Tagged: Twinfamy

There’s a Doctor in the House

After four years of non-stop nerdery (which predates both the Twins and this fine publication), I finally defended my dissertation on Friday. I know I left you in terrible suspense all weekend by withholding the results, but I’m ready to break the silence. Are you ready?

Well, guess what? I DID IT!

Laaa. La-la-la-laaa. La-la-la-laaa. Laaa-laaa-la-laaa-la-la-la-la-la-laaa.

Laaa. La-la-la-laaa. La-la-la-laaa. Laaa-laaa-la-laaa-la-la-la-la-la-laaa.

If you so choose, you can now call me Dr. Pseudonymous. John Pseudonymous, PhD will also work. I will also respond to “Doctor,” “Doc,” and “Hey, you with the diploma!”

To commemorate this momentous occasion, I thought I’d remind you how excellently I’ve chronicled this journey and thus, from beginning to end, here are some of my favorite PhD-flavored Twincidents, for your re-reading pleasure. If you don’t read them now, they may disappear into the Disney Vault forever, as after acquiring Star Wars, a Disney-Twinfamy merger seems to be the most logical progression.

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Good News/Bad News: Tall Order

Good News: For the first time in our seven-year relationship, my wife and I purchased a brand new mattress and boxspring. We got a smokin’ deal on top of a rebate and we will now be spending our nights on cloudlike memory foam.

Bad News: The new bed is about eight inches higher, so my pregnant wife can’t get in and out of bed without a stool.

Stool - Twinfamy

Me: “But it’s nice once you get up here, right?”

Wife: “Shut up.”

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Ruh-Roh! (The Pee-Pee Prophecy)

I took a deep breath as I plopped onto the couch. It had been a marathon day for our family, kicking off with a frantic search for the baskets of goodies the Easter Bunny had hidden for the Twins in the living room the night before, followed by church, a breakfast/Easter egg hunt at my in-laws’, a lunch/extended hangout at my parents’ house (which also included my in-laws), and an epic, multi-generational game of Spoons resulting in literal bloodshed for several family members.

Demolished Easter Basket

Yeah, that’s right. I’m writing about Easter Sunday 2014, which I realize was three months ago, but there’s a reason for that. Let me do my thing here and I promise I’ll get there. Cool? Cool.

We’d just gotten back home from the festivities at about four in the afternoon. My daughter, who had fallen into a post-candy coma in the car, was still passed out on the couch, while my son was assessing his toy/sweets inventory on the living room floor, unpacking his three Easter baskets (yes, the Easter Bunny visited both grandparents’ houses, too) and lining up his loot.

I am not a napper, but after the day we’d had out in the Arizona heat, I was just about to nod off when the silence was broken.

Very dramatically.

“JOHN!!!”

It was my wife. I’ll admit that my initial reaction was annoyance because she’d used her Desperately Important Tone of Voice, which is usually reserved for Dire Emergencies, like when it is critical that I retrieve a box of her scarves I did not even know existed from the top shelf of our closet, or when a bug that was “crawling across the floor, trying to eat her” turns out to be a ball of lint. You know, the heavy shit.

Sighing lazily, I rose from the couch. “I’ll be right back, Buddy,” I told my son.

“Okay, Daddy,” he said, eyes still on his gear. “I’m just going to sit here and line up all of the things that the Easter Bunny brought me because I got a lot of things and I’m putting them in a line so I can see the ones that I have and then I’m going to play wiff them.”

“Sounds good, Buddy.”

I headed into our bedroom, ready to be underwhelmed by my wife’s latest “crisis.” But when I saw her standing in the bathroom with ET-sized eyes, I knew right away that something was different. This might actually be A Big Deal.

"E.T. phone husband."

“E.T. phone husband.”

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