havingtwinsnow.com

holy balls, 1 whole year.

havingtwinsnow — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 20:39:08 +0000

Since I haven’t really told the story in any disgusting detail, nor do I plan on it, I figure I’d give the run down succinctly so that come their 5th or 6th birthday, I can recall it easier with this here script.

This is our twins story.

Jules was high risk for this pregnancy, like the first one, even before we found out it was twins. But because of her blood pressure and how awesome her piss was, we were having three or four doctor appointments a week. Each visit was 45 minutes each way, not including the twenty minutes or half hour I would spend driving the opposite direction to pick her up from home, where she was on bed rest.

Every other visit involved me taking large orange bottles of her piss out of our fridge, holding it in my lap and making the drive north to Geneva to have her get more blood sucked out of her fucking arms. The tests became so common that I once joked that I would probably mistake her orange piss jugs for actual orange juice one of these days. Thankfully that never happened. I’m not into pissing. Golden showers don’t really turn me on. In fact, chicks don’t piss, they kind of vomit from their pee hole if you’ve ever listened to that shit while you’re sleeping.

So on this particular afternoon, January 12th, 2010, I left work at one thirty or so, picked up Jules and headed north again. Every time we left the house since entering the new year we were told to pack a bag because she could be admitted at any time. Every time we left the hospital we would high five, but it started getting old, having to make plans to not come back home without two more kids every fucking time we went to one of these appointments. Who’s watching Dylan, who’s taking him to day care, who do we have to pay in case he steals their car… All that shit. It’s too much to think about once, but every other fucking day. Fuck you.

So on this particular day, we go, we bring pee, she gets stabbed, we get her monitored, her results aren’t back yet on the blood test, so we get to go home. I drop Jules off after the 45 minute drive and go get Dylan at day care. As I’m pulling out of our subdivision, Jules calls frantically screaming about having babies tonite.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“We have to go back to the hospital, WAAAAAH they’re admitting me. We’re having the fucking twins.WAAAAH.”

“…”

“JOEL! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!”

“I’m digesting this, chill the fuck out.”

“WAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

And so we went back and forth for a good 5 minutes until she realized that yelling at me because her vag-hatch was about to unleash our little hellions wasn’t really accomplishing much.

So while I went and got the dude, she made arrangements for someone to watch him and repacked her luggage, as well as made me a man bag. I requested three things: underwear, socks and porn.
She neglected my porn. I still hate her for that.

Quickly.
I got the dude. Everyone at day care seemed to know by the look on my face. I received high fives and sexy stares from the mothers, who seemed to find my virility attractive. We hauled ass home. I loaded huge-Julie into the van, and took the dude to her sister’s house.

We dropped him off, and Jules cried for a few minutes when saying goodbye to dude, and then her sister, and then dude again.

We get moving north in the van. I’m doing speeds I haven’t done in a mini-van before. Jules is all “Let me go down on you” and I’m all “You haven’t seen your feet in three months, fat chance fatty!”

We get to the hospital. Jules won’t let me drop her off. I have to park and waddle behind her slow ass, twin preggo, bout to fuckin’ pop ass, me carrying everyfuckingthing while she tells her mom on the cell phone the same fucking thing she just told her mom on the cell phone when we were in the van, maybe 20 miles south of here.

We go in, we get checked in. We go into one of the birthing room thingies. I get my own bed. They hook her vagina up to a bunch of space aged gadgets and take her blood pressure and all that shit. We find out that we’re going to have the babies tomorrow at 8am. So we order take out Houllihans, I had the fish tacos, their fish tacos are the fucking bees kneecaps. We watch American Idol. They come check on her vag plugs like every 15 minutes, so any hope of me getting any is long gone after the fourth ‘quick zip and act natural’.

I tried my damnedest to sleep that night. I think I stared at the curtain between my bed and her bed for a good two hours before I started mentally preparing for telling Jules I wanted to get separate beds and a curtain to separate us. How bad ass is that? I can hear you pee, no problem, but do I really want you breathing your hot breath smelling breaths on mes? Fuck no. Curtains rule.

Somehow the next morning came and I treated Julie to her tray of hospital nothing, because she couldn’t eat anything because if she ate anything they might have to physically squeeze it from her colon while they have her intestines on the blue tarp on her chest.

YEAH IM A ROMANTIC.

So 8am comes and goes, I spent my time turning down Julie’s sexual advances and texting my friend Paul all of the wacky things Jules could do with her vagina now that it’s so flexible. Jules didn’t laugh once.

Jules’s ma showed up with McD’s breffast for me and I left the room with it so as not to have to watch Jules leer at me from across the hospital room. I also took this time to set up the “While You Were Out” surprise of getting our bedroom painted in her favorite colors that I dreamnt up the week prior. I took advantage of knowing talented people and got an awesome painter friend to paint, Cheryl Stoner to pick the colors, and Ed and Holly Fowler to figure out what the fuck to put on plain fucking purple walls dude. I’m a dude. I’m just the donor okay?

With that settled, I trucked back into the room and met the anesthesejrajologist (YES THAT’S HOW ITS SPELLED YOU FUCK) who was the same guy who did my appendix removal on Easter Sunday a year or so before. She was in good hands. Plus, if he fucked up, I was bigger than he was. Puto!

They carted Jules out around 9:45am and I was left to pace in a figure eight pattern in my scrub suit and scrub hat and booties (kind of what I do at work, but this shit my insurance was paying for instead of me). I was lookin’ fly but no amount of imaginary weed was calming me down. So I gave in and sat and played knee drums, which bugged my mother in law the fuck out. She ain’t know I had the skills yo!

Half hour later I was allowed to go into the room next to the room where they were going to dissect my wife. I waited there for about twenty of the longest minutes of my life.

When they brought me into the room Jules was awake, had that nervous look on her face and was about to tear up. I punched her in the shoulder and called her a pussy, as was my way. (I’m fucking KIDDING PEOPLE! FUCK!) I rubbed her forehead and took instructions on what to do if they needed me to take over for the surgeons.

The doctor with the knife was kind of a goofball, just the way I like em, and he says “Now we’re going to start in just a minute, I will tell you when I make the incision.” We both nod and he’s like “I lied, I already did it.”

And so we were on. Just when I hear the plop of her intestines hit the blue tarp, his cell phone rings. He doesn’t answer it, but it’s the Imperial March from Star Wars. Just as I recognize what it is, he hands the nurse on the other side of Jule’s numb ass fine ass body my beautiful bloody baby Princess Leah (lee-ya, not lay-ya, BUT STILL!). Then as he goes back in with is bloody snorkel on, they ask me to stand up and take a gander at the carnage, which I do with great excitement. I love a good crime scene.

After the smelling salt smell wore off (I’m kidding, I just vomited a little into Jule’s open cadaver) they yanked Mason out from Julie’s ribs and we now had to more fucking kids to suck the life from us as slowly as possible.

We had the babes at 10:56am and 10:57am on January 13th, 2010. We brought them home on their older brother’s birthday, January 17th, 2010.

Yes, for four days we had three kids under three.

During those few days under the billie lights, the twins both mastered the ancient art of shitting tar and doing nothing. It was really rather remarkable.

Now a year later, the only thing I fucking hate about having twins, is that people who don’t have twins and aren’t socially polite tend to stare, make comments, ask dumb questions AND DID I MENTION STARE?

Happy birthday to my babies. Now grow the fuck up, mow the fucking lawn, and never be short on the count.

holy balls, 1 whole year. is a post from: havingtwinsnow.com

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5 Things I Wasn’t Aware Of & You’re Probably An Asshole.

havingtwinsnow — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 17:52:20 +0000

If you haven’t noticed, I haven’t posted that much lately at havingtwinsnow.com for a number of reasons. Most of all, I’m just swamped with responsibility at home with the three kids, and work is nice and busy, and I’ve been brewing a lot of beer and reading a lot and basically enjoying life away from the computer. Also, I’ve been really happy and lucky to be involved in the website http://www.shutyourfuckingfaceandlisten.com as a consistent columnist and contributor. They like me for my huge balls just as much as you might.

But there is another reason that I’ve taken a bit of a break from posting a lot on this site. Maybe this will piss some of you off, if you even read this motherfucker, but I’m not worried about losing the friendships of people I don’t even know so fuck you anyway.

Bloggy parents are fucking assholes.

Yea, I said it. I’d even say it in Spanish if I had the patience.

What I’ve read from some of these coozescrapers over the past few months has been eye opening in that I never knew how fucking judgmental and assumptive most parents with access to the internet are. I sure as fuck never got into blogging to join any particular clique or group on the internet, or try to get acceptance from people I’ll never meet. But now that I’m kind of in it, albeit on the outskirts where people use the words ‘fuck, cooze, twatwrap supreme and other vulgarities’, I almost feel like a better person with a potty mouth than many of you who pride yourselves in your awesome perfect parenting/blogging skills.

I won’t personally call anyone out, but Jesus, do you ever read your own blogs? Who the fuck do you think you are? We get it, parenting is hard. But is life so difficult that you need to bitch and complain about every sleeplessfucking night? Do you need to bandwagon on every fucking new twitter trend just to get traffic? Do you need to add PLEASE RT! to every fucking tweet and avoid tweeting for fun and JUST do it for traffic?

Is blog traffic rewarding to people in ways that I am not privy to? Does the internet give you a blowjob for getting 17 comments on something?

I know many of you might consider me an asshole for my previous posts and pottymouth and attitude towards other assholes, but I could give a fuck. I am not a religious person at all, but I pride myself in not being an intentional asshole and letting other people know that I am aware of them out of respect. I plan on raising my kids in that mindframe rather than in a fake ass church environment, which I’m seeing more and more is just like the fucking mommy and daddy blogosphere.

Now either read my shit below, or fuck off and let me be the guy who thinks you’re fucking obsessed with yourself looking like a good parent vs. actually being a good parent.

Reposted, with permission, from
www.shutyourfuckingfaceandlisten.com

top 5 things that no one will tell you about parenthood that i fucking will, because i care (and want a blowjob).

5. some people take parenting way too fucking seriously.

When I was a kid, I honestly don’t remember many other parents. Like I remember that one dad was a drunk and we couldn’t talk sports or politics without him throwing a high life can at our heads. I remember one dad was a minister and we had to watch our language. One mom was a basketcase and we could pretty much get anything out of her food/treat/toy-wise without too much trouble or scheming.

But I don’t remember seeing this many asshole parents when I was walking amongst those potentially in the category to be “parented by assholes”.

Now that I am a parent, I see alot of traits in other parents that make me want to strangle them or stab their necks with a syringe full of drain-o. The most notable of these qualities is the parents who take the job way too fucking seriously.

For instance, when a teacher tells me my kid hit somebody I don’t immediately rush to his defense, I gather facts and react accordingly, remembering that he’s a fucking kid. Asshole parents react with an immediate nose in the air and a “I’M OFFENDED AT THE INSINUATION” as if their kid could never be an asshole. Let’s face the facts, kids can be assholes and it’s the parent’s job to tame down the assholeness of the child so future encounters can be less assholish.

Kids hit other kids, kids bite other kids, kids don’t listen to teachers – whatever, my kid does all of those. I don’t take it to heart when my kid acts out because kids need to learn that being an asshole isn’t fucking cool.

But these asshole parents must’ve had asshole parents when they were little assholes, that’s all I can think of.

4. parenting IS politics.

At home you democratically barter with your child to do certain things: Take one more bite and you can watch Dora. Wash you hands and you can have some goldfish. Put your underwear on and stop wagging the dog and you can go outside and play. Why do you do this democratically? Well, because the parent that always yells and makes demands like a dictator is one day written about in rap songs as a fucking fuck and always-yelling parents are fucking pricks to be around.

At day care or school you have teachers and other parents to deal with politically. You might hate Sally’s mom cause she smells like porpoise vagina and makes a ticking sound with her mouth prior to and after speaking to people. But if you acted on that hatred, well, maybe she takes it out on your kid somehow and he doesn’t get a fucking cupcake at her kid’s birthday party, or invited at all for that matter. You hold your fucking tongue with other people cause you don’t want to give anyone any fucking reason to fuck with your kid, your kid can fuck up his or her own shituation they damn self.

This also applies to vaccinations and other things you are forced to complete before allowing your kids to attend school or daycare. I don’t care to get into the debate over their safety, but I do admit they freak me out. I also know that fighting that fight can place my kids in a light that most parents who rant and rave about the dangers of vaccinations don’t realize. Your kids could become pariahs in their own daycare/school just because you got loud/weird/hippie on the director over your rights as a parent/American/person with babymaking parts.

The reality is, you can do things at your doctor’s office to lower the potential for potential risks from vaccinations, but at school or daycare, shut the fuck up, hand over the forms signed by your doctor, and move the fuck on.

Politrickski.

3. walking in bare feet is fucking over dude.

When we had our first kid we would clean up after every meal the little fucking pig sprayed and spilled all over the kitchen. When the twins danced out of wifey’s vagina and started sitting in their high chairs at dinner, we learned something else.

We don’t give a fuck what’s on the floor as long as it isn’t ant season, people aren’t coming over and it won’t grow overnight.

The moisture factor impacts the decision to clean up the kitchen floor like you wouldn’t believe. Yes, rice on the floor is fucking annoying because you can’t wipe it up, it smears, then it attaches to your fucking elbows and dries in place in the carpet and is now a permanent fixture in your house. If you wait till the next day, or even the next day after that, the dustbuster works to suck it uip, or the kids will crawl over there and eat it up for you anyway.

The same goes for cheerios. Once you get over the fact that the box doesn’t say “FOR BABIES WHO CAN SIT UP!” and start feeding teething babies cheerios instead of those puffs (what I call “rapepuffs” for what they do to my fucking wallet) you’ll see a box of cheerios last 5 days longer than one tube of puffs for a third the cost. Well one thing that babies do is shove things in their mouth and let them fall back out. If a cheerio is half-digested and happens to land on your floor, you best let it dry out before trying to pick it up or you’ll end up with bile/spit dipped fingernails, and that doesn’t look good when you’re trying to fingerbang the wifey now does it?

Walking in bare feet is fucking over, until we get a dog. And I’m going to get the british bulldog with the tongue so wide and slobbery that it mops as it vacuums.

I will name him Lou. He will be my life partner. We will go everywhere together. We will get matching tattoos.

2. a sense of humor is needed, afforded to you, and grows inside of you like a cock in the poopchute.

Before we had kids my wife would make comments about my reacting so quickly to things, and snapping on her or swatting her hands away when she’d try and tickle me. She asked if I would do the same things when we had kids and I kind of resented her for saying such a thing, but I thought about it.

Would I swat a 6 month old baby’s hand away if it touched a no-touch-tickle-zone?

Would I get pissed at a 2 year old for dropping a cup of milk on a carpet?

Would I get angry if while holding two babies after their bottles I get puked on on my chest hair and then as I open my mouth to yell “GRODY!” the other one pukes in my open mouth?

The answer to all of those before the fact is, I don’t fucking know, but I fucking hope not.

The answer to all of those now after the fact is, parenthood affords you a sense of patience that is almost identical to a sense of humor because what the fuck, are you an asshole enough to actually use terms like “blame” and “fault” on a kid who can’t even jack off yet? Asshole ass motherfucker ain’ts yous!

1. parenthood allows parents to have so much erotic sexual intercourse it’s fucking almost sex-overload.

We have sex so much that my balls hurt from trying to keep up with the spurtspurt manbatter production. And anyone who knows me, knows my balls are fucking huuuuuuuuuuge, so it’s quite the operation goin’ on down thrrr.

For every shitty diaper, we have passionate sex.

For every puke that ends up in a patch of body hair, we have passionate, tie me up and pour hot candle wax on my bite marks sex.

For every time daycare calls and says one or three of my children has shat up his or her back into his or her ears, we whip out the whips and fuck like college students on liquid G in a blacklit room covered in pink floyd posters.

Yes, it’s a glamorous, armous life that parents lead.

It’s a shame more people don’t have kids, they could be having all the sex too.

I’m lying.

Sex has turned into a game. We try to get it in (GET IT?!?!?! HAHAHA) as much as we can, but that means not having a baby sleeping with us, a nearly-3 year old running into the room complaining about having to go potty, or one or both of us wanting to get out of the house for a break from it. Sure we could bone in the garage, but that’s where we hang the carcasses.

5 Things I Wasn’t Aware Of & You’re Probably An Asshole. is a post from: havingtwinsnow.com

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butt the fuck out.

havingtwinsnow — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 18:56:24 +0000

as the twins get older, we get more daring in the face of going out in public. sure the twins were immobile little balls of stationary drool just a few months ago, but now that they’re gabbling and crawling, they can interact with their surroundings which makes taking them out in public a bit more fun. for instance, when someone you don’t know comes over to the twimo (twin stroller/the limo) and peeks inside and makes either an attempt at a funny face or says hello in a pitch only dogs can hear, I adore the fact that my daughter will give them the look of: what the fuck are you doing in my face you fucking taintscraping coozemoose?
the look of disdain from a child under a year old is priceless. but the look upon the face of the person with whom the precious bebe is delivering the look to is fucking CLASSICALLY ADDICTING. i almost want to take my daughter out in public more just to have her give her awesome “you’re a fucking idiot” scowl at some of these jagbags. she can make a grown man’s knees buckle with her two-toof grin, but can make a 55 year old successful business-woman or 75 year old grandmother tear up at the sight of her scowl. she is my middle finger, while at the same time requiring diapers like a real human, she is my extended middle finger. delivering “fuck you cuntwrapsupreme”‘s to these fools on the reg while i’m at work bringin in the dolo.

but this blog post doesn’t actually focus on the awesome that is my daughter. no, this blog post is actually titled “butt the fuck out” because as you may have picked up on from other parents of multiples and my previous blog posts “PEOPLE ARE REALLY FUCKING ANNOYING” when it comes to people with multiples out in public.
yes, we’ve dealt with the daily “OH! YOU’VE GOT YOUR HANDS FULL! OH HO HO HO!” and the “are they twins?” and “do twins run in your family?” and the fact that most people talk openly about how they dont envy your situation mere feet from your fucking ears.
but one of the things im realizing now as the twins are getting older and i have a better handle on corralling my three kids in public, is that many people gawk and eavesdrop without even trying to hide it. im not talking staring for a few more seconds than is comfortable, my wife spaces out too, that’s not an issue. i’m talking blatant stalking within a grocery store, a full table’s attention at a restaurant, maybe even people we don’t know at a party fully digesting everything we’re saying and doing with an open mouth gaping like the sore red-ring of a jalapeno attacked colon from a night of nachos and poppers at a local sports pub. (graphic? mmmm)

if i cared what other people thought about me i probably wouldn’t be writing a blog without capitalization or even proper fucking socially acceptable english, but you know i dont give a fuck what you think of me, but do they? do the stalkers realize that i dont find myself fascinating in that i can play zone defense with a trio of adorably awesome kids? do the fucking nosy bitches understand that i know i have a hot wife and im really fucking damn saxy myself? these love handles don’t pump themselves people.

one situation in particular really brought this whole phenomenon to a head for me over the weekend.

we’re at bed, bath & beyond, where everyone knows is not the ideal place for a twinstroller but FUCK YOU BB&B, TWIN PARENTS ARE PEOPLE TOO. so we’re returning a gift from christmas last year for some christmas gifts for this year (*AND WE’RE THRIFTY TOO YOU FUCKING NANCY DREW’S PANTY LINE SKETCHERS) and we’re doing our best to stay out of people’s way. it’s a very narrow fucking store if i had to pick one fucking word to describe it, shit’s fuckin narrow yo. well, as we’re cruising into the curtain area, my wife pushing the twimo and me pushing dylan, the awesomely rambunctious 2 year old in the rusty, loud wheeled shopping cart, i notice a pair of white ladies scopin out the fam yo.
normally i accept the circus music and AAHOOOOOGA horns that bellow when we enter public places, but this time i felt the eyes peering into my ginormous ballsack.
these ladies was up to no good. they started makin trouble in my neighborhood.

in situations with a 2 year old in public, if you fucking sit still for more than 30 seconds, that child will start to go insane. it is IMPERATIVE that you keep moving or bribe them with sweets or what they believe to be a treat. sometimes both are necessary for any semblance of concentration time to focus on the task at hand. this is common knowledge for parents.

as im zooming in between the aisles, i pick up a bright green spandex pillow and proceed to smack my kid playfully across the face. i pretend to lose control of the pillow and allow him to beat me mercilessly as i cry out in faux pain. this goes on for maybe 15 minutes with him giggling like he’s on crack and me red in the face from getting bludgeoned.
at about the 45 second mark of my beatdown, i realize that the ladies from the other side of the store are now on my other side and they aren’t holding anything or pushing a cart with anything. they are standing with their mouths agape with the older of the two gently holding on to the other’s arm above the elbow. kind of in a “dear lord, we’re all going to die” type pose.

whatever. we keep on going crazy while jules specs out the curtains. we just head to the other side of the store to look at posters so he can point out colors, shapes and animals. on the way over jules stops us and asks me to take the twins too. no biggie. anyone with twins and another kid can attest to knowing how to handle a twin stroller and a shopping cart. push the cart, pull the stroller.
so as we enter the aisle, although clumsily with the extra twin baggage, dylan starts pointing out fishies, flowers, go cubs go, giraffes, guitars, anything on any poster he knows something about the dude goes crazy dropping science like a beastie boy. as he’s into his fifth or sixth rendition of go cubs go (which we never get to sing cause we always fucking lose) i turn around to see the same damn broads creepin on a come up. this time they seem to be discussing my fathering ability because i specifically heard the words “if he thinks this is appropriate behavior” to which i had had enough of the stalking around every corner of this narrow ass, high fucking priced, shit i dont need fucking box store.

this was the fourth time i had caught them near our personal space and my wife was on the other end of the store so score one for joel’s inability to let people act like fucking cocksuckers without being called on it. rather than the usual “i wonder how they manage” type bullshit we get from people, this time it was some old childless bitches looking down their noses at us.

i intently steered my brood towards these broads and about 15 seconds before i was to make bitch-fall (like landfall, but with bitches) they realized i was heading towards them and was onto their shenanigans. i felt like a cop breaking up a makeoutparty with a bunch of teenagers. their eyes got all wide and mouths dropped even further as i pushed straight through to where they were once standing together. my two year old was whipping his bright green spandex pillow filled with daddy sweat and dylan snot all over the place.

if i wouldve heard these bitches talking in my dreams they wouldve had like hamtons accepts and ended every sentence with “dahling” but in this instance they both just said “what’er’you’do-” as we plowed onward.

in perfect “i know im an asshole, but my kids are happy, healthy and well taken care of you fucking rich bitch ass empty snatched spinster bitches” style, i merely exclaimed while passing “pardon our breaking of your silence fine sirs.” while i have no idea what i meant when i said it, i assure you, my brain gave it the green light and i delivered it in sarcasm-rich condescension.

they watched me pass by in disgust and i really wanted to get into it with them, but im learning tact in front of my children so they dont grow up and cuss as well as i do. i want kids that look uncomfortable dropping a “mohawked puss bush eatin a dandy grundle of a fucked in the arse marsupial” or a “bulging testicled, monocle sporting assfisted afterbirth of a clusterfuck” – you know?

i think people in general have the potential to be awesome, but most are so fucking confident in that they are invisible and can talk shit, stare and act like they’re better than other people, that they deserve to have their clitorises and rectums superglued to each other and fed candied yams, pickeled pigs feet and the sweet sweet nectar of the monk fish’s colon until they fucking explode from being fucking assholes.

anyone else horny right now?

no?

butt the fuck out. is a post from: havingtwinsnow.com

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getting out of the house: at 6mo

havingtwinsnow — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 15:41:17 +0000

6 months have passed since the twins were born and it’s interesting to see how our lives have gone from complete panic and stress to one of “i know what i have to do to enjoy an hour on the couch after everyone is asleep”. at about the 3 month old mark, just before julie was getting ready to head back to work, we still hadnt put much thought into how two working adults were going to get out of the house in the morning in time for work, let alone how the house itself would survive such chaos.

it was the ‘on the outside looking in’ mentality that really built up the severity and intensity of the nuts and bolts of having three kids, 2 in babycarriers, that really fucked with our brains those first few days of practicing getting out of the house.

i remember the first day we tried to get all 3 kids out of the house. it was complete chaos. dylan wouldnt put his shoes on, julie couldnt stop lactating, i had an erection that broke the dishwasher handle, the twins were constantly rapping the intro to ‘rapper’s delight’ over and fucking over… it was cinematic gold but in reality it was possibly the most stressful morning imagineable. what was going wrong was far outweighing what was going right.

what was going right was that we had everything necessary to get out of the door that morning all ready the night before.

we realized that getting things laid out the night before made the morning that much easier, regardless of projectile vomiting episodes, liquid shit blowouts at 6am, pouting kids who would rather jump off the couch repeatedly than put their clothes on, having to chase the naked one across the neighbor’s yard while he squeals and giggles with his naked glee-like giggle squeal, aka squeggle.

the one thing we can’t control is how the humans in the situation are going to wake up. sometimes im a complete fucking assface, sometimes jules is a complete coozerocket complete with countdown to bitchtoff, sometimes dylan is an angel, sometimes the twins are so busy working on their infant-algebraic equations meant to solve the problems of childhood menopause that they dont even cry or hurl when we’re getting them dressed and un-shitted.

we cant controll the human factor, but we can control the little odds and ends that can stand in the way of an easy departure or a dragging ass – i want to stab my spouse in the spine and deep fry his/her orbital nerve in a pot of moose semen (its happened in canada im sure).

what are these odds and ends?

*6 clean bottles with nipples, caps & collars
*pre-made baby formula for our happy spitter professor GERD.
*extra clothes for our poddy training ninja with blue eyes and a vicious right hook.
*55 extra bibs for our pair of puking, drool puddling, diaper draining darlings
*boxes of diapers that have ruined my ability to stop and pick up a 6 pack on a whim
*cans of formula that have ruined my ability to SAVE UP to stop and pick up a 6 pack on a PLANNED EXCURSION

and that shit is just for the kids, this doesnt even include my list of odds and ends:
*77 high powered rifle rounds
*1 bottle of ether
*3 oz. of imaginary pot that i smoke on the way to and the way home from work
*5 bottles of water: 2 for my imaginary mountain hikes, 3 for regular hydration
*1 lunch packed with whatever my wife left me (which lately has been an apple, a thing of yogurt & a baggie of crushed dreams)
*my laptop, which is sticky from peanut butter fingers trying to “go elmo site, go elmo site, i log on daddy, i logging”
*my testicles: which anyone who knows me, knows that i have ginormous testicles that i actually have to stow in my truck bed because my second row of seats is chock full of child seats.

julie brings the following:
*her lunch (which is usually a pan roasted protein followed by a vegetable medley that is made desk-side by her live in chef *who is a butch lesbian by the name of Butchbian*)
*her coffee
*my wallet
*my hopes and dreams

see it isnt about how fast you can get out the door, it’s about what can you do the night before that will allow you to not worry about what you’re possibly forgetting. all you gotta do in the morning is get the HUMANS clothed and free of large quantities of shit. the rest of that shit daycare can take care of, that’s why you pay them more than you pay for your mortgage.

eat my ass adulthood, may you suckle on my mantits while i channel surf through classic nfl games JUST FUCKING DROOLING OVER ANOTHER FOOTBALL SEASON ON ITS WAY.

love,

dad

getting out of the house: at 6mo is a post from: havingtwinsnow.com

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a day off.

havingtwinsnow — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 18:24:45 +0000

now that im a recovering catholic who has completely sworn off all things religious, i am still unable to take time off from work without feeling like a complete douchenozzle. but i guess i should mention that i am completely pro-not-being-an-asshole, so yeah, wait, that’s the exact opposite of what catholics have been in my experience… moving on

the guilt is so ingrained into my psyche that when i was recovering from having my appendix out april before last, i was back at work (and soon back home on the couch) after only a few days. i hate myself for not enjoying the time i earn off and making the most of it.
now since having kids ive taken dozens of days to care for them if their sick or take them out to the zoo or something, but ive never actually taken a day off for myself since my balls got me into this mess.

so today is a day off. all week my wife has been pestering me to make plans for our super happy fun day off. all week ive been putting it off because, shit, i REALLY want to have no plans and do whatever the fuck i feel like doing. so last night at 10 i said “hey, we have no plans tomorrow. we’re taking all 3 kids to daycare. im doing whatever the fuck i feel like doing.”
she was initially upset at the fact that we werent visiting one of chicago’s fine cultural exhibits or bistros (we love bistros because we can usually include body parts into conversations and put an “o” or an “isima” at the end of them and make them sound like edible treats) (im lying). but this morning at 445 when our oldest came trotting into the room saying “i wanna watch a movie” she looked at me and said “we can take a nap today, yes?”
to which i answered “yes chef” (ever since hells kitchen came out she says “yes?” at the end of a statement. it’s annoying but, hey, she let’s me see her naked).

we took the kids to daycare and passed a half dozen daycare friends on the way out “are you guys off today?” – followed by that look that screams “AND YOURE NOT SPENDING IT WITH YOUR KIDS?”.
i answered “hell yes. im going to read, sleep & i might even get to shit with the door closed.”
these people acted offended at such a thing, but i could tell their comments were basically rooted in a spiteful jealousy.

listen motherfuckers, not that i have to explain myself to you, but seriously:
i pay for daycare 5 days a week even if theyre only there 3 days.
i work all the fucking time and still have over a week of earned time off to use before december 31st.
i have chores around the house that could easily take me months if i do them 15 minutes at a time in between feedings, wipings & bathings & the occasional raspberry/zerbert/tickle session. if i do them at one time without distractions? an hour.
i spend all of my time away from the pharmacy with my kids, and while they are my everything, they dont do much for my housekeeping schedule or ability to SHIT WITH THE FUCKING DOOR CLOSED.
i havent taken a nap solo since 2008.

id like to think today is my day motherfucker.

so yes, wifey ate her breakfast too quick (and drank 4 MGD64′s last night- EEEEEEEEW!) and ended up having to clenchwalk her way through target while we grocery shopped & SPRINTED into the house when we pulled in with our groceries.
yes, wifey had a list of things for me to do that she read off while throned.
yes, i did the list & said “take me to the pool & then take me home & then dont fucking talk to me until 5pm”

so my day off so far, wasnt all that i had dreamnt, but we still havent come to the “teabagging” portion of my day. if wifey read the schedule i made out she’d notice that she completely overlooked the “taintmassage”, “mutual masturbation” and prostate milking sections of my mental shhhedule. (pronounced shhhhhhhhhedule)

the reason im telling you this is that alot of my friends never take actual days for themselves. maybe theyre still catholic or something, but i can only hope that some of you grundlemuffins learn to appreciate time spent WITHOUT your kids now and then, cause damn, shitting with the door closed is fucking akin to eating a blueberry muffin IN the motherfucking oven while getting yer toes licked by a playboy model who’s furiously frigging herself to the calendar of ME eating different assorted marinated and grilled meat delicasies.

now its the nap portion of my day, so do me a favor, EAT MY ASS AND SHUT THE FUCK UP.

a day off. is a post from: havingtwinsnow.com

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