. Painter and the Helpless Housewife. I painted over some old water stains in the bathroom. "Prime it, baby, prime it!"

I thought that these fantasies would eventually peter out after a while, but they didn't. My wife had a seemingly endless supply of kinky sex fantasies. There was Mr. Gardener and the Helpless Housewife, Mr. Floor Cleaner and the Helpless Housewife, Mr. Empty the Dishwasher and the Helpless Housewife, Mr. Clothes Folder and the Helpless Housewife, the list was endless.

Somewhere between Mr. Laundry Pre-treater and Mr. Cat Litter Sweeper-Upper, she began to forget the lingerie, and soon after that the hot sex became less and less pivotal, but my wife assures me that this is all part of the fantasy. "You wouldn't want me to sleep with every handyman that shows up, would you?" she explained. "What kind of girl do you think I am?"

I'll be honest, when I married her, I had no idea that this woman would turn out to be so kinky. I must be the luckiest guy in the world.

Hope this helps,

The Dad

Got a question for The Dad? Email me.

Email The Dad

Ink-Stained Shirt

Author's note: With the events of the past week, I felt the need to take a step back from the day-to-day snarkiness and take a little time to celebrate life. The snark-fest, I'm sure, will return come Monday.

All stories have a beginning. Mine starts with a shirt.

Kathryn was born in late July of the year 2000. Our house was clean that day. In fact, our house had been clean for a week. Our house had been clean ever since the morning a week earlier when we returned from the hospital after almost having Kathryn, which, coincidentally, was the morning after we had had over 100 of our closest friends over to mourn celebrate our imminent journey into familyhood. 100 closest friends and their beers, the latter of which were strewn about the house in various states of consumption while we were at the hospital arguing with our obstetrician.

Never before had I argued with a medical professional, much less one whose job description makes my eyes roll back into my head until I can actually see the pain, but there I was, saying "I just don't think inducing labor right now is a good idea," while thinking, "If my mother-in-law sees my house right now, she'll take away our baby before we've even changed diaper one."

But a week later, the house into which Kathryn was born was clean. Steam-cleaned even, which was nice since it was to be the last time any of the carpets were even remotely white. When we sold our house four years later, our realtor looked at our carpets and asked, "How many kids did you say you had?" "Five," we lied.

But none of this is about the shirt. It's not even a shirt, really. More of a smock. A disposable, ink-stained smock.

When Kathryn was born, nurses descended upon her like an Indy 500 pit crew. No, strike that. If anything, they resembled the crew of workers, spray bottles and washcloths in hand, that swarm a car just after it comes out of a touch-free car wash. I half expected to see a little box marked "Tips" next to the exit. One of those nurses, the same one who I swear had just been buffing my new daughter with Turtle Wax, did the most amazing thing. She beckoned me over to Kathryn, who was apparently attempting to turn herself red enough to burst into flames. Another member of the pit crew was smearing black ink over the soles of Kathryn's impossibly small feet, then lifting each one and pressing it against a white sheet of cardboard. The nurse who had called me over told me to get closer. Even closer, she said. Even closer, until I was almost on top of this new, wild, fragile creature. Then she reached around me, grabbed each of Kathryn's skinny legs, and pressed the soles of Kathryn's still blackened feet against my hospital smock.

I was marked. I was marked from that day. This baby. This squirming, screaming, fist-clenching, redder-than-red child, this child was mine.

The shirt is wrinkled now, and faded, which is only appropriate, but I still have it. Even if I didn't, it is not beyond my now dulled abilities of observation to realize that those marks went straight through.

Loss

I'm not good at this. I've written and re-written the beginning of this post six times now and each time I hated it. So I am just going to state it plainly.

On January 21st, one of my readers lost a twin to SIDS. She is JudieDJ whom you may remember as a limerick finalist. And you may remember that she is the reader who asked me to donate her prize, had she won, to a local women's shelter. She is a remarkable person.

Here is how she introduced herself on this post:

I’m Judie, SAHM of six children ages 12-5 and the Three under Three Club. We were surprised last December to learn we were expecting number 5, only to find out at 30 weeks that number five was indeed number 5 AND 6. I learned of your blog this morning on a twin message board called GotTwinz. I have been cruising your site far too long this morning, but with 4 month old twins, I sure needed the laugh.

The GotTwinz community, an amazing bunch of people, have put together a PayPal account to help Judie with funeral costs, meals, and any of the other countless costs associated with their loss. If you have the means and the ability to help, any and all amounts would be greatly appreciated.

From GotTwinz member, Wasabanero:

Donations are being accepted via PayPal through our Operation HELP program right now. GotTwinz Operation Help  Just make sure they put JudieDJ in the subject line.

The email account to send donations to is operationhelp@gottwinz.net.

If you want to help, but are not PayPal literate, I will gladly accept any donations and make sure they get to her. Email me and I'll send you my contact info.

UPDATE: Early this morning, I got an email from Judie.

I ask that you include a link to the SIDS foundation on your site. If you could take just a moment to honor my son, it would mean so much. You blog reaches so many, and perhaps someone could donate, or learn more about this tragedy. Together we can help understand SIDS. Together we can honor Bryant. The family asks that Memorial be made to the American SIDS Institute, 509 Augusta Drive, Marietta, Georgia 30067 [in the name of Bryant Evan Janecek]. If anyone would like to sign the online registry it is here.

Ask The Dad

The Mom is upstairs fighting off a fever and a sinus infection, so I'll just answer a few letters today.

Dear The Dad,

You are the only male in a family with four females. That would drive my husband crazy. How are you handling it?

Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

It's not the number of females, it's the number of bathrooms. We have one. But down in our basement, down in a corner of our unfinished basement, down in a far corner of our oh-so-recently-filled-with-sewage unfinished basement, I've got a little bucket, a bar of soap, and a razor. It's called Daddy's Special Place. Nobody is allowed to bother Daddy when he's in his Special Place.

The worst indignity I've had to suffer, however, is when one of the moms at my oldest daughter's school remarked to me, "Four women and a stay-at-home dad. There's just not an ounce of testosterone in you house whatsoever, is there?"

Dear The Dad,

My wife and I have been asked to baby-sit for a friend's twins on a regular basis. Just once a week for about six hours. Our friend offered to pay, and my wife had no idea what a fair price would be, since we love the twins, but are frightened from your stories. She went off to research and take surveys of fair prices; I suggested we ask you.

Thanks,

AJ

Dear AJ,

Not only should you babysit your friend's twins, you should do it without charging them a dime. Just think how six hours a week with twins will help you save the money that you would otherwise spend on horror movies, skydiving, bungee jumping, driving in Boston, heroin, roller coasters, or any of the other methods that more mundane people use to get a rush.

Plus, think of the karma, man, the karma! Taking another person's twins for even half an hour would pretty much guarantee that your next life will be significantly closer to nirvana than your current one is. Up that to six hours a week and you might just have to plant a Bodhi tree in your backyard.

Got a question for The Dad? Email me.

Email The Dad

Like the Bellagio, Without the Gawking Tourists

God mocks me. It is time to potty train the twins, and God mocks me.

My wife, God bless her, took Friday off of work to help. Somewhere she got the idea that potty training can be done in one long, 3-day weekend. We've had discussions about this.

"It took way longer than that with Kathryn, you know."

"No it didn't, remember? You read something online about potty training your child in 24 hours, and that's what we did. Kathryn was potty trained in a day."

It is when The Mom speaks like this that I realize why she was in favor of having more kids.

Back when I used to read, I read a British study about pregnant women and brain mass. (It shocks me now that I used to read so frivolously. Ooh, a British medical study! Maybe it will both entertain and inform me. I think I'll read it. Now if I were confronted with even a small paragraph, just a few sentences, really, with the giant, bold title READ THIS OR DIE WITHIN FIVE MINUTES, I probably wouldn't be able to finish it all in one go. Granted, given my current status, that might not be entirely unintentional.) The study showed compelling evidence that women lose brain mass during the third trimester of their pregnancy. Their brain actually shrinks. The study added that further research was necessary to determine if the missing mass is ever restored. But, come on, we all know the answer to that question, don't we?

So anyway, on Friday, my thrice-brain-shrunk wife and I undertook the monumental task of potty training twins.

At first it went well, but then The Mom and I began hallucinating. With our nose. "I smell poop. Do you smell poop?" But there was no poop. "Just a toot!" the babies would squeal then head to the nearest corner, arms flailing all the way. "Just a toot!"

But it wasn't toots either. What it was, in fact, was the slowly rising level of sewage in our basement.

God mocks me.

When I lived in Texas, the most liquid I had ever seen on a floor was when someone spilled a water glass. Not so anymore. I'm not sure whose idea it was, but this Northeastern habit of digging a giant bucket beneath a house, then filling it with pipes--pipes older than me, pipes hammered out by a smithy, pipes forged while the Romans were still completing their vast system of aqueducts, pipes containing sewage and needing to be under the ground--and calling that bucket a "basement" is easily the worst idea I've ever encountered. Or lived above.

The level of sewage in our basement was only a modest eighth of an inch deep when we finally discovered the source of the smell, but it was growing very fast. There was a fountain, an incredible fountain of muck, spraying about a foot into the air, in a beautiful, brown arc, from the side of our main sewer pipe. My wife found it first.

"Bucket!" I think she tried to yell, but it came out sounding more like, "EEEEEWWWWWBBBBBBLLLLLUUUUURRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!"

Bucket after bucket we filled and dumped into our basement sink. We scrambled around, shutting off toilets, turning off the dishwasher, and yet the spume of dirty water continued, sometimes slowing to a trickle, sometimes a raging geyser. And, in all honesty, while the geyser was far more disgusting than the trickle, at least it was easier to catch with a bucket.

When it slowed, we'd take the full bucket away, and pour it down the sink, then run back to catch the inevitable resurgent jet of sewage. This cycle of slowing trickle, emptying the bucket, then raging geyser went on for an incredibly long time, at least two iterations of the Baby Mozart DVD that was currently pacifying the twins upstairs, before The Mom, even in her brain-shrunken state, realized that the sewage we were catching was most likely the very same sewage we were emptying out into the utility sink.

I'm unaware if there's ever been a study of brain-mass loss in husbands of pregnant women. I'm not sure there needs to be.

So once we started dumping our buckets outside, the fountain slowed down and eventually stopped altogether. After that,plumbers were called, pipes were snaked, clogs were removed, and sewage was mopped.

Babies, however, were not potty trained. We've had enough raw sewage for one weekend.

Weekend Weblink

This Weekend Weblink was sent to me by alert reader, Anne Prince. Enjoy.

The Effects of Drugs on Web-spinning Spiders (movie with sound)

And by a Landslide, It Is...

There were a whopping 115 limericks written for the contest, not all of them by monster mama. Not surprisingly, given the medium, most of the entries seemed to hover in scatalogical territory. We had:

poop in bathtubs, poop smeared from head to toe, poop up to necks, poop and homeostasis (together at last!), poop on walls, cribs, and hair, poop from the mouths of babes, poop in the mouths of babes, pennies up bottoms, fingers up bottoms, armpit farts, poop between toes, pee from tall trees, toilet paper tails, poop flashbacks, singletons who poop like twins, poop in eyes, and even a tampon reference.

You all are quite a bunch, I tell you.

But it was triplets who won the day. Our first place winner is...

Surprise - It's Triplets by Christine

We'd spent almost every last dime
Before seeing that second pink line.
My husband, he grins
"Please don't let it be twins"
He should be more specific next time.

A more deserving winner there could not be. Heck, even other finalists were hoping she'd win. So Christine, email me your address and I'll get the goods in the mail to you. And the rest of you, enjoy your well-deserved break, but don't put down your pencil sharpener yet. There will be more contests in the future. You can bet your last poopy dollar on that.