Oh Lovely Mud

It Takes a Cape

2010-03-31T18:00:00.002-04:00

While going through the lost and found at work the other day, I came across a child's Superman cape. Rather than think about the poor kid who had lost such a marvel and the pain his constant whining must surely be causing his own parents, I thought instead of a certain little boy at home who would look very cute in a slightly used red cape. So I threw it into the truck and took it home.

Now, we have never as a family watched any Superman movies. Or Batman. Not even Daredevil. To my knowledge, we have never mentioned any superhero of any kind. We have seen The Incredibles, but it has been months ago. The closest we get to superheroes in this house is Superwhy on PBS. But the second I fastened the red velcro around Jack's neck, he was transformed.

"Superhero to the rescue!" cried Jack. "Faster than a train!" As he set about the house running and jumping off of furniture, I sat in awe. How does he know this stuff? Where does he get it? Is it the innate knowledge of little boys everywhere, lying dormant until the moment they strap some flowing fabric around their necks? He couldn't even see it back there, flapping in his wake, but that was no matter to the newly formed SuperJack.

Not to be outdone, of course, Ella quickly retrieved her Tinkerbelle apron and donned it backward (sans apron strings) in her own attempt at superherodom. The two took turns jumping off the furniture and into the lap of their grandmother Nana, who in turn directed them in some sort of Simon Says fashion to perform various tasks. "Superheroes... lie down!" And they would. "Superheroes... run in circles!" And they did. This went on until we pulled out their own personal kryptonite: story-time. They whined and moaned and melted into toddler tears for a matter of seconds until they were engrossed in the tale of Liza Lou and the Yeller Belly Swamp. Then came the brushing of teeth, and the going off to bed. And as the noise from their room started to slowly subside, I couldn't help but think... where can I get one of those Superman capes in my size?

Father-Daughter Bond

2010-01-09T11:13:00.003-05:00

There are certain mornings when I get out of the shower that I can tell things just aren't quite right south of the belt-line. Sometimes my dangly parts have an unusual amount of friction, or perhaps a tackiness that time has taught me will lead to chaffing in a matter of hours. My job requires me to be on my feet for hours on end, roaming the dining room and observing the staff and the patrons to ensure things are running smoothly. This is hard to do with sandpaper between your legs, and so in a preemptive strike, I reach for my tried and trusted friend... Gold Bond Medicated Powder.

I keep it safe from toddlers high above my toilet on a window sill. I usually apply it while sitting on the aforementioned toilet so that the residue can be neatly flushed away, instead of falling into the carpet for all eternity. If you have never used Gold Bond, I urge you to do so. It's a sensation unlike any other... like stuffing a York Peppermint Patty where the sun don't shine, like a fresh arctic breeze cooling your nether regions. Refreshing, indeed.

So the other day after taking down the Christmas lights from the roof, I was struck with the urge to go potty. As is often the case in my house, I was not left alone to enjoy a moment of solitude, no. I was accompanied by a red-headed, inquisitive little girl who wanted to know just what I was doing. So I told her. "I'm pooping in the potty like a big boy." "Oh. OK." Then she ran off. Peace at last, I was left alone to finish my paperwork. Merely seconds later, she reappeared presenting me with the familiar yellow bottle with the red cap containing the powder of the Gods. "Here, daddy," she said, smiling and batting those big brown eyes at me. She knows me well, I thought, and I love her even more than I could ever imagine for that.

Laissez Faire

2010-01-09T00:09:00.002-05:00

Jack has developed a laissez faire approach to urination. Hands off, baby. He's not touching a thing down there. I don't know if he's just focusing on keeping his shirt dry, or if he's going for style points. Either way, it's fun to watch.

Now, this may come as a surprise to you, but potty training is not something I particularly enjoy. In fact, I wouldn't do it at all if I didn't fear the wrath of my lovely and charming wife. But, I do my part, and she remains lovely and charming, and we're both happy. I will admit that it's a little easier for me with Jack than it was with Ella. Not only do we have the same plumbing, but there's a little sport involved when standing as opposed to sitting. Calculations must be made. Aim must be taken. Thrust and velocity are factors that must be considered when choosing the correct trajectory.

Most of us who use our hands are capable of making minute adjustments rather quickly and with little effort in order to hit the target. But Jack... he aims with the big muscles. The back, the legs, the whole torso. He is fluid, and in constant motion. A whirligig of pivoting hips, pelvic thrusts, arching back, and bended knees. He looks like a cross between Mick Jagger performing "Jumping Jack Flash" and Neo from "The Matrix" dodging bullets in real time. His lips are taught, his brow furrowed, his concentration strong. He is limber and balanced and proud.

And I am proud, too. Go your own way, I say. March to a different beat. Prior to the Great Depression, laissez faire always worked. Jack's just kicking it old school, like before the New Deal, and I'm cool with that. Cool.

Dinner Conversation

2010-01-08T23:39:00.002-05:00

Dinner is always an interesting time for the family to get together and discuss what's on their minds. Parents gloss over the details of their workdays and children ask questions about things they're too young to know about; all while passing the gravy and stuffing the gullet. Well, at least I think this is how it goes at most houses throughout the country, however, our house doesn't quite work that way.

Just the other night, for example, I had made a big pot of Red Beans and Rice. I had Cajun fever, and I thought this would do the trick. Now, sure I knew the kids wouldn't eat any of this, and the truth is that I didn't really have a plan for them. Incidentally, I was also practicing some chicken thighs for my first BBQ competition coming up in April, and they came off the smoker about the same time as dinner. My plan was for the wife and I to have a few bites of the thighs (done in two different marinades) before we sat down to eat to see which ones we liked better.

Well, I hadn't communicated this to her, and before I knew it, a couple of chicken thighs were cut up and placed in front of my children for dinner. I should tell you that Jack does not tolerate spicy food, and because BBQ judges like their chicken sweet and hot, there was a healthy dose of cayenne pepper in both marinades. And despite Ella's repeated claims that she likes BBQ, she hasn't developed a taste for it, either.

So after about two bites, Ella declares that she is "all done", and Jack is dripping slobber like a leaky faucet and trying to wipe his tongue with his shirt. The wife is yelling for everyone to remain in their seats and eat their cornbread, and I'm trying to get Jack to drink some milk, and then the wife is wondering why I cooked this food that nobody could eat, and I am wondering why she doesn't understand my BBQ obsession, and the kids are crying as I scramble to cook them a hot dog on the fly.

Everyone settles down and there is a palpable tension in the air. Silence permeates the room. But, at least, we're all eating. One big unhappy family. And then Ella, rubbing her hands on her chest in little circles, utters one tiny word. "Boobs." Did she just say that? Again..."Boobs." "Ella's got two boobs." And Jack, oblivious with a mouthful of hot dog, says "What are you talking about, Ella?" And there we were, normal again, one big happy family, laughing and trying not to spit food on one another.

Letter to Santa

2009-11-29T20:22:00.003-05:00

The kids were restless this morning, and it was too cold to go outside yet (or I hadn't had enough coffee, or something) so we decided to write our first letters to Santa. So what if some of the ideas weren't entirely theirs. I assure you they gave me approval before I wrote anything down. Then we broke out the stickers and I let them have at it. I did have to insist that they not cover up any of the text.

Reader's note: Melvin is the name of our Elf On The Shelf. He watches over the twins to see if they're naughty or nice during the day, then he flies to the North Pole at night to report to Santa. When he flies back (using elfin magic) he finds a new place to perch, and the twins have to find him in the morning when they awaken.

Lies

2009-10-28T10:20:00.002-04:00

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.

.......

Welcome to the Dollhouse

2009-10-14T20:39:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-14T19:55:00.002-04:00

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

2009-09-01T02:58:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-20T02:13:00.004-04:00

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

2009-07-10T11:12:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-04T23:28:00.002-04:00

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!

Clean Car

2009-07-04T22:38:00.002-04:00

As the wife prepares for a trip to her Mother's with the kids to learn how to can vegetables and such, I am preparing for a few days of bachelorhood and golf. But before I can start scratching myself where it itches without being chastised, I must make sure the car is safe and ready for travel. So I took the car in for an oil change and then decided to clean it out for the first time since our vacation five weeks ago.

Every time I clean the wife's car, I am amazed at just how disgusting it is. And each time it always seems worse than the last. I usually start filling up the trash can with the contents of the front seats and floorboards. This go 'round began with a few Chic-Fil-A bags followed by a six month old copy of "Gourmet" magazine and several bad directions courtesy of our friends at Mapquest. I wonder who has the worst track record, Mapquest, or your local meteorologist. Even the guy at the carnival guesses my age/weight/birth date more than 60% of the time, and he doesn't even have teeth. Anyway, back to the car...

As I open the back door to survey the damage, I say a little prayer that I don't get lost in the flotsam and jetsam collected therein, check my cell phone to ensure the batteries are charged, and tuck a couple of granola bars into my socks just in case. One day that Survivorman guy is going to shoot an entire episode inside our Nissan Murano, I'm sure of it. So here's a partial list of what I found...

Nine socks, thirteen books, four and a half pairs of shoes, three blueberries, twenty six stickers drowning in pools of melted petroleum that once held them fast to leather seats (thank god for leather), six Chic-Fil-A waffle fries without the first sign of decay, three battery operated toys (the most annoying one with dead batteries... lucky me), one soiled pull-up (number one, again, very lucky), an unopened package of pop-tarts, seven Capri Sun packages (none of which were totally empty), two shirts, one skirt, my baseball cap that has been missing for weeks, two sippy cups full of fermented apple juice, three toy cars, one toy dump truck, a baker's dozen melted crayons, seven grams by weight of unidentified crumbs, and enough raisins to choke a baboon.

And I learned something in the process which I will share with you now. Are you listening? YOU WILL NEVER, EVER, GET THAT PADDING OFF OF YOUR TODDLER'S CAR SEAT SO THAT YOU MAY WASH IT CLEAN OF URINE WITHOUT SEVERAL TOOLS WHICH YOU DO NOT CURRENTLY POSSESS OR WITHOUT SEVERELY DAMAGING SAID CAR SEAT SO JUST DO YOURSELF A FAVOR AND PUT IT OUT IN THE SUN TO DRY BEFORE YOU PAINT YOURSELF RED AND RUN THROUGH THE NEIGHBORHOOD SCREAMING "I NEVER LEAVE MUFFLE MOUNTAIN AND I DON'T FRIGHTEN YOUR HORSE AND I WILL PROTECT THE LOST ENGINE EVEN THOUGH I CAN'T MAKE HER STEAM. HOO HOO!"

Mommy Immitation

2009-06-28T12:02:00.002-04:00

So as I'm strapping Jack into his car seat on the back of the golf cart the other day, Ella climbs in the front seat and begins to jump around like a little frog. She's having a great time, smiling and laughing and making frog noises, when Jack furrows his brow and says, "No bouncing! Do you understand me? No Bouncing.". Apparently he can now channel his mother at whim. It's only a matter of time before he starts asking me to take out the garbage.

Daddy's Dirty Day Out

2009-06-28T02:20:00.003-04:00

The wife had a wedding to shoot today, leaving me alone to rear the children however I saw fit. Too lazy to clean, I decided we would be dining out today and drove them to work for a free lunch. Yes, the restaurant business has it's perks sometimes. Besides, after recently being transferred to a different location, I wanted to show them off a little bit to my new staff.

But the twins would have none of it. They were in no mood to perform. They would sing no songs and recite not a single letter of the alphabet for anyone. Once we were seated, Jack spotted a picture of a locomotive which sent him into full blown autistic train mode. Ask him any question and he would respond by pointing at the picture and exclaiming, "Diesel engine! No trouble. Thomas." Then he would shove an entire roll into his mouth, muffling his tirade and rendering his ramblings unintelligible for a moment or two while continuing to shake his finger at the picture. Then he would clap twice and say, "Come on, diesel!". Ella was too busy eating chicken and kicking her daddy in the knees to notice.

Then we went for ice cream cones at Bruster's, where there is no indoor seating and also nothing to provide shade of any kind. Jack and Ella took their ice cream and sat on the bench while daddy paid the ice cream lady. I'm not sure if they were having trouble with their coolers or if it was just really hot outside, but before I even got my debit card back my ice cream started to melt. One look at the twins and I asked for extra napkins. There seemed to be a constant stream of chocolate pouring down upon them, as though they had been served a never ending dribble cone. Had the ice cream lady played a cruel joke on me? But the twins were happy and seemed to be enjoying the ice cream bath as though it were some exotic spa treatment. They made no effort to stay clean, and Jack was so focused on devouring the ice cream cone that he even ate the napkin that was wrapped around it.

After naptime, I took the kids to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. I was a little self conscious that I hadn't bothered to change their clothes or clean them up before taking them out again. It looked like I had bathed them in one of those chocolate fountains you're supposed to dip strawberries in. But then, a lapful of salsa and multiple drippings of cheese dip later, I congratulated myself on not ruining two more outfits in one day. Thank goodness there was a big napkin dispenser on the table, and thank goodness the wife wasn't with us. We stopped by the park on the way home to slide and swing and throw rocks into the pond.

Then it was off to Wal Mart where Ella decided it was time to throw a fit. As soon as her butt hit the basket, she started crying and yelling, "Stuck! Want Daddy! Stuck!" over and over again. I paused to look at some video games, and spent about five minutes completely ignoring my screaming daughter when two blue vested employees came over in my direction. "Can you help me with a game?" I asked, pointing at the locked display case. They walked right past me a few feet, one of them holding a yellow pad with some numbers written on it. I tried again. "Excuse me, can you help me with a game?" Still no response. Maybe they couldn't hear me because of Ella. All of a sudden, the guy behind the photo booth jumps in front of the two guys, waves his hand in front of their eyes and says, "Hey! Are you two gonna help this guy or what?". I'm not sure if he was being nice to me or if he just wanted me to remove my screaming child from his immediate vicinity. Either way, it worked, and we were on our way back home for bath time.

The kids were clean, their teeth were brushed, and they were sent to their room for bedtime. The house was still a wreck, and I'm pretty sure I dozed off to sleep before they did, but I had made it through the day alive, and they had, too. And I had learned a thing or two. Ice cream deteriorates rapidly in the sun, dirty kids are happy kids, and a screaming toddler can actually improve your level of service in big box retail stores. Interesting...

Jod

2009-06-02T20:32:00.002-04:00

I lost a good friend yesterday, and a small part of me with him. His name was Jody Duncan, but I knew him affectionately as Jod. (Not to be confused with Jode, which rhymes with toad, but rather Jod which rhymes with God.) Although I never met his family and probably never mentioned him to mine, I considered him like a brother, and I will miss him in ways I can't imagine just yet.

We first met in Memphis, at Newby's on the Highland strip, moments after my little ragtag garage band opened for our heroes, the New Rhythm and Blues Quartet. It was the greatest night of my life up to that point, and it was about to get better. After exiting the stage and making my way to the bathroom, I found myself standing beside this character with little round glasses squeezed between rosy cheeks and a pork pie hat, wearing a thriftstore tweed blazer over a well worn t-shirt. I must admit that I felt a little uncomfortable trying to handle my business with a complete stranger staring and grinning at me.

"You guys were great! Best opening band I've seen, except for Bill Kirchen, who opened for the Q last week!". This was the highest compliment anyone has ever given me (still is to this day), and it was completely undeserved. We were never in the same league as Bill Kirchen or NRBQ, but we did do a pretty good cover of "I Got A Little Secret", so Jod knew we were Q fans, and that was enough for him to overlook our imperfections, which were many. I was caught offguard by his genuine kindness and was unsure how to respond, but I never forgot this brief exchange.

It was months later, this time in Nashville at The Exit Inn, that he made a formal introduction. Just before the Q took the stage, up walks the same blazer, hat, and glasses shouting "Dude! I saw you open for the Q in Memphis! Remember me?". As if I could have ever forgotten him. From his breast pocket he produced the pen and little notebook he carried with him to jot down the setlist of every NRBQ show he ever attended, scrawled his name and number across a page and then tore it out and thrust it at me. "Next time you go to see the Q, call me!", he said. And I did exactly that.

For the next few years, we travelled to Louisville, Lexington, Nashville, Chattanooga, Knoxville, Memphis, and anywhere else we could afford to go to see our favorite band play and bring us together. Long roadtrips were filled with music and conversation and fueled by alcohol and other unmentionable pastimes. We crashed on each others couches, plundered each other's records, and made each other laugh. We were on the road, we were free of our dead end jobs, and we were making memories to last a lifetime. It was great.

Somewhere in there, I started to grow up. My job got more serious, I moved further south, and we lost touch. The Q wasn't touring as much, and the shows were fewer and farther between. Still, every time we got back together at a show, it was just like picking up where we left off, like we had only spoken yesterday. And then we drifted apart again. But I always knew he was out there, and all it would take was a phone call and an NRBQ show to get that freedom back, that unexplainable joy.

Just last year, I dragged my wife to see what was left of the Q, namely Terry Adams and his marvelous Rock and Roll Quartet in Charleston. Just as the band came out and the first notes of "Sunny Side Of The Street" were tickling my eardrums, I was struck with the urge to record the setlist for my old friend Jod. Scrambling for a bar napkin and a pen, my wife was making fun of me, calling me a "geek", but I didn't care. This was for Jod. (By the way, she loved the show... an instant disciple, and told me, "I haven't seen you that happy since our wedding". Sweet, isn't she?) I couldn't wait to get to a computer so that I could post the setlist for Jod and everyone else on the NRBQ list. It wasn't long before I got an email from my old friend, and we picked right back up again.

We spoke on the phone like the old days, and made plans to go to Connecticut, but, alas, I couldn't make it. I called him when he got back, and he gave me all the juicy details of the show, making me jealous and sorrowful and envious and delighted for about forty-five minutes or so. The next day I heard through friends that he had been admitted to the hospital in Evansville, after suffering a series of heart attacks. He was 41 years old. I called him, and we spoke briefly, but I could tell how tired he was, and I felt him fading. It was just a matter of days before he was gone.

I'm no doctor, but I suspect that his heart was just too big to be bound inside that body any longer. He had so much love for his friends and the music they shared together that his heart had grown too big, constricted by spine and ribcage, until it could no longer stand it. Anyone who knew him could hardly argue my theory. The guy never met a stranger, and if he liked you, you couldn't help but like him back. He was kind and caring and outgoing to a fault. He was genuine and intelligent and those of us who knew him were better off for it. He was a fountain of musical knowledge, and a supernova of spirit. But, a star that bright can't burn forever, and when it burns out, it leaves a void, a vaccum in space that can never be filled. Jod is gone, and the world is a little bit darker because of it. There is no longer a light at the end of the roadtrip, and I will never know freedom like we once shared again. Miss you, Jod. You'll have to travel the spaceways without me for awhile.

Rights of Passage

2009-05-18T13:55:00.002-04:00

Ella finally did it. She pooped in the potty this morning, thereby earning the right to wear her Elmo underwear, like a big girl. We couldn't have been more proud of this milestone in our little girl's life; you'd have thought she had graduated at the top of her class and gotten a full scholarship to Yale. She was proud, too, and ate up the attention (and the potty cookies) with the biggest smile I have ever seen on a toddler. The corners of her mouth actually touched her ears for a second or two, and I think I counted sixty-one teeth, which is amazing.

Of course the wife is convinced that this is the beginning of a new era for Ella. She's planning a pull-up burning ceremony to mark this right of passage. We'll call it a Pot-Mitzvah, for lack of a better word, and we'll all sing songs from "Go Potty, Go" and recite lengthy passages from "Potty Time With Elmo." Then we'll roast marshmallows over the flaming pull-ups and pray that the fumes aren't too very toxic.

I myself am a little more skeptical, and can't help but wonder whether this was just a happy accident. One poop, for me, does not make a toddler potty trained. Perhaps a re-poop, or even a three-poop would put my mind at ease and allow me to dream of cutting the diaper bill in half. Still, I must tell you that she managed to keep her big girl underwear clean and dry until lunchtime, which is no small feat in itself. And, we were out in public.

Another thing we established today is Ella's fear of public restrooms. She does not like to sit upon a public toilet, and turns into a writhing, slithering toddler snake when placed within a three foot radius of one. She probably would have run away had her pants not been around her ankles. I was thankful that the restroom was empty, because we did have a small amount of success going potty in the sink. Just a number one, mind you, and I did rinse thoroughly afterward. Isn't daddy resourceful?

So, hat's off to the big girl in the Elmo underwear. She's another step closer to breaking my heart. Each of these milestones reminds me that she will not always be my little girl, and that someday, I will have to let her go. But, until then, we will celebrate each day together and make memories that will last a lifetime. Hopefully, they will be less smelly memories from here on out.

Those People

2009-05-16T21:07:00.002-04:00

In the many years I have worked in the restaurant business, I have seen plenty of poorly behaved children. You know the ones. They dump the sugar packets all over the tables. They drool in the salt shakers. They throw everything within their grasp all over the floor. They shriek and howl and run about while their parents seem oblivious to their horrible behavior. And while some people would say that these are bad children, I would argue that these were bad parents. But I think we would all agree that nobody likes "those people."

So when we went to our favorite local pizza joint tonight for dinner, I never dreamed it would have gone so badly. The wife grabbed a booth with Jack, while Ella and I stood in line to order. Tired and overstimulated from the Renaissance Festival, Ella soon began crying for her mother, who was all the way back at the last booth, the farthest distance she could possibly get from the counter. Being tired, and not wanting to lose my place in line, I foolishly put Ella down and said, "Mommy's right there. Go get her." I watched as she ran, not in a straight line, but serpentine through the restaurant, laughing and making a scene the whole way. Then Jack decided to run to daddy, stopping to linger a little too long in front of the front door, ignoring his father who was repeatedly calling his name, each time with more volume than the last, drawing too much attention to himself.

After we ordered, we took turns playing a racing video game. That went badly as well, resulting in fits of temper when each one was required to give the other a turn at the steering wheel. Next we washed hands, and Ella became upset when I refused to let her wash up in the urinal. Then we went back to the booth and managed to get the salt, pepper, and parmesan shakers out of harm's way just before the pizza arrived.

Jack refused to eat. In fact, he refused to do anything but jump up and down in the seat of the booth. Ella was a little more sly. She acted like she was eating, then while our guards were down, she began smearing her pizza all over the plate glass window, creating a pizza Pollack. They both banged their forks on the table for awhile, until Ella dropped hers on the floor. Jack went after it, spending an unnecessary amount of time under the table doing who knows what. I was too afraid to look. Then, Ella made a break for it, running from her mother who was suddenly calling for a box and spanking Ella's butt simultaneously in true mother multitasking fashion.

And as we were leaving, some of us sobbing, and all of us exhausted, I could not deny the fact that we had become, "those people." I was a bit embarrassed to say the least. But, in my defense, I must point out that our twins are not bad children, and neither are the wife and I bad parents. We were just your average happy family, having a bad day.

Woah, Mule!

2009-05-16T19:32:00.004-04:00

Today, the wife and I took the twins to the Georgia Renaissance Festival. Twice. The first time, we got rained out after about twenty minutes. So we went home to dry out, eat lunch, and put the kids down for a quick nap. After a couple of hours, the rain let up, so we ventured out again, this time with much better results, albeit with muddier shoes.

The festival is a sprawling village of period dressed merrymakers and merchants that want to separate you from your money. It's kind of like a 16th century mall, run by carnies. They have nothing you need, and they're screaming at you to come and have a look at their wares. Either we have less money than most, or we have more willpower, because we managed to make it out of there without a single corset, sword, wooden axe, pirate hat, lotion candle, or dragon portrait.

The shows were free and held the children's interest for awhile. They had a pretty good playground and petting zoo which were free also. The jousting was impressive, and the acting not that bad. Keanu Reeves would have been proud. And the people were friendly, although their period dialect was a little annoying after awhile. But they did offer me a new insight into the parent/toddler relationship.

Everywhere we went, the period players would address the twins as "beautiful princess", or "handsome prince", while referring to the wife and me as their "humble servants." This was a revelation, and quite true, too. We do, after all, wait on them hand and foot; they don't have to do anything for themselves. They cry, and we play the jester to make them laugh. They demand juice, and we rush to get it for them. The don't even wipe their own behinds! They live like royalty, while we live only to serve them.

And then I realized that Ella had refused to walk the whole day. Not only was I carrying all of her necessities in a backpack, like a pack animal weighed down with heavy saddlebags, but she had also been riding me around all day. It's a sobering moment when you realize your two year old has spent an entire afternoon literally making an ass out of you.

Still it was fun. Jack gathered rocks, ate dirt, and laughed out loud at jugglers and acrobats. Ella hugged a goose, almost joined a Shakespearean comedy troupe, and adopted an overweight grandfather in an attempt to steal his beer. And the best part? They were both so worn out that they went to sleep almost as soon as their royal heads hit their pillows. "Thank thee, lords and ladies of the Renaissance Festival, for thy gift of tired toddlers! Fare thee well, until next year."

Mother's Day

2009-05-10T10:32:00.001-04:00

Although I consider myself to be a pretty good father and husband, I have to be honest with myself and admit that I am still, at heart, a flawed human being, just like everybody else. I have always struggled with living in the present, enjoying the moment, and being content with the blessings bestowed upon me. I am, like most Americans, a consumer, and assume that a bigger house, or a nicer car, or a better vacation will bring more joy and happiness to me and my family. Perhaps this is primarily a male trait, but, for me, the thrill of the hunt is always more satisfying than the kill itself.

This poses a unique dilemma upon my marriage, for there is nothing left for me to conquer there. The hunt is over, and although my trophy fills me with pride, I tend to take her for granted, and I seldom let her know just how much she means to me anymore. And to make matters worse, I flaunt my love for my daughter in her face, in an effort to prevent Ella from ever suffering from low self esteem, hoping that she will never settle for less than she is worth. I have moved on from making sure my wife feels appreciated, shifting that focus instead upon my daughter. This is, perhaps, my deepest regret.

The truth is that my wife is a wonderful mother. She has lived up to my every expectation in that regard. I knew watching her with my nieces and nephews that she would make an ideal parent. And this is no easy task. She is consumed with guilt that she spends all of her time yelling at our children. "No, don't touch that. It's hot!". "Don't jump on your sister!". "Do you want to go to time out?". But children need parents to teach them their boundaries. And compared to the kids I see at the restaurant on a regular basis, our kids are very well behaved, indeed. She deserves all of the credit for our wonderful children. I was just the guy in the room at the time of conception. How lucky was that?

We entered into parenthood knowing that this would not be an easy task. But I don't think that either of us knew just how hard it would be. So on the heels of Mother's Day, I need to tell my wife just how much she means to me. Sure, we say "I love you" every day, but that's just as insignificant as "How was your day?", or "Can you take out the trash?". So the following is an open love letter to my wife. I don't care who reads it. I only hope you can find a fraction of the love that she gives to me on a regular basis.

My dearest Jodie,

Happy late Mother's Day. I can't help but feel like the gifts I gave you don't do you justice. I could never repay you for the gifts you have given me in the form of our beautiful twins, Jack and Ella. They are the embodiment of our love for each other, and they are perfect in each and every way, and I have you to thank for that.

I am well aware of the sacrifices that you have made for our family, and they will not go unappreciated. Even in hard times, and raising children without the help of our families is hard, indeed, you have been there to guide all of us. Although I could never repay you for what you have given me, I can assure you that I will always be there beside you. Even when raising twins brings out the worst in us, I have never entertained the thought of leaving you. You provide me with unparalleled comfort and stability when I need it most. You are the backbone of this family, and I am eternally grateful to you for all of your contributions.

I could never imagine my life without you in it. You have changed me for the better, and I am a better man because of you. I say these words proudly, and for all to see. And if pride is a sin, well then, I am a sinner of great magnitude. I want the world to know that I love you more than I love myself, and I never thought that was possible, because I am pretty damn good if I do say so myself. Please be at my side always...

Blaine

Potty Training

2009-05-06T12:20:00.002-04:00

We've been potty training the twins with varying degrees of success. Ella will pee on the potty almost every time she sits on one, but Jack just wants to play with his doober whenever his pull-ups are removed. And although neither of them will poop on the potty, Jack will almost always remove his pull-ups immediately after a bowel movement, usually making a terrible mess in the process, while Ella seems to be ashamed of her accidents, and refuses to acknowledge the mess under her dress.

There are certain aspects of this rigorous process that I expected to find disgusting, but as it turns out, these incidents aren't as gross as I would have imagined. Getting peed on three times in one hour isn't nearly as painful as spending the same amount of time in a doctor's waiting room, for instance. And the smell of poop is now just an affirmation that I'm home at last, my workday finished.

But it's the blending of activities that I find to be truly unsettling. We spend so much time in the bathroom trying to potty, that all of our daily rituals must now take place there. We read on the potty. We play on the potty. We sing on the potty. We learn on the potty. But I find that my morning coffee doesn't taste the same in the claustrophobic confines of our hallway bathroom. And the sight of sippy cups and bananas abandoned on the bathroom floor is just too much for me. What's that old saying that even a dog knows better than to poop where it eats? I guess my children will never run the Iditarod.

Still, we celebrate the small victories and draw encouragement where we can find it. Recently, we found the twins awakening in the nude, their pajamas and pull-ups discarded in the night, scattered among the half eaten books and broken toys, and shrouded in the foul stench of baby poop. We searched the room, but found only a sock that Jack had turned into toilet paper. After more searching, we decided on the direct approach. "Jack? Where's the poop?" we asked. Beaming with pride, he pointed to the top of the dresser and proclaimed, "There it is!". And behold, there it was. Reminds me of the Polish fellow who said "Look what I almost stepped in!".

Sibling Smackdown

2009-04-20T11:44:00.003-04:00

I awoke from a dream this morning, and thought I was having a nightmare. I was in my bed, in my room, but my room had been placed in the middle of war torn Bosnia. I could clearly hear children screaming and crying for their mothers as the village burned down all around them, incoming mortar shells exploding like the bass drum of some rag tag brass band at a drunken jazz funeral. Turns out it was just the twins fighting over a particular toy train, and the loud banging of said toy against TV stand.

Watching this aggression manifest itself from deep inside the monkey parts of my children's brains is oddly entertaining. It's the same thing as boxing or Ultimate Fighting, although it more closely resembles midget wrestling. Little people, large disproportionate heads, and rudimentary motor skills on glorious display. We never let it go unpunished, but part of me wonders what would happen if we did. Jack is the clear favorite with his size and reach marking quite an advantage over his sister. And his take down move is very effective. But I can't help root for the underdog, and if Ella's red hair is any indication of her temperament, Jack would never know what hit him if she ever blew a fuse.

I was hatching plans of building a cage in the backyard and surrounding it with bleachers to charge admission and make a little extra cash when I remembered the fate of Michael Vick. And those were just dogs. Perhaps the world just isn't ready to witness Jack's inhumanity to Ella. It's a shame, too, because I was ready to tattoo his face and train him to go for the ears. Instead of hiring Don King to promote the "Sibling Smackdown" and retiring on the pay-per-view profits, we'll just sentence Jack to another five minutes of time out, then force him to say "Sorry" and hug and kiss his darling little sister. I guess I'm just a sucker for a happy ending.

To Blog Or Not To Blog

2009-04-03T12:33:00.002-04:00

The in-laws were in town last week to pick up some muscadine vines for their vineyard. No, they're not the snooty California wine types, just good old fashioned, down to earth kinfolk who happen to own and operate their own winery in middle Tennessee. If you don't believe me, then see for yourself here.

Anywho... the nursery we were getting the vines from was only about an hour from us, according to Google Maps, which is a filthy rotten liar. We ended up lost for over an hour without cell phone service with Ella in tears screaming over and over, "I want Daddy!". Jack, on the other hand, would occasionally wake up from his slumber and announce, "This is fun!", pull out a fist full of Ella's red hair, and then doze back off.

And then something wonderful happened. We happened across the oldest covered bridge in Georgia. Built across the red oak creek in 1840 and held together by wooden pegs, it is still open to traffic to this day. And it is covered in graffiti. Bad graffiti. Misspelled graffiti. It's such a shame that people with nothing to say would defile such a landmark. Why not just start a blog, like me?

Discounts

2009-03-29T01:55:00.002-04:00

Twice a year, the Southside Mothers Of Multiples club holds their consignment sale. It is a unique opportunity for us to unload some of the trappings that the twins have outgrown, and re-equip them with what we can only hope will preoccupy their imaginations for the forthcoming months, at greatly discounted prices. We have been able to sell most of our big ticket items and provide them with clothing and toys for the months to come, while eeking out a small profit in the bargain, for the last year or so. And, although I am grateful for the savings we enjoy, it does not come without it's drawbacks for me, personally.

In order for the wife to get first dibs on the goodies, she must work the sale, leaving me at home with the twins in the early hours of the morning. We contracted a babysitter to watch them Friday night, while the wife helped with the setup, and then enjoyed shopping while I was at work late into the evening. When I awoke from my four hours of sleep, I was greeted by a stunning display of Thomas the Train and Elmo toys laid out for our toddlers to enjoy, and the wife scampering out the door to perform her duties at the sale.

This, of course, left a sleep deprived Daddy and two hyper-excited toddlers to plunder the bounty laid out before us. Subsequently, diaper changes were met with resistance and tears, arched backs and flailing limbs, as if the hand me down toys would somehow disappear if not immediately played with. Already exhausted, I laid on the couch and closed my eyes as they fell upon the new found treasures scattered about the living room.

Twenty minutes must have passed in what seemed like a second before I was being whacked on the head with train tracks torn apart by innocent hands and a soundtrack of angelic voices with an upward inflection lilting toward the heavens repeating, "mmm...Fix? mmm...Fix? mmm...Broken. mmm...Fix??". I did my best to piece the toys back together with at least a third of the parts already missing, lost, perhaps never to be found again in final resting places that I can only surmise.

And then they found the books. The next few hours were a blur of Fox in Socks, Berenstain Bears, Who Are You Sue Snue, and Curious George classics. There were pop-ups, lift-a-flaps, and sliders to explore. There were farmyard animals, and rhymes, and opposites. And there was no interest in lunch whatsoever. And when I finally decreed it naptime, they shrieked and howled as if it was the end of the world and I was the Antichrist. And that left me with just enough time to shower and iron my clothes and go to work, babysitting grown adults with even worse behavior and far less charisma, and no blood relation, either. But, hey! It's a living!

Quiz Kid

2009-03-04T11:26:00.002-05:00

If you come to my house, you had better be prepared to answer some tough questions. Although the twins have yet to ponder existentialism or the nature of man, they are armed with a little bit of knowledge, and that's a dangerous thing, indeed. You see, being an expert in a particular field often brings the temptation to flaunt your knowledge in front of others, leaving them to sink into the sea of inferiority. It's the Alex Trebek syndrome, and Jack's got the bug.

Jack has taken on the role of quiz master, and there is only one category: Thomas the Train. The questions start out pretty easy. "Color's Thomas?". Blue. Everyone knows that. Then they get a little bit harder. "Color's James?". Mmmmm..... Oh yeah, red. "Color's Percy?". Green, maybe? I'm starting to feel the pressure. Jack is relentless and presses on. "Color's Emily?". They have girl trains on Thomas? "Color's Toby?". Jack senses weakness. "Color's Cranky?". Isn't that one of the Seven Dwarfs? Sweat begins to bead upon my brow. "Color's Skarloey?". How can you even pronounce that name? You're barely two! "Color's Diesel?". I should probably know this one, but I don't. I only put Thomas on when I want to clean the kitchen, or write this blog without interruption. "Color's Henry?". I give up. "Color's Molly?". You win! "Color's Duck?". My eye starts to twitch. Stop taunting me! "Color's Stepney?". Just leave me alone! My lip begins to tremble. And then comes the breaking point. "Color's Bullstrode?". I can take it no longer, and retreat to my bedroom to sob quietly, bearing the shame of intellectual defeat at the hands of a toddler.

Perhaps one day, Jack will grow a mustache and attain perfect pronounciation of the Spanish language, rolling R's off his tongue like water off a duck's back. And perhaps he will have a game show of his own, preferably with more than one category. But until then, he will just have to be content with that smug air of superiority that accompanies the asking of questions that you already know the answers to, and the satisfaction of finding that other people don't.

The Reader

2009-02-24T10:54:00.003-05:00

Ella loves to read. She loves books and everything about them. She loves the flow of iambic pentameter as well as the strange and wonderful rhythms and rhymes of a certain Dr. Suess. She loves pop up books, and lift a flap books, and books that hold no physical surprises equally. She used to love the taste of books and the sound of pages being torn apart, but, thankfully, she has outgrown this curiously destructive stage of reading. She now prefers her books to remain intact so that they keep their stories straight.

Every morning around nine o'clock, I am awakened by Jack's crying. He inevitably does something he's not supposed to do, earns a stern and loud matronly scolding, and finds himself in time out. The crying gets louder. (And the time out spot is right by my bedroom door. I don't think that this is intentional on the part of the wife, it's just a convenient corner. Or is it?) It is precisely this moment every morning that Ella decides it's time for Daddy to get up.

She is a very helpful little girl. And polite. She toddles up to my night table, grabs my glasses and thrusts them at me while saying, "Glasses, Daddy. Thank you, your welcome." Then she hands me a shirt from the dirty pile of laundry beside my bed. Then she hands me another shirt. And usually another one for good measure. I guess she wants me to have options. Then come the shoes, and I know it's time to excavate myself from underneath the mound of dirty laundry and search for a cup of coffee. (Ella never gives me pants or socks. The twins hate pants and socks for reasons unknown to me, and remove them as frequently as possible. Half of our day is spent putting them in pants and socks. In their toddler Utopia, pants and socks would not exist. Underwear would come with pockets, I suppose.)

Landing on the couch, I try to drink as much coffee as possible while Ella roots through her cache of books. When she finds just the right one, she plods over toward me, all red hair and grinning teeth, and shoves the book directly into my hand before climbing into my lap. As I read to her, I like to let her finish the sentences for me. It's irresistibly cute. No sooner than I pronounce, "The End", Ella is off again, digging through her stacks for another favorite read, while I slam more coffee down my gullet. She's back again, and if my hands aren't free, then, no matter, she thrusts the book underneath my chin and climbs back into position. She's an improviser, that one. This routine continues for four or five books, until Daddy decides to eat something, or Mommy decides that Daddy should take out the garbage or perform some other decidedly adult activity.

Throughout the day, Ella will lay on the floor for hours, turning page after page, reciting the rhythms and the words she can pronounce. When checking on them during naptime, Jack is usually in bed and Ella is usually on the floor with a book over her face. And lately at bedtime, we have to put the baby gate up, because Ella will open the door to let some light in, bring all of her books up to the doorway, and read in that small patch of light until she falls asleep and we can move her to her bed.

Other girls love dolls, or dressing up. Some love horses and rainbows. Some are Tomboys, and love to do little boy things and get dirty. But Ella desires none of these things. For my little girl, there is nothing like Daddy's lap and the sound of his voice reading stories about Elmo's blanket. And I secretly wish that this could go on forever, that she will always be this little girl who loves her Daddy. And loves to read.

FAGS

2009-02-10T02:08:00.002-05:00

The restaurant business is filled with people from all walks of life. It is a melting pot of nationalities, personalities, and sexual orientations. We are very tolerant of each others differences, and that is a wonderful thing. If only the rest of the world were so forgiving. The following story shall illustrate that coincidence is the mother of all comedy...

Imagine that there is a male server of alternate sexual orientation. He has a cold. He is seated with two like minded males, and decides that he doesn't want to wait on them. For whatever reason, he asks a brand new server to trade tables. She agrees. After she takes their order, she is at the computer ringing in their check.

The male server is waiting behind the new server to use the computer. He can't help but notice that at the top of her check, written in all capitols is the word FAGS. Feigning disgust, he questions whether it is appropriate to label her table in such an obvious way. Wouldn't it be just as effective to put the table number at the top of the check? Does she have to point out their sexual orientation? Does she have to label them as FAGS?

Quite innocently, she replies, "That's just an abbreviation." Incredulously, the alternatively oriented male server says, "An abbreviation? For what?"

Again, with absolute innocence, she replies, "He ordered the Fresh Atlantic Grilled Salmon."

And that is why I love the restaurant business. Just when you think you've seen it all, you haven't.

Cheese-E

2009-02-01T15:28:00.004-05:00

We took the twins for their first visit to Chuck E. Cheese this afternoon. For thirty bucks, we got two soft drinks, mediocre pizza, twenty game tokens, and priceless people watching. Granted, the food is not the number one draw of this particular establishment, rather it's the twenty-five cent video games and the allure of winning tickets and then redeeming them for utterly worthless prizes that you would never allow your children to buy with real money.

Although the concept remains the same, today's modern Chuck E. Cheese is not what I remember from my youth. It's too slick and technologically advanced. Gone are the stage and animatronic animal band, replaced by a wall of flat screen TV's playing MTV-like videos of the new incarnation of Chuck E. Cheese. I remember waiting with nervous anticipation for the curtain to open and Chuck's band to rock the stage. Sure, their moves were limited and they only knew a few songs, but those cats had soul. Now, the soul is gone, and Chuck is limited to two dimensional status. It's a shame, really.

The only thing better than watching the kids enjoy all of the games and flashing lights was profiling the parents. You can learn alot about a person inside a Chuck E. Cheese. For instance, there is the dad playing arcade basketball. He's the competitive type, the kind every carny on the midway looks for. He'll spend every cent he has until he has won the prize, even if it means his poor kid has to stand by and watch until he is bored to tears. There is the loving mother who tries to make sure her child enjoys the experience, trying to teach him the joys of SkeeBall even though he can barely roll the ball. She knows it's not about winning, it's about spending time with your children.

And then there is the lottery mom. She's my favorite. She's thirty pounds overweight, smells like tobacco, and her kid is nowhere in sight. You can't miss her. She's the one standing at the Wheel of Fortune yelling, "Lee! I hit the jackpot! Two hundred and fifty tokens!". What she won was actually two hundred and fifty tickets, not tokens. Two hundred and fifty tokens is worth about sixty-two dollars. In this economy, I might get excited about that, too. But two hundred and fifty tickets at Chuck E.Cheese doesn't go that far. Best case scenario, you get eight stickers, four temporary tattoos, a giant plastic cockroach, and a pair of chineese fingercuffs. Not a bad haul, but go to any dollar store and buy those items, and you'll save about fifty-eight bucks.

Nevertheless, the twins had a great time. There were buttons to push and games to play and lots of room to run around in. They weren't really interested in lunch as there was way too much stuff to distract their attention. Although there wasn't much stuff for kids their age, it was still fun trying to teach them how to play classic games like Whack-A-Mole. And the best part? They took a two and a half hour nap when we got home. That alone was worth the thirty bucks!

Immunity

2009-01-20T11:04:00.002-05:00

Mother's Day Out has done wonderful things for both my wife and the twins. It provides a much needed break for the wife every week and allows her some time to decompress. Ella has really come out of her shell and is not nearly as clingy as she used to be. And Jack has been exposed to every germ and virus on the planet.

He currently has strep throat accompanied by a rash over his entire body which he brought home from Mother's Day Out. People say that it is helpful to expose your children to illness in order to strengthen their immune systems. Well, at this rate, the twins should be approaching total germ immunity in a couple of years. Here's a partial list of illnesses the twins have contracted and beaten off since starting Mother's Day Out:

Colds, Flu, Strep Throat, Pneumonia, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Polio, Whooping Cough, Smallpox, Consumption, and Syphilis. OK, so I made a couple of those things up. But seriously, it seems like a new illness every week. I think they should change the name from Mother's Day Out to something more honest, like, Festering Cesspool of Germs and Viruses for Children.

Desperate Housewife

2009-01-16T23:49:00.002-05:00

The twins went to bed early tonight. Not by choice, but by necessity. You see, they were very fussy and the wife was at the end of her tether. Her sanity was eroding like a beach in a hurricane, and the only evacuation route was an early story time followed by the brushing of baby teeth and the safety and comfort of a bottle of wine.

But she was out of wine. Or was she? She remembered that she had bought a cheap bottle of red wine for cooking purposes which somehow still remained unopened. How cheap? How does two dollars and ninety-seven cents sound? Yes, amazingly enough, for less than a dollar a glass, Bay Bridge Vineyards produces a Californian Cabernet Sauvignon which they would have you believe is fit for human consumption. It was a chance she would have to take. After all, she was desperate.

She was three glasses deep when I came home and trying to convince me that this swill wasn't as bad as one might expect. So, reluctantly, I took her glass and decided to see for myself. The following is the first and only wine review I shall ever attempt...

The first thing that struck me about Bay Bridge's Cabernet Sauvignon is that there was no vintage printed on the label. I can't be sure, but I think this wine was bottled at least three to four weeks ago, and has aged like a two pack a day coal miner with tuberculosis ever since. It's color is anemic yet has an almost blood blister quality to it which is hard to describe in words. It has a nose like Jimmy Durante and legs like 40 weight Valvoline after three thousand miles at redline RPM. And the taste? Hints of Dogwood and Crabapple with a pronounced BermaShave note. Or is that Brylcreem? And it finishes like the Mojave desert only slightly more dry. It's a wonder how they can put all of this in a bottle at so little cost. Pairs nicely with a bologna sandwich, if the sandwich doesn't take too much offense.

So, before I go to bed tonight, I'll be a dear and lay out four aspirin, three Tums, and a gallon of water on her bedside table. And when I get up in the morning, maybe I'll drive down to the liquor store and buy her something nice to drink before the next toddler meltdown. God forbid she should have to drink the Listerine, although, quite frankly, it might be an improvement.

Potty

2009-01-15T08:13:00.003-05:00

So the wife is on her fourth attempt at potty training Ella. She has decided to tackle the girl and not the boy this go 'round, as if this will somehow make it easier. She thinks that Jack isn't ready yet, and perhaps she's right. Ella has been doing pretty good earning cookies for pee, which is a job I would like to apply for myself.

Jack, on the other hand, has become very enamored with personal hygiene. The kid loves to wash his hands. He loves to watch the wet soap fly out of his hands like a lively speckled trout and flop around in the sink. He loves to feel the water and report back to headquarters "hot" or "cold". And he loves to splash around in the water. The other day, Ella peed in the potty seat, and as we were celebrating and doling out cookies, Jack walked over, stuck his finger in the pee, and said very excitedly, "Wash hands!". Yes, son. It is now time to wash your hands. Of course on the way to the sink, he stuck the offending finger right in his mouth without a care in the world. Jack lives on the edge. You can't stop that kid.

Just last night, Jack and I had a breakthrough. I was in the bathroom with the twins doing a little potty training. Being manly, I had both of them sitting on the potty at the same time... none of this girl first stuff for me, thank you. After reading a few books, Jack stood up and peed like a man. All over the floor. And on "The Belly Button Book" by Sandra Boynton. You can imagine just how proud I was of my son's first book review! Although I suggested that he provide a little more constructive criticism next time, I found his review to be accurate as the book's plot moves very slowly and the character development is a bit amateurish. Boy, I hope he never reads his Dad's blog!

Machine

2009-01-08T21:46:00.004-05:00

I knew the honeymoon wouldn't last forever. I knew the dynamic would change. My friends all told me that once the kids came, it would never be the same. Apparently, romance fades with the introduction of offspring quicker than a pair of blue jeans soaking in a puddle of bleach. And I'm OK with that, really, I am. Our love for each other is still strong and I wouldn't give up those beautiful twins of mine for all the romance in the world. But the wife has gone and done something I never expected. She has replaced me with a machine.

She knows it's wrong. She must. That's why she hides it from view. She never leaves it lying around for the kids or the neighbors to find. Oh, no. She closes the door and draws the curtains before she succumbs to it's rhythmic undulations, it's small but powerful motor pulsating with variable speed underneath that sleek ultra-white exterior. The machine can go for hours on end without tiring, sustaining her pleasure for as long as she likes while I, on the other hand, can't seem to please her for more than five minutes at a stretch. But what really irks me is that the machine was a gift from her mother.

You've probably guessed by now that the machine in question is her Pfaff 260 Automatic sewing machine. And she takes better care of it than she does me. But that's OK, too, because she's actually been making money with it. And she likes to sew, she really does. So check out her stuff here. And cross your fingers and hope that one day, she remembers that she still has a husband, and he's sitting on the couch trying to figure out how to compete with that infernal machine.

Technology

2009-01-04T14:07:00.002-05:00

When I was a kid, I loved video games. I used to steal quarters from my mother's purse and sneak off to the country store to play classic arcade games like "Defender", and "Donkey Kong", and "Missile Command." But when all of the quarters were gone, I had to go home and play with my friends. Usually outside. Hide and seek, endless variations of "Tag", and football were a few of our favorite games. Gather up all of the neighborhood kids, any age will do. We just needed bodies to form teams.

Nowadays, ask any kid if he wants to play football and he'll likely answer, "Sure. I have Madden '08 or I just got NCAA '09." These pre-teen couch jockeys have no idea what they're missing. They may never know the joy of executing the perfect Statue of Liberty play against those snot nosed kids from the other side of the block. Kids that age are supposed to be outside getting dirty, getting exercise, getting into trouble. The only thing they exercise now is their thumbs, which is why you should never thumb-wrestle a twelve year old.

And what's with the cell phones? Seems like every kid in double digits has a cell phone, so his or her parents can call them home for supper. My Dad could step out of the house and whistle, and I could hear it from as far away as three city blocks. And I knew if I didn't get home quick, I'd be forced to attend a meeting between his hand and my butt. And none of that cost $30 a month.

We were never allowed to watch TV at dinner, either. Parents today don't seem to leave home without their portable DVD players so that junior can watch his favorite cartoon characters while stuffing his face with chicken nuggets and french fries. I didn't know what McDonald's was until I was about eleven and my friend's family took me there. I didn't know what ethnic food was either. I can remember my first egg roll. I must have been fourteen. Mom did all of the cooking and you ate what was on your plate or went hungry.

Where did it all go so terribly wrong? When did technology take over our lives and leave us crippled, sedentary zombies? And, yes, I do realize the irony of typing these words into cyberspace for all of you to read at your leisure, but my Gutenberg movable type printing press is in the shop and my rotary phone dial won't turn past the three so I can't call the repairman and I'd send him a cable, but they don't do that anymore, either and I'm ashamed to say that I never learned how to whistle.

Travel

2008-12-27T12:08:00.002-05:00

Sooner or later, you're going to have to travel with your toddlers, and it's not going to be easy. Spending several hours confined to such a small space can be difficult for adults to stomach, but imagine what it's like for a two year old. Toddlers were made to run and play and wear themselves out so that they may nap. These things are impossible to do in a car hurtling along at 80 miles per hour. They will get cranky. They will yell, scream, moan, and cry. They will refuse to behave and you will find this stressful, especially since there will be nothing you can do about it from the driver's seat. So here are some toddler travel tips that may come in handy.

First of all, you will be tempted to pack lightly. Don't do it. Prepare yourself for any situation, and pack extra everything. I recommend at least four changes of clothing in addition to whatever your child will wear upon reaching your destination. Towels are always a good idea. Every medicine your child has ever taken should be readily accessible. Litter the vehicle with travel wipes... they should always be within arm's reach. Plastic grocery bags are a must. At least one to hold soiled clothes and three for garbage accumulated along the way. Toys, books, DVD's... pack every one you own, because you never know which ones they will favor at any given moment.

Secondly, know your route. You should study a map ahead of time and familiarize yourself with points along the way that can be helpful stress relievers. State parks offer toddlers a place to run around and play, but other interesting sights can often be found that the whole family can enjoy. I don't care if I have to see Rock City a hundred times if it helps calm the kids down in the car afterward. But if you really get stuck in a bind, go to the nearest Wal-Mart, find the toy section, and let the children behave as badly as they want to. Let them throw things, let them get loud, let them throw a fit when you try to leave. Nobody looks twice at a screaming two year old in Wal-Mart, and it can save your sanity.

Add at least 40% more travel time than you think you'll need. If you get there early, then you've just witnessed a miracle, and don't think it will ever happen again. You'll find yourself pulling off the road for potty breaks, eating breaks, playing breaks, sight seeing breaks, and just can't stand it at all anymore let's find a Wal-Mart breaks. All of these are necessary and essential. Don't worry about the fact that the same drive took you much less time before kids. Those days are over, and you will miss them for the rest of your life.

Perhaps the most important piece of equipment that no man should forget is a single earplug. Place this into the ear closest to your wife, because even though you can tune out the screaming, crying, moaning, and yelling coming from the back seat, your wife cannot. And due to seatbelt laws in place across the nation, her movement will be restricted and her head will only be able to turn approximately 100 degrees as she yells directly into your ear, "Stop all of that yelling and screaming before I pull this car over and wear your butts out!" This is why old men only have one good ear.

Well, I hope these ideas come in handy the next time you travel with toddlers. But if you're anything like me, you'll find yourself staring at some RV and thinking, "If I had one of those, I could put the wife and kids in the back, and sit up here in the cab all by myself in peace and quiet." And to think, I always wondered why those things were so expensive...

Novelty

2008-12-27T00:09:00.002-05:00

While traveling home for Christmas, I spent about an hour staring at the back of a box truck with a logo that read "Novelty, Inc." It was very nondescript and, therefore, very intriguing. I mean, there are novelty acts and novelty ice creams... but just what novelties did this baby blue box truck contain?

I began fantasizing about a traffic accident that would lead to the world's largest chattering teeth spill. I-75 north of Atlanta would be shut down for hours while they tried to clean it up. Volunteers would lose fingers as they battled the throngs of deadly chattering teeth. News reporters live from the scene could scarcely be heard over the din of the novelty item that just wasn't funny anymore. Mothers would make their children leave the room while they watched the carnage unfold in real time.

Firefighters would be called in to contain the chattering teeth with their hoses and paramedics would try to match up severed digits to victims' hands. And then, I would step forward with my plan....

First, establish a perimeter of whoopie cushions to contain the spill. Second, release the Slinkys to tangle up and ensnare the chattering teeth. Third, put on big nose glasses and foam sports fan "We're #1!" big hand gloves for protection and clean up the mess. Fourth, insert Billy Bob teeth and smile for the cameras. And, fifth, sign all autographs in disappearing ink.

Why do all of my fantasies end in me becoming the hero? Because they're my fantasies, by gum. You want to be the hero? Then you come up with a fantasy of your own. Just leave out the chattering teeth. They're mine. All mine.

Innocence

2008-12-24T00:49:00.003-05:00

There is nothing more honest or innocent than a child. In making my rounds about the restaurant this evening, I chanced upon a little boy and his grandparents. He couldn't have been more than eight or nine, and was a little plump and very cheerful. His brown page boy haircut framed two rosy cheeks and a very big grin. His grandparents were gaunt by comparison, the grandfather with a trucker's hat and a scraggly beard, and the grandmother in her second hand coat.

They assured me that their dinner was just fine, and as I stepped away from the table, the little boy spoke up, saying, "This is the best restaurant I've ever been to!". Now, we're no Waffle House, mind you, but Emeril probably wouldn't consider our cuisine fit for human consumption, either, I'm sad to say. But this little boy had paid me perhaps the nicest compliment possible, without even knowing it. And it was honest and heartfelt, to boot.

So I turned back and asked him if he was ready for Christmas, just to engage him a little further and pay him some of my attention. It was the least I could do. I wasn't prepared for such a shockingly honest reply.

"Oh, yes. My daddy's coming tomorrow because he just got out of jail two weeks ago and he's bringing my present. He can't stay, though, because he has to be back at twelve o'clock every night because he just got out of jail."

There was no embarrassment at all from the boy. He was proud and excited to spend time with his daddy. The grandparents, on the other hand, were quick to put their fingers to their lips and shush the little butterball who was telling the family secrets in an almost boastful manner. Sensing their shame, I focused only on the little boy.

Placing my hand on his shoulder, I looked in his eyes and said, "It sounds like you're going to have a great Christmas, big guy. I hope you get everything you want." And as I walked away, I realized what I wanted for Christmas. I wanted this little boy's daddy to make good on his promise and spend some time with his son.

So, Santa, if you're out there, please grant my wish. I know that I have more than I will ever deserve, and I won't ask you for anything else, ever. Just, please don't let this boy down. He deserves this one little gift. His innocence won't last forever, much like his belief in you. But don't take it away just yet. Please. He's a good kid, and honest and unashamed, too. Please, Santa, just let him stay that way a little bit longer. After all, it's the holidays. Merry Christmas.

Catch Phrase

2008-12-23T13:01:00.002-05:00

It was barely a month ago that the twins went in for their two year check up with their pediatrician. When asked if we had any concerns as to their developmental status, the wife wondered if maybe their speech abilities were not up to par. We have friends with a daughter born just three weeks after our kids, and it seems that she's been putting together small sentences for weeks, while ours were busy babbling and throwing out the occasional odd word or two. Sure, they had a few parlor tricks up their sleeves, like telling you what a dog says or what a train says, but the wife wasn't convinced of their vocal prowess.

All of that has changed, and rather quickly. In fact, they have both developed their own catch phrases, and are ready to star in their own sit com. Jack's is perhaps the strongest contender, one that could rival J.J.Walker's "Dynomite!" or Gary Coleman's "What you talking 'bout, Willis?". It's beauty is in it's simplicity. When Jack walks into the room, he belts out in a cheery voice, "Hi, buddy!". He uses this to great effect several times a day. At 4:30AM, I awoke to what sounded like construction work, hammering perhaps, coming from the kids room. I opened the door to find Jack sitting in his bed, loudly banging two blocks together, his sister somehow still asleep in the same bed right next to him. When he saw me peek into the room, he ran up to me and yelled, "Hi, buddy!", as if I were an old college friend he hadn't seen in years. Cute.

Ella's catch phrase is actually dependant upon her brother. It's clear who the star of this sit com is, although her role of sister diva cannot be underscored. She is the straight man to Jack's top banana. When Jack is off playing by himself, Ella will look around for him and call out, "Jack? Whatcha doing?". It's as if she knows he's somewhere doing something he shouldn't be doing, and she's somehow in charge of keeping him out of trouble. He usually responds by running into the room, trying to look innocent and shouting, "Hi, buddy!". Double cute.

I'm proud to say that Ella can already read her alphabet. She can point to a letter and call it out by name. That girl loves to read, and it shows. They have both been working on their colors and numbers, and their vocabulary seems to be increasing every day, so much so that the wife can't believe she ever thought there was a problem just a few short weeks ago. It's funny how quickly two toddlers can change in such a short time. They seem to be making huge leaps at a time in their development these days, and it's really fun to watch.

We're all looking forward to Christmas and spending a little time with our family. It will be a long drive for us, but hopefully we'll get through it without too many meltdowns. And, who knows, we may just have some new stories to tell when we get back home. Until then, Merry Christmas, and why's it so quiet around here? Jack? Whatcha doing?

C.L.A.S.S. part 3

2008-12-18T22:09:00.004-05:00

For those of you who have asked for more pictures of the house, here it is... the Morgan family 2008 Christmas Wonderland. Enjoy!

And remember the old man from the "Guys" post? Well, he's come back to the restaurant a few times since the incident, and he always asks for me. We talk mostly about family and the holidays, and he always thanks me for handling the situation the way I did. I genuinely like old people, and if you pay attention, you can learn alot from them. On his last visit, for instance, I learned that this old coot has C.L.A.S.S.

Completely unprompted by our conversation, he produced an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. My hands folded back the flap to reveal a picture of a very modest house in a not so great neighborhood that was completely covered in a kaleidoscope of colored Christmas lights. Turns out Pops and me are kindred spirits, after all. Every bush, every hedge, every eve and overhang were trimmed out. The security fence could barely support the weight of Christmas cheer hanging from it's chain links. And up on the roof was a plastic blow mold of Santa's sleigh and three reindeer. After taking it all in for a second or two, I turned my eyes from the picture and said, "I must admit... I'm a little jealous."

I told him about my filthy Christmas light addiction and the competition I have with my neighbor. Guess what? He has one, too! Some young kid who lives down the street is always trying to copy his setup. So he doesn't put it all out at once anymore. He starts small and adds to it daily, so that every night when the power goes on, it's a bigger and better display until Christmas night when the whole shebang explodes into a crescendo of colossal Christmas color! Brilliant!

Ah, we spoke of many things that night. When to hang your lights, when to first turn them on, when to take them down, color schemes, power supplies, extension cords... it was a stimulating conversation that could only be enjoyed by two raging lightaholics like us. I could have chatted him up all night, but, alas, I had to return to work. A few days later, he sent me a Christmas card wishing me and my family all the season's best wishes. What can I say? He's a real C.L.A.S.S. act!

C.L.A.S.S. part 2

2008-12-15T11:36:00.002-05:00

So, the neighbor came down and admitted defeat. Turns out, he's not even putting up lights this year at all. He's taking some time to re-group and plan next year's layout. You would think this news would leave me elated, full of pride, and with a head swollen to the size of an eighty year old prostrate gland, but not so. Truth is, I need the competition in order to showcase my greatness by comparison. So I have taken to the streets lately so that I may mock other neighborhood displays and confirm my superiority. Here's what I have found...

Poorly decorated trees. Please don't put a strand of lights in your tree, because it looks bad... like you just threw a strand of lights at your tree and then plugged them in. Which, of course, is what you did. There aren't nearly enough lights to make it appealing, and the top of the tree is almost impossible to reach. The result is a single helix of anemic Christmas cheer floating in the middle of an otherwise undecorated landscape like a second grade model of malignant DNA. Not impressive.

Puffers. The name refers to those who like the new-fangled inflatable decorations. Although these may be impressive to some because of their sheer size, to me they simply represent a lack of imagination. So you have proven that you can open a box and plug in an extension cord... big deal? Unless you have to get out the ladder and risk life and limb to climb up onto your roof, you aren't trying hard enough. Not to mention that when unplugged, Santa looks like he was up way too late drinking the night before and simply passed out on the lawn. Explain that to your children.

Cutters. These are the people who display painted plywood cutouts, usually with an uplight. These can be very festive indeed, but sometimes they stray a bit from the Christmas theme. For instance, there is a cove near me that is full of cutters, and the high rate of participating houses is impressive. The trouble is, all of their cutouts are Disney related. What do Buzz Lightyear, Peter Pan, and Mickey Mouse have in common? I don't know, but it ain't Christmas. I know the economy is bad right now, but I had no idea that classic Disney animations were out there trying to hustle a dollar, perhaps displaying signs that read, "Will work for ink."

Computer controlled displays. Apparently, having a computer flash your lights on and off in syncopation to bad Christmas music somehow saves electricity. Personally, I would rather spend a few extra bucks than torture the neighbors with flashing lights and Manheim Steamroller all through the night. Isn't that the same technique the FBI employed to make David Koresh burn down the Branch Davidian complex in Waco? Don't get me wrong, flashing lights have their place, but unless your garage is full of slot machines and you offer table games in your basement and free booze around the clock, just leave your lights burning, please.

So, with just a few days left until Christmas, I am satisfied with my light display... this year. Soon everything will be on sale for half off or less, and I will scoop up supplies for next year. After all, the neighbor is planning something spectacular, I just know it, and I can't be outdone! And without revealing too much of my plans, if anyone knows where I can score about 200 feet of sturdy, yet bendable wire let me know. And any tips on welding would be appreciated, too. Merry Christmas to all, and please don't stare too long at my house, it may burn your retinas.

Simple

2008-12-13T15:10:00.002-05:00

There are no simple things in life. Mark my words on this one. Even the simplest of tasks can be made difficult with enough engineering. What may seem like a great innovation or a revolutionary idea to one man may be another man's nemesis. And that's why I hate sippy cups.

I just want to get my kids some juice. Shouldn't that be simple? But, alas, the modern day sippy cup has more parts than MacGyver would know what to do with. There are plastic straws and rubber tubes and grommets to contend with. And no two are alike, either. So if you have different brands, the parts may look similar, but their dimensions are just larger or smaller than their counterparts so as not to work properly. It's like three incompatible erector sets all piled together, and although the parts look alike, they are most certainly not.

Instead of pouring juice into a glass and being done with it, I'm first faced with the daunting task of sorting through all of the pieces and then trying to put together not one, but two of these things. That wouldn't be so bad if my kids weren't spewing tears and wailing at the top of their lungs. It's like trying to spell Antidisestablishmentarianism while someone is poking you with a sharp stick. It's easy to lose your concentration.

But like all things in life, this condition is only temporary. Soon my children will be out of diapers and drinking from regular glasses, and we'll be forced to carry extra pants and plenty of napkins to mop up spilled milk. By then, of course, we will have forgotten the trials and tribulations of the sippy cup era, romanticized the memory, and lament those lost days when life was much easier, simpler even. So let these words stand as my reminder: Nothing in life is simple, least of all, sippy cups.

Oops!

2008-12-13T14:15:00.001-05:00

I am human, and therefore capable of mistakes. Although I consider myself to be a better than average husband and father, there are times when I manage to screw up royally. Sometimes I even know better, but allow my foolish pride to get the better of my clear judgment. And this is how it came to pass that I dared to criticize my lovely wife's housekeeping prowess.

I used to think that marriage would be easy. "All I have to do," I thought to myself, "is tell her every day just how much I love her." And I do love her in indescribable ways. But somewhere over the course of a marriage, the passion we once shared has turned into a calming comfort, a complacency, a sense of security that is easy to take for granted, and "I love you" becomes something you say when you don't have anything to say at all. I don't show my appreciation for her nearly as often as I should, and I owe her an apology for that.

So even though I prefaced the conversation with, "I know raising our kids is not easy, and I know you do alot around here, and I appreciate the fact that you cook dinner every night and all the other things you do, but... I'm a little frustrated. I just wish that when I came home, I could walk through the house without fear of stepping on anything, or fracturing a toe, or breaking something on the floor, or sitting on a stack of books on the couch. I don't expect a spotless house, but if you could just keep the living room from looking like a bomb exploded, that would be nice."

I obviously misjudged the impact of this seemingly innocuous suggestion, because her face turned crimson red and steam hissed out of her ears as the silence overtook the room. I couldn't tell if she was angry or depressed, or vehemently swinging from the first emotion to the latter. I just knew that I had messed up. "Oh, dear. Look at the time. Well, I must be going to work. Have a great day, sugar. I love you." Relieved to get out of the house in one piece, I crossed my fingers and hoped the cell phone would not ring. It didn't.

When I got home that night the house was spotless, although it felt hollow because I knew she had done it out of spite. The next morning when I awoke, there was still a tension in the air, but we managed to start up a dialogue in an effort to diffuse the situation. It turns out that at one point or another, all of her friends' husbands have made the same mistake. She had talked it over with all of them, blowing off some of the aforementioned steam that my blunder had built up in her boiler. It seems that inside of every husband lies a savage brute; an unthinking, unfeeling, emotionless and selfish caveman that considers his woman more like property than a partner. And I, for one, am grateful for that. Because if I were the only one, I'd still be in the doghouse. Maybe one day evolution will kill this inner caveman. Until then, we have only our wives to keep us in check. And I, for one, am grateful for that, too.

Santa

2008-12-07T02:12:00.003-05:00

My kids hate Santa. And I'm fine with that, because I hate Santa, too. Not the idea of Santa, not even all Santas, but this Santa in particular is a second rate, low rent, redneck Santa Claus, and I'm not a fan.

Let me say that it's not in my character to hold a grudge. But I guess that some offenses cannot be overcome very easily, and although I thought I was over it, the sight of this Santa was enough to send me reeling, and here's why.

Last year, we went for our Santa pictures with our local multiples club. What I had envisioned as a pleasant visit with Santa, full of precious photo ops, turned quickly into a trying experience that has left me and my twins scarred for life.

Santa entered the room in a burgundy Santa suit that must have been on the discount rack at TJ Max. Sure, his white hair and beard was real, but Santa's suit is red, not burgundy, and if you can't tell the difference, then you need to get your eyes checked, or you need to consult Christopher Lowell. He proceeded to read some unknown story in a terrible Southern drawl, and he hadn't even committed it to memory. Imagine Santa fumbling over the words of some obscure Christmas story, trying to read upside down, and losing the interest of scores of small children in the process. Why not memorize "The Night Before Christmas" and simply turn the pages slowly in the interest of captivating your audience, which, by the way, has an incredibly short attention span?

And since when has Santa had such a pronounced Lower Alabama Southern accent? The last time I checked, Santa was from the North Pole. I have never heard Santa say, "You done a good job, Billy," or, "Hey, Blitzen, we're fixin' to take off!" But all of this could have been overlooked, had it not been for the unsolicited advice he dared to give me.

The wife was nowhere to be found, and dealing with two screaming one year olds who just wanted Daddy to hold them was a bit daunting. So, while holding my daughter, I grabbed my son by the wrist and gently lifted him up to my hip to cease the crying. And that's when Santa stepped in. Or, rather stepped in it.

"You know," quoth Santa, "that at that age, their arms are not fully developed, and you can actually pull their arms out of their sockets pretty easily lifting them like that. You should really lift them under the armpit. And I'm not telling you this because I think it's true. I learned by experience. It happened to me twice with my kids before my doctor explained it to me."

Wow. Santa, you probably shouldn't drink so much Vodka before jerking your kids around like rag dolls. And you didn't learn your lesson the first time? What do you do to pass your time in the off season? Drunken elf tossing? Toddler flinging? How do you pull your kids arms out of their sockets twice and still make a living posing as Santa Claus? You are more frightening than a sad French clown.

So this year, I was secretly happy that my kids wanted nothing to do with this trailer park Santa. It was a validation of my skepticism of the second rate Santa Claus and his unwanted advice. Perhaps next year, the twins will be more accepting of Santa. And perhaps, we will visit another Santa altogether. A kinder, gentler, less abusive Santa Claus with an eye for color and without a regional accent. And without unsolicited advice. And, no, my kids' arms have never left their sockets.

Genius

2008-12-04T12:41:00.002-05:00

We had a full house for Thanksgiving this year, and packing five extra people into a house with only one extra bedroom was quite a challenge. We enjoyed all of the company, don't get me wrong, but coming home from work in the wee hours of the morning and stepping over rows of bodies lying everywhere is slightly eerie, and reminiscent of Heaven's Gate, or Guyana. Thank goodness it was the turkey that did them in and not the kool-aid.

There were many memories made of Monopoly victories, cake decorating, searching for DDR, debating carbon credits, and even shoe throwing (not by the kids, either), but perhaps my favorite moment of the weekend was a story told by my father-in-law that gave me some real insight into the mind of a genius. It was a story about walnuts.

It seems that somewhere upon his hundred acres, he chanced upon a cache of black walnuts. Being the resourceful man that he is, he loaded them up in his tractor and took them back to his shop to enjoy at his leisure. The trouble with walnuts is that in order to eat them, one first has to remove the nut from it's shell, and this is not the easiest of tasks. Looking around his shop, he quickly spotted a hammer and went to work. Although the hammer made easy work of the hard shell, it also took it's toll on the poor walnut inside, shattering it into very small pieces that had to be delicately removed from the shell fragments in order to eat and enjoy. "Too much work for too little reward," thought the father-in-law. And so he set about finding a better way to crack a nut.

A Google search revealed that there was indeed a special nutcracker made just for the hard shell of the black walnut, but it was expensive. Other methods included drilling holes in a board just slightly smaller than the shell, and then hammering the walnuts through with a wooden mallet. He finally settled on using a vise. After some experimentation, he had discovered the absolute best way to crack a black walnut, and I'm here to share his secret with you. The trick is to set it in the vise lengthwise at first, and twist just hard enough to crack the shell a little bit. Then, turn the shell so that the top and bottom are held in the vise, and apply pressure until the shell gives way, leaving the whole sweet delicious nutmeat intact and ready to enjoy.

A lesser man would have been content with the hammer, or even given up altogether. But not my father-in-law. It is the sign of true genius to find a better way, to think outside the box, to experiment in order to get it right. And how noble of him to share his revelation with others? So although I had plenty to be thankful for this year, this Thanksgiving will live on in my memory as the year I learned the absolute best way to crack a black walnut, and, for that, I am truly thankful. God bless you, sir, and your unselfish wisdom.

C.L.A.S.S.

2008-12-04T10:07:00.001-05:00

It began around this time last year. It started out innocently enough, but has now snowballed helplessly out of control. There are no self help groups to join. My condition is not yet recognized as a dangerous and addictive disease. But I'm here before you all to admit my inner depravity. I have C.L.A.S.S. I'm talking, of course, about Christmas Light Acquisition Syndrome Symptoms.

We decided to put up some lights on the house last year. So, I bought some net lights at K-Mart to drape around the bushes, and when I got home, I decided it would be best to get them out and plug them in to see if they would even work. Just as I had covered the first bush, our neighbors up the street yelled down, "Hey! What are you doing? Are you trying to make us look bad?". I tried to explain that I was simply testing the new lights, but, "Oh no," they said, "We're putting ours up, too!"

Hours later, I went outside to get something from my truck. It was pitch black and very cold, and I was very surprised to see the same neighbors' garage door open and all of the lights on. Then I noticed that he was up on his ladder, still decorating his house. Incredulous, I went back inside and got the wife. "Honey, you're not gonna believe this. Come look." As we stared up the street in amazement, I could feel the anger welling up in my soul. I knew what I had to do. I had to out-decorate him. I had to win.

Several trips to K-Mart later, and with some encouragement from my father-in-law, my house shone like a beacon in the night. Cars would linger for long moments in front of my domicile of dazzling lights, and children were lost in wonderment. It was by no means a tremendous display of enormous proportions, just a few hundred white lights, some yard deer, a few lighted wreaths, and an outdoor Christmas tree, but it was the best house on our street, and my neighbor knew it. "Dude, you got me on the lights this year," he woefully admitted. I called the father-in-law to gloat, and I felt good about my victory.

The day after Christmas found me at the Home Depot, where I purchased a 5 foot lighted wreath and a few more strands of lights for half price. I was already thinking about next year, and how perfect that wreath would look over my garage. I had plans of adding pieces to my display each year, but I was convinced that it wasn't a problem. I could quit anytime I wanted. And indeed, I managed to put Christmas lights out of my mind for several months.

But Halloween was scarcely over when I started planning my display this year. In the first week of November, I moved all of my supplies into the garage... just to take stock of what I had on hand. I began to troll the internet, tracking blow mold Santas on Ebay, drooling over the photos on PlanetChristmas.com, and researching wire form figures that could possibly adorn my roof. I began driving by K-Mart at odd hours, even when it wasn't on the way home.

I had my entire display ready to go before Thanksgiving, making excuses to the neighbors that my work schedule was hectic, and that I had to put them up now before I was just too busy. The kids helped me decorate the outside tree, and I added some sparkly snowflakes to the front porch and a light up Santa to the front yard. The big wreath looks great above the garage, and my mother-in-law even tied me a huge bow to hang upon it. I was proud.

When the wife remarked how wonderful everything looked, I was beaming. "I didn't know you had such Christmas spirit," she said, but she had missed the point entirely. It's not about Christmas spirit at all. It's about shaming my neighbors into feeling empty and small with their pitiful, amatuerish displays, leaving them to lie awake at night, tossing and turning, planning their next move, plotting to outdo me. But more than that, it's about having C.L.A.S.S., and brother, I've got it in spades.

Frugality

2008-11-24T08:13:00.002-05:00

You may have noticed some pictures of food interspersed with photos of the twins on the slide show. That's because my lovely wife is not only a photographer, but also one heck of a cook, as evidenced by my growing waistline (and by my growing collection of sansabelt slacks). She is also a frugal shopper and manages to feed our family of four on a modest average budget of $400 a month. How does she do it? Well, she's started a blog to inform the world! Read all about it here.

Guys

2008-11-19T12:01:00.002-05:00

"Blaine, you need to go talk to these people. They're CRAZY!" said the waitress. "They're upset because the hostess called them 'you guys', and one of the ladies asked her 'Do I look like I have a penis?' and I tried to tell them that she didn't mean anything by it and the man waved his finger in my face and started yelling at me! They are CRAZY!"

Thus began one of the most embarrassing faux pas in my career. I approached the table and found a very old but animated silver haired man, his equally aged wife dressed in a dashiki, and their daughter, granddaughter and infant grandson. The old man did all of the talking, shushing the females when they tried to interject various facts and opinions. He invited me to sit down, which, of course, I did.

I politely asked him to tell me what was going on. "She mistakenly referred to us as 'you guys'. Now, when men grow breasts and are able to birth children, that's the day I leave this country. Just like I would never say to her 'Hey, man, can you come over here?', because she is a woman, not a man. What are they teaching our children when a woman has a sex change operation, becomes pregnant, and then goes on Oprah as a man, showing off his pregnant belly?" It was a bit of a non-sequitur if you ask me, but I went along with it for fear of further upsetting this grumpy old fellow.

I nodded politely and agreed with everything he said. I offered him my apology, but he said I had no reason to apologize for my staff's stupidity. I assured him that I would talk to my staff about being more professional when they address our guests, and set off to the hostess stand to do just that. The hostess was understanding and apologetic, adding that it was a common term used to address a group, and one that I was probably guilty of using myself. I returned to the table to let him know the situation had been addressed.

"The hostess wasn't the problem. She apologized for her actions. It's that waitress who smiled when I told her that we were not all 'guys'. Now, I can wipe that smile off of her face, but I'm gonna let you handle it, instead." I truly believed that he could indeed wipe that smile off of her face, probably with his belt, or perhaps with more drastic measures like Samuel L. Jackson in "Black Snake Moan".

Off I go to address the waitress, with similar results as the hostess. Now I've had two conversations about being professional, and the table in question has had time to eat their meal. It was time for me to swing back by the table and offer dessert on the house like some kind of hero. And that's when it happened.

"How was your dinner?" I asked. "Would you guys like some dessert on us?" I blurted out. I could feel the blood gather in my cheeks. The man peered over his glasses at me, silently. His gaze said much more than words could have. "I'm so sorry. I'm just going to leave the table before I get into any more trouble, " I managed to mumble. I ran into the kitchen, blushing with embarrassment to tell the hostess and the waitress of my blunder. Once I gathered my composure, I returned to the table again, this time with my tail between my legs.

"I just wanted to tell you that I am truly sorry and completely embarrassed by my slip of the tongue. I would like to buy your dinner tonight."

"Thank you son, but that's not necessary." The old man gently arose and shook my hand. "It takes a man to come back here and admit he was wrong. We will pay our way tonight, and we will come back. Next time you see me, if you still want to, I'll let you buy my dinner then. In the meantime, you've got some work to do." He added, "We'll see how you do next time." That last statement sounded more like a threat than a promise, but at last they were gone, and thankfully so.

As I wiped the sweat from my brow, there were a few things this encounter assured me of:
1. They will be back.
2. They will be referred to as "guys".
3. I will not have such an easy time next time. And...
4. Old people are crazy.

Pooper

2008-11-10T14:53:00.003-05:00

Jack has discovered his pooper. During diaper changes, he seems unable to refrain from sticking his finger in it. I wouldn't be worried, but it's one of the fingers he's fond of sucking on a regular basis. The wife is convinced that he will contract some terrible disease, like ringworm, or roto-virus. I think he must be some kind of prodigy, as I don't remember discovering my pooper until I was three or so.

All of my revelations seemed to come in the bathtub. That's when I had the time to really study my own body. When I was eight, for example, I discovered my urethra. Oh, sure I had been aware for some time that there was a hole at the end of my pee pee that expelled urine, sometimes at inopportune moments. But on that day, I thought, "If stuff can come out of it, can't stuff go in it?" So, on a whim, I decided to fill up an empty squirt bottle with dirty bath water, line up the holes, and let 'er rip.

Keep in mind that this was eight year old dirty bath water. The kind that leaves a ring around the tub and makes your grandmother complain endlessly while she scrubs the porcelain with Brillo pads and Comet on her sexagenarian hands and knees. Full of bacteria and germs and quite possibly some parasites of unknown origins. This was actually fun for awhile and captivated my attention for three or four full squirts.

The ramifications could not be foreseen by my eight year old brain. I simply lacked the intuitiveness to realize that some orifices should forever remain as "exit only." Less than forty-eight hours later, I realized that this had been a terrible mistake, a horrific miscalculation, a misguided experiment gone awry. I had given myself a kidney infection.

There appeared to be only one symptom, and thankfully so, because it was the single most painful sensation I had experienced up to that point in my young life. It was as though every time I peed, I was peeing red hot molten burning long grains of brown wild rice. It was so bad that I didn't want to pee at all. And yet, I had to pee all the time. I simply could not hold it. It kept coming and coming. It was as if I had drank fourteen jabenero beers, if there were such a thing. It was, in a word, awful.

The only good thing that came out of this experience is that I got to get out of school for a day and spend time with my Dad at the doctor's office. But, of course, the only way my case could be diagnosed was for me to pee in a cup, which I was sure would melt when filled up with molten rice. It didn't, and I lived to tell the tale. So now, I have a choice to make. Do I try to keep my son from making the same mistakes that I have made, or do I let him learn from his own mistakes? After all, isn't that just a part of growing up? I certainly think so. And besides, what could be a better birthday gift for a two year old than a squirt bottle, really? Knock yourself out, kid. Nobody will know but you, me and the doctor. Unless you decide one day to blog about it, that is.

Helen

2008-11-10T13:54:00.002-05:00

Last week we took the kids up to the mountains in North Georgia to see all the pretty colors of Fall. There is a quaint little town called Helen with Bavarian architecture and lots of kitschy shops which is really fun to visit. We had some trepidations about leaving the strollers behind, although we were miles from home before the thought even crossed our minds.

We had intended to visit Charlemagne's Kingdom, a model train museum of gigantic proportions which can be viewed from above on a catwalk perimeter. There must be scores of trains of all shapes and sizes going through tunnels and over bridges, carrying lumber and freight and passengers alike over miles of track and mountainous terrain. Not to mention that the gift shop is well stocked with every kind of toy train imaginable. Have I mentioned that Jack absolutely loves trains? Charlemagne's Kingdom is open to the public six days a week, and only closes on Wednesdays, which, of course, is the day we chose to go.

Luckily for us, the toddlers were oblivious to our disappointment and very open to the idea of a picnic at the park by the river. We watched an old couple hold hands on a swing overlooking the water as the kids tried hard to pick the jelly off of their sandwiches, leaving behind the carbohydrates of bread and the protein of peanut butter. Jack quickly found a colony of termites with which to play, stomping and stamping to his heart's delight. Ella was much more subdued, taking in the natural beauty of her surroundings. We all enjoyed running around in the wide open spaces underneath a sky blue sky and surrounded by the red and gold leaves of Autumn.

Then it was off to the toy store, where Jack quickly found... you guessed it! Trains! Within seconds he had every locomotive in stock lined up in single file, with a couple of school buses thrown in for good measure. I have never seen a happier kid in my entire life. We must have spent an hour and a half there and he never left the trains.

Ella, on the other hand, had more fun playing with the signs advertising "50% off" than any of the toys they had to offer. That is, until we found a musical cylinder attached to a long handle that could be pushed around like a vacuum cleaner. Then we couldn't drag her off the front porch, going back and forth with that thing clanking out quarter notes by the dozen. She is by far the most musical of my two toddlers and enjoys singing and playing instruments, so I was not surprised by her toy selection.

Then we went to Anna Ruby Falls, twin waterfalls that lay at the end of about a mile of paved trails up the side of a mountain. The twins marched on like good little soldiers, running much of the way and shouting, "Up, up, up!" as they made their ascent. We stopped along the way to make friends with the other hikers and let Mom catch up, and Jack made it to the top all by himself, where he interrupted two young lovers enjoying the view, perhaps reminding them that a little hanky panky and nine months can have some very sobering, if not adorable, consequences. Ella needed a little assistance toward the top, and flat refused to walk back down by herself. Even so, it was a beautiful day, and filled with pride I could hardly feel the weight of my little girl on my shoulders as we trudged back down the mountain toward the car and then home to play with our new toys.

Cribs

2008-11-10T12:53:00.002-05:00

Well, we converted the cribs into toddler beds today. Jack has become a skillful crib climber in recent weeks, and the wife was afraid he might somehow hurt himself. He and I know the truth, however; Jack is indeed invincible. But in order to placate the wife, I removed the railing and made the cribs more easily accessible for both of our toddler twins.

In the process, I learned a few things. First, I must be getting older, because after two years I still had the instructions for the cribs. I also referred to them before beginning the task and found them quite useful, which I never would have done when I was young. I would like to add that I am not yet old enough to become completely stupefied by the instructions, but I must acknowledge that at some point in the future an instruction booklet may leave me disoriented and confused beyond reason. I am merely older, not yet old.

Secondly, toddlers are hard on consumer products. I followed the instruction manual's directions and checked for loose screws, only to find that every screw had become loose and that a few of them had backed out completely. I shouldn't have been at all surprised, considering the daily torture inflicted upon those cribs by my children's feverish bouncing. Still, I should perhaps be thankful that the sound of squeaking bed springs in the middle of the night doesn't yet alarm me. Twelve years from now, I'm sure it will send me running for my shotgun and place quite a strain on my relationship with my precious Ella. I am reminded that these are the good times.

We also took the opportunity to clean under and behind the cribs, a task that we obviously don't do often enough. We had to empty the vacuum cleaner halfway through the mission. Items found included: trains, balls, dryer sheets, pajama bottoms, hair clips, books, clothes hangers, and one sippy cup containing a microcosm so ancient and advanced that it actually scoffed at us for still burning fossil fuels and emitting greenhouse gasses.

The result of this endeavor was actually quite predictable. Jack, the consummate napper, found his way into the toddler bed and nodded off to sleep without incident, cuddled up with Mister Bear and shrouded in his favorite blue blanket, pointer and index finger of his left hand securely in his mouth where they belong like a sword in a scabbard. Ella, the Sandman scorner, played and played, fighting and railing against sleep for as long as she could, until her vigilance wore off and unconsciousness overtook her in the middle of the floor as she clutched her pink blanket and covered her red head with her favorite book.

And so it goes that another milestone has come to pass. We have foregone the cribs and opted for big kid beds. It seems like yesterday that they were turning over for the first time, and then getting teeth, but now this. When did they get so big? How did they grow so fast? At this rate, they'll be off to college in the blink of an eye. Which reminds me, I'd better get some shells for that old shotgun before it's too late.

Gravy

2008-10-30T01:25:00.004-04:00

I owe my mother plenty, to be sure. She raised me by herself from the age of eight. She instilled in me an intense work ethic. She made untold sacrifices so that my sisters and I could grow up without wanting for anything except basic cable. She was always there for me, no matter what. But perhaps the greatest thing she ever provided me with was gravy.

Gravy. That strange elixir of flour, fat, and milk. Simple. Wholesome. Delicious. A staple of the Southern diet, gravy graced a large percentage of our daily meals, and thankfully so. Why, you might ask, has gravy been such an important ingredient in my life? There are many comfort foods such as spaghetti, chili, meatloaf, and chicken soup. My mother made all of those, and they were all delicious. But the flavor and texture of rice and gravy, pork chops and gravy, chicken and gravy, bread and gravy, have made me who I am today. Unhealthy though it may seem, gravy has shaped my life. And I will forever be grateful for it.

I was thirty years old, and had all but given up on the prospect of marriage. Then I chanced upon a store bought redhead that would change my life forever. She was young and beautiful. Impetuous and intelligent. Sensuous and seductive. She was everything I was looking for, only I had no idea what she was capable of. Until one morning, when she went into my kitchen and made me biscuits and gravy for breakfast. From scratch. It was love at first bite.

A couple of weeks later, at Thanksgiving dinner, dining with my family, apart from my newly beloved, feasting upon turkey, dressing and, you guessed it, gravy divine, I asked my dear mother about diamond rings and set into motion the events leading up to my engagement. My family was quite astonished, not having met this wonderful woman who's culinary musings spoke to my familial urges, yet they were supportive and hopeful, perhaps thankful at last that I had found someone who could tame me; grateful that I was finally considering settling down.

Now I shall not pretend that it was gravy alone that led me down the aisle. She had plenty of other tempting traits upon which to hitch my star. But it was gravy that opened the door to my heart, that allowed me to see her bountiful offerings. And although it has not been entirely without it's lumps, our marriage is still as rich and flavorful as my favorite childhood delicacy. Yes, my life, it seems, is just a bowl of gravy.

Redemption

2008-10-25T11:06:00.002-04:00

The wife thought it would be a good idea to send the kids to a Mother's Day Out program one day a week. This, she purported, would help our precious Ella with her detachment issues. Jack has never met a stranger, but Ella, on the other hand, is wary of everyone she doesn't see on a daily basis, including immediate family members. She latches on to us like velcro, and cries big crocodile tears if we try to separate from her.

Mother's Day Out is not inexpensive, and although I outwardly supported the idea because I love my wife and pick my battles carefully, inwardly I questioned the merits of straining our budget so that she could play online Scrabble for four uninterrupted hours a week. It was a brilliant performance, and I must give credit to the Stravinski method and Mrs. Boyle, my high school Drama teacher for making me so convincing.

The first week, after the twins were dropped off, I was awakened by a distraught wife telling me what a horrible mother she was and how my little girl cried and screamed when left with the other kids. Not having time to get into character, my reaction was to roll over to mask my inner dialogue which said, "You asked for this. You knew it was coming. Why are you waking me up to complain about it now?" There would be no second take, as this was a live performance, and I had blown it. "You don't care," replied the wife as she stormed out of the room, leaving me guilt ridden and sleepless and disappointed in my ability to improv.

After some soul searching, I decided to embrace this Mother's Day Out thing. After all, didn't my wife deserve some time off? Hadn't I been taking her for granted? Wasn't I being selfish and shallow? Couldn't I be more supportive? And wasn't it big of me to recognize my faults and take some corrective measures? I decided that the answer to all of these questions was undoubtedly "Yes."

So I surprised my wife by waking up early and helping to drop the kids off at the church around the corner. I watched as my son plodded happily into the classroom and started playing without hesitation and my daughter threw one heck of a fit. We waved goodbye and went on our way. As we left, I suggested that the wife and I have a "morning date" and hit some garage sales before going out to lunch, just the two of us.

I must admit that I was wrong about Mother's Day Out. It is well worth the money spent and will certainly be helpful to our darling daughter. She is doing better every week. And my wife deserves it, too. We had a wonderful time on our date, and it had been far too long since we had put aside some time for just the two of us. We were like a young couple in love again, without all of the distractions and headaches and stress that two toddlers can inflict upon a marriage. It was a blissful break, but by lunchtime, we were more than ready to pick the kids up, and they were very happy to see us, indeed. We all went home and had a family nap, and nobody slept better that day than me; the wonderful slumber of redemption.

Spewage

2008-10-22T10:55:00.002-04:00

It has been many months since the spit-up phase. And truthfully, I never got it as bad as my wife did, bless her heart. I recall visiting Dad in the hospital, and within moments of our arrival with the twins in tow, Jack hosted an impromptu wet T-shirt contest in which my lovely wife was the sole contestant, and consequently, the winner. The prize? The loss of dignity and a trip to the car for a change of clothes. Dad laughed so hard that he would have surely wet himself had it not been for the catheter, and that may have been the last time I saw him so happy. Thanks, Jack. Sorry, honey.

But now the hurling fairy has paid us a visit. The twins just can't seem to keep anything down. There is no fever, and they seem to be fine otherwise. They have plenty of energy. They talk and play. Then they hurl and cry. This is our first encounter with spewage, which is far worse than spit-up. It requires much more cleaning, and we are quickly running out of towels. The wife is seeking advice from every mother she knows on the best way to remove spewage from carpets, couches, and crotches. And the worst part is, I myself was just treated to a lap full of chunky Pedialyte. Eww.

I do find it curious that our children can get away with things that I never could and somehow become even more loveable for it. After covering the wife (and the cat) in regurgitated milk, Jack gets cuddled and hugged while the wife glows like a harvest moon. A small part of her is happy when they get sick, because they like to be held and comforted, which plays to her maternal instincts quite well. If I had food poisoning AND the flu and was throwing up blood, the wife would throw me a towel and the car keys and say, "Clean up your mess before you go to the doctor, please."

It's hard to watch those little ones heave and wretch. You feel so sorry for them, and so helpless at the same time. I would gladly do the hurling for them if I could. I'm practically an expert after years of honing my craft with a bottle of whiskey on an otherwise empty belly. At one point in my single life, I actually looked forward to my morning spewing, as I knew that I would actually feel better after getting it out of the way. But those little ones... Poor little angels. They don't deserve this. So it's off to the doctor we go, with our fingers crossed, as we thank the Lord for leather seats and rubber floormats. Wish us luck!

Blowout

2008-10-20T03:29:00.004-04:00

Kids are cute by design. The good Lord makes them that way, I'm convinced, so that we'll love them no matter how gross and disgusting they truly are. If all babies were ugly, they would be left to fend for themselves the first time they peed on Dad or spit up all over the couch. But their inherent cuteness combined with their pristine innocence packs a one-two punch strong enough to overcome even their most repulsive accidents.

Nothing shocks me anymore. The sight of half chewed food rolling out of the mouth of one of my toddlers is commonplace and expected. Sometimes I think they just want to see what it looks like in it's ABC stage (Already Been Chewed) before they complete the mastication process. To watch my son lift his diaper and pee on the floor only fills me with pride to know that he has already realized the joy that comes from peeing while standing, an emotion that his sister may never enjoy. But there is one thing that always amazes me whenever it occurs: the blowout.
Not to get too scatological, but the blowout is defined by a presence of poop at least six inches from the point of exit. It can go in any direction at any time; down the leg and up the back being the most common. How it escapes the diaper is beyond me. It's like Houdini in a straitjacket locked inside a trunk underwater. You just can't believe it got out of there. Removing a toddler's pants to reveal a brown smear almost to the knee is quite a surprise indeed.

My personal favorite is the up the back variety. Newtonian physics cannot explain such a strange phenomenon. Or can it? If every action creates an equal and opposite reaction, then the poop exiting the toddler in a downward fashion can only turn in an upward direction when encountering the resistance of a size five Huggie. It is inevitable that with enough force, the elastic barrier of the diaper will fail like the levees of New Orleans, spilling feces into the ninth ward of my precious daughter's lower back, thus proving the existence of dark matter. I always did like physics.

I have seen plenty of videos of less manly Dads with their gag reflexes triggered by foul excrement. This, I am proud to say, has never happened to me. I have dealt with many colors, textures, densities, fragrances, and amounts of poo and have never once tossed my cookies as a result. I have wiped it from the cracks and crevices of my children for nearly two years without incident. Oh, sure, I've gotten some on me, and sometimes the smell is akin to mustard gas, bringing tears to your eyes, but I soldier on. From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli, tell your friends and spread the rumor that no poop's too great for me!

Certainty

2008-10-09T14:04:00.003-04:00

Few things in life are absolutely certain. Death and taxes aside, little else can be predicted with great accuracy, which is a fortunate fact for weathermen and bookies alike. Nostradamus had a pretty good run, but some of his predictions were a little off to say the least. You'd think a guy that smart could have spelled Hitler correctly. The wife likes to take advantage of such universal chaos, attempting to irritate me occasionally with the phrase, "You never know."

According to her, the things that I never know could probably span the globe. I try not to pay too much attention when she says "you never know" because it is such a hard argument to dispute. There is just too much uncertainty in even the most improbable examples. Still, it gets my goat and danders my fur. This week I have been a little under the weather and more easily agitated than usual. One might even say I've been cranky. Like a wolf praying upon a wounded jackrabbit, the wife made her move.

I have been suffering from my first ever migraine headache and am surprised how weak it has made me feel. It's like having the flu without the vomiting. My eyes are sensitive to light, my ears to sound, and I just want to sleep. "Maybe you should take an iron pill," said the wife. "You could be anemic." I protested as loudly as my pounding head would allow, assuring her that I was not at all anemic. "You never know," she said. Inarguable and annoying.

While watching a show about moving houses from one location to another, she said "Next time we buy a house, we should do that." I told her that the cost of moving a house can be as much as $80,000. She quickly did the math, "$80,000 to move it, $10,000 for a lot to put it on, and $10,000 to get everything hooked back up. We could have a nice house for just $100,000." When reminded that she had not included the purchase price of the home, and that I was doubtful that anyone would just give us a house, she just said, "you never know." Irrevocably irritating.

And when discussing our finances and our budget and our future plans, I made the mistake of setting her up once again. "It's not like money will just fall out of the sky, " I said sarcastically. "You never know. It's happened before," came the reply. This was her ace in the hole and she had D.B. Cooper to back it up for her. Irrefutable, and yet utterly unlikely to happen again, at least in my presence.

So by this logic, and this uncanny and optimistic point of view, I could one day be crowned King of France, and on my coronation day I could slide down a rainbow and land on the back of a magnificent unicorn who would parade me around the streets of Paris as I drink vintage champagne from a slipper and monkeys fly out of my butt. After all, you never know.

Mother-in-Law

2008-10-08T11:59:00.002-04:00

I love my In-Laws. Not many people can say that and mean it, but I am one of the fortunate few. They are both very talented, intelligent individuals who have welcomed me into their family from day one. They are entrepreneurs who have run more than one successful business, and if ever I need advice, I know they are just a phone call away. I am very lucky to have found my way into their good graces.

This is not to say that we don't have our differences, as we surely do. We may not see eye to eye politically, and that's OK. We may not drink the same whiskey or root for the same football team or agree to drive domestic automobiles, and that's just fine. That being said, I must draw the line in the sand somewhere and state, for the record, that my Mother-in-law now has two strikes against her.

One morning as I was rummaging through a stack of CD's in order to select the soundtrack to my workday drive, I came upon a most offensive selection whose origin was unknown to me. Admittedly, I am somewhat of a music snob, although, in my defense, I can hardly help the fact that I have impeccable taste in this arena and that far too many people tolerate the inferior talents thrust upon them by the mainstream media. How else can the American Idol phenomenon be explained? Anyway, you can imagine the shock and horror I felt in my soul as I yelled to my wife, "Who brought a Kenny G CD into my house!?" I have a serious jazz collection and Kenny G does not play jazz, no matter what anybody tells you. He is soulless and self indulgent, and perhaps the reason that America's only original art form, jazz, is dying out. "I think it belongs to my mother," was my wife's response. I was mentally unbalanced for the rest of the day. Strike one.

This morning, I was doing my fatherly duty of reading stories to my wonderful children. They love books and being read to, and when I finish one story, they climb out of my lap and race to find another book. We go through half a dozen or so before my coffee gets cold and I have to stop for a refill. So, a couple of stories in, Ella returns to my lap with a copy of "Barney sees an insect". The prehistoric purple pre-school predator pretends to educate by stealing popular tunes and writing new and uninspired lyrics for them. If Sesame Street is John Coltrane, then Barney is Kenny G, and you know how I feel about Kenny G. Therefore, Barney is banned from my house.
And how did this book find it's way into my precious little girl's hands? "I think mom got it for them," said the wife. Strike two for the Mother-in-law.

It's true that these offenses are small in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps my passion for my children and for jazz has left me jaded and overprotective, but I will not apologize for that. I will instead remember that I love my Mother-in-law in spite of these faults, which are quite petty and ridiculous to anyone but me. I hope that when she reads this, she will forgive me for my objectionable opinions, and accept me for who I am so that I will remain her favorite (and only) Son-in-law. And I hope that Barney and Kenny G rest in peace in the landfill where they belong.

Repeater

2008-10-05T22:57:00.004-04:00

As a restaurant manager, one of my essential responsibilities is to ensure guest satisfaction through what is called the "table visit". This is the moment where I actually get to make a connection with my customers, although it can be a bit of a gamble. Sometimes people have no interest whatsoever in talking to me. Other times they are very outgoing and we indulge in several minutes of pleasant, even enriching conversation. Yet, occasionally, I chance upon a personality so deformed and vapid as to actually cause a chafing to my psyche, invoking my flight mechanism which must then be suppressed for fear of offending a potentially lucrative although utterly detestable customer. This was the case with The Repeater.

My innocent opening question was met with a puzzling retort. "The food is great, but we think the quesadillas are a little overpriced," replied the man in a mild southern drawl. Little did I know that this would be the opening of the floodgate for The Repeater. "Yeah, nine ninety-nine is a little expensive for only four quesadillas." The Midwest accent was like an icepick through my hearing canal. "If there was six of 'em, or if it was two dollars less it would be better."

I should explain that the Shredded Beef Quesadillas are comprised of a quarter pound of roast beef, a cup of shredded cheese, a quarter cup of pico de gallo, and three ounces of salsa garnished with lettuce and sour cream. All of this is placed into a twelve inch tortilla, folded in half, grilled, and then cut into four pieces.

"Like the potato skins... there's six of 'em and they're only six ninety-nine." she continued. "So if there were more quesadillas, or they were cheaper, I'd order it again." As she spoke I likened her to a cross between a pug and a goldfish; big, bulging eyes, upturned nose, and a mouth that could only look good with a hook in it. She wasn't fat but appeared to have been overinflated, perhaps with a bicycle pump. And those eyes... huge protruding orbs that could only have been held in place by ocular nerves stretched as tight as guitar strings. They looked like a knot on the side of a tire, and I was sure they would explode at any moment from her piercing, shrill Michigan speech.

"When we ordered 'em, I said, 'Nine ninety-nine! I bet there's only four of 'em for that' and I was right. But if there was two more, or they were two dollars cheaper, then that would be worth it."

I could feel the blood drain from my head as I tried to demonstrate my comprehension of the situation by feebly stating, "So you just don't see the value of that dish at that price. I understand."

"Yeah, I mean, either put more of 'em, or lower the price. Either put six of 'em, or charge two dollars less."

"But they were cooked correctly and they tasted great, right?" I had to get out of there before I lost my cool and snatched an eyeball from her head with my bare hands.

"Oh, yeah, they were great. Like I said, there should just either be more of 'em, or they should cost less. If they were two dollars cheaper, or if there was two more of 'em, it would be fine."

Luckily, the man interjected that they eat out all the time, so they are prone to see things that we as managers, being so busy and all, just don't have time to observe. He then inquired about more fruit based desserts, informing me that they frequently go to Shoney's to enjoy a slice of Strawberry Pie or a delicious Hot Fudge Cake. (Apparently, Vanilla ice cream is considered a fruit only when wedged between two layers of chocolate cake and ladled with hot fudge.) He also added that in Michigan, where The Repeater was from, they still have Big Boy restaurants and still offer a smoking section. This pitiful banter was a welcome relief from the "two more or two less" refrain of the bulbous-eyed Repeater.

But at the mention of the size of one of my competitor's quesadillas, The Repeater struck her chord once again. "Yeah, like I said, either put two more quesadillas on there, or just lower the price by two dollars. Otherwise they were fine."

My nerves were unravelling like a rope bridge in an adventure movie when the man suggested we divide the restaurant into "children or non-children sections". Reaching my limit, I put on my brightest smile and tried to sound sincere as I said, "That's a great idea! You know, you guys should really open up your own restaurant!" As I turned and walked away, I completed my thought, "So you would know what it's like to deal with idiots for a living!"

Feeding

2008-09-30T20:08:00.002-04:00

Feeding time for the twins has evolved greatly over the last twenty-two months. It started out as a bizarre sideshow novelty act, evolved into a scene from "The Fly", switched to just plain gross, and has now become only slightly messy and amusing. I shall attempt to re-create each of these phases in detail, but I warn you, it's not for the faint of heart.

BIZARRE SIDESHOW NOVELTY ACT
This was by far my favorite stage, for two reasons: 1) it required no participation from me whatsoever, and 2) who doesn't love a carnival freak show!? It may not have been as gawk worthy as the Elephant Man or the bearded lady, but it still filled me with shock and awe, and I didn't even have to pay admission. If I only had a straw hat and a cane I could have made a fortune.

I had seen women breast feeding in the restaurant before, sitting in a corner booth and trying to be very discreet, covering themselves with a blanket. I must admit this always left me a little embarrassed, and I thought these women were very brazen for doing such a thing in public. Enter the twins. My wife was topless for six months straight, and I can still draw her mammaries from memory. Burned into my retina is the image of the large u-shaped pillow around her belly, my son perched on one side and my daughter on the other, both attached like hairless parasites to her chafed and swollen udders, draining her of the life force necessary to sustain their own existence. There were salves and balms applied between feedings, which occurred in regular intervals, dissecting the clock face into pieces of La Leche League pie. Sometimes this became a bit much for the wife, and the alternative was a mechanical breast pump which was somehow even more preversely entertaining than the parasitic feeding frenzy it replaced. I miss this stage.

SCENE FROM "THE FLY"
When we started the twins on solid foods, I was called upon to do my part and shovel spoonfuls of colorful goo into the uncooperative mouths of my otherwise beautiful children. This was the single most disgusting act I have ever been forced to subject myself to. No airplane noise or choo choo sound was able to coerce my childrens lips to part, and the act quickly deteriorated into a waiting game whereupon any smile or yawn was met with the quick and forceful jab of spoon into mouth. Not to be outdone, the children would simply spit out the goo, leaving me to scrape it off their chins and try again. And again. This half an hour or so was more stressful than any IRS audit. I love my kids, but this was almost too much for me to stomach. In the mouth, out of the mouth, catch it with the tiny spoon, and back in again. It reminded me of "The Fly" vomiting on his food before eating it. Ugh.

JUST PLAIN GROSS
Finger foods saved my children. Just about the time I was ready to give up on them, feeding time was downgraded to just plain gross. This stage again required very little participation on my part, mostly hosing them down after they smeared themselves with whatever foodstuff was made available to them. At this point, we gave up on bibs, opting instead to strip them naked and let them rub themselves from head to chest with peanut butter, jelly, pizza, cheerios, and ketchup. Jack began food fights and discovered holes in his highchair into which he could stuff anything he did not wish to eat. Ella was much neater by comparison, although we quickly discovered that spaghetti dinners would always be followed by bathtime, even though she looked positively radiant in marinara mascara. The worst part about this stage was the cleanup, as the twins often left the kitchen resembling a slaughterhouse caught in a tornado.

SLIGHTLY MESSY AND AMUSING
Although far from dextrous, the twins have begun to master the fork and spoon. This process has been gradual and deliberate, and met with great encouragement from the wife and me. They are growing up and growing fast. When dinner time is announced, they run to the highchairs and fall upon the food before them with great verve and gusto. Usually. We no longer have to cook separate meals for them, which makes life easier and also helps out with the grocery bills. Family dinners have become much less stressful, and we can sit back and marvel at the wonderful job we have done molding these alien parasites into little human beings. Oh, sure, sometimes food still hits the floor, but the difference is that now they are forced to pick it up and throw it away. And they actually think this is fun! The good news is that they now eat more food than they waste, they say "Mmmmmmm!" when they like what they're eating, and they don't completely embarrass us when dining out.

They are growing up so fast, and I wonder what the next step will be. Will they fold napkins into their laps? Will they drink from their sippy cups with their pinkies in the air? Will they know which course the little fork is used for? Or will they sniff the cork, swirl the glass, and debate the merits of tannin and it's impact upon the palatte?

TV

2008-09-29T23:38:00.003-04:00

When I get home from work at one in the morning, there is nothing I like better than unwinding in front of the television for an hour or so before curling up next to my slumbering spouse. The house is quiet, there is nobody awake to bother me, and anything in the fridge is fair game. Although, occasionally, I'll find something interesting on the Tivo list to watch, I usually just grab the remote and pray that the Knife Show is on. Last weekend, however, I found a new home shopping show called Shop Erotic. The name sounded provocative, so I flipped over to see what this was all about.

It was just what the name implied, however that didn't soften the blow or lessen the shock of seeing two attractive women displaying a variety of erotic toys made out of varying materials and describing their use rather explicitly. It was not at all pornographic, mind you. The Asian naughty librarian host and her bubbly blonde sidekick were fully clad, and they did not actually demonstrate the use of the products they were selling. But the products did have names like the "Pink Nubby", "Jesse's Penetrator", and the "Clone A Willy Glow In The Dark Kit".

I have never seen such a display of gels, foam rubber, chrome, glass, and latex in my life. The girls were very adept at discussing the merits of each type of material and the possibilities they provided. But the alarming aspect was the explicit language they used to describe the way these toys could be employed. Words like "insertion" and "tri-gasm" should only be uttered on Cinemax or Pay-Per-View. I could not believe this was on basic cable for all to see!

Before I turned it off, I set the Tivo to record the rest of the program. "My wife will never believe me", I thought. And, sure enough, in the morning when my wife arose, I had the pleasure of watching her jaw drop as she took in the display of "beautiful art glass that I would be proud to display on my mantle". Her only response was, "I can't watch this in front of the kids."

Age

2008-09-25T22:11:00.002-04:00

There are striking similarities in behavior between the young and old. My father was 72 years old when he passed away, and as my son approaches his second birthday, I can't help but draw comparisons between the two most influential males in my life. There are differences to be sure, and thankfully so. Jack doesn't smoke, drink, curse, fish, watch porn, or love jazz... yet.

He does, however, drool. Alot. Dad once tried to quit smoking by sucking on cinnamon sticks. They are similar in size and shape to cigarettes, but, unfortunately, they are hollow and provided excess saliva with a direct escape route from his mouth to his shirt. Drooling is much cuter on Jack.

Dad had a much greater command of the English language than my son, but without his dentures in place, they were equally unintelligible. Also much cuter on Jack.

Dad loved trains. Jack loves Thomas the Train. That's a toss up. We'll give it to Dad.

Jack gets depressed when an episode of Thomas is over. Dad got depressed when his lap dance was over. Another toss up.

Dad could use his cell phone to call friends, but was unable to program numbers into his phone, no matter how many times I showed him how easy it was. Jack has the same rudimentary cell phone skills.

Dad had a computer and chatted with many friends on the internet, although he was far from computer savvy. Jack managed to move my toolbar to the top of the screen without even using the mouse, and now I can't move it back. (Not so much a similarity, I just needed to vent.)

Jack has no control over his bodily functions and does his business in a diaper, although, we are working on potty training. Last week, he pooped in the potty, then got excited and peed on the carpet. Dad didn't soil himself, although there were many close calls where I had to suddenly stop the truck and then look the other way and pray there were no cops as he peed on the side of the highway in rush hour traffic. Three and a half minutes is a long time to listen to an old man tinkle on pavement. The constant sighs of relief are also a tad uncomfortable.

Other shared traits:
Making me laugh like nobody else can.
Abiding love of bologna.
Embarrassing me thoroughly like nobody else can.
Stubbornness.
Making me grateful for what I have been given.
The frequent passing of gas.
Increasing my patience.
An abundance of ear wax.
Teaching me that life is precious.

I don't know just how similar to Dad my son will remain. Who knows if he'll like fishing, clothes that don't match, or Dizzy Gillespe as much as my father did. I can only hope that he keeps some of the more endearing characteristics already in his possession, such as his charm, his laugh, and perhaps most importantly, his teeth.

Competition

2008-09-21T07:51:00.002-04:00

The male of the species is a funny thing. Centuries of genetic programming and survival instincts dictate that we are in constant competition with each other. Whether it's climbing the corporate ladder or playing a game of Monopoly, we want to win at all costs. This is sometimes apparent in very subtle circumstances that shouldn't be competitive at all, such as a visit to White Castle.

On a recent trip to Nashville, I was traveling with two business companions from very different backgrounds. But let's focus on Tito (not his real name). Tito is an entrepreneur, well educated at an historically black college, a father of two kids in private school, and married to a wife who sits high on the totem pole of her corporation. He has a great sense of humor and we spent most of the week throwing racial stereotypes at each other just for fun, seeing who could top the other one.

Tito is bigger than me, although only by a couple of notches of the belt. He often jokes that he doesn't miss many meals, and I suppose the same argument could me made about me. It's hard to go hungry when we manage restaurants for a living. I have actually been trying to eat healthy and exercise in an effort to lose weight, but a week away from home marked a return to convenient over-eating, which peaked on the last day, on our way out of town, on a visit to White Castle.

I was eying the menu board as Tito began to order a pitiful combo of 3 White Castles, fries, and a Coke. When he added a chicken sandwich, I saw my opening. Shame was my tactic of choice as I baited him on the hook.

Me- "You're only getting three White Castles? This may be the last time you get to eat White Castle for months. You'd better get some to take home with you. Why don't we split that Combo #3. Twenty White Castles and four fries and we can add a couple of Cokes. Or you can get some fruit punch. I know how you people like that stuff."

Tito- "First of all, it's drink. Fruit drink. Second of all, that's a good idea you got there, Jew boy."

I'm not Jewish, however this had been a recurring theme over the week. After all, what's more stereotypically white than Judaism? So Tito changes the order and decides to up the ante on me when the lady behind the counter wants to know if he still wants the extra chicken sandwich. He does, which prompts me to add on a pulled bbq sandwich in an effort not to be outdone. Oh, yeah. It's on. Tito settles for a large soda, and in order to establish my dominance, I am forced into a jumbo. This was part of Tito's strategy, I was to find out later.

At the table, we divvy up the food and settle in. There has been no mention of a contest mind you, but as the ketchup is squeezed from tiny packets, we are clearly sizing each other up. I make an early decision to start with the bbq sandwich, to get it out of the way first. Tito leaves the chicken sandwich for later. I was one bbq sandwich and six White Castles in when he broke the silence.

Tito- "So what, man, you ain't drinking no soda?"

I noticed his cup was almost full as I removed my lid to reveal a cup half empty. This did not sit well with my opponent.

Tito- "Damn. You're doing pretty good over there, man. Hey, I don't think I like this chicken sandwich. It's kinda..."

He might as well have thrown in the towel. Making excuses not to eat all he had ordered? He should have lead with the chicken sandwich. My game plan was clearly superior, but with two White Castles to go, I hit the wall. I did not want to take another bite of tiny burger, but I was unwilling to suffer defeat. I would win at all costs. Victory would be mine. I disconnected my brain, and soldiered on.

Tito- "Man, you're like that skinny Japanese guy that can eat all those hot dogs. Alright, man. I gotta give it to you. You win."

Keep in mind that this competition was completely unspoken, and yet a winner was declared. That winner was me. Men are always trying to outdo each other. How else can you explain the Hummer, or 72 inch plasma TV's? We are constantly striving to have more, do more, be more than the guy next to us. And what is our motivation? Why do we do it? What is the prize for being number 1? My prize was simply sleeping in the back seat all the way back to Atlanta, a full belly, and knowing I had given my best. Until next time, Tito!

Labor

2008-09-20T07:40:00.003-04:00

Having attended weeks of childbirth classes, I felt very prepared for the birth of my twins. In my wallet was a card upon which was written the names and telephone numbers of our OB/GYN along with helpful tips in order to keep me calm and rational during what would surely be a stressful experience for the wife and me. The restaurant business has made me an expert in dealing with disaster in a rational manner, so I assumed that when I got the call, I would remain calm, cool, collected, and confident.

I had just taken possession of my Biggie sized combo of reconstituted chicken, recombinant growth hormone, and partially hydrogenated soybean oil when my cell phone rang. "I'm pretty sure my water just broke, or else I just peed on myself." This statement alone would have sent most fathers-to-be into absolute shock, but not me. "Oh yeah? Well, what color is it?" I calmly asked, taking a bite out of my chicken sandwich. "Umm, it's kind of murky." Dipping a salty french fry into a crimson pool of velvety ketchup I coolly queried, "What does it smell like?". I had been well trained, indeed. I dialed the doctors number and explained the situation. The doctor sounded annoyed, probably due to the fact that my speech was impaired by the mastication of fast food, and she called the wife directly for more information.

It was about half way through the meal when it happened. My phone rang again and the wife informed me that there was now a small discharge of blood. My heart sank. I made a mad dash for the car and all the way home my mind was a mangled mess of electrical impulses, each one informing me that I was already a terrible father, and the kids weren't even here yet. I found the wife still perched on her porcelain pedestal, helped her to dress, and raced toward the hospital, both of us excited and nervous and anxious to meet our children for the very first time. Even through her contractions, she assured me that I was going to be a great dad. It made both of us stronger just being together; neither of us realizing exactly what lay ahead.

The contraction monitor was a useful piece of technology for which I was grateful, as the peaks and valleys being graphed in real time served as a warning for the violent mood swings and bipolar disorders that would overtake my wife for the next few hours. It was alarmingly accurate, predicting the tensing of muscles, the reddening of the epidermis, and the beading of sweat upon the brow. Fascinating. Does this thing come in a PMS model? During one particularly lengthy contraction, a nurse's aid came over to investigate. "I'm just going to lift this sheet and take a look," she announced. My wife felt compelled to warn her as if this was her first day working in delivery, "Be careful. There's a lot of fluid down there." The poor little woman had misunderstood, as evidenced by the look of puzzlement on her face and her next confused question: "There's FOOD down here?!". In obvious pain, but not enough to dull her razor sharp wit, my wife replied in a tone dripping with sarcasm and annoyance, "Yeah, I'm sneaking in a fried chicken. FLUID! FLEW-ID. F.L.U.I.D.!".

After a brief separation during which my wife was prepped for a caeseraion, I was ushered into the operating theater through the back door like a deliveryman. I was greeted by my wife's head and a guy named Bert. My wife's head was separated from her body by a large blue sheet. She seemed to be unaware that her body was being pulled apart by a team of medical professionals, focusing instead on Bert, to whom she was talking as if he were an old friend. Bert was a masked bandit whose only distinguishing feature seemed to be a pair of rimless glasses. He spoke reassuringly and had a very soothing effect upon my wife aside from the fact that he controlled her anesthesia. I was not so easily sedated, and couldn't help but wonder just what exactly was going on beyond the blue curtain. I got up my courage and peeked around the side, but the sight of bloody stainless steel surgical tools and a glimpse of entrails that might be found on the floor of an industrial meat packing plant was enough to make me see the folly of my brief curiosity and hasten a speedy retreat to the safety of my wife's talking head and the lenses Bert had apparently stolen from some unsuspecting frames.

And when I least expected it, two hands held up a red and pink squiggle of baby fat, announced "Here's your son", and then quickly disappeared behind the curtain again. I looked at my wife, astonished, then I looked at Bert and I could see his eyes smiling at me from behind those pilfered lenses. Just then, a nurse appeared from around the curtain holding a tiny blanket concealing the most precious treasure I had ever seen. "Would you like to hold your daughter?", she asked. And as I sat there with my wife's head by my side and my daughter in my arms, I knew that my fears of being a bad father were completely unfounded. There was no way I was going to screw this up. Here were these perfect little people that we had made together that would fill our lives with misery and joy and love and pain from this moment forward. It was the proudest moment of my life, and I was relieved that we had all made it through together. As my wife was taken to recovery, I staggered out to share the news with the family, and search for another chicken sandwich.

Napping

2008-09-14T19:08:00.002-04:00

Ah, nap time. The midday return of sanity and serenity. Up to two whole hours devoid of screaming, yelling, shouting, and screeching. And the kids are pretty quiet, too. It's the time of day that allows my wife the freedom to Flicker and Twitter as much as she likes. (Perhaps I should clarify that Flicker and Twitter are websites, not unspeakable acts of self pleasure.) It is a time to decompress, to relax, to let your guard down and forget that you're a parent, if only for a fleeting moment.

The twins don't always take full advantage of nap time. Sometimes we can hear strange noises emanating from their room. We never investigate because, frankly, we're on break, and if we can hear them making noise, then they must be alive and well. But sometimes I wonder what exactly goes on in there. What's all the giggling about?

Some months ago I was on the telephone and stepped outside so as not to disturb the wife and kids during nap time. My neighbor happened to be walking his dog and as he and I exchanged a pleasant greeting, he said something I didn't understand, and began making his way across my front yard toward the twin's window. When I asked him to repeat himself, he replied, "I'm going to see the little girl". As I spun around, I was surprised to see Ella at the window bouncing like a Tigger and laughing like Tickle Me Elmo. She's usually wary of people she doesn't know very well, so this shocked me quite a bit. The dog stood with her paws on the window, tongue out, tail wagging, as my neighbor waved to my daughter and tapped on the glass to my amazement and to her utter delight.

As the man and his dog resumed their walk, I asked him how often this visitation occurred. "Oh, we stop and see her every day. She usually sees us coming down the hill and gets all excited. See you tomorrow!" he replied. I took a moment to gather my wits about me once again, turned and headed back into the house to tell the wife what I had just witnessed. "Honey, do you have any idea what goes on around here while you're Flickering your Twitter?"

Stash

2008-09-10T19:58:00.002-04:00

The toddlers have installed secret passageways throughout the house. It's just like the classic board game "Clue", except without the conservatory and the billiard room, and Col. Mustard lives in the fridge and bleeds on my ham sandwich. OK, it's not much like "Clue", and I don't have proof, but I highly suspect that somewhere hidden behind the bookcase is a dimly lit tunnel that leads directly to the shower in the spare bathroom. This tunnel is not only used for sneaking past Mom and Dad, but, more importantly, I'm convinced that this is where they keep their STASH!

This Easter, I stayed up late stuffing chocolate into plastic egg shells planning to hold an Easter egg hunt for my restaurant employees. I went to bed and left the eggs in a plastic bag within toddler reach. I was tired, and I wasn't thinking clearly. I awoke Easter Sunday to find at least a dozen eggs had been pilfered, their broken shells scattered across the floor, their treasures plundered. There sat my lovely children, brown smears across their chins, colored aluminum wrappers gripped tightly in their little fingers, and huge smiles revealing cocoa veneers by Dr. Cadbury, D.D.S. I conceded defeat and went to work with the remaining eggs.

For weeks afterward, we kept finding them chewing on those shiny pastel wrappers. We knew they had a stash somewhere, but where? We tore the house apart. We looked under cribs and in closets. We moved heavy furniture. We examined Mr. Bear for loose stitches. Try as we may, we could not find those chocolates anywhere. Eventually, the stash dried up, and the wife and I quickly forgot all about it. Until today.

You see, we thought we had put away all of the crayons until the children become more responsible. (By "more responsible", I mean they should actually be able to spell the word "responsible" before gaining access to crayons again.) In the past few weeks they have managed to color on everything from the furniture to the TV to the sliding glass door to the walls themselves. We put the crayons up when not in use, but one or two always seem to escape, and the temptation is too great for toddlers to withstand. So we have temporarily suspended their coloring privileges. But, today, Ella produced a crayon from her stash and proceeded to color on the back of the couch...again. It wasn't even a whole crayon. It was a pitifully small shard of burnt umber that might have been used to mark time served on the walls of a Turkish prison. I just hope she isn't hiding a shiv and planning to shank me in the shower before escaping from justice through her secret passageway to the bookcase. The headline would surely read, "Miss Scarlet, in the Shower, with the homemade Knife".

Sex

2008-09-09T14:18:00.000-04:00

I was warned before the birth of my children that everything would change, especially my sex life. I am proud to report that my wife and I still manage to get intimate with each other at least three times a week. Unfortunately, our weeks have changed from the traditional seven days to forty-two.

What used to be a lengthy, enjoyable foray into our physical desires has now become an all too brief race to satisfy our diminishing needs, which, I'm proud to say, I usually win. Instead of leisurely walking hand in hand through a romantic garden, pausing to smell the flowers along the way, we now sprint toward the finish line without a single hurdle impeding our progress.

We used to be adventuresome. No room in the house was sacred. No piece of furniture safe. Now, we are confined to the bedroom with the lights out and the baby monitor on. Try to be amorous when you can hear every murmur of toddlers who refuse to sleep even hours after they have been lain into their cribs. Nothing kills the mood like your son's voice suddenly shouting, "Hi!", or your daughter singing the theme song to "Elmo's World".

Nowadays, on the rare occasion that I'm home in time to actually go to bed with my wife, we both lie there thinking the same thing: I'd like to get a little, but I sure could use the rest. I never thought I'd have to choose between sex and sleep. After all, sleep follows sex like the paparazzi follow Brittany Spears. But after an entire day of being climbed on, kneed in the groin, scratched, pinched, head-butted, stood on, drooled on, bitten, and clawed by two heathen toddlers, neither one of us really wants to be touched by anything but the covers. So, we curl up into the fetal position, stick our fingers into our mouths, and feel just a little bit guilty for the fourteen or so seconds it takes for the snoring to begin. Maybe we'll have sex next week...

Complaints

2008-09-09T10:31:00.000-04:00

The restaurant business is an unstable, unpredictable one. No two days are the same, and that's what I like about it. There is a constant revolving door of employees and their daily dramas, menu items that are here today, gone tomorrow, and the hustle and bustle of vendors through the back door delivering gossip about your competitors along with produce and beer. Policy changes come down the pike, inventories fluctuate, and equipment breaks down. But in this state of flux there is one undying constant: customer complaints.

There are dozens of complaints thrust upon me every day. Most of them are easily corrected without incident and without raising the ire of the mighty paying customer. The majority of the dining public understands that we are only human and mistakes are inevitable. There are, however, occasions where a customer is so famished and frail that the slightest thing can set them off, triggering a flood of emotions and a rush of adrenaline so great that they shake uncontrollably like an epileptic with Parkinson's disease.

I was called to the front door to deal with a man who was unhappy with his food which he had purchased to go. It had taken so long, and he was so hungry when he finally got home that he could not be bothered with utensils, and with a passionate desire to quench his hunger, he simply bit the end off of his baked potato. In so doing, he revealed a natural imperfection within the Idaho Russet, which he could only assume was a worm. I tried to calmly explain that sometimes potatoes have bad spots inside, and that we are unable to submit every tuber to a cat scan before serving. I then apologized profusely, and reimbursed the man for the price of his meal. "I'm keeping this potato!" he said threateningly as if to imply that it would be submitted to a laboratory for further testing. I wonder if he still has it to this day, perhaps in a glass jar on display next to his bowling trophies.

I received a phone call from another to go customer who informed me that there were no grilled vegetables in his entree. This would have been a terrible oversight, as the skewer of veggies was an integral part of the dish. In an effort to clarify the situation, I inquired whether there had been any zucchini, red peppers, mushrooms, or onions in the box. He said that indeed there were, to which I replied that those were the vegetables called for in the recipe. "An onion is NOT a vegetable. LOOK IT UP!" he screamed as he slammed down the phone. I did, and it is.

And God forbid you should make someone wait for a table five minutes longer than you predicted. Red faced and veins bulging, stomachs twisted and tied into elaborate knots heretofore reserved for bondaged submissives, ready to explode with furious anger they will confront you with their battle cry, "You told me fifteen minutes and that was TWENTY MINUTES AGO!". Then they will invariably demand something for free, or for their bill to be discounted. I wonder if these people have ever been to the doctor for a three-thirty appointment and then demanded a free prostrate exam when the nurse finally calls for them at four-fifteen.

Poor service? Don't tip. Didn't like it? Order something else next time. A fly landed in your tea? He was thirsty. Get a replacement. Life is not perfect, and neither are we. Some people actually think that they are, and those are the people who like to point out every minute mistake, every detailed flaw, and then refuse to let you do anything to rectify the situation. "No," they'll say. "I didn't tell you because I wanted something for free. I just wanted you to know why I will never come back." Well, sir, I value your input, and I hope that it makes you feel superior to point out the shortcomings of others. I'm sure you have never admitted to a mistake in your life and you're probably only bitter because you did the right thing all those years ago and married the girl that you didn't love but knocked up in the back seat of your father's Monte Carlo and can't help dreaming of how great your life could have been without the weight of unwanted children and a nagging spouse dragging you down. Thank you for your business, unfortunately I have to go extract a stray kitten from underneath the fryers. Just when I thought I'd seen it all...

Babysitters

2008-09-08T23:33:00.000-04:00

We live five hours away from our nearest relatives, so if the wife and I would like some alone time, or if our schedules don't mesh, we are forced to leave our precious offspring in the tenuous care of relative strangers. The restaurant business affords me access to a small group of giggly but somewhat responsible high school girls who have demonstrated sufficiently their abilities to remain calm under pressure, think on their feet, and perhaps most importantly, ask me for help when they are in over their heads. Although I don't know all the details of their personal lives, we do have a certain level of trust.

On one particular occasion, however, we needed a babysitter during school hours, when all of my tried and true girls were filling their heads with Euclidean geometry and debating whether or not to get pregnant before graduation. In a pinch, we decided to allow an untested twenty something employee of mine to fill in. She was not one of my better employees, but she had volunteered numerous times when the wife and kids would come in for dinner, and we were really in a bind.

She arrived during nap time, on her cell phone, in a very heated conversation with whom I presumed to be her carousing and controlling boyfriend. She payed absolutely no attention as I excused myself to get ready for work. In the shower, every drop of water slapped me in the face and cried, "No! Don't leave your kids with this insecure woman! The only thing lower than her I.Q. is her self esteem!". After thirty minutes of worst case scenario analysis, I returned to find the argument being cut short, the babysitter sensing that I might have some pertinent information to impart upon her before leaving for work.

I should have grabbed the kids and ran. Instead, as I explained the rituals and feeding habits of two small omnivores, I noticed for the first time the troll-like appearance of this vacuous doormat of a woman. Her eyes were a bit jaundiced and entirely too close together, like a double yolked egg. She had the upturned snout of a mulefoot sow. Her hair arose from dark roots and tried to escape at her shoulders where it had been bleached out of existence. Her skin was ailing and pock marked. Her breasts marked the first of three distinct rolls of squalid flesh beneath her shirt, each one protruding far beyond the one above it. Her lips were strangely loose and seemed to be beyond her control. When she spoke it was as if her voice was overdubbed, the sound not matching the shape of the mouth, and when she smoked it was as if she was trying to fellate her cigarette. She repulsed me terribly, probably because I sensed that my children would not be safe under her charge. But I had little choice now, and left for work as worried as I have ever been without seeing flashing blue lights in my rear view mirror.

When my wife arrived home, the kids were still breathing, with all extremities still attached. They were pre-toddlers back then, able to crawl and stand, but unable to walk and climb like the spider monkeys they have now become. The babysitter greeted my wife with a startling revelation in an entirely flippant, nonchalant, and eerily proud tone; "Ella flipped off the end table like three times!". What kind of idiot would admit this outright? Did she think we would find it amusing that she had allowed this to happen multiple times? Not to mention the fact that my daughter couldn't even climb up on the couch herself! The babysitter had actually ENABLED my precious little girl to endanger herself over and over again. Thankfully Ella was alright, and the babysitter was out of our house, forever.

The worst part of course was that I still had to work with this moron. In this day and age you need a litany of paperwork and documentation to fire someone unless they steal from you or stab a customer. Unfortunately, she never did either. I did learn my lesson, though, and her ugly visage was a constant reminder. Don't let anyone watch your kids that you don't thoroughly trust, and always trust your instincts above all.

Destruction

2008-09-07T00:17:00.000-04:00

As hurricane Gustav was bearing down on the Gulf Coast last week and all eyes were on New Orleans, I could not help but feel remorseful for all those people facing the possibility of yet another natural disaster the likes of Katrina. I absolutely love New Orleans for it's history, it's traditions, and it's culture. There is no place on earth like it. So as the fate of this great American treasure was the center of water cooler discussions around the world, I was surprised to hear a few people say that they should never have tried to rebuild after Katrina. It is to those cynics that I pose the question, "Have you never raised toddlers?".

Every day my house is destroyed by Hurricane Jack and tropical storm Ella. And every day we rebuild it. The weather starts to turn every morning at 7:00. Through the baby monitor, we can hear Tropical Storm Ella groaning and mumbling herself to life, softly at first and then gaining momentum like thunder rolling in the distance. Then comes the squeak of the bed springs as she bounces full force, unable to contain the energy amassing inside of her. She must be unleashed! Meanwhile, Hurricane Jack is deceptively calm. He has been downgraded to a tropical depression overnight. Our meteorologists warn us, however, that we should still keep a close eye on him as he could easily regain strength over the warm waters of the Gulf.

There is a calm before the storm as they down their morning milk. I believe they use this time to plot their paths of destruction. As soon as the last drop of milk has disappeared, Ella makes landfall at the bookcase. The tearing of pages and maiming of covers is merciless. Books fly in every direction. Some are thrust into your hand to read while others are thrust into your groin for no good reason. Crayons appear out of nowhere and vandalism leaves ugly scars upon perfectly good literature. I pray that she never discovers fire.

Jack has now been re-classified as a category five and is dumping several inches of milk all over the love seat. The ottoman (which acts as a floodgate when wedged between the love seat and the entertainment center) was only designed to withstand a category three. Now both storms are loose and a state of emergency is declared. Magazines, pajama bottoms, water bottles, toys of all shapes and sizes, cell phones, coffee cups, diapers, remote controls, shoes, teddy bears, blankets, books, and golf balls dot the landscape for as far as the eye can see.

During nap time, we survey the damage and start to clean up the aftermath. The psychological effects on the survivors may not be known for quite a while. But we have no time to think about that. Like those citizens of New Orleans who refuse to give up, we too shall rebuild. But unlike them, we are forced to do it in the eye of the storm, for after nap time, we will feel the wrath of Hurricane Jack and Tropical Storm Ella once again.

Discipline

2008-09-05T23:38:00.000-04:00

I discipline my children because I love them. I understand that the boundaries we set and the behaviors we reward at home will prepare my children for any variety of social interaction they are likely to encounter. I would like for them to grow up well adjusted and to act like civilized human beings instead of throwing feces, coloring on the furniture, and torturing the family cat as is their primal nature. Actually, this is why my wife disciplines our children, as she is the primary caretaker of our beautiful twins, and a fine job she has done thus far. I go along with whatever she says mostly out of instinct and fear.

There are several methods of discipline from which to chose, and each one can be effective if used properly. Apparently the favored technique most often brandished by my lovely wife is the raising of the voice. Most mornings after working late at the restaurant I am awakened by my true love's voice at a thousand or so decibels shouting "NO, NO!" or "HEY!" or "THAT'S ENOUGH". This is invariably followed by a brief period of soft sobbing as I shuffle through the living room toward my first cup of coffee.

Another option is the Time Out. This usually occurs about halfway through the fifteen minute loop of Headline News, when the children resume whatever behavior sparked the raising of the voice that woke me up in the first place. Now the wife places them into two small chairs in the corner of the room, facing the wall. This produces a sustained period of sharp, shrill, staccato shrieking of a rhythmic nature which reverberates throughout the room and sends me for my second cup of coffee.

The last resort in my house is the swatting of the butt. Now, before you go accusing us of beating our kids, let me just comfort you with the fact that the swatting of the butt is almost always buffered by a soggy diaper. The soggy diaper acts as a sponge that absorbs most of the blunt force of the swatting of the butt, redirecting it outwardly in a radial pattern away from the toddler's tushy. This is an attention getter of the greatest magnitude; an act so shocking to the toddler brain, it's only response is what I call "the windup and the pitch". This response begins with complete silence as the toddler's mouth opens wide, the eyes go all squinty, the bottom lip protrudes, and the lungs fill slowly with air to about 110% capacity. This is the windup. Then comes the pitch... a cry so loud and so high pitched that it actually shatters the coffee mug and leaves me with first degree burns, ensuring that I'm painfully awake and prepared to face the rest of my day.

So it should come as no surprise that one recent afternoon I was proud to let my wife take a much needed nap as I watched our little angels, confidently prepared for whatever behavioral issues might arise. I knew the routine, the protocol. I had witnessed it countless times. What could possibly go wrong? And so it began that my son should test his boundaries by climbing up onto the TV stand, stretching up on his tippy toes to reach the newly replaced DVD/VCR combo which is now perched high above the realm of toddlers and their crayons, or so I thought.

"NO, NO, JACK!" came the raising of the voice. "GET DOWN!" it thundered. This was completely ineffective. There was no sobbing, no remorse, no guilt, just bare knuckled determination on behalf of the toddler to push those shiny blue buttons on the DVD player while simultaneously pushing Daddy's buttons, too. I knew what I had to do. "Let's go to Time Out." I rallied as I scooped him up into my arms. And then I made my fatal mistake. Unwilling to listen to the shrill, staccato screaming at full volume, I decided the best course of action would be to place him into his crib to serve out his sentence of solitude.

Feeling triumphant, I returned to the couch thinking that this discipline stuff might actually work, and turned my attention back to my daughter who was behaving quite well, indeed. I tuned out the crying coming from the twin's bedroom (an ability that both amazes and angers my wife) and hadn't even noticed the quiet set in until I saw him... the boy... Jack... come bouncing back into the living room as if nothing had happened and go right back to climbing on the TV stand.

A million thoughts raced through my head at that exact moment. So many things I wanted to say, but my tongue would not move. My brain could not process a single word into audible existence. The shock of it all left me confused, stunned, unsure what to do or think. How did he get out of that crib? Should I put him back and see if he can do it again? Is this a milestone? Should I be concerned for his safety? Should I be proud? No. I should recognize that he is blatantly disobeying me and continue to my last course of action, the dreaded swatting of the butt.

I gave him one swift swat as I pulled him off the TV stand and waited for the windup and the pitch. But to my surprise, there was only soft sobbing and he was headed back up to the summit of the TV stand once again. Inconcievable! It was at this point that my wife came out of the bedroom to diffuse the situation. It was a good thing, too, because I was in over my head in uncharted territory. I was actually contemplating waterboarding...

Quiet

2008-09-05T12:07:00.000-04:00

In my house, fewer things strike terror deeper into my heart than peace and quiet. This will only sound strange to those of you who haven't raised small children before. With the twins just a few short months away from their second birthday, peace and quiet are the harbingers of doom and destruction around here. The warning signs are entirely too subtle. I've heard that just before you die of hypothermia, your body becomes warm and comfortable, no longer cold at all, and that this false sense of well being is actually the final warning sign that your life is about to be snuffed out. That's what peace and quiet is like for me.

I've learned this fact the hard way, as I have learned nearly everything in my life, through bitter and chilling experience. Months ago, the wife went off to the grocery store and left her overworked and tired husband in charge of the twin tornadoes. I was all too happy to oblige, as she was due some "me time", although, I soon found myself dozing on the couch amidst all the noise and squalor of wild animal rogue children as only fathers can do. I have no idea how long it took for the deafening silence to jar me from my from my unconsciousness, but my spider senses were tingling as I cautiously arose to check on the children. Hmm, not in their bedroom, not in the kitchen. "Jack? Ella?". Not in the playroom, not in the laundry room. A quick glance at the newly installed cat door to the garage. Nah, couldn't be. "Jack?Ella?". The quiet was taunting me now. Let's see, not in the spare bedroom, not in the bathroom, and our bedroom door is shut. Don't panic. Remain calm. Retrace your steps. Not in their bedroom, bathroom, playroom, spare bedroom, kitchen, nor in the laundry room, and our bedroom door is shut. A long gaze at the cat door and a pit of despair in my stomach. Could they have possibly...

Out into the garage I go, the overhead door is wide open, and panic sets in. Up to the street, looking right, looking left. Don't call their names out loud or the neighbors will think you're an unfit Dad. This is crazy! There's no way they're out here! Or is there? Back inside. "Jack! Ella!". A crescendo of silence. Then a moment of clarity. Our bedroom. Have they learned to open and shut doors? My heart starts to beat again as the door slowly opens, and, lo and behold, there they are, quiet as can be, stuffing every lost crayon, loose screw, lone sock, and other miscellaneous debris into the VCR side of our DVD/VCR combo. My relief is only overshadowed by my mental exhaustion and the comforting thought that my wife will never know about this incident if I don't tell her myself. Which, of course, I did.

I have to tell you that from that moment on, I have never had illusions that my stay-at-home wife has it easy. In so many ways, her job is much harder than mine, and she never gets a day off. All she gets is a little help around the house every now and then from yours truly, and the occasional stolen moment alone at the grocery store, which from this point forward will be clouded with doubt as to the safety of her children in the hands of their narcoleptic father.

Sundays

2008-09-05T04:43:00.000-04:00

God created Sundays for the normal people, the nine to fivers, the weekenders, and I believe he did it to smite us lowly restaurant workers. You see, for you normal people, Sundays are well spent with family. It's the one day of the week that everyone gets dressed up together and goes to church to tithe and enjoy fellowship and revel in the word of the Lord. A cleansing and cathartic experience after which the whole family enjoys breaking bread together. More often than not, though, the preacher goes long, and Mom and Dad converse with members of the congregation after the service while young children pull at the hems of their slacks and dresses with pangs of hunger in the pits of their stomachs. And hunger, my friends, can do strange things to even the most pious individuals.

In the service industry, however, Sundays have an entirely different slant. We are torn from our slumber and forced to face our hangovers with fur coated tongues. There is no time for family as we try to recall what went horribly wrong the night before at the bar after work. Showers are spent calculating exactly which Red Headed Slut or JagerBomb or shot of Patron pushed us over the edge of the cliff. As we don our uniforms, our minds try to piece together the events of the previous night; clouded and murky and disjointed bits of memory that make little sense in the misfiring synapses of our pounding brains. It is at this point that we pray to God that we didn't do anything too stupid or embarrassing the night before, perhaps our only religious effort of the day.

Enter the after church crowd, their souls cleansed, their sins forgiven, their patience and tolerance defiled by empty bellies craving sustenance at any cost, tempers shortened by low blood sugar, and behaviors quite unsaintly. Many of them will be forced to wait even longer for their daily bread, as the restaurants cannot accomodate the overwhelming overflow of eager customers all released from fire and brimstone at exactly the same moment. By the time the ravenous suits and ties and Sunday dresses finally arrive at the table all foaming at the mouth and chomping at the bit, they have little but contempt left for those of us who have merely prayed to the porcelain god, and for we, the walking dead, the feeling is mutual.

There are no trucks that deliver goods on Sunday. After the two busiest days of the week, the odds of NOT running out of any product are staggeringly against you. Even the most meticulous manager, skilled at ordering, rattling off useage figures, and calculating customer counts cannot forsee the whims and fancies of the public at large, nor can he control the rate of decay of produce, or prevent accidental spillage, or the malfunction of refrigeration equipment. Sunday is the day of reckoning. It tests your metal. It is not for the weak of heart, or for those with a history of stroke in their families. Things will get ugly, feelings will be hurt, and apologies may even be called for.

And yet, after all the customers are fed, and the egos are stroked, and the complaints are listened to, and the fires are put out, and the hangovers subside there is a sense of accomplishment that is unlike Friday or Saturday nights'. You did your best with what you had to work with. You lived to fight another day. You rallied the troops and got the job done. And the normal people? The nine to fivers? The weekenders? Well, once their blood sugar returns to normal so do their behaviors. It is their nature to forgive, and even a sin as great as running out of strawberry waffles is once again overlooked. That is, at least, until next Sunday...

Garbage

2008-09-04T21:35:00.000-04:00

I like to think of myself as a decent man. Although I'm far from perfect, I'm a devoted father and husband to my wife and kids. I work long hours in a restaurant, read countless books to my children, help with the dishes when I'm home, fix things that are broken, mow the yard before it's embarrassingly long, change the foulest of diapers, encourage my wife to get out of the house alone once in a while to maintain her facade of sanity, and I love every minute of it. But try as I may, I still have one significant downfall, an inherent character flaw that has troubled me since my youth. Garbage.

For as long as I can remember, it has been my job to take out the garbage. That foul, rank sack of stench that plagues kitchens around the globe. That which is unwanted, discarded, unused, forsaken, and cast out of our lives forever becomes my responsibility to get rid of once and for all. Why is this task so daunting? Who among us has not felt unwanted or had a love that was unrequited? Who among us has never been discarded and jilted by a lover? Who among us has not been forsaken, abandoned, given up?

In this consumer society, packaging alone comprises a great portion of our daily trash. I once spent seven hours contemplating the travels of a plastic water bottle. Where was it born? In a factory in Wisconsin? Where was it filled? At a beautiful mountain stream in eastern France? Was it sad to leave such a beautiful place, even though it bore the fruit of their union in fulfillment of it's own divine purpose? Did it travel by boat, plane, rail car, and truck to find me in the parking lot of a Grateful Dead concert? Was this a significant moment in the life of that water bottle, or just really good LSD? Whatever it was, it didn't last forever, and I'm ashamed to admit that when it was over, I threw that bottle into the trash for someone else to dispose of, once and for all.

Perhaps it was this experience (and the guilt and shame that I bear to this day as a result) that makes it difficult for me to "kick it to the curb", so to speak. Perhaps this is why my lovely wife has to remind me ad nauseum to take out the garbage before I leave for work. I know it bothers her. I know she doesn't enjoy repeating herself. I know she doesn't want to harp on me. Still, she does it anyway, because I leave her no choice. Perhaps I'm reluctant to sentence those derelict objects to life in the landfill. Or perhaps I'm just forgetful. I think of myself as a decent man. Even decent men have their faults. Mine is forgetting to take out the garbage.