Trips to Work

I don’t know about you, but now that the holidays are officially over, I am so ready to get back to work. Don’t get me wrong, my time off was very nice, but with Pookie out of school, and the toddler trio in full effect, I couldn’t have managed another day at home if I tried. Unless of course, the kids magically disappeared and left Lovie and me at home by ourselves.

Wait a minute. That’s really not such a bad idea. And with Pookie starting school on Monday, that leaves just the triplets we’d need to farm off. Hmm. Assuming I can find them decent-paying jobs, maybe they could be the ones to go back to work while Lovie and I enjoy a little more down time.

Of course, their employer would have to be extremely flexible. Starting with dress code. The boys are a little young to be wearing power ties, but we’ll make sure to have them in their boldest “big boy pants.” No tasteful pant suit for C, either, but her Hello Kitty bow and “big girl panties” should do the trick.

here. take these. just in case.

Assuming they get to work at eight o’clock sharp, their first stop will be the company cafeteria. No coffee and bagel, though. More like “na-nas” and “joos.” After breakfast, it’ll just about be time for them to get crackin’, but first, they’ll need to take a turn on the potty. After all, they can’t go all day in their big boy pants/big girl panties without taking a turn on the potty. All companies are already equipped with handicapped toilets. I wonder what their plastic pottie seat situation is? No biggie either way. If need be, they can always take ours.

I hope it doesn’t annoy their co-workers when they hear happy voices singing “Pee pee YAY! Pee pee YAY!” and “Bye-bye pee pee,” from the stall next to theirs. If it does, at least they can take solace knowing that such singing will be short lived. Soon there’ll be a fight over who gets to flush the toilet.

Oh. And I guess we ought to warn their boss about the post-bathroom visit. You know. The one where they stampede out of the bathroom and run (naked) all the way to his office and start bitching until they get an M&M? He’d better have some cookies on hand, too, in case they drop the deuce. It gets ugly when they’re no cookies.

By then, it’ll be close to ten—just enough time for a coupla hours of work. Of course, they’re only two, so it’ll be hard for them to stay focused, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. Unless there’s a window in the office. Because if there is one, the wee threesome will congregate there and leave smudge marks with their tiny hands while bidding a fond farewell to everything they see. At least everything they see that they know the word for.

“Bye-bye plane. Bye-Bye truck. Bye-bye birdie. Bye-bye doggie. Bye-bye car.”

Sure hope their co-workers get used to all the bye-byes. On second thought, I guess it doesn’t matter—sadly, they’ll have no choice in the matter. Each and every time one of them walks by the triplets’ office, be it to get some water, or to make a photo-copy, or perhaps just to embark on a bathroom break of their own, the loud and gleeful bye-byes will begin yet again, this time directed at them. Too bad they won’t know that explaining you’re not actually leaving won’t remedy the situation. Oh well. They’ll find out soon enough.

After a quick lunch, it’ll be nap time. I wonder what the company policy on naps is. From my limited experience in corporate America, I seem to remember that sleeping on the job is usually frowned upon. Maybe the trips can sneak a nap in during a meeting or something. Surely someone will be giving a bullshit, power-point presentation. Those typically go down in a dark room.

Uh oh. That means there’ll be a fight about who gets to flip out the lights.

Maybe this isn’t such a great idea after all. They’re an adorable lot, but they sure require tons of work. And attention. And patience. It’s probably best if they stay at home.

Which brings me back to my initial point. l don’t know about you, but now that the holidays are officially over, I am so ready to get back to work.

The Good, the Bad, and the Snuggie

Okay. So the Christmas season of 2009 is officially in the books. Here’s a little recap of how the holiday went down in our neck of the woods via something I like to call The Good, the Bad, and the Snuggie.

It’s important to note that potty training is alive and well in our house. In fact, B is doing so well that he went all “next level” on us. One night in early December he commandeered C’s pink car, you know, a little toddler toy that wee ones roll around on? With a seat that lifts up so the wee ones can put their blankies inside? Well this wee one decided to put his wee-wee inside.

What? I see you lift up the lid all the time. Hypocrite.

Shortly thereafter, we got a bit of snow, a rare occurence in our fair city these days. Sadly, Pookie was with her dad, but A, B, and C got into the spirit and even took time to pose next to a snowman.

B, C, and A ain't skeert of a little cold.

C, B, A, and Frosty.

Then the holiday season got amped up a bit when Lovie, Pookie, and I went ice skating at an outside rink on Friday the 11th. Look how pretty Pookie and Lovie are.

Lovie and Pookie fixin' to get their skate on.

When I get done skating with her, I think I'll go on a quick tri-state crime spree.

Pookie, graceful as always.

That Sunday, Lovie, Pookie, and C went to a cookie-swap, which left the boys and me to hang out during the afternoon. Excited to have some quality male bonding time, I anxiously went upstairs just past four to wake them from their nap, but but before I took even a single step into their room, I knew something was drastically awry. Long story short, one of the boys had experienced the blow out of the century. The pictural evidence of said blow out is truly remarkable, but Lovie insisted that I leave it out. (I could, however, be coaxed into inserting it with a well phrased request or two…) We had a good afternoon, but from that point until Christmas, it was official. A stomach bug had infiltrated our clan and would remain throughout the holidays, eventually affecting nearly everyone.

Still, by Christmas, we had rebounded. Despite a couple of us waking up looking pretty rough…

B, halway undone on Christmas morning, and somehow the possessor of a gender-inappropriate passi.

A, our little monster, on Christmas morning.

…all in all we felt much better and were ready to enjoy the day. Pookie didn’t get back from her dad’s until 2:00, so after breakfast we played in the garage for a bit before going for a ride in the car.

B and A, feeling better, and excited for Pookie to get back home.

Little Sissy waiting for her turn in the Barbie jeep. Wait, does that mean my BOYS are playing in the Barbie jeep? Fellas...

Finally, it was time for us all to gather round the tree. Lovie’s mom and her fiance’ came over, and together, the eight of us enjoyed a wonderful little slice of Christmas.

There are enough lights on this tree to illuminate a small village. A small, dark village.

Pookie loved her green fleece.

B plays with the cars that go in the big truck.

A waits for a turn with the cars.

Sweet Pea, C, plays with the latch board. Yes. That's a wipe on her head. No. We don't know why, either.

The day after Christmas was another big one as that night, Lovie’s mom and her fiance’ got married. Pookie and her cousin would walk her down the aisle. Pook looked beautiful and so did her grandmom. A, B, and C looked great, too, but we were in such a hurry that, unfortunately, we didn’t get pictures. Aside from their baptism, the trips had never been to such a ceremony. We were more than a little nervous about how they would do. Thankfully they were great, especially given the little stomach bug that was still alive and well.

Until the very end, that is.

As the moment was drawing nigh when the happy couple would be pronounced man and wife, an unmistakable low rumble escaped one of the trios’ backsides. Followed by two more just like it. Followed by a sweet, little high-pitched voice singing “Toot, toot, toot. Toot, toot, toot.”

Though not exactly according to script, the minor transgression did nothing but add (a pretty good amount of) laughter to the happy occasion and with its conclusion, the gauntlet of the holidays had passed. Not only did we survive, we triumped. But that’s not to say we didn’t come out unscathed. For on Sunday the 27th, the stomach bug reared its ugly head again on a morning car ride.

Oh boy.

Two hours later, feeling very queazy, I limped back to our bedroom. It would be twenty hours before I re-emerged and during that time, I did everything imaginable except eat. It’s Monday night and I still haven’t had anything more than a handful of crackers, a chicken sandwhich, and an English muffin. But as bad as my stomach has felt during the past thirty-six hours, it could never have compared to the sinking feeling it had on Christmas when Pookie opened a gift from Santa–a gift that I can assure you I knew nothing about.

Santa? How could you?

So it’s official. I live in a house equipped with a Snuggie. And I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think the fact that it’s a snuggie “for kids” makes it even worse. I looked into a couple of reputable snuggie relocation programs, but was told it wouldn’t make a difference. I’d still be considered in violation. So I’ve contacted the authorities and have made the neccessary arrangements. I’ll be meeting them on January 8th to hand in my man card. Since I’m a first-time offender, they’ve been kind enough to let me keep it through the bowl games.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Instant Classic

Okay, let’s see here…Lovie? Check. (Don’t let the near-perfect smile fool you. She’s barely holding it together, but Lovie’s still a check.)

Alright…Pookie? Check.

A, B, and C? Check.

Bald spot? Check.

Meltdowns? That’s a check and a double check thanks to both A and C.

Look of fear? Yup. B’s got that covered. Check.

Santa? Santa? Uh oh. Where in the world is Santa?

Houston, we have a problem. Santa’s nowhere to be found, and I don’t like our chances of getting this bunch back here for a second picture. In fact, I think the dad just made a beeline for the bar.

WAIT. WAIT. My bad. We got him. Santa’s in there. His eye that is. And that’s all we really need. You know, the whole “He’s sees you when you’re sleeping,” bit. We’re good. False alarm.

from l to r: B, Lovie, C, Santa's eye, Pookie, A, and me.

Twenty-Eight Things I’ve Learned as the Father of Triplets

okay, i can do this

1. Along with sporting events and campfires, babies are the biggest reason why the hotdog industry is still alive and kicking.

2. Human beings are born good. It’s the world that turns us bad.

3. Necessity taught me how to pick up and carry three babies at the same time.

4. Necessity also taught me how to relieve myself while holding two, and using my leg to keep the third out of, um, the line of fire.

5. Every adult has a Donald Duck voice.

6. Most Donald Duck voices suck.

7. No matter how lame the Donald Duck voice is, every baby still thinks it’s funny.

8. Little boys wear gowns. (Really??)

9. These gowns are manufactured by companies with names like Kissy Kissy. (Is that true???)

10. Said manufacturers, I’ve concluded, are trying to turn my boys into the laughing stock of the male baby community. Why don’t they just go ahead and hand out free ass-kickings with each emasculating purchase my wife insists on making?

11. You don’t have to be as careful as you think when checking on three babies in the middle of the night. They’re not gonna wake up.

12. When changing a diaper, pulling a wipe from the plastic container doesn’t go down as advertised. The one on top is almost always stuck and requires the diaper changer to dig for it.

13. If a three month old’s ding dong is exposed during that digging, there’s a two in five chance the changer gets doused.

14. I could invent the cure for all forms of cancer and my guy friends would still consider me nothing more than “that poor bastard with two-year-old triplets.”

15. Whenever one of our babies takes a shit in the tub, we have no idea which one it is.

16. Whenever one of our babies takes a shit in the tub, I automatically rule out my daughter for reasons pertaining to mental serenity.

17. I’m better at changing dirty diapers than most men.

18. I’m better at changing dirty diapers than most women.

19. I’m not so great at discarding dirty diapers in a secured manner.

WARNING: shit-eating grin often taken to literal level

warning: shit eating grin often taken to literal level

20. Because of #19, our dog has discovered that he likes to eat soiled diapers.

21. Ingesting these soiled diapers makes our dog throw up.

22. Kissing a dog on the mouth, it turns out, isn’t that great of an idea after all.

23. With three babies, it’s virtually impossible to be over-protective.

24. Those overprotective parents who act as if they’re the first couple to ever have a baby? The ones who treat their infant as if the very survival of planet Earth is directly proportional to their kid’s wellbeing? Y’all need to get over yourselves. Friendly reminder–you’re like the umpteenth billion couple to have a baby. Back in the stone ages, babies were raised in caves, for crying out loud. Babies aren’t gonna break. Quit treating them like they could. If your kid misses a nap, eats some dirt, or skins his knee, he’ll be okay. All you’re doing is creating a sissy. (Wait, you don’t work for a baby clothing manufacturer, do you?)

25. People think it’s perfectly okay to ask the parents of triplets extremely personal questions. Did y’all do in-vitro? People, that’s invasive stuff. (And no, we didn’t).

26. Doubling the size of your family overnight by quadrupling the number of children in it does not affect the amount of love you can give each one. Love is infinite, and infinity divided by any number is still infinity.

27. Buttons suck, snaps rock, and zippers RULE.

28. And the twenty-eighth thing I’ve learned as the father of triplets, the most important of them all is…well, you’ll have to buy my book in 2010 to find out what number twenty-eight is. And read it. You’ll have to read my book. All of it. Because it’s like the very last thing in there. And if you cheat and read the ending first, it won’t make any sense. (The preceding statements have been inspired by, and are therefore dedicated to my seventh-grade English teacher, Mrs. Gill, who busted out a similar, sorry vocal at least a thousand times. And it never worked. I probably shouldn’t have used it. My bad.)

What Happens in the Bathroom Stays in the Bathroom

Caroline, is that you?

the triplets get their bath on

Have you ever tried to give three babies a bath at the same time? And if so, have you ever pulled it off successfully? (he asked with hope) Because if you have, Lovie and I would like some pointers. All we seem to be getting are floaters. And as far as we can remember, there’s no nursery rhyme that reads “Rub-a-dub-dub, a turd in the tub.” The first time the aqua deuce reared its ugly head, my neat-freak wife nearly fainted before finally pulling it together and embarking on a thorough, house-wide search, but alas, not one single biohazard suit could be found.

“Who did it?” I asked, as I corralled the kids while Lovie drained the tub.

“How in the world should I know? There’s three of them.” She had a point. Figuring out which of our triplets was the defecating daredevil was, at best, a crap shoot. (sorry)

The next night, it happened on my watch. Though I didn’t see anything that would incriminate any of the three, I immediately ruled out Peanut, if for no other reason than the mere thought of my sweet baby girl taking a shit in the bathtub was enough to make me move in with my therapist for the rest of my life. So I focused on my boys. I had a feeling it was Monster. After all, his body of work was clearly that of a little joker. I tried to stare the truth out of him, but he just stared right back with a wise-guy grin that said Prove it, big boy. So I set my sights on Biggs. And he… splashed me in the face. I had to come to grips with one simple fact—I had no leverage. And without it, I’d get no scoop on who dropped the poop.

Luckily for us, Monster, Biggs, and Peanut love baths, and the abrupt conclusions of said baths due these unidentified efforts soon rendered such efforts obsolete. Relieved, I thought that our scatological nightmares were behind us. That is until the boys made a little discovery.

Ah, the penis. Fascinating extensions of both man and mankind, no? Without them, it’d be impossible to create any more of these intoxicating flaps of skin. But, perhaps even more importantly, without them, Monster and Biggs would have nothing to relentlessly yank on during bath time. Peanut? She plays with plastic a rubber Dora toy. Monster and Biggs? They’ll play with their ding dongs, thank you very much.

One night, much to my chagrin, one of our boys—child privacy laws prohibit me from naming which one—reached down and pulled the other’s crank with the force of an Olympian anchoring a tug-o-war team. (And I thought the image of Peanut pooping in the tub would require lots of therapy…) After the aggressor finally relented, the two seemingly made peace and spent a few more minutes playing (with toys) before we finally got them out. I dried off Biggs as Lovie went to pull Monster out of his porcelain playground.

Look at him,” I said of our firstborn, his lips a never-before-seen shade of purple.

“He’s just cold,” said Lovie.

“I don’t know, babe,” I protested. “If my weenie was turned into Stretch Armstrong for thirty minutes? I’m pretty sure my lips would turn purple, too.”

Eventually, even the tugging of wankers ran its course, and, wouldn’t you know it? The baths became easier to negotiate, so much so that one night Lovie felt it safe to leave me in charge of manning the tub solo. Things were going smoothly until I realized that I had forgotten the diaper rash cream. It was in the kitchen. Fearful to leave the wee threesome in the tub alone, I decided to get them out and dry them before dashing to the kitchen and back to retrieve the ointment. Ten seconds. What could possibly happen?

I rushed back in the bathroom to find Biggs letting loose a relatively impressive stream of urine. On his sister’s left foot. So I did what any dad would do. I picked up my little girl and dunked her left leg in the toilet up to her knee. Don’t

wait til this clown sees what we've got planned for the shower. see ya!

worry, all you germ freaks out there. I chased it with a wipe.

I’m sure you’ll all be relieved to know that my harrowing bath-time experiences have not jaded my emerging and ongoing fatherhood career. But they have got me thinking long and hard about showers. I’m mean seriously, comparatively speaking, don’t they sound like a lay-up?

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