My daughter hooked her arm securely around mine as I held her at my hip–a cripplingly cute mannerism of hers that melts me to my core every single time.
Vocalizing airplane sound effects, I made an extravagant production of swooping my giggling passenger down to the floor to pick up each member of the Hundred Acre Wood institutionalized as her Bedtime Crew, currently featuring Piglet (her go-to daytime stuffty) as well as Winnie the Pooh and Tigger (the night-shift support staff who allow for optimal snugglization).
Her teeth brushed and hands washed, she knew we were coming up on bedtime and began her nightly wind-down ritual: gripping Piglet and Company, sticking her beloved right thumb in her mouth, and embracing day’s end with open arms and heavy eyelids.
Our son, however–currently in his mother’s arms–was performing his own nightly routine: maniacal arm-flails punctuated by Oscar-worthy whines. Never ready to pack it in, he’ll dash for the playroom or point at the turned-off tv in a last-ditch effort to stay up just a little longer, to milk as much out of the day as possible. There are still so many blocks to stack, so many books to read, so many Sing-Along Songs to groove to.
And while his unrelenting desire to be awake can be burdensome, I don’t ever fault him for it.
He gets it from me.
Wife: Our son just flung vomit into my mouth.
Me: Yay, another milestone! Where’s his baby book?
I was not present at the Time of Flinging, for I was slaying daughter diaper poo in another room, but legend has it that the tragic trajectory events occurred as follows.
Our son is a loose cannon in the spit-up department. Since his first day outside of his mother, he’s had a flair for reflux. We’ve been told this is more common with boys than girls and that it typically disappears after 12 months. In the meantime, however, my son often needs as many wardrobe changes as you would expect from Lady Gaga live in terrible concert. Bibs are no match for his vomit comets. Sure, they work okay, but ponchos would work better.
As his parents, my wife and I are constantly in the line of fire, enjoying refreshing vomit rinses multiple times daily. I can’t remember a day since I began house-husbanding that I did not need to change my shirt due to battle damage. Now, keep in mind, it’s high summer in the arid, scorching Arizona desert. Wussy, coin-sized spots dry right up and do not necessitate a wardrobe change. In contrast, here is an accurate depiction of the quality of work you can expect from him, as modeled by my lovely Who t-shirt.
After the day’s last feeding, we always feel we’re walking on eggshells that have already been slightly cracked by someone at the grocery store and that actually burst apart when pulled from the carton in an attempt to assemble them into a walkway, leaving us with egg on our faces and everywhere else. But the egg is vomit.
This is because once he’s had his last bottle, he could blow at any moment, but we need to get him ready for bed and put on his pajamas. So we do, so that he can hose them down, prompting Pajama Change 2: Return of the Reflux. And then he drenches those. and we initiate Pajama Change 3-D: This Time It’s Personal. And so on.
Not only is this process simply annoying, the re-changes often re-invigorate him when he’s just about to drift off, keeping him up later than he should be, depriving himself of much-needed slumber, and most importantly, infiltrating Mommy and Daddy’s only few hours to ourselves. How can I pretend to be interested in my wife’s So You Think You Can Dance commentary while flinging Angry Birds if he doesn’t go to sleep?
So when Old Faithful is about to be faithful, we are perfectly okay with doing anything we can do to keep his pajamas dry, even to the point of taking the bullet ourselves. One method we like to use is the Use My Hand as a Barf Bag Method (UMHAABBM), in which the user cups a hand and, well, you get it.
All right, now that you’ve been briefed, here is how the Great Vomit Fling of 2011 came to pass.
Into my wife’s mouth.
Eyewitnesses claim it began with the groan we have come to identify as “Fire in the hole.” My wife, who was sitting with him on the couch, valiantly administered the UMHAABBM with great success, inheriting a wrist-adjacent pool of formula, breast milk, rice cereal and prune baby food, spilling only a few drops and leaving my son’s PJs unscathed.
As she deftly balanced herself so as to not spill this treasure, my son noticed his hand, and remembering it to be an excellent appendage on which to suck, brought it to his mouth, still dripping upchuck.
He then glimpsed Mommy’s Bangs, another tried-and-true snack with the additional appeal of The Squeaky Sound Mommy Makes When I Pull and Don’t Let Go. His hand shot right for it.
Now, I may get in trouble with our Clan for divulging this, but my wife and I are ninjas. So in a move akin to Neo’s Bullet-Time dodge in the only good Matrix film, she successfully eluded his swipe, but–after a long day at work–did not account for the globule of vomit launched in the strike.
In its wake, not a day goes by since last night when it happened, that I don’t hear people ask, “Where were you when the vomit fell?”
They respond with awe and wonder when I casually remark, “In the next room, changing a diaper. No big deal.”
But it was a big deal.
At least to my wife.
A 500-Disc DVD Special Edition Bonus Feature
My wife has observed that Twincidents have tended to feature humor at her expense–sticking her face in my son’s feces for example. She explicitly stated that she does not mind because such experiences happen to all parents. However, she did suggest writing about my own unfortunate twin run-ins, to which I responded, “But I can’t think of one. Can you?”
“Actually, no, not really.”
“Wait, what about the time you…?”
…but that’s another story.
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If not, at least try to get it in my cupped hand.
The moment I get both twins down for a nap is one of victory, invariably punctuated by a touchdown dance I’ve developed during my six-week career as starting Cry Receiver. It begins with the Running Man at a safe distance from 2nd (kid) Down, erupting into a Super Mario Brothers Fist-Raised Leap as I cross into the End Zone/Kitchen–during which I bump the ceiling, triggering a shower of Gilded Pacifiers–followed by the spike of a full baby bottle on the floor (empty ones don’t thud or bounce quite as badassly). I Raise the Roof with legs of Jell-O while willing myself not to White-Man’s-Overbite, and then, as I go into a little soft-shoe routine, die-hard face-painted fans, animal mascots, and cheerleaders emerge from drawers, cabinets, and Crock Pots, all remarkably donning the color of whatever spit-up-stained t-shirt I happen to be wearing. I sign the bottle with a Sharpie, fling it into the masses–who will argue for the ensuing two hours about who had it first–and launch myself into the Dawg Pound, crowd-surfing my way through high-fives.
Yeah, it’s a work in progress.
The “Holy Crap, a Nap Overlap!” Shuffle (working title) may seem a tad extravagant, but that’s because rarely does this occasion occur. Unlike many modern technologies, you cannot set twinfants to automatically synchronize. People often assume twins are uncannily in-tune. I definitely see yin and yang dynamics emerging, but my experience has shown that–as fraternal, boy/girl twins–they truly are two unique people, and with that comes unique sleep patterns. (I’ve heard identical twins tend more towards similar sleep habits but won’t at all claim to be an expert on that.)
It goes like this. My son, the Reigning Naptime Champion, usually conks right out, often even collapsing in his jumper or drifting off mid-teething-ring gnaw. My daughter, on the other hand, will show signs of tiredness, but will resist the falling asleep part at all costs. So after soothing, rocking, defiant de-socking, carrying, pacing, wide-awake goofy-facing, singing, swinging, pacifier flinging, and even laying her down to self-sooth until she’s so loud she’s about to wake her brother resulting in an fiery inferno of dual banshee shrieks, by the time I finally get her to sleep, I’ll often hear him waking from a 45-minute nap before I can even Mario Jump.
However, against these insurmountable odds, I usually manage to get them down at the same time once a day. This magical phenomenon, Daddy’s Time, allows me to do. Whatever. I. Want. It feels strangely similar to my parents letting me stay home alone while they ran errands, leaving my ecstatic mind reeling with unfathomable possibilities. Should I go through drawers? Blow out the stereo speakers? Snoop for Christmas presents?
So, once the crowd returns to their hiding places in appliances and cabinets, I am left alone with my thoughts, the most common of which are the following, in this order.
I first must harness the butterflies and giggling pink unicorns in my head and decide what I will do, because the clock is already ticking. A quick survey of the towering pile of dirty baby bottles, nipples and pacifiers in the sink, the full laundry hamper, and the labyrinth of play gyms on the floor reminds me that I simply must work on my next blog post because the idea is genius and will surely be the one to gain the attention of a publisher who will commission Twinfamy: The Book which will be optioned for Twinfamy: The Movie or possibly The HBO Series, which will in turn surely win a record-breaking amount of awards and acclaim, and I will be so wealthy that I can pay someone else to do the damn dishes, laundry, and tidying.
2. Oh, no! Don’t wake up yet!
Too often, I’ve begun The Shuffle prematurely. I’ll hear a youthful groan and an absolute hush falls across the stadium as we all spin towards the JumboTron to watch the baby monitor video feed. You could hear a grain of rice cereal drop as we await the child’s decision, willing him or her to drift back off.
Other times, I’ll be in the middle of something crucial, such as finally finishing the episode of Futurama I’ve been trying to watch during Daddy’s Time all week (since my wife dislikes cartoons, even stellar grown-up ones), or again, penning that all-important next post, but as I finally hog-tie a muse and the ideas come oinking out, I’ll hear a rustling. Oh, no, please God, just give me five more minutes…Or if you’re having a good day, twenty works for me, too…
It’s also at about this point in the day when my dog realizes she has the floor. “Hey! Wait a minute! Those little upstaging bastards are asleep! It’s my turn!” She’ll make a dog-beeline for the closet and return on a unicycle, juggling rawhide bones, and wearing a scrolling LED belt buckle that reads: “Come on, Dad! Let’s play fetch, and then you can rub my tummy, and then…” And so, once I see her enormous black eyes glimmer expectantly, I have about three seconds to stop her from whining, barking, or howling Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” and waking the kids. Having given my poor, outshone-by-Twinfants canine some attention, I will then return to chores and/or Awesome Things. She’s usually fine with this until any sound whatsoever breaks the silence, prompting her to alert me via bark messaging that the air conditioning just clicked on, or the garbage truck has arrived, or that I have just closed the microwave, which brings me to…
4. How badly do I want to close this microwave?
Whether I’m finally nuking my first meal of the day or washing and steaming the aforementioned baby apparatus in our microwave sterilizer (neither of which I usually get around to until Nap Overlap), the microwave is a staple of Daddy’s Time. The problem, of course, it that it is impossible to close a microwave quietly. Don’t believe me? Go ahead, try. I’ll wait.
See? Told you. (My apologies if you’ve woken up napping children during Your Time.)
Even when I try to soften the blow with my fingertip as a silencer, I’m left with the same deafening bang and a sore finger. If this predicament were a movie trailer, it would go something like this:
In a world…
where silence MUST prevail…
on every slam.
Can YOU take the heat?
In theaters this Summer.
5. Did I brush my teeth today?
Now, before you get all grossed out, let me explain. I take morning coffee seriously, and carefully select blends I find to be delicious. However, the Tooth-Brushing/Coffee-Drinking Paradox dictates that brushing when I wake up causes the paste taste to linger and infiltrate my morning mug. I endured Minty Baking Soda Mochas for years via travel mug on my way to work, but can savor coffee with a clean palate now that I stay home.
The only caveat is the all-consuming nature of my “dayjob” sometimes causes me to forget to brush once the coffee’s done. All hail Daddy’s Time.
6. What did my wife tell me not to forget to do?
I knew it was something, and it must have been important, otherwise she wouldn’t have made a point to tell me. I think it had a “W” in it. I could ask her, but then she’ll know I forgot. Dammit.
Additonal Twinformation for New Parents
A 500-Disc DVD Special Edition Bonus Feature
My wife and I consider the microwave sterilizer I mentioned in Thought Number Four one of our best new-parent purchases. After a quick scrub and rinse in the sink, we throw them in this badboy, heat for 2 minutes, and play a Ring Toss/Horseshoes-style game to get them on the drying rack. I highly recommend this fine piece of equipment, especially over those disposable bags that burn the hell out of you every damn time and aren’t “effective” after X amount of uses.
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If not, that’s fine. Just please don’t wake up my kids.
Wife: We need a bigger diaper bag.
Me: Or possibly a pack mule.
Rainy Day Activity!
What is this pack mule carrying? If you can name all of the products in a comment for this post, you will automatically be entered in a chance to win at life, compliments of Twinfamy.com!
Relax, O Loyal Animal Activist Reader–this is not an actual photograph. It was Photoshopped without Photoshop using Microsoft PowerPoint. Furthermore, neither I nor Twinfamy.com advocate the actual use of a pack mule for infant supply transport, primarily because parents already deal with their fair share of feces (sometimes even as an oblivious beautifying facial mask) and the addition of such an animal to one’s entourage would undoubtedly provide even more of an opportunity for sh!t to happen.
We also understand your particular offense to the placement of the Baby Bjorn on the fictional, hypothetical mule’s snout. However, it is not Twinfamy’s fault that the Baby Bjorn is coincidentally bridle-shaped and thus looks especially hilarious in this electronic, not-at-all-intended-for-real-life anatomical location.
The Royal We finally agree that despite the stereotypical “stubbornness” perpetuated by Fox News, the mule is a majestic creature who has just as much of a right to wear hemp and make others feel guilty for thinking steak is delicious as anyone. In fact, in the event that a mule actually is stubborn, it is probably for a viable reason, such as the lack of career options aside from doing oppressive humans’ heavy lifting, or the simple fact that their boys cannot swim due to the chromosonal ramifications of having horse fathers and donkey mothers, not to mention the pressures of having multiracial parents in general.
If you’re still upset, fear not. I have prepared an alternate version. Please forget the above ever happened, and see below.
A 500-Disc DVD Special Edition Bonus Feature
Ready? Here we go! Making the jump to LIGHT SPEED…
Twin Wars: Episode 1 – The Taunt of the Tauntaun
Wife: We need a bigger diaper bag.
Me: Or possibly a pack tauntaun.
Jedi Training Exercise
What is this pack tauntaun carrying? If you can name all of the products in a comment for this post, you will automatically be entered in a chance to win one Jedi training lesson with Yoda, the Jedi Master himself, compliments of Twinfamy.com! Offer does not include travel, and is only valid if you can locate Master Yoda on Dagobah yourself.
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If not, please don’t turn to the Dark Side. Balance has finally been brought to The Force, and you’d just selfishly ruin it for everyone.
If you read Tuesday’s Captwin’s Log, you learned about my mutinous daughter’s escapades. It turns out that her behavior was not due to my own incompetence (Yay!)–it’s because she was teething and feverish (Boo!). Having figured this out, I scoured my memory for any folk wisdom relevant to the situation. I once heard that the only prescription for a fever is more cowbell, but I wasn’t so sure about that, so I decided to consult my pediatrician.
So, upon gratefully entrusting my son to his aunt’s capable hands, Wednesday morning I took my daughter to the doctor and the doctor said, “No more monkeys jumping on the bed!” Which I thought was a rather odd (and brusque) response. It turned out that she was confusing my daughter with another patient, one of five quintuplets who took an unfortunate spill while jumping on a bed, cracking his cranium on impact. Having sorted out the monkey business, we moved on to my daughter.
We love our doctor. She has a constant smile and always appears to be in a fantastic mood, but not at all in an annoying way–you can tell it’s genuine. As first-(and-I-guess,-second)-time parents, we’re aware–but can’t help–that we come in with a certain unbridled rookie intensity, and our pediatrician takes that in stride, making a point to reassure us of the phenomenal job we’re doing.
“So what’s going on today?” she smiled. “I usually only see my twins for well visits, since you and Mom do such a great job.” See? Love it. ALL people in the service industry, take note.
She consulted my daughter’s charts as I gave an animated play-by-play of the past 24 hours, apologizing for the crudity of my props and set design, for I had not had optimal preparation time: We had noticed she was flush and uncharacteristically warm last night, with especially red ears. Earlier that morning her fever had spiked to 100.4° F before we bought her a round of Tylenol with a breast milk/formula cocktail to chase. Additionally, she (and her brother) have been exhibiting all the signs of teething: gushes of drool resembling transparent, wet gotees; the gnawing of any appendage, corner, toy, or Nook Color in a one-foot radius (Don’t worry–my Nook is okay. I know you were concerned.); and a particular preference for objects of the arctic persuasion, such as fridge-cooled teething rings, wet rags, ice sculptures, Coldplay, etc. Suddenly realizing I had painstakingly chronicled yesterday’s events already, I offered to read my previous blog entry aloud for her and even autograph a printout, but she respectfully declined in favor of actually examining the patient, which was probably a good call, backed by years of medical training.
Having inspected my daughter’s vitals and crevices, she looked up. “Well, I am a little concerned about the fever. Have you tried cowbell?”
“Yes! Yes, we have! That was the first thing we tried!”
She nodded. “Excellent! Great work, Dad! Okay, well, obviously, that didn’t solve the problem. So then, when that didn’t work, did you try more cowbell?”
“As a matter of fact, we did. We attempted both the initial cowbell and then more cowbell.”
“Good, good,” she nodded, scribbling notes on the chart.
“Well,” she continued, “She’s definitely teething, but it doesn’t look like she’s quite ready to cut a tooth.” I cringed–not because of the news itself, but because of the expression “cutting a tooth.” I’d heard it before, each utterance more excruciating than the last. It’s just ridiculous. It’s not the tooth that’s being cut–it’s the gums. Yet, everyone has agreed upon this atrocity. It’s right up there with “I could care less.” No, you mean you could NOT care less. I was appalled to hear a medical professional committing such a crime against linguistics–there must be something Latin to say instead. However, given the circumstances, I decided it was best to bite my tongue. (But not with teeth that have ever been “cut.” I’ll stand firm on at least that.)
“So the reason I wanted you to come in today is because when a fever spikes like this, without other noticeable symptoms, it could mean an infection. Usually it’s an ear infection, but her ears look okay.”
I cringed, this time actually, yes, because of the news. I was plagued with ear infection after ear infection as an infant, many of which were not even diagnosed, until my poor mother–a pharmacist–persisted that I’d been clawing my pudgy hands at my ears for days, shrieking in pain. Doctors later discovered they were not discovering the infections because I have unusually narrow Eustachian tubes–so narrow that they envelop infections in an Invisibility Cloak. To this day, I must still insist–especially with new doctors–to re-examine my history if I am ever to receive the antibiotics necessary for salvation from the vice clamped around my head. I am hoping to dodge this tiny bullet with my children and knew my daughter would first need to be a repeat ear-symptom offender before validating it.
Then the doctor said something I will share with you, O Loyal Reader, in case you encounter this situation with your own progeny, because I, like Kyle Broflovskli of South Park, learned something that day.
“Occasionally–especially with a little girl–it could mean she has a urinary tract infection (UTI)…”
Now, this is mainly for the guys since they don’t have the equipment of their own to maintain, but it’s very important when changing a diaper to apply the axiom “wipe front to back,” particularly in sanitizing feminine parts. (This principle actually applies well to people all ages and genders. You’re welcome.) Unfortunately, due to the nature of wearing excrement in a to-go bag, infection does still occasionally happen. Like most things, I insist with my wife how awe-inspiring I am upholding this guideline regardless of actual skill.
A suspenseful swell of foreboding violin strings crescendoed as the pediatrician continued. “…but her lady parts look just fine, too.”
“Score!” I fist-bumped my daughter.
“Nn-Gaaah?” she tittered.
With all that in mind, I was advised to monitor Our Princess’s temperature and continue with the Tylenol if it got high, cowbell at the ready. A few days’ vigil saw her temperature returning to normal and an resurgence of her ecstatic self.
Then, over the weekend came the snorting, coughing and projectile sneezing…
Will Our Little Princess emerge victorious from this biological battle? Will the affliction spread to other unfortunate members of the Pseudonymous bloodline, culminating in the full onslaught of a zombie apocalypse 28 days later? Has our family cowbell’s efficacy diminished due to faulty manufacturing and/or a long-past expiration date?
For the shocking revelations of these and countless other unanswered questions in the Twinfamy Saga, tune in for the next electrifying Twincident, same twinternet site, same (or entirely different) twin-time!
Additional Twinformation for New Parents
A 500-Disc DVD Special Edition Bonus Feature
Handy and/or Dandy Baby Fever Chart
|If you baby is…||Call your doctor when…|
|Less than 3 months old||temperature is 100.4° F (38° C) or higher|
|3 to 6 months old||temperature is 101° F (38.3° C) or higher|
|6 months or old||temperature is 103° F (39.4° C) or higher|
|a werewolf||it changes back to human form (easier to get into car seat)|
For most babies under 6 months, Tylenol is the pain reliever/fever reducer most doctors recommend. The active ingredient in Tylenol is acetaminophen. I’m telling you this because you can often save a few bucks by finding the generic version, which usually says “acetaminophen” in bigger letters than “compare to Tylenol.” You can use these few bucks to buy yourself a drink, which will taste really good once your sick child has fallen asleep and has finally stopped crying.
Fellow rookie parents: Consult your own physician for proper Tylenol dosage–it depends on your child’s weight.
Rebellious rookie parents: You are so undeniably cool! Teach me to be like you! BUT, while play by your own rules and live on the edge and whip your hair back and forth and whatnot, please don’t make your baby a wild child when it comes to medicine. The label says not to administer it more often than every 4-6 hours for a reason, so please follow the rules just this once. Don’t worry about your rep. I won’t tell anyone. I’m not even looking.