My daughter spiked her half-eaten apple on the floor like a football, slid her Sippy Cup off the high-chair tray as if it were a shuffleboard, and with finality, proclaimed, “Duh!”
I don’t remember which loinfruit introduced it or when, but for anyone under the age of two in our household, this has become the customary Closing Ceremonies for a meal, for alerting one’s parents that the eater is “Done.”
Looking up from dinner’s dirty dishes in the sink, I watched my wife release my daughter from the clutches of her high chair, pick her up, and bravely walk our kitchen’s version of The Green Mile–past an old bookshelf we’ve converted into a snack shelf (Pantry 2: This Time It’s Personal, if you will). Although our children claim to be “duh” with their food, as soon as we de-high-chair them they often notice Pantry 2 items that were not on that meal’s menu–morsels they must receive promptly if the parent on duty wishes to avoid a brilliantly-executed tantrum.
While they’ve learned many words so far, there are still a sizable amount of items for which the Twins still use the caveman-style point-and-grunt method, and on this particular day, my daughter’s finger shot out instantly at her target. Unfortunately for my wife, she did not leave enough distance between my daughter’s ninja arm and the shelf, and before we knew it, our daughter had snatched the entire bag of miniature Sun-Maid Raisin boxes.
This snack is popular with the Twins not because they are particularly fond of raisins, but because they absolutely adore having their own little boxes to carry them in. We have scientific proof of this phenomenon, as whenever my mother offers the Twins unboxed raisins at her house, they look at her like she’s nuts, as if to say, “What is this sh!t? Where’s my f*cking box?”
“Ooooh! OohOohOooooooh!” my daughter enthused, waiting for my wife to open her a box.
“Every once in a while, when I’m changing a poop-filled diaper, I feel the slightest gag reflex.”
…and as I underwent this very special feeling today, it occurred to me that this is the first-ever situation I’ve experienced where I don’t necessarily mind the possibility of impending nauseous retching, aside, of course, from the occasional amusement park thrill ride.
It is also in this moment that I felt I graduated from New Father Academy, and may even be able to pass “Go,” and collect $200.
So today, this Fathers’ Day 2011 (my first as patriarch), please join me in celebrating myself, and I guess, if there’s time, all of the other fathers out there, who, too, have quietly and determinedly pushed through rear-end sanitation and other such thankless tasks; who animatedly read bedtime stories in voices that, in public, would warrant the permanent revocation of their Man Cards; who construct playthings while suppressing the exasperation engendered by the Worst Assembly Directions Ever Written; who throw out their backs while playing a little harder than necessary at the park for just one more giggle from their little people.
This is their day, and they’ve earned it.
While on the topic of fecal matters, please allow me to apologize, O Loyal Reader, for the lapse in posts on this fine publication as of late. After consulting its physician, Twinfamy is now on fiber supplements, which means you can expect more regularity again starting this week, starting with a brand new Twincident tomorrow, which, faithful to today’s brown-hued theme, will feature the unification of Number Two and a Pseudonymous family member’s face. Yes, you heard me right: Poop + Face = Ensuing Hilarity.
Try to contain yourself ’til then.
Happy Fathers’ Day!
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.