It was date night in the land of Twinfamy, and with the Twins in the more-than-capable hands of my parents, my wife and I were ecstatic. With a whole night completely devoid of anything having to do with tiny people spread out before us, we were out on the town doing the wildest, craziest, most psychotic thing imaginable–picking up a few things at Babies “R” Us while we waited for our restaurant to open at 5 pm.
My wife always does this. We finally have a moment to ourselves to do something awesome like pound tequila shots just before bungee jumping off the Washington Monument and making love midair, but just as I’m getting on the phone to book the private jet, she’ll say something like, “You know, we really need to go get more paper towels at Target.”
And the worst part is, she’s freaking right. We do need more stupid paper towels.
As we exited Babies “R” Us with our deeply exciting date night purchases (toddler socks and Balmex), my wife suddenly turned to me and asked, “So, did you notice my new shoes today?”
I instinctively looked down at her feet for the first time that day, because, well, of course I hadn’t noticed her new shoes. I’m a guy, and I barely care about my own shoes. I’m especially not sure how–as someone with literally four pairs in my rotation–I’m expected to keep track of all 47 of hers and ascertain whether the currently worn pair is a new addition. Perhaps I should maintain a Wife Shoe Wiki.
When the Twins were first born, a family friend who is a mother of three now-grown children once told me, “Now that you’re a parent of two, people are going to offer you help. A word of advice: let them.” Of course, the context for this was her generosity and my insisting it wasn’t necessary, but a lot has happened since then, and roughly a year later, I’m so on board. I don’t even glance at the mouths of gift horses.
I have no problem with strangers holding the door for me so I can shimmy the just-barely-narrow-enough double stroller through it. I willingly accept offers to cut ahead of one-item purchasers at grocery checkout in the event of Twin tantrums due to not letting them hold every single pack of gum on the register’s candy shelf. I truly appreciate the Babies “R” Us cashiers who are more than willing to accept a returned product even though it’s been opened and I don’t have the damned receipt because my son literally ate it–especially when this explanation is peppered with “Buddy, don’t poke that rattlesnake” and “Sweetie, where did you find that flame thrower? That’s dirty. Give it to Daddy.”
Thus, when my parents offered to take the Twins, my wife and me to Maui with them on vacation, I blurted “We accept!” and scrambled my wife and kids out to the car, gunning it down the road before my parents could change their minds or say they were joking.