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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.

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