Archive for October, 2009

I’ve started to kick Julie out of the house. There is no way a woman can expect a miracle to be performed on a room full of instruments, computers and a 1974 Wurlitzer Funmaker during nap times and weeknights alone. Two out of the five weeknights I teach guitar lessons out of our house, and it seems every weekend is packed full of weddings, shopping trips and more and more fucking trips to Babies R’ Rippin’ Us Off than I care to admit.

So rather than dealing with the time crunch and having an excuse to not get my son’s new room done, I kicked the wifey out on Sunday so I could get my entire old office evacuated in preparation of paint and a race car bed. I did pretty well. The room is completely empty. But at about 8pm on Sunday through about 7am Monday morning, I was wondering if my request might end up hurting my wife and unborn twins.

Ya’ see, Julie accompanied her mother and sister and her kids, along with my son to St. Charles, Illinois‘s Annual Scarecrow Festival. Fun was had by all, including a delicious cup of luke warm hot chocolate. Julie had a cup, her sister had a cup, mmmmm yummy.

As soon as Julie started heading back home to Yorkville, she started feeling queasy. She got home, cooked dinner, ate dinner and then headed up to bed around 7:30pm. Around 8pm I heard “Joel?” So I went upstairs to investigate. 11 hours later Julie was still ralphing her guts out in the bathroom while I laid awake hoping to comfort her if she returned to bed.

She came back to bed a few times, and I fetched her some crushed ice and some saltines, yet every few minutes I was jarred awake by the sounds of her spleen wanting to make contact with our toilet water and a rabid WREEEEETCH was heard throughout the entire neighborhood.

By 6:30am, as I got into the shower delirious and drunk on no sleep, Julie had just barely fallen asleep, and by the time I finished my traditional sinus rinse, she was back in the bathroom puking again. 11 hours, dozens of ralph wiggums, no fun. She wasn’t going to work today.

I headed in to work, knowing I would be called to take her to the doctor at some point, and about an hour into my day I took a call from her where she told me the OB group wanted her to get to the hospital to take in some fluids. I raced home, scooped her in my arms, threw her into the back of my pickup and raced north to Delnor’s Labor & Delivery Center.

We checked in and they immediatley tried to get her an IV running, but of course, that would’ve been what should’ve happened. Instead, my usually veiny wife was poked 4 times before the fourth nurse found a fitting vein. The not-so-successful pokers before that last nurse all called my wife ‘valvular.’ I didn’t know whether to be turned on or offended so I shut my mouth.

Two bags of Lactated Ringer’s in and we received a personal visit from our High Risk OB doctor, Dr. Losure, who came with a fresh set of wheels ready to wisk my wife away to get her cervix checked. Her cervix looks great and we got the chance to see our twins faces again, and a few print outs for the refrigerator too. Dr. Losure wheeled us back and instructed the nurse to give Julie one more bag, since she still hadn’t peed since we had first arrived at the hospital.

A few hours, and horrible soap operas later one of the doctors from the Focus on Women PB group that we se came by and cleared Julie to head home to take it easy. She’s been eating oatmeal in bird nibbles and drinking water in wussy sips ever since.

On the way home she called her sister, who, oddly enough was up all night and had taken off work that day just to pee out of her butt!

What did they ingest in common? A TEPID CUP OF HOT FUCKING CHOCOLATE. Yes, you can get food poisoning from a drink. I told my wife that she was drinking CARNY WATER and that was what made her puke puke all night.

Lesson of the day? If your hot chocolate is cool enough for you to drink it when you first get it, throw it the fuck away.

Love,

Dad.

I need to vent a smidge. A yiddle bit. A pinch of bitch, a touch of wah wah.

Every frickin’ time I see someone I haven’t seen in 5 minutes, I get asked about the twins. Every time I walk into a room and I’m without the wifeballoon, I get the same frickin’ reaction: “Aaaaaayyyy! How’s Jules?”

Ya’ know what? Jules is miserably happy right now. Her contractions are scaring the shit out of us, she pops and cracks whenever she stands up, she can’t sleep comfortably, she can’t help out around the house so she has this impending feeling of guilt like I actually give a shit that she can’t assist like she used to, she gets full really fast now, yet she’s hungry again in a few minutes, she’s emotional, she’s indecisive, she’s worried.

But I’ll be damned if we aren’t excited as shitdamnfuckbitch about having two kids in a few months. The twins themselves don’t scare us, if you have twins already and think I should be scared I don’t care to talk to you right now, let them come first. What scares us is all this damn preparation and annoying human interaction. And let’s not forget the fucking worrying.

She’s worried about me finishing the things I’ve said I will finish well before the supreme architect decides to force two kids out her pee hole. Her worrying bugs the absolute shit out of me because it is yet another thing that adds to her stress level and for fucks sake, my job right now is to lessen these stressors. Yet she, like every other female creature on the planet, assumes that without women, men couldn’t even perform the simplest of duties.

“Did you flush?” ‘Yes dear.’

“Did you change him?” ‘Yes dear.’

You know what I’d LIKE to say?

“Did I flush? SHIT NO! We’re on a budget, water reclamation is all over my ass about that 45 dollar quarterly bill babe, no more single excrement flushes.”

“Did I change him? SHIT NO! We’re not made of diapers! We switched to Luvs to save 5 dollars every week, not to just change every diaper that you can’t feel is damp or brown from the inside out!”

Phew, just writing out my sarcasm is soothing my tortured, awesome sperm having soul.

If you’re reading this honey, I will get the new bedroom moved out of, spackled, painted and set up long before your vag opens like the frickin’ Red Sea. Just please, shut up about it.

I would like a beverage right about now…

Image by misskoco via Flickr

Thankfully, my current twitterfeed consists of porn stars and the mothers and fathers of twins and multiples. So when I’m not in the mood for stories about chapped nipples, projectile vomiting, poop up the backs of pajamas, or all night crying fits; I can always go look at some surgically altered breasticles and backsides.

Am I gross? Should I be punished? Are you thinking “what a perv!”?

I don’t really care what your opinion of me, but I can honestly say from a father’s standpoint, that the best way to give a man a refresher is to shove some fake tanned boobs in his face. I want to stay on top of my game so my twitterfeed is 90% twins, parenting and twin parenting related and 10% boobs. If I ever freak out I will up my boob intake by a minimum of 10%. It’ll be the tits!

SO, back to what I’m HELL YEAH-ing about regarding the internet today. I was going through twitter this afternoon and came across this article about Twin Support Groups and why it is a good idea to join one. At first I was like “Ah man, a group of whiny parents talking about chapped nipples, projectile vomiting, poop up the backs of pajamas, or all night crying fits – where’s the boobs?” But then I read this article and I am now convinced that the more reinforcements I have alongside me, the better my kids existence will be.

It’s a win win situation! I go listen to some talk about chapped nipples, projectile vomiting, poop up the backs of pajamas, and all night crying fits, then maybe I slip out the back, light a cigar, sip some Johnny Walker Red and talk boobs with the other twinpadres ay?

SEE! It all comes back to boobs! We come out attached at the nip, we die trying desperately to attach ourselves to more nips!

Regardless of my fascination with boobs today, I found a great article on a great blog (http://www.twinparenthood.com) that I will now follow like I follow boobs.

Read this article here: Top 10 Reasons to Join a Twins / Multiples Support Group

May your nipples remain unchapped, your kids vomit only trickle, their poop stay in it’s diaper and may they sleep through the night.

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I saw a book about deducing what your little babe was crying about just after my son was born in 2008. I found a youtube video that talked about it too. Here is the video link:  What Baby Cries Mean

After a few months I was pretty good at determining what to do in any situation based on the intensity and starting sound of the cry because of this video’s suggestions, but normally these things are happening at 1, 2, or 4 o’clock in the morning when I’m admittedly, not at my best mentally.

So I just found a little gadget at Think Geek called the Why Cry Baby Analyzer.

Using this chart:

Think Geek's Why Cry Baby Analyzer chart

Pretty interesting concept, but I can’t see spending 100 bucks just to know what my kid is crying about. At the early ages there are pretty much only four potential reasons (basic, I know) why a young babe would be wailing.

Hungry, Tired, Poop or Annoyed.

I learned to check the neck for any tags or annoying little things poking the skin, then smell the ass, then determine if it’s nap time or if teet squirts are needed.

Yes, I just called breast milk “teet squirts.” I’m copyrighting that for a line of clothing made for moms that is pre-dirtied with yellow and white stains in the breasticular area. If you steal my idea, I will crush you greco-roman wrastlin’ style.

I know, I know, I know.

A few months ago I had myself and the wife convinced that not only could we not afford a minivan, but we could get by with a Saturn Vue and three kids under three, all in car seats.

Then it happened, I was walking out of Target with some fresh green beans, or as I call them frshgrnbns, and I saw a lady with the same exact vehicle my wife is driving putting three kids in car seats into the backseat.

I stopped and stared I was so shocked. I’m guessing by the color of their skin that these were not all her own children, but the struggle she was displaying was bruuuutal. Then as she had the last one in, she closed the door almost all the way and then leaned onto the door to shut it gently and you could see the carseat handle lean in when she got it completely shut.

Now I am not a rich man, but I sure as hell ain’t gonna’ let wifey, who will pretty soon be projectile shooting babies out of her vag, drive around in a vehicle that wont fit three car seats in it without a boatload of man

ipulatioin. Since I’ve been doing guitar lessons after work for a few years to help pay for day care I figured stretching a bit and getting a bigger vehicle would be more than worth the extra meals of hamburger helper without hamburger, which we just call “the help.”

So I started dropping hints about us not being able to rely on her little Vue Vue and she not only bought it, but after our OB appointment last Friday she let me drive into the Aurora Auto-Mall.

Six loooong hours later she was standing proudly next to her 2009 Chrysler Town & Country mini van. That damn thing is like a living room on wheels with THIRTEEN CUPHOLDERS.

After all the research I did about minivans since we found out about the twinvasion of 2010, I had it boiled down to three vehicles, it was her decision but I wasn’t going to allow for a shitbox to be parked in my garage. She picked wisely and rather than going used again and taking the hit on the trade in in a few years, she went new, got the right price (there is no such thing) and knows she can trade it back to the same dealership for a wash in a few years when she needs a new one.

She did amazing at the dealership and I don’t think the guy who sold us the car realized how much he was being manipulated, it was like Big Brother: Mini Van Purchase Edition. She raped ‘em good!

So yeah, I drive a mini van on the weekends now.

My only complaint is that I now have to park outside every night now because of the frickin’ SIZE of this thing, and the whole “I care about the temperature of my kids” thing.

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