Additional Twinfamy Comics exist.
The warm water ran down my back, washing away 36 hours of sweat and grime. I systematically defunkified each of my body’s nether regions with my extremely manly loofah and inhaled the warm, misty scent of my 2-in-1 shampoo.
It was beautiful.
You should have been there. (But it’s probably for the best that you weren’t, because I was naked and that would have been awkward for you, due to the devastatingly chiseled one-pack bulging from my abs.)
As a parent of twins, I’ve grown to truly appreciate the quiet, reflective alone time a shower buys me, and twelve days into being a parent of three, I was absolutely loving the opportunity to finally hear myself think for five freaking seconds.
As you can probably imagine, adding a newborn to the mix has turned the Pseudonymous household into even more of a zoo than it already was. My wife and I settled on fielding the incessant requests for Lego-building assistance and “another snack after diss one” from the Twins as our “new normal” about a year ago, but we’ve added some new floors to our funhouse with Baby Number Three. On top of our typical twinherding duties, my wife (who is also monumentally wiped out from breastfeeding) and I now also spend our days attempting to get our new addition on a suitable feeding/sleeping/not crying schedule–all the while shushing the Twins like two shaven Grinches as they excitedly play with their noisy new Christmas toys two inches from their slumbering sister.
Our meals consist of shoving granola bars and fast food into our faces the moment the opportunity arises, and while we fully intend to shower daily, it doesn’t always pan out.
Now, as I’m sure many parents will agree with, none of this is all that difficult when you’re well-rested, but when you have a newborn, the concept of “well-rested” becomes your own personal Everest. I think my wife’s Ob-Gyn at the hospital put it best as we were getting discharged: “I’m sure you guys already know what you’re in for, but sleep deprivation is literally used to torture prisoners. Sleep when you can, and get all the help you can to make that happen.”
And we have had help–both my family and my wife’s have kicked SO much ass. But still, at some point, our help has to go home…
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.
Me: “But it’s nice once you get up here, right?”
Wife: “Shut up.”
“Hey, Daddy!” called my son, strutting into the kitchen while I was stirring a pot of pasta on the stove for dinner. “Do you want to play a game wiff me?”
“Sure, Buddy,” I replied, putting down the spoon. “What game should we play?”
Lately everything I play with him is a “game.” My personal favorite is “Which One Is Loud?”—a game in which Daddy is presented with a host of toy animals and must choose which of the animals is the loudest. Once a champion is named, next comes the second loudest, the third loudest, and so on, until all animals have been properly ranked in decreasing decibel order. In the early rounds, I always find it particularly challenging to decide between a lion’s roar or tiger’s roar, and then later, between a sea turtle and a goldfish. (I guess the turtle splashes louder?) As the Final Judge of Loudness, my son often illogically overrules my decisions—sometimes claiming a shark is louder than an elephant—but as he is the creator of “Which One Is Loud?” I must respect his authority.
Yeah, I choose my battles.
. . .
My son wasted no time and gave me my first game instruction.
“Roar like a lion!”
I happily and enthusiastically obliged. “Raaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwhhh!” Was this game a derivative of “Which One Is Loud?”
“Okay, Buddy,” I said. “Now what?”
“Zoom like a car!”
“Vvvvvvrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooommmmm!” I was actually pretty proud of this one. I even did a little vibrato at the end to create an idling engine effect. Surely I was winning the game. “Okay, what’s next?”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. After a particularly long morning, the Twins’ 3rd Birthday Party was finally in full swing. Food was served, Piglet and Pluto cupcake towers were constructed, and while kids of all ages darted across the house hopped up on sugar, our adult friends and family tossed back a mimosa or two, occasionally craning their necks to check on their offspring.
Yep, it looked like we just might pull this thing off after all.
It figures that on a day meant to be all about them, my son and daughter decided to make the entire morning all about them with constant, unnecessarily melodramatic whining, thus hindering the actual preparation for their party. The plan had been for me to head to the grocery store for a few last-minute food items while my wife stayed home to get things ready, with help from her sister who had graciously volunteered her mad cupcaking skillz. My wife–an überplanner–had dutifully procured party game supplies to be assembled, festive popcorn boxes to be filled with Orville Redenbacher-y goodness, and goodie bags to be distributed to the under-ten crowd. However, as I witnessed the Twins’ heart-wrenching, Oscar-worthy disapproval of changing from their pajamas to their party clothes just before I left, I had a feeling my wife’s überplans had become an endangered species. Sure enough, the moment I re-entered the house with groceries in tow (30 minutes from Go Time), I was met with a frantic Honey-Do-all-of-this-before-I-Hulk-Smash-somebody’s-face List. Despite my deft popcorn-box filling and spirited backyard dog-poo extraction, our guests began to arrive way before we were able to accomplish Operation: Meet The Wife’s Unrealistic Pinterest-Fueled Expectations.