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.
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.