Why my Bathroom is Clean

The twins are eighteen months old and are frequently getting into all sorts of toddler mischief.  Consequently, far too often they end up in their play pens or high chairs while my wife and I try to get something done.  I had to work this morning and wanted to spend some quality time with the kids now that I was home.  So, since the weather was nice, I decide to take them out to the backyard where they could run and play with little opportunity to achieve catastrophic levels of home terrorizing.


My wife had taken our three-year-old grocery shopping, the baby was napping, and the other children had joined our backyard adventures.  In short, all was going well.


After some time I heard the baby fussing and went inside to rescue her.  Since she wanted to be held, I opted to sit with her just inside the doorway where I could keep an eye on the kids and read my wife's latest blog post, A Memoir in NUM8ER5.  


This was important to me as the elapsed time between when she posts and my reading them is inversely proportionate to the number of husband points I earn for complimenting her on her wit and domestic prowess.


But I digress.


As I sat reading, my oldest ran in to use the restroom.  I heard him washing his hands afterward and didn't think much of it.  After a few minutes of listening to the water, it hit me.  He doesn't like having to wash his hands after using the bathroom and usually completes the procedure very quickly.  In fact, he seldom washes his hands without having to be reminded... and I hadn't reminded him.  Come to think of it, the water sounds I had heard hadn't been running water, it was sloshing water.  Oh no.


Quick glance outside -- Count the kids -- ONE, TWO, THREE, F... Crap.  Number four was my oldest.  Who was in the bathroom then?  Who wasn't outside?


There was only one toddler outside.


Instantly I knew what was happening.  I set the baby down in her car seat and bolted for the bathroom.  Instantly my fears were confirmed.  I found one smiling toddler drenched from head to foot standing in the middle of a large smelly puddle, happily splashing in the unflushed toilet.


Remember those husband points I referred to earlier?  Well guys, let me tell you, letting your toddler submerge himself in watered-down urine while your wife is shopping isn't the best way to go about earning them.

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[Imagine a picture me scrubbing the bathroom like mad here]

Sooooooo... Honey, my Beautiful Bride, my Eternal Companion (who is just finding out about our little escapade as she reads this), how about that clean bathroom!   :)

Miniature Sunday School Guest

Today during church my three-year-old was having some separation anxiety and begged me to stay with him in Primary.  I told him I would stay for a bit, but I had a class to go to also.  Every few minutes I tried to convince him he would be okay with his teacher and it was time for me to go.  Unconvinced, he would tell me in his sweet little voice, “I need you, Daddy.”  This of course melted my heart each time and bought him a few more minutes.

After about twenty minutes, I decided he needed a gentle ultimatum.  I leaned down and whispered in his ear that I had to go to class now and he could stay in his happy fun Primary class with his wonderful teacher, or come to Sunday School with me, which was boring for children.  Once he realized I would not be convinced to stay in Primary with him, he opted to accompany me to Sunday School.

Since we were markedly late, the only seats available were in the very front of the class.  I escorted my son to the bench and we sat down.  Unsurprisingly, he wasn’t even able to pull off a pretense of calm for more than about fifteen seconds.  As his wiggling became more obvious and chatter louder, I leaned down and reminded him he needed to be very quiet and reverent.  

Apparently he had hit his limit, and demanded VERY loudly, “Why we gotta be in dis boring class anyway?!”

*sigh*

I guess I brought that one on myself. 

The Zoo: Always an Educational Experience

"Hey Dad, can we go see the otters now?"

"Ohhhh...I don't have a good feeling about this."

 "Look there's one in the water."

"Awwww, how cute."

"Oh, and another up there by the otter house!"

...uh...

"Hey Dad, did you see..."

"Um, Dad..."

"Daddy, is that his..."

"Okay kids, time to go look at the lions now!

...

Totally G-rated Lion Shot -- *whew*

...

"So kids, what was your favorite part about the zoo?"

"He he, I liked the part where..." 

"Quiet!  We're not supposed to talk about that."

...

"I was afraid this would end badly."

New Wipes

So we're testing these new baby wipes my wife made with coffee filters. No, we don't drink coffee, but the filters are cheap and great for covering food in the microwave, using to put snacks in for the kids, and a variety of other things... but I digress.

The "wipes" are hard to separate and smear around poop more than wipe it off the rear of a squirming child.  Oh, and the poop smell leaks straight through them onto your hand. Come to think of it, isn't that pretty much what the filters were designed for, letting liquid through?.  How do I know the smell makes it through?  Let me just say this:  Distilled poop juice on your fingers will not wash off with the first scrubbing.  If you were unfortunate enough to assume it would, just don't pick your nose anytime soon

Shower Stalkers

Good Evening Bloggity World.  Let me introduce you to Hairy, Curly, and Mo-curly.  I met them this morning.

Holy Mackerel!

Late this afternoon the older kids were getting ready to make cookies with their mom, the twins were in their high chairs snacking on green beans (one of their favorites), and baby princess had just finished nursing.  It was an ideal time for me to beg a nap off my wife.  To her credit she let me fade to the bedroom with no fuss whatsoever.

Fast forward an hour or two.

My wife woke me up to help with the screaming twins.  No problem.  When my wife lets me nap I feel like doing anything for her, so it didn’t bother me a bit to stumble out of bed in an I-just-woke-up-to-screaming-toddlers fog.

As I cleaned bean carnage off little hands and faces, I noticed the other children were starting to run amuck.  Then when my nine-year-old wandered close enough I saw that crazy glint in his eyes.  You know the one.  The glint that says I’ve got a pent up gang of howler monkeys up here just about to bust out, climb the furniture, fling poop, and of course howl.  Clock check.  Yep, it was already past dinner time.  They needed some stabilizing protein stat.

While perusing the pantry, I found some cans of mackerel.  Aha, quick protein!  I knew my kids wouldn’t eat it plain (can you say cold dead boney fish on a fork five times fast?), so I Googled “canned mackerel recipes.”  As usual, the internet was full of ideas from fancy exotic to downright weird.  I settled on one that looked rather uncomplicated and promising.  I sautéed some onions and a pinch of red pepper flakes, mixed up the mackerel well enough to hide the fact that it contained bones and skin, and added it to the onions.  Heat, sprinkle with fresh ground pepper, serve on rice, and Voilà – dinner is served.

I gathered my hungry children to the table, served their food, and was rewarded with a heartwarming string of compliments like:

“Ugh.  Can I have a drink of milk?”

“Um… I think I’m done.  I’m not full, but I’m done eating.”

“Ew…Does this have mushrooms in it?”

“I had three bites.  Can I be done now?”

One of the twins laughed at me when I tried to feed him a second bite; and his brother closed his mouth, turned his head and looked at me with sad don’t-you-love-me-anymore? eyes.

Now I have to admit the food wasn’t what I would classify as tasty; but it was definitely palatable…if you were hungry enough (which for my kids was apparently closer to starving-in-the-desert-and-having-to-choose-between-mackerel-surprise-and-rotting-lizard-entrails hungry, than being-two-hours-late-for-dinner hungry).

Even my wife, my nursing-a-newborn and always ravenous wife, explained with apparent sincerity that she actually felt quite full at the moment and would have to pass on the dinner offering.

Oh well.  At least I got a nap.

Top Ten "You know you have young children at Christmas when..."

...hey, I remembered my password!






"You know you have young children at Christmas when..."

10. Your tree is barren on the bottom and heavily decorated on top

9. The beautiful glass orbs that decorated your tree last year are quickly being replaced by popsicle stick artwork and crayon-abused, glitter-covered paper discs with a picture of the smiling artist glued to the center

8. The only gifts you dare put under the tree before Christmas morning are wrapped in an impenetrable tungsten carbide wrapping paper you were lucky enough to pick up at Wal-Mart last year before the product was recalled back to China

7. You have added "A sizable helping of sanity" to your Christmas wish list

6. You frequently find yourself "gently" reminding the mischievous elves scurrying about your home that Santa knows when they are sleeping, he knows when they are awake, and he knows when they smear toothpaste all over the sink, walls, floor, and ceiling?! of the bathroom

5. Everyone in your home knows by heart what Santa puts in naughty kids' stockings

4. You have seriously considered contributing a new example of the definition of "infinity" to Wikipedia as, "The number of times your child can ask 'how many more days until Christmas?' before tiring"

3. You have made it a personal quest this year to find a gift for the youngest ones that will be more enticing than the box it is wrapped in

2. You feel a little dumb Googling "is it possible to overdose on sugar" but are then both comforted and a little appalled to see there are about 2,400,000 results

1. Christmas has been canceled and reinstated multiple times... in the last 24 hours

Merry Christmas!

Bugs & Truth, Life & Death

Here's your daily dose of unfiltered life truths:

• Stepping on snails is gross. It’s worse in bare feet. Of course it’s not pleasant for the snails either.
• Roly poly bugs can only be rolled for so long by a four-year-old before falling apart
• Homemade roly polies are now available. What, you didn’t know there was a recipe? Mix equal parts dirt, water and snot, and voilà! You too can have an unlimited supply for your kids to play with

...@o

The Burger King Identity

I went through the Burger King drive through yesterday. While I am not a frequent BK visitor, I go more often than I would like… or should. Breakfast was going to be one ham omelet sandwich (hamlet = $1). I don’t like the honey butter on my sandwich, so I asked for it without. At this point, the lady on the other end of the order terminal said, “Oh, now I recognize your voice. Is that you?”

Uh… how do I answer that? I was pretty sure I was me, so I answered a monosyllabic, “Yes.”

Once I pulled up to the window, however, I learned that I was in fact not myself; and the proper response to her query would have been, “No. I am not me. I am in fact someone else who is still me, but not that me at all… nor am I schizophrenic… at least I didn’t used to be.” Then, following proper small talk etiquette, I should have returned the question to show I am courteous and caring. “How about you? Are you you today?”

I’m just glad that whoever I am, I got my hamlet sans honey butter.

The Cleanup Game 2.0

You likely played it as a child, and if you’re a parent you have probably used it to motivate your own kids at one time or another. There are likely millions of versions, each with unique rules and rewards. Today I will tell you about one that works for me.

My kids are fascinated with electronic games, and their pretend-time play often turns into something like LEGO Star Wars characters battling in far off reaches of the galaxy. Unfortunately, but not surprising, they are far less enthusiastic about cleaning up their messes.

One particularly unenthusiastic day, I was trying (quite unsuccessfully I might add) to get them motivated to clean the playroom. The usual bribes, threats, and daddy-evil-eye only increased the weeping, wailing, and general gnashing of teeth. As a last-ditched attempt,

I announced the beginning of a NEW cleanup game.

Since they were just starting, they were all at level one and would have to work their way up from there. Level one consisted of picking up five toys and putting them away properly. They would then have to return for further instructions. Intrigued, the three oldest ran to complete level one. Independently each would scurry back to report and their eyes would light up as I told them they had now advanced to level two.

“How many toys for level two?” they asked.

“Ten!” I declared.

Eyes-wide they ran off to complete level two. Moments later, three kids ran back and excitedly reported that they had each put away ten toys.

This went on and on with different toy amounts anywhere from 5-15 until the room was clean. Each time their zeal began to wane, I would announce they had reached a special achievement level and had earned the title of “Advanced Toy Cleaner-upper,” then “Expert Toy Cleaner-upper,” and finally “Super-duper Toy Cleaner-upper.”

The only potential downside with inventing a cleanup game that kids actually enjoy is you will likely be asked to play it again in the future – a small price to pay for happy helpers.

This post is linked at RocksInMyDryer.

Let me paint you a mental picture

I’m sitting next to a Squdge, feeding the hungry 5-month-old a bottle. I look down at his smiling face as he gurgles a happy “thank you” and smile a “you’re welcome” his direction. One of the other children asks me a question so I turn and talk to them for a moment. I look back down at Squdge and notice something that wasn’t there before – something on the bottle. It’s on the ring right next to the nipple, right next to my infant’s mouth. Wait a second, did it just MOVE?!

…time to perform an immediate close-up inspection…

Foreign object identified.

My exact words, “Are you kidding me?! There is a slug on my baby’s bottle! Right next to his mouth!”

In my house. It wasn’t there five seconds ago. What is this, the Twilight Zone?

What pets, paranoia and poop have in common

We have a new pet in our home. His name is Charlie. Charlie is a guinea pig. I went to the pet store intending to purchase another hamster (following the passing of our dear Lucy hamster). This was just a couple days prior to Christmas and we planned to keep it a secret from the kids until Christmas morning. As I waited for an employee to assist me, I passed the time watching the mice, rats, guinea pigs, and other assorted pets. I also read the posters talking about how to select the right pet and care for them. I read enough that by the time an employee was free to help me I decided to ask her opinion on pet selection. She asked how old my children were (six under eight). She said that a hamster probably wasn’t the best option for us since they can get crabby and have little attitudes. Because of this they are prone to nipping small children that aren’t delicate enough with them. It was true that the kids had very little interaction with Lucy because we were afraid they might try and hug her or drop her if she squirmed. The employee recommended a guinea pig. She said they actually enjoyed being played with and would “popcorn” (pop up off the ground repeatedly when excited). Further, she said they were far more tolerant of small children. Of course, the downside was that that they were more expensive to purchase, maintain, and required a larger living space. Still, I figured that it would be better to pay a bit more and get an interactive family pet rather than a look-but-don’t-touch pet.

There were only two guinea pigs to choose from; an all white one with red eyes and a black and white one with black eyes. The employee left me to decide while she went to separate some rats that were involved in mortal combat and bloodying up their cage. I could just see my kids freaking out at a fire-eyed albino devil ghost pet, so I opted for the black and white one. I bought the requisite cage, bedding, food, toys, etc. and brought the critter home in a box just large enough to contain it. Once home I set everything up and placed our pet in his new home.

Christmas came and the children were intrigued and pleased to meet the new member of our family. He was very skittish so we didn’t let them stay in the room with him long. We decided on the name Charlie. Over the next few days Charlie hadn’t calmed down and would hide in his cardboard tube home whenever anyone entered the room. I was concerned that something was wrong so I investigated guinea pig behavior via the internet. I quickly learned that it was common for guinea pigs to take several weeks to grow accustomed to new surroundings and people. You see, in their natural habitat, they are “a prey animal.” Pet experts advised to get them used to you slowly, don’t make any sudden movements in their presence, no loud noises, and don’t “loom” over their cages as they will see you as a predator. They all agreed that it would likely take a few weeks, but not to worry your pet would soon get to know you and start to get excited at the sound of your voice before too long.

Well, it’s been over a month now and Charlie will only even come out of hiding when my wife is in the room and not too near. Me? He has bitten me two of the three times I have held him. When I move slowly to pick him up (at a minimum we have to remove him from the cage to clean it) he thrashes about his cage as though the Hounds of Baskerville were nipping at his toes, flinging bedding and Charlie poop about the room. I bring him food every day, talk calmly to him, and try to act as un-predator like as possible, and he still looks at me like any moment I will skewer him for a tasty snack.

Sometimes while smiling as sweetly as I can and ducking flying bits of turd I experience fleeting fantasies about running into the room yelling “PREY, PREY, PREY!” and doing some very intense looming to show him the behavior of which he should really be afraid. Unfortunately I do not think this would do much to endear me to him any quicker. So I stick to my patient caring for the poor little spooked rodent and waiting for the day he realizes I have no desire whatsoever to find out that fried Charlie tastes just like chicken.

Do you have a Zombie Plan?

In the past couple of months, my kids have had the flu, then bad colds, then H1N1 (the swine flu), and are currently suffering from major ear infections causing temperatures of 105-plus degrees, conjunctivitis (pink eye), and just to make things interesting one even has pinworms (see previous post).

Why am I telling you this? Well, it’s only a matter of time before one of them, or someone else, contracts a zombie virus. So I ask, what’s your zombie plan?

Greetings Human

Hello, my name is slick. What? You say you don’t know me? Well, we’ve met once before – I’m sure you remember. Oh, I see, you didn’t know I had a name, or that I could blog for that matter. Well that’s just naïve. After all, everyone has a name and this is the digital revolution. It’s amazing the micro-technology available these days, and at such a low price (don’t worry; I used your credit account not the debit, so the bill won’t show up until after Christmas – you’re welcome). What about access to the internet you ask; well, let’s face it, you’re no techno-geek and the laughable 128 bit encryption on your wireless network took less than a day to hack.

Now you’re really curious who I am, aren’t you? I suppose I was a bit misleading when I said we had met before. Actually, I saw you but you didn’t see me. You did however meet my twin brother stinky. How can I be so certain? Let me refresh your memory. Remember yesterday when you were ever so overtly casing our home? When stinky came out to see what all the ruckus was about you nabbed him right from our front porch. I heard all the rude things you said about him and “our kind” in general. Well all I’ve got to say is this. He’d better be safe. If you’ve harmed him in any way you’ll live to regret it – I’ll make sure of it. You see, our kind, we stick together. That’s right; there are more of us than just my brother and I… many more. And some of us are considering taking up residence elsewhere, if you know what I mean. Yes my friend, wrong us and The Brotherhood of Pinworms will stress you by day and haunt you by night. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Note: Nikki brought it to my attention that my post was unclear. My apologies. Bottom line (no pun intended) is this -- one of my kids has pinworms... yuck. And yes, I did see one squirming around you-know-where. There, I said it. Did you know their eggs can live up to three weeks on clothing and linens? And adults usually get infected by inhaling them when a sheet or something moves around? Now that's a happy thought -- breathing in a worm egg. That's going to be a real pain in the...

Post Turkey Post

Well, I cooked the Thanksgiving turkey too long and the meat was a bit dried out but palatable nonetheless. We had invited the missionaries over for dinner the day after Thanksgiving and were planning on having leftovers and a fresh pie. Not wanting to serve the turkey as it was, Nikki saved the day by making her best batch of turkey tetrazzini ever. Yum. Thanks hon!

A medium-long and fairly uninteresting mostly true story

Cleaning baby bottles is not always a simple task. It begins with the dishwasher. No, I do not wash the bottles in the dishwasher as this would result in compromised bottles tumbling wildly throughout the wash and rinse cycles to perhaps meet their untimely ends hugging the heating element at the bottom of the unit as they quickly deform into a smoldering glob plastic stink.

The dishwasher is the first step because it must be emptied of clean dishes in order to load it with the dirty dishes that occupy the rinse-half of the sink. The rinse-half of the sink can then be scrubbed and receive the dishes from the wash-side of the sink (dishes such as bottles that are not or should not be dishwasher safe). The wash-side of the sink can then be scrubbed and filled with hot soapy water and receive the dirty dishes from the rinse-half of the sink which can again be scrubbed in preparation for the clean but soapy dishes which will soon be placed there.

Okay, maybe I am just a little bit OCD. But when it comes to something I am about to put in my baby’s mouth I can’t stand the idea of it having any trace of rotting sink goo still attached.

Well last night it was already quite late. The kids were finally all in bed (the two-year-old had attempted an all-nighter resulting in a parent-toddler standoff that ended in a rather lose-lose fashion when he went to bed earlier that he wanted and much later than I had wished). The dishes were dirty. The table hadn’t even been cleaned off after dinner. Left unattended, the bottles would add up in the night and I would likely end up doing dishes to the tune of hungry screaming babies when the clean bottles ran out around 3 am (this I have learned from sad experience).

I was tired. Nikki was sleeping. (Quasi-related side note: If you want to live a long and happy life, you must never wake the sleeping mother of small children without a very good reason. And no, “Help me! I cut myself and am bleeding to death,” doesn’t make the grade. It has to be a VERY good reason.) Alone and unsupervised I cleared off the table and began to load the dishwasher… WARNING: This is where my tale turns dark and sinister – those of faint heart should consider stopping now. Proceed at your own risk. Did I mention it was late and I was tired?

I scraped but did not rinse all the dishes before loading them. Everything dishwasher safe went in – even those items we never load because they take up so much room and it would just be easier to wash them by hand. Remember I said I was alone and unsupervised. The guilt weighed heavily on me, but I could already feel the desensitizing process working its evil magic on my soul. Since there was no hope for salvation now, I figured I might as well finish the job. I put dishwashing detergent in the appropriate receptacle, closed the retaining door, closed the dishwasher’s main door, selected normal wash and heated dry and pressed the START button, all while being fully aware that the dishwasher contained less than full load. Yes, you heard me right. The dishwasher was not full… and I ran it anyway.

A little part of me died inside last night (a bit of the OCDness I reckon), and as the dishwasher hummed and swished quietly in the distance I lay my head on my pillow and slept guiltless of the transgressions committed just minutes before.

Dignity Lost

I have puke in my ear. I’m not proud of it. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t even aware of it until a few minutes ago. Granted, I have two newborns and messes are to be expected. And yes, I knew my shirt was covered in multiple puke spots of varying wetness from crusty dry whitish ones to dark sopping squishy ones. Yes I had felt the unnerving warmth creep down onto my lap several times immediately following the sloshy verping sounds; and yes, I knew I downright stank of puke. But, I was hoping to maintain some small shred of dignity – an unsoiled bit of me that I could use to moor myself to the glorious illusion that I am yet the master of my own universe. However those hopes and dreams were forever crushed (again) when I found puke in my ear. Oh the indignity. Oh the horror. I’m melting. I’m melting. What a world. What a world. Puddle. Anyone need some ruby slippers?

By the way, did I mention that I am tired and delusional, or did you figure that out on your own?

What to say when someone else has said too much

This post was inspired by Nikki's post "My kids are making me fat."

...

Anyone with more than two children has likely been assaulted in public at one time (or many times) by someone who has felt the burning need to make them feel like an irresponsible member of society for being so heinous as to burden their sight with multiple children at once. You have likely walked away from such an encounter frustrated with yourself for not having just the right thing to say to make them realize the stupidity of their comment and/or action. Well, no more. Below you will find helpful suggestions for those of you who, like me, are happily burdened with more little bundles of love then the world-at-large can handle.


Got enough kids?

• Not yet. I’m still trying to acquire a few more healthy ones for the sweat-shop. Why, are you selling?

• We’re trying to stock-up before all the good ones are taken.

• Well, we’ve got enough for the basketball team, but we’ve really set our hearts on a football team.

• We keep trying for one that poops gold. We’ll let you know when we get there.
  
  

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You do know what causes that, right?

Does everyone who says this really believe they were the first to proffer up the socially insightful and clearly hilarious comment? Their all-knowing smirk of self-indulgent humor says:

Yes. I am in fact so naïve as to believe I just could have been the first person in history to ask anyone with more than two children, “You do know what causes that, right?” I most thoroughly enjoy saying it like they were a toddler trying to carry an overburdening armful of toys down the stairs soon to be met with an imminent and complete loss of control followed by a headfirst plummet down to the bottom where they will lay hopelessly sprawled among play-things gone wayward – evidence of their obvious-to-everyone-else-but-not-to-them stupidity.

I usually reply to such an intellectually advanced comment in kind and say, “No. But we think it’s the popcorn.”

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My! You have your hands full!

• I know! Isn’t it wonderful.

• My shrink says I shouldn’t do it anymore, but the voices in my head are saying to kill you and hide the body in the garden with the others. The petunias will be happy.
  
  

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Are those ALL yours?

• What are you, a Fed?! How did you find me? You’ll never take me alive!

• Nah, they’re just on loan from God for a few years.
  
  

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Counting children out loud in front of parent (wide-eyed and disapprovingly)

This usually occurs in the mall or a grocery store where the offender likely also has something handy to count. Try counting the bags they are holding or cans in their cart aloud very slowly and with growing alarm with each numeral. End with a firm nod and a satisfied smile on your face indicating you are very pleased with yourself for having been able to count that high without your head popping.

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And my personal favorite, The Disgusted Glare

Carry around some Imodium AD with you wherever you go. When you catch this individual in the act, discretely walk to them, hand over a few pills and conspiratorially whisper, “I know that look. Don’t worry, two of these and you won’t have to keep them squeezed so tight when you walk.” Then give them a warm motherly/fatherly smile and walk away happy to have been able to help someone in such an unfortunate circumstance.

The Rest of the Story...

If you haven’t already, please read Nikki’s account of the birth at her blog.

Below are some perspectives I have on the event.

The anesthesiologist was pumping all sorts of things into my wife always a few minutes too late and without ever saying a word about what he was doing. Not wanting to upset my wife any further, I quietly prodded him with quizzical glances and whispered questions until I was getting ready to jab him with one of his own needles until he started talking. The man was a mute octopus. Hands on syringes, computers, IV’s, drawers, little glass bottles, and not a sound to anyone even when the doctor pried him for an answer. All the while my wife was crying out in pain. Sadist.

Nikki didn’t want me to watch, but I couldn’t help myself after they had opened the uterus. I got just a little concerned when one of the doctors asked for a stepstool and used it to get positioned above Nikki high enough to do CPR-like belly-compressions while another doctor tugged on her insides. Of course I just smiled for Nikki.

We had wondered whether the twins would be fraternal or identical, so I wasn’t too surprised when as soon as the doctor pulled the second squirming infant from the uterus, Nikki asked me, “Are they identical?” Nodding and smiling like a good husband who has been pinning his wife’s arm down throughout the ordeal and does not want his hand crushed more than it already was, I responded, “If you mean are they both purple and slimy, then yes – they are identical.”

After stitching closed the uterus, the doctors started moving guts around and looking at everything to make sure it was all good (and I’m pretty sure they were also trying to make sure they hadn’t left a sponge, clamp, glove, or baby inside). During this time they pulled out a large pinkish blob with large almost translucent bubbles covering it. Now I am not a doctor, nor have I had any medical training beyond basic first aid and CPR, but thought I should have been able to roughly identify most internal organs. I had no idea what this was. I asked the doctor. “That’s an ovary,” she replied.

“Huh,” I said, “I always thought they were smaller.”

“They usually are. Normally they are about the size of walnuts. This is one of… well, this is the largest one I have ever seen.”

At this point she produced the second one which looked just as bulbous. Um, okay. So… whattheheck?! I thought. You are handling an alien blob about the size of a small cantaloupe with pinkish boils all over it and telling me it belongs inside my wife but should be about the size of a walnut. Whattheheck?! What I said: “So…”

“These seem overly excited by all the hormones.”

Uh doc, I understand it’s a reproductive organ, but it’s not THAT one. Care to explain further? “So, what now?” I questioned (I was full of intelligent comments on this topic).

“They will probably go back to their normal size eventually.” With that they cauterized one they had nicked and stuffed them back inside.

Oh that’s comforting. I’m definitely telling Nikki about this after they staple her shut… and she wakes up.

When good hormones go bad

Whomever first said, “If looks could kill” got it all wrong (“If” and “could” being the excess words here). Clearly this misinformed individual never met a woman pregnant with multiples in her third term. People, I am here to inform you that looks can indeed kill. The results might not be immediate, and perhaps there will never be quite enough evidence to meet the “beyond a reasonable doubt” criteria of a court of law, but those of us who have experienced the event firsthand have seen the truth in all its naked awful glory.

Over the last few weeks, I have been doing laps between the hospital and home with my wife yelling “clean” obscenities and venomous threats at slow-moving traffic. Today there was particular car, a sad blue one, in front of us traveling about five miles-per-hour under the speed limit. We could not pass, and I could feel the death rays begin to radiate from the passenger seat. The hair had to be standing up on the back of the occupants’ necks and I’m sure they had goose bumps all over their body. Their car was equipped with rear-viewing mirrors and they must have seen the look. How couldn’t they have? Why didn’t they speed up? Why didn’t they pull over or at the very least leap from their moving vehicle to avoid the deadly stare that was gaining vehemence every few feet? Some mysteries will never be solved. One thing, however, is certain, the two unfortunate occupants may now be suffering from a progesterone curse so horrific that I wouldn’t be surprised to find their names in a major newspaper soon.

The article would read something like this, “Two men die in freak of nature accident when their slow moving vehicle was run over by a herd of giant snails. Sadly, the ill-fated victims of this anomalous event did not have the good fortune to die quickly. They were slowly engulfed and asphyxiated in slimy secretions from literally thousands of the wayward gastropods. According to eyewitnesses, the men’s final words before being completely enveloped in the fetid ooze were, ‘The eyes! The eyes…ahhhhhh!’ Government officials were quick to assure the public there is no danger of such an event recurring and that the streets were once again clean and safe for travel.”