Sex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...