If there’s one thing I learned while growing up, it’s that–in the words of the great philosopher Hoots the Owl—“You gotta put down the Duckie if you wanna play the saxophone.”
I’ve since devised lifehacks allowing me to defy this nocturnal avian jazz musician’s First Law of Multi-Tasking, deftly blowing the perpetual 12-bar solo that is being a husband, dad, and student while still keeping a firm grip on the duckie that is this fine publication. However, during the month of July, the song’s tempo sped to a breakneck punk rock moshpit pace, and as I attempted to keep up with the chord changes, the poor little duckie came flying out of my hand.
Since I know you hang on my every Twincident, O Loyal Reader, I’m sure you noticed things have been considerably quiet ’round these parts. I’ve always told myself I’d never let writing about being a dad get in the way of actually being a dad, and the past few weeks found me in that very position. While writing is a deep passion of mine, I can’t let it jeopardize my sax life.
I had to huck the duck.
1. No, seriously, Brother John–are you sleeping or not? Because if you’re not, I’m calling 911.
2. Is anything going to be done about the strange banjo player in the kitchen with Dinah, or are we all just okay with this?
3. I still have so many questions about your ear elasticity–did you say that do hang low? And if so, do they wobble to and fro? And finally, if you don’t mind me asking, are you able to tie them in knots and/or bows?
4. Is there a maximum per customer on this Hot-Cross-Buns-for-a-penny promotion? Because if not, I’ll take a baker’s dozen.
5. Can you tell me how to actually get to Sesame Street?
This car needs a better horn. It sounds like I’m stepping on a Rubber Duckie.
— My Wife
“No, Buddy, I just told you, your sister is reading that,” I said, prying the coveted Elmo’s ABC Book from his hand, prompting an eloquent baby cuss reply.
Sighing heavily, I returned the pillaged book to my daughter, who kicked jubilantly, as the plot was really heating up around “Q is for quilt” and she was on the edge of her seat on the playroom floor, just dying to see what letter was next.
I turned back to my thieving son. “Buddy, you have five books already. Why don’t we read one of those?”
My son approaches playtime the same way I envision Napoleon Bonaparte would at one year old. Whenever he’s decided what to play with, he desperately needs that toy genre’s entire collection. If it’s blocks, they all simply must encircle him. If it’s books, he needs a shelf-full at his disposal. I’m quite certain that if he were aware of Pokemon, he would not rest until adequately “catching ’em all.”
Thus, if the parent-on-duty does not facilitate total toy acquisition, we can expect a fiery rage turning his skin green and inflating his muscles to three times their normal size, ironically tearing his Incredible Hulk t-shirt to shreds.
Over the weekend, the Pseudonymous Family threw The Party of the Century, a shindig commemorating both my wife’s 30th birthday and Halloween (conveniently, her favorite holiday). Throngs of friends and family shindug with us sporting costumes ranging from Mighty Morphin Power Rangers to William Wallace to Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head.
For their first-ever Halloween costumes, our beloved Twinfants donned feathery blue wigs and red jumpsuits, appropriately labeled “Thing 1” and “Thing 2,” while my wife and I rounded out the Dr. Seuss theme as twin Cats in the Hat(s?).