Lies

The most endearing quality of all children is innocence. In fact, it is the precise reason that they are at all tolerable. We don't mind when they vomit on us, or draw on the walls, or poop on the carpet because they just don't know any better. But innocence is fleeting. Soon they grow up, and when they learn to understand the rules, they figure out how to bend, break, or otherwise manipulate them.

Yesterday, Ella was sick and could not go to day school. She was absolutely pitiful, until I allowed her to play "Elmo Alphabet" on the computer. I couldn't help but marvel at how well this not quite three year old could use a mouse. Her computer skills are quite sharp at such an early age. It was really fun to watch.

After a couple of hours, however, I decided she had spent enough time in front of the monitor. So I offered to read to her. "Ella?" I called out. "What baby?" she replied. "Let's read a book." Then it happened. She lied. "No. I don't like it," she said flatly. This is patently untrue. It's as if the Pope claimed to be Methodist. Nobody would believe him. Anyway, I let her stay on the computer, mostly because her will is much stronger than mine.

Another hour passed and I declared it lunchtime. I asked Ella if she would like a grilled cheese sandwich. "No. I don't like it." I offered chips. "I don't like it." Then strawberries. "I don't like it." These are perhaps some of the biggest whoppers ever told, and I had a hard time swallowing them. I forcefully removed her from the computer and we ate lunch. Funny, but she ate all of the things that she didn't like. And then we read books which she didn't seem to mind, either. Perhaps its time to introduce the little fibber to the story of Pinocchio.






































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Welcome to the Dollhouse

So the wife and kids had a playdate a couple of weeks ago. They went over to some friend's house for a few hours to run around and get into trouble while the grown ups discussed grown up things and did their best to ignore the little ones. Apparently these people had every toy known to man and a few others to boot. At home, the twins can make a whole afternoon out of jumping into a pile of laundry, so you can imagine their excitement.

Anyway, Ella found a dollhouse and spent most of her time playing with that. She did strap on a guitar and put on a show for a little bit, but mostly, it was the dollhouse for her. Jack never spent more than three full minutes with any one toy, kind of like a man with a remote control can't stop switching channels.

Although Jack is still in pull-ups, Ella has graduated to big girl underwear. And just when we thought she'd really gotten the hang of it all, she started to have several accidents, especially if she was doing something particularly fun and didn't want to tear herself away to go potty. So, she's playing with the dollhouse and the wife asks, "Ella? Do you need to use the potty?" Of course, Ella shakes her head no and continues playing with the dollhouse. Just a few moments later the wife sees Ella out of the corner of her eye, pants down and squatting in the middle of the living room floor. "Ella, noooooooooooo...." screams the wife as she lunges toward the child, afraid and embarrassed that Ella would just pee in the middle of the room. But then she realizes that there is something in the floor; something small that Ella seems to be hovering over. And there between her legs, she sees that Ella has placed the tiny little dollhouse potty. This was no accident. She was just challenging her aim.

45 Days

Wow. It's been forty-five days since my last blog post. It's been so long, in fact, that my Mother called me today to see why I'd been so busy. The truth is... I haven't been that busy at all. The wife has been pretty busy lately, and I've had to spend more time tending to the twin terrors, but that's not why I haven't been posting. No, the truth is, I've been obsessed. With Barbecue.

You see, I come from Memphis, Tennessee, the epicenter of the barbecue universe. There are more famous BBQ joints in Memphis than there are carjackings, or gang violence. Well, maybe that's not so true anymore, and a big reason that I would never want to raise my family there, but, anyway, Memphians know their BBQ.

Sure, others will tell you that there is good BBQ to be found in Kansas City, or Texas, or the Carolinas, and maybe they're right. Some people have compared the regional differences of BBQ to the likes of French wine. Drive a hundred miles and the taste changes. But I tell you this... there is no good BBQ within a hundred miles of where I live. And believe me, I've looked.

Funny thing about Atlanta is that nobody seems to have been born here. They come from all over the globe, usually transferred for work or to retire at a lower cost of living. And every time I meet somebody and the conversation turns to BBQ, they all agree that what we really need is a good BBQ restaurant. Sometimes people will recommend a BBQ joint, and when I ask them how the BBQ is, they always say, "The Brunswick Stew is really good". Even if it were, that's not BBQ. Brunswick Stew is what happens when small woodland creatures fall into pots of boiling water while carrying corn and tomatoes and other vegetables. BBQ is tough, fatty cuts of meat cooked for hours over low heat and blue smoke until it surrenders itself and becomes moist, juicy, and fall apart tender and makes you wonder why you would ever eat anything else.

So I've been in my back yard, tending fire and marrying spices for the last couple of months. The wife hasn't had to do as much cooking, and there's always plenty of leftovers in the fridge, so she's happy with me. And if I cook too much, I just take it to work and let the employees fight over it. I might be neglecting some of my other projects... the yard needs mowing and I need to start on my Christmas light display and my blog might die of loneliness... but who cares when you're eating this good?

In Sickness

Well, we've all got colds. Every one of us. It's 2AM and I can't breathe, much less sleep. Thankfully, I am the only one having trouble in the sleep department and the house is quiet. Blissfully quiet. I'm not sure how the wife made it through the day with the twins. I can only imagine how fussy they must have been all day long. She did say that she put them down early, and I can hardly blame her for that.

Me? I was at work, wishing I could remove my head. That is, until I took the advice of some co-workers and bought two products: Zicam and Tylenol Severe Sinus.

Zicam is a nasal spray that contains, among other things, "soothing aloe vera". It's billed as a nasal decongestant, and decongest it does. It's like taking a pressure washer and shoving it up your nostril, and then having your liquefied brain drain out of your sinus cavities and down your throat. This may cause some initial discomfort and possible brain gagging, but it's all worth it just to be able to breathe again.

Tylenol Severe Sinus is my new wonder-drug. In order to get it, I had to ask the pharmacist for it and then show her my I.D. "Can you take it out of your wallet, sir? I need all of your information," she said to me disapprovingly. Apparently they have to log you into their database because if you have any knowledge of chemistry, which I don't, you can make crystal meth out of this stuff. (Interesting side note: a woman actually found crystal meth in the bathroom of my restaurant last week. When the police came to pick it up, they said, "You did the right thing to call us. Sometimes these people will come back looking for this stuff and accuse you of stealing it and make a big scene. Just call us if it happens." It didn't.)

Half an hour after taking the Tylenol, I was flying! I had so much energy, I was bouncing off the walls, but was completely unfocused and loopy. At one point I was literally jumping up and down in the server alley yelling, "C'mon everybody! Let's get pumped up! Whoo!" I referred to a girl named Denise as Danielle, and even though she corrected me, I argued with her over her name until she showed me her driver's license as proof. I've worked with Denise for almost four months now. Did I feel bad about calling her the wrong name? No way, baby! This stuff was good and I felt invincible.

Until the drive home. The drugs wore off, and I was nodding out. I didn't think I would make it, and almost called the wife to come pick me up. I was slapping myself in the face trying to snap out of the trance I was in. I turned the A/C on full blast and the radio up loud and tried to shake it off. I was going to die in a fiery crash and sue the makers of these medications. By the time I pulled in the driveway, I could barely put one foot in front of the other. Just before I trudged off to the bedroom to call it a day, I gave the Zicam and Tylenol Severe Sinus to the wife. "Here. You gotta try this stuff," I said. "It's great."

Pictures at an Exhibition

We have primarily given up naptime these days as the twins sleep much better at night without it. Sometimes, however, it is not only necessary, but imperative. There are times when tempers flare and tantrums rage out of control, and we deem it naptime, if only to preserve our own sanity. In truth, our kids could pull an all nighter worthy of a college sophomore, but the fits of screaming and crying and wailing would be enough to put Mother Theresa's patience to the test.

And so it was the other day that we put the twins down for a nap. There were the usual signs... finger sucking, eye rubbing, and yawning galore accompanied by short fuses and ill tempers. So the wife and I laid the kids down to slumber, and we took advantage of this opportunity to catch some zzz's ourselves.

Perhaps we were more tired than the kids... a thought that never occurred to me personally. But upon our awakening, the house was silent for a few blissful moments. I took advantage of this window to check my e-mail, and the wife retired to the kitchen to set about preparing for dinner.

Jack awoke shortly thereafter and wandered into the kitchen in search of apple juice. The silence was broken by his Mother's bewildering tone... "What is that all over you? Go show Daddy."

I stepped into the kitchen to find my beloved son's epidermis riddled with strange and artistic lines, like jailhouse tattoos. Some parts were oddly yellow, but mostly just black lines racing off to dizzying ends. "Is that magic marker, or some kind of paint?" I asked naively. "We don't have markers in this house," the wife replied with a sour pucker, as if I had suggested the Pope were a Jew.

So I ventured into the twins' bedroom to find my daughter asleep in a similar predicament... although it was impossible to tell where the lines on her body stopped and the lines on her mattress began. It was as though she had exhausted herself with this artistic outburst. Her muse had sung to her so sweetly that she could not contain herself. In a fit of passion, she had decorated herself, her brother, the walls, the crib, the mattress, the dresser, the nightstand, the walls, the door, the trim, the carpet, the upholstered rocking chair, and even the curtains and the carpet. I uttered only four words: "Honey... get the camera."

So I proudly present to you Ella's first art exhibition. We will soon set up an auction with a Paypal option for those of you who appreciate the finer things in life. FYI, chunks of drywall will start considerably lower than the rocking chair, which as you can see is her masterpiece.

The Bachelor

Well, the wife and kids are back, and the house is a mess again. There are puzzles scattered all over the floor, the contents of the wife's purse are strewn about the house, potty chairs dot the landscape like rusty cars in a field, the kitchen is overflowing with dirty dishes and half eaten meals the twins grew bored with, and I couldn't be happier. I must admit that I missed everybody more than I could have imagined.

I thought it would be a piece of cake. I had a sound plan. Play golf and relax without the wife and kids to bother me. Sure, the golf was fun, but when I got home to an empty house... I got bored. There was no wife for me to pester and annoy. Nobody in sight for me to pick on and aggravate. I had nothing to entertain me for four whole days but a few old episodes of the Phil Silvers Show, otherwise known as Sgt. Bilko. I watched each episode twice and fell into a deep depression, unable to remove myself from the couch.

I thought I might be more productive without having to watch out for two toddlers, but without those twins providing me with motivation, I was useless. Usually the twins will use me as a trampoline-slash-monkey bars for a couple of hours when I get up in the morning while I try to drink coffee and catch up on the news. Then I get frustrated and must remove myself from the kicking and prodding and clawing and climbing and the smashing of my private parts. There's only so much I can take, after all, so I put on Thomas and go clean the kitchen or take out the trash, just to get some peace. But here I was, all alone, enjoying nothing but peace, and I was too miserable to clean a thing. Fortunately for me, there was nobody here to make a mess, so the house looked pretty much like it did before the wife up and left me to my own devices.

I survived on the bare essentials... chips, Rotel dip, bratwurst, and buns. I had some sauteed onions and peppers with the bratwurst because I needed some vegetables in my diet. One morning I got creative and made a bratwurst, onion, and pepper omelet. It was a masterpiece of bachelor cuisine, if I do say so myself. That's not all I ate, of course. There were a few helpings of fine fast food in there also. In four days, I dirtied one skillet, three plates, two glasses, and three tupperware dishes. Not bad. I did manage to mow the yard and set off a couple of flea bombs, just so the wife couldn't say I didn't do anything. Of course, the cats have replenished the house with fleas by now, but at least the flies are dead.

I was glad to come home last night to find the wife waiting up for me. I missed her dearly. So much so that I didn't even pick on her one little bit. Then I snuck into the kids' room just to have a look at them. I got down on my hands and knees and kissed Jack on the cheek. Then my eyes adjusted to the dim light and I realized it was his butt cheek. No matter. I would have kissed Ella, too, but she was writhing and moaning and speaking in tongues as if a Pentecostal pastor were laying hands on her, casting out her demons, and I didn't want to wake her. But I sure was glad to see them this morning... and my dirty house, too.

Potty Like A Rock Star

Ella is now pooping in the potty pretty regular, and we are so proud of our big girl! She wears big girl panties with Elmo on them and she struts around the house showing them off. This is not to say that she doesn't have accidents, because she does, but she is growing up, indeed.

Of course, the downside of potty training is that everything you own will get peed upon or worse. As I laid down in my bed last night, I noticed that my right shoulder blade seemed much cooler than the rest of my body. Rolling on to my side, I could feel the moisture evaporating from it. I first placed a towel over the offending spot and changed the covers, but after a very short time, the cool sensation came back. I turned on the light and found that the wet spot had returned. The towel was not strong enough to thwart the saturated pillow top mattress, and was instead acting as a wick to draw the moisture back from below to taunt me again.

Then the wife told me a story. It seems that at some point earlier in the day, Ella had peed in the potty chair and not been interested enough to tell anybody. Later on, she rediscovered the pee and decided to redeem it for her customary "potty chocolates". She got overly excited, and ran toward her mother with the removable cup full of cold urine yelling "Mommy, mommy! Look!!". And as she thrust the cup toward her mother with great pride, the poor wife was covered in cold pee pee. But in true mommy fashion, she praised her daughter and gave her potty chocolates before going to change clothes herself. Yes, indeed. Now that's how you potty like a rock star!