Not-For-Profit Dad

Not-For-Profit Principles in the Home

2006-05-11T20:46:00.000-04:00

I've been doing a lot of training seminars lately and I thought I would share some insights that I think carry over well from the non-profit workplace to your home.

Have a Mission Statement

Seriously. Know what your family is about and what its goals and values are beyond keeping a roof over your head and food on your plate and shoes on their feet and so on... Is your family about having a positive impact on your community? Is it about each person being given the structure and support to achieve their full potential? Is it about creating a family that seeks a sustainable lifestyle that is friendly to the environment and not materiarly centered? Is it about raising an army of warriors who will usher in an epoch of benevolent tyranny under the rule of John Tesh? Whatever it is, writing it down can help focus the members of your family and provide a framework against which to judge family activities by asking the question, "Is this family game of Scrabble® helping us achieve the mission of John Tesh's thousand-year Reich?" Which brings us to the next point....

Have a Strategic Plan

A Strategic Plan articulates how you plan to fulfill your mission statement. For instance, if your goal is sustainable living you may outline five benchmarks you wish to achieve that move your family closer to that ultimate goal. They can be as simple as "Start a garden to grow our own vegetables," to "A gradual weeding out of toys with corporate characters as marketing ploys," to the more long-term, "Cancel the credit cards, move to Montana, live of the grid." It's up to you. In my family part of our strategic plan is to subtly work in references to John Tesh while in casual conversation with friends, colleagues and relatives.

Have The Proper Organizational Structure

Many non-profits suffer from poor or inefficient organizational structures because at their inception the focus was necessarily and properly on "getting the job done" and "accomplishing the mission." In many instances, the organization is so pre-occupied with generating the funds necessary to enable its very existence that responsibilities are doled out under triage type circumstances (very often centered on a controlling founding Executive Director who may be the only paid staff member initially). Hopefully though, over-time as the organization matures there can be a proper designation of roles -- beginning with the Board, the Board president and the necessary Board committees; the executive director, the CFO and the rest of the staff. In your family, you'll probably find that a single person usually occupies many of these roles. For instance, in my family I act as the Board President, responsible for raising the funds necessary to allow the organization (family) to pursue our mission (Tesh-a-topia) as articulated by our strategic plan (raise an army of millions). The MOWA is the executive director. This means it is her job to implement the strategic plan while still allowing me to think that I came up with the idea in the first place. Boy and Girl Twin are our loyal agents, using their guile and cuteness to lull the soft, stupid masses into a passive stupor where John Tesh can ascend to his throne.

Evaluation

How do we know if we are achieving our mission through the strategic plan? By taking the time to determine the metrics of success and being open to a process of learning and restructuring based on what is learned. Retreats are often a good way to begin an evaluation process -- something fun that takes you out of your everyday surroundings. I can't stress the importance of good metrics. Again, using the example of sustainable living -- how much money was saved on vegetables thanks to the new garden? On the other hand, how much time and money was spent on gardening? Is the garden a good project to continue or could energy be better spent by building a lean-to in the Montana plains and learning how to make snares out of dental floss? All excellent questions. Perhaps after a thorough evaluation process you decide that changes need to be made to the mission statement -- this should only be done after careful consideration. But it is possible that after a study of the metrics and a discussion between board, exec and staff, that the mission might be altered to achieving not sustainable living, but a blissful existence under the awesome rule of a terrible and fearsome blond deity? Just a thought.

I hope you've found this brief seminar helpful and that it will enable you to run your own families with heart and purpose.

Waiting to Exhale

2006-04-26T11:46:00.000-04:00

I’m not the kind of parent to develop Munchausen’s-By-Proxy but this article in yesterday’s Washington Post got my heart beating a little faster. It is about sleep apnea in toddlers and it got me so panicked that I had to call the MOWA right away and have her read it and reassure me. Boy Twin snores from time to time and there’s nothing I enjoy more than walking into the kids’ room at night and seeing the two of them splayed in various positions while he saws away. The very thought that it might be an indicator of a health problem just made me quake. The MOWA, after reading the article assured me that while our son does snore, he doesn’t really exhibit any of the other symptoms that indicate that this might be a problem. So, I started breathing again.

My New Favorite TV Show

2006-04-22T22:21:00.000-04:00

Okay. The MOWA and I don't watch much television. Most of what I know about pop culture I get from reading back issues of People courtesy of the MOWA-In-Law. I could list the shows I watch with any kind of regularity on one hand and two of those would be shows my wife watches and I do the crossword puzzle in bed with her. But this is a show I can truly love. I stumbled across it while channel surfing the other night and I promise that so long as it is on the air I won't miss a single episode. Where else can you get 100% proof that you are not in fact THE WORST PARENT ON EARTH (AND EVEN IF YOU ARE, WITH THESE BOZOS ON TV WHO'LL EVER BOTHER TRYING TO EXPOSE YOU?)! This show is like mainlining schadenfreude.

My new worst nightmare is not that Mike Wallace comes knocking on my office door wanting to ask a few questions, but this Lorraine Bracco look-a-like showing up on our front stoop with a camera crew and an exercise regime for my flabby white ass.

Story Time

2006-04-21T14:30:00.000-04:00

The MOWA took me along this morning with the kids to their weekly Friday rendezvous at our local public library for story-hour. Now the Friday 10:15am gig is a hot ticket. Apparently you have to sign-up several days in-advance and if you don't show without calling to cancel you are "banned." Likewise, even calling and cancelling only buys you one more such absenteeism before you too are "banned." There are airlines with more lenient cancellation policies. It would not be putting the point too lightly that any potential Friday plans revolve around either commiting to attending or passing on story time at the library.

We got there just in time, because before we left we had to make the dough for our Friday night challah that the MOWA bakes each week with the kids. I've never been home when they've done this and it was amazing as Girl Twin announced each of the ingredients as they were poured into the bowl -- FLOUR! SALT! YEAST! BUTTER! EGGS! She's been going through a speech explosion recently and everday the MOWA and I do a double-take when she comes out with a new word like "meatball."

So, as we raced into the library parking lot at 10:16 and dashed up the stairs to the children's section, it felt a little like I was back in high school and late for homeroom. To my great relief we were not even lightly chastised, although the librarian did do a double take when I registered the twins at check-in.

"Oh, you're with them today?" she asked.
"Well, yes. Their mother's over there with Girl Twin looking through the CDs."

The librarian had confessed to the MOWA that she was in-fact one of her favorite story time moms because she was so active with the kids as opposed to seeing the hour as an opportunity to have someone else entertain the twins. I think in her mind's eye she had a differen't image of who this uber-mom's husband would be and I didn't quite match what she was expecting. She also seems to really like our kids -- which may have something to do with the fact that Girl Twin starts shouting out "SHAKY EGG!" as soon as the library comes into sight. There's a part of story time where they play a song about shaking bean-filled-plastic-eggs and tambourines and Girl Twin LOVES this song. Really. Or more exactly she LOVES THE SHAKY EGG. After the song is over, it usually takes her awhile to relinquish her egg, the MOWA reports. The one time they went to story time and the Shaky Egg song was not played was so traumatic that the librarian promised it would be on the set list for next time and reassures the MOWA every time she calls into reserve their spot, that eggs will indeed be shaking.

Turns out story hour isn't quite an hour long. I was also the only dad there, but the MOWA says there are usually one or two -- and that this was the exception. Since I have never been there before, I guess I can't be too judgemental. The room was probably evenly split between nannies and moms, with the odd grandmother thrown in for flavor. The stories were cute -- lots of singing with puppets and the aforementioned shaky egg. They also used a felt board to tell one of the stories which I found refreshingly retro in this technological era.

My main discovery of the whole trip was the insight it gave me into the part of my children's life that they spend out of my presence. The relationship with the librarian, their interactions with other kids and their parents -- it was all something that I intellectually understood was happening but it was something else to witness it. I guess because our lives with the kids were so isolated at first because of health concerns that I'm still adjusting to the fact that there is an increasing portion of the outside world that they come into contact with and have relationships unmediated by me. It also made me sadly aware that this is the majority of their lives... things that happen while dad is at work.

We've got to pay the bills some way, and don't get me wrong, I get a whole lot more out of my job than just money -- but I sometimes wish there were another way.

Not Too Cool To Admit...

2006-04-19T22:04:00.000-04:00

To All The Girls I've Loved Before just started playing on the Party Mix option on my iTunes. I tell you, if you can't love this song, you don't have a soul.

God I miss blogging.

Garbo Speaks

2006-04-19T20:26:00.000-04:00

First, let me say thank you (again) to all of you who wrote and asked where I was, if I was okay, when would I be returning to the blogosphere, had anyone chopped off my fingers? I'm fine. Really. But it did make me think, what if I wasn't? How would you know? By my non-response? How many different ways could that silence be interpreted? What would you do even if you could deduce that I was not "okay?" Am I under some sort of obligation to post here that I'm not okay? Not to be morbid, but if my Saturn had an unfortunate run-in with a GMC Denali should I have something in my will authorizing someone to post to the blog in-case of my untimely demise? How would you react to that post? Do you leave a "i'm so sorry" in the comments? Do you try and contact the MOWA? Do you plant a tree in Israel for me and take me off your RSS? Is this very dilemma part of what we mean by an online community? Have I been a bad friend by disappearing without so much as a "peace-out"?

The simple answer to why I haven't been blogging is that I've found that being a husband and father of twins scraping out a living in the not-for-profits has left precious little time for blogging about being a husband and father of twins scraping out a living blah-blah-blah. And I know that's lame, but really, it seemed that any time I had an opportunity to blog were the times where I could make the decision to spend a half-hour with my very real kids before they went to bed or post my blatherings to my virtual community. And I opted for my kids because that's how I roll. I could say it was for their benefit, but really it was for mine.

With that I throw myself on the mercy of the court and move on to other things.

Emerging...

2005-12-19T22:43:00.000-05:00

Back on planet earth. I took a long trip around the moon and back. Still having a little bit of a hard time getting my legs used to this gravity thing. It could take awhile. More later. But for now let me just say, "I've missed everyone."

DC Commuter Tax

2005-11-21T21:53:00.000-05:00

Let me preface everything I am about to say with this:

I lived in the District for many years. I moved there at the very nadir of the Barry Administration when they brought in the control board and took away democratic home-rule. I lived through the winter where when Marion Barry was asked about his strategy for snow removal he replied, "Spring." I lived on U Street in a basement apartment and a homeless guy would come and take a dump on my front stoop every now and then. And I was always in favor of a commuter tax to help the District get the funds it needed to provide adequate services and a minimum of safety. Why should these rich slobs in Northern Virginia and Maryland drive on our streets, bitch about our potholes, work at businesses and agencies that benefited from District services and not contribute a dime out of their taxes to help pay for any of it?

Well, the District has come a long way and now the economy is booming, real estate prices are soaring, crime is down (unless you have the misfortune of living east of the river), and if the schools still suck -- well, at least DC spends more per student than any other city in the Union. And I can't afford to live in the District anymore. Or in close-in Chevy Chase, Bethesda or the rejuvenated downtown Silver Spring. No, I live further out, because that's what we could afford. I take the metro when I can, but the hours of my work usually demand that I have access to my car.

My place of employ is in an area zoned for residential parking and it used to be that as long as you were careful on street cleaning days, you could get away with only receiving one or two tickets a month for violating the limit of two-hours of in-zone parking. Recently, DC parking violations officers seemed to have made it their life's mission to slap as many parking tickets on that lovely Saturn with the two car seats as they can fit under the windshield wipers. I've gotten probably three-hundred dollars worth of tickets in the last month and a half.

If you check the title of this blog, you'll understand that is a hefty chunk of my take-home pay. I'm left with the dilemma of deciding to pay for equally unaffordable garage parking, take my chances on the streets or take metro and severely curtail my effectiveness and flexibility at work.

So here's the deal District. You want to pass a commuter tax? Fine. But I want something in return: the right to park my damn car on the street and have a job that doesn't cost me $30/day in tickets. Whatever tax you pass it has to cost me less than that. Those lobbyists and lawyers on K Street already have garages so they don't give a shit*, but help-out the working slobs whom you have driven from the bosom of the city they truly love with your high price of living. Welcome us back, at least during business hours.

Save the true gouging for the tourists.

* I know. I know. The lawyers and lobbyists aren't really on K Street anymore. Sheesh.

Oh, and henceforth, the MOWA is the KVM and vice-versa. It's kind of like a Chekov play where someone can be both Alex, Sasha and Alex Andronovitch. You'll get used to it.

Touch My Golden Egg

2005-11-21T09:47:00.000-05:00

Nothing screams "drinking game" more than the Harry Potter films, and we're happy to report that the latest installment does not disappoint. The game goes something like this:

Players try to beat each other in calling out the vaguely sexual references within the films with all remaining players drinking. An example--"I'm playing with my wand beneath the sheets" is one of our favourites, and whoever calls it out first wins while the remaining players drink deeply. Of course, the problem with this game is that the losers tend to get progressively more drunk, therefore impeding their ability to play the game at all. It's all a little microcosm for the capitalistic way of the rich getting richer. Or in this case, the drunk getting drunker.

The winner from the current film (which was whispered to each other throughout the entire 2 1/2 hour long film in an incredibly hot theater) is the mantra: "touch my golden egg" which comes after Harry wins the first task and returns to their commons room with the aforementioned golden egg. Having worked with middle schoolers and high schoolers for many years, I can tell you with some certainty that in the real world, no one would have been carrying Harry on their shoulders. And that the golden egg itself would probably prompt a drinking game similar to the one that should be used when viewing all Harry Potter films. Or some guilty groping that would be regretted a few hours later. Oh the innocence.

On a side note, the kids and I have started our own blog at www.twokidsandacopperpot.blogspot.com. Please join us in reading about our self-led cooking school created out of my own low self-esteem and my burning need to be doing something that appears "productive" to the outside world. The kids are ready to tackle On Cooking (our cooking textbook) and learn the proper techniques for braising meat.

Not Your Friendster

2005-11-18T08:53:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I discovered the time-suckage site Friendster. It is essentially an extremely labour-intensive way to keep in touch with friends that you could easily communicate with via your normal email account. It is also a way to find all of those people you vaguely remember from high school. I spent a large portion of our kids' naptime typing in names of people that I hadn't cared enough to keep in touch with over the past years.

NFPD mocked the entire concept of searching for people on Friendster before sitting down at the computer screen when I found 111 people from his college and exclaiming, "hey, this guy was my roommate in London!"

Yet his best idea of the month came last night with the inception of a new website--one that would drive fascination and dread into the heart of every American--notyourfriendster.com. It would be a space to post all of your rants about people you dislike: boyfriends who rejected you, annoying coworkers, family members coming in for Thanksgiving. And people would check it every morning to see who hated them.

You would walk into your office and people would be anxiously avoiding your gaze. You would walk with trepidation to your cubicle where the website would already be loaded on your computer. A big picture of you passed out drunk on your ex-girlfriend's couch. In bold print at the bottom of the screen: JOHN DOE IS THE BIGGEST LOSER IN THE WORLD.

That's what the world needs: a breeding ground for more hate.

Since the NFPD has entered crunch time at work, he has passed me the reins and asked me to update his website until mid-December when things calm again. I take my duty very seriously and will pass along all of the NFPD's musings as well as stories about the twins. Since I have the better stories anyway.

On a side note, it's our anniversary today and the NFPD promised if I told you guys, we would get many congratulatory comments. Happy anniversary, Vanil. You are the person who really fills all seven slots on my crush list. I love you.

The MOWA Speaks

2005-11-17T12:31:00.000-05:00

I apologize for the eternity with no posts. This will probably continue through the middle of December when work slows down a little. In the meantime, I've turned the blog over to the MOWA....

It's a fickle, fickle world of quick camera changes, high-speed internet, and fast food. And apparently short-lived celebrity crushes. I feel the need to rework the list of seven I presented on this blog just a few short weeks ago.

Not that I think that (1) I will ever have the chance to meet any of these people much less interact with them or (2) that I would cheat on my husband even if Bob McGrath was crooning "Who Are the People in My Neighbourhood" under my window. But one needs to keep up these lists...just in case.

Topping the list is currently the aforementioned Bob McGrath, better known as Bob from Sesame Street. I know what you're thinking...is he still on that show? Yes. And he's 73, which makes him a "seasoned" lover, not "disgusting" as my friend informed me when I told her I got a little horny when we listened to the Platinum Sesame Street album. An interesting turn of events--Bob was not a childhood crush. But now I love the way he exclaims, "oh, I love Christmas!" on the CD. Another interesting turn, I have not actually seen Bob McGrath since I was a child--we do not watch the television show. I am basing this crush entirely on his whitey white voice.

Next on my list is Dave Lieberman, celebrity chef on the Food Network. I have already decided that we need him in the family. Mostly because he has a cookbook, but also because he taught me how to brine a turkey for Thanksgiving. He's really cute and really apologetic, like someone who has made an entire meal comprised of your worst food allergies.

Which leaves us with a jumble of other people who currently are running a very distant 3--7 after the first two. I'm keeping Noah Wyle. Keeping Harry Potter. Keeping Elijah Wood. Replacing Jon Stewart with Steven Colbert. And really struggling between whether to dump Jennifer Aniston or Peter Saarsgaard.

We Like To Move It Move It

2005-10-19T21:41:00.000-04:00

I just lost the post I had been writing for about an hour. I'm going to watch South Park. Sorry. I leave you with this...

Seven Things

2005-10-18T10:15:00.000-04:00

David at Raising Chooks roped me into doing this, provoking a two-week long case of writer’s block. I vouch for none of my answers and apologize that I’m not more interesting.

7 things I want to do before I die:
1. Write full time
2. Learn how to fly-fish
3. Travel for a year
4. Own a single-family house
5. Live on the water
6. Swim across the Chesapeake
7. See my kids settled and happy
7 things I cannot do:
1. Carry a tune
2. Eat anything with coconut in it
3. Resist free samples at Costco
4. Math
5. Stay angry for very long
6. Understand why anyone would think Fox News is either Fair or Balanced
7. Dance without looking like an idiot
7 things that attract me to the opposite sex:
1. intelligence
2. smile
3. sense of humor
4. boobs
5. hair (the MOWA has the best hair)
6. kindness
7. flirtatiousness
7 things that I say most often:
1. I have no clue.
2. Oh shit.
3. The itsy, bitsy spider…
4. Boy Twin! No!
5. Oh, three or four.
6. Good times.
7. I forget.
7 celebrity crushes:
1. Rachel Weisz
2. Sarah Silverman
3. Natalie Portman
4. Mary-Louise Parker
5. Halle Berry
6. Wynona Rider (circa Reality Bites)
7. Tina Fey
7 people I want to do this: (although you are absolutely not obligated)
1. The MOWA
2. Matthew
3. Landismom
4. Jacabo
5. BIYF
6. Metrodad
7. Shotgun Daddy

See Me, Hear Me

2005-10-15T21:59:00.000-04:00

The MOWA revealed something interesting about herself today while we were driving home from West Virginia. It seems that through her childhood she knew a boy named Danny. Danny and the MOWA had a brief affair when they were four. From there on out, the MOWA lusted after Danny, mostly from afar. The MOWA was telling me the sad story of their failed romance when she mentioned that she never called Danny by his actual name -- rather, she called him Benny. But, and this is the kicker,

"He couldn't do anything about it because he was mute."

Excuse me?

"Yeah, he was mute. I kept longing for Benny straight through high school."

"And you loved him because he was mute?"

"No. Being mute was what made him perfect. But that's not what made me love him. I had a crush on him like all the other girls. But when we were on a science retreat camping trip in sixth grade, the other boys were picking on him and kicked him out of their cabin while he was taking a shower and stole his towel. And when I saw him cry, I loved him."

So, to sum-up the MOWA's dream man is a mute who wins love and adoration by being bullied and humiliated.

No wonder she fell in-love with me.

Jumping the Shark

2005-09-29T21:44:00.000-04:00

I’m pretty sure I jumped the shark today at work.

It all started innocently enough. I called home around the time that I knew the MOWA would be feeding the kids. She’ll usually make a big deal and put me on speakerphone and let me talk to the kids so that they don’t forget that they have a father. Actually, I worry that they’ll begin to believe that when daddy leaves home in the morning he transforms into a big hunk of plastic that mommy keeps on a cradle in the kitchen. But I love talking to them on the phone and today Girl Twin and I got into a call-and-response groove of saying “HI!” back and forth to one another.

Let me explain.

We think Girl Twin is imitating the MOWA’s “on the telephone voice.” You know, the voice that women put-on as the phone rings and they’re in the middle of telling their idiot husband that if he forgets to flush ever again she’ll beat him bloody like a ninja –answers phone – “HI!” [All smiles as if she was in the middle of picking daisies when her phone blessedly rang.]

That’s how Girl Twin says “HI!.” It’s hilarious and I say my phoniest, “HI!” back to her and she’ll keep the beat going until you get bored with it, because she certainly won’t.

The only other possibility we can think of is that when we’re not looking she’s watching re-runs of Sex in the City and copying Samantha’s speech patterns. A frightening proposition.

So, tonight I’m on the phone with Girl Twin and we’re in the middle of one of our “HI!” jam sessions and I just can’t help it anymore. I do the most uncool thing one can ever do in an office setting… I put her on speakerphone.

I wince typing it now, but truth be told, not only did I put her speakerphone, but I actually called co-workers into my office so they could hear my daughter say “HI!” like the sluttiest of the Carrie Bradshaw’s friends.

To their credit, they were all polite and said the right things, like, “Oh, how cute!” And, “That is too funny!” And the occasional, “My ovaries ache just hearing her!”

But I know what they’re really saying at the water cooler. Not-For-Profit-Dad has totally jumped the shark. It is the moment when I crossed the line from reasonably respectable colleague to being that-guy-who-won’t-shut-the-fuck-up-about-his-oh-did-you-know-I-have-twins-and-I’m-so-suburban-it-could-make-you-puke-bile.

Next thing you know I’ll be cornering junior staff members and talking to them about model ship building.

Who'll Stop the Rain?

2005-09-23T21:02:00.000-04:00

Friday night is a little more solemn tonight thinking of the people in Texas and Louisiana. Specifically, I'm sending out my best wishes for B. who keeps a great blog. He's a tri-athlete and a new dad with a gorgeous six-week-old daughter. He and his wife decided it was the wiser choice to stay put in Houston rather than get stuck on a highway somewhere on the way to Dallas in 100-degree heat. Now, if there's anyone I would place money on versus a hurricane, it would be this guy. Dude rode his bike to buy a chainsaw. No shit. I'd take him in my foxhole anyday. But he's facing something really really scary right now. He's been posting every few hours, as much as a way to cope with the nerves as anything else. If you pray, send him and his family a prayer. In either case, just hold the people you love a little closer to you tonight.

Not-For-Profit Living Well

2005-09-18T14:41:00.000-04:00

The lifestyle we have chosen requires a commitment to certain things. Chief among these is a commitment to living cheaply where one can. Luckily, the MOWA is an exceedingly good bargain-hunter and excels at frugal living. She’s much better than I am.. Saturday was one of her greatest days ever. At 8:15am she left the house for a yard sale and returned a half-hour later with one of the great hauls ever:

Two Little Tikes ride-on toys. Retail value: $24 each
One Kelty Kids backpack carrier. Retail value: $90- $160

Total the MOWA paid: $35

That’s right. Even on the conservative end the MOWA got $138 of merchandise for $35. Oh, and she makes her own bagels, homemade pasta, baby food and gins cotton in our mud room. Okay, I made that last one up, but the other three are true. And did I mention the woman can bake? Sure. Cookies. Brownies. Blondies. Multi-layer cakes with intricate designs. (Note to MetroDad: My “Hector” is epic. Like the Iliad.)

To be honest, even if we weren’t living on the edge of our means, I think she would still do a lot of the same things. Especially the baby food which is just a lot more healthy when it’s not sitting on a shelf for six months before it goes in your child. It’s actually not that hard to do, but you do have to be really committed to keeping it up which the MOWA has done. Sure I help out now and again peeling some nectarines or running ice-cube trays full of sweet potatoes down to our second freezer in the basement. But for the most part it is the MOWA who makes it possible for me to keep the job I love and not deprive herself the dream of being a stay-at-home mom.

Oh, and she’s totally stoked for the MCPOM Semi-Annual Sale on October 1.

And Now A Few Words About Teeth

2005-09-13T12:32:00.000-04:00

Memo
To: Boy Twin
From: Not-For-Profit-Dad
Re: Dental Tardiness

It has come to my attention that despite months of copious drooling and the persistent habit of gumming anything that’s not bolted down you have yet to cut a single tooth. Now I won’t compare you to your sister (a habit to be strongly discouraged in parents-of-twins) except to observe that she has managed to cut not one, but two teeth. You are now thirteen and a half months old. Even your adjusted age is a solid year. Still no teeth. It's time we addressed this problem in a forthright manner.

Perhaps it is a genetic problem. As your paternal grandmother likes to note, all her kids were, “dumb in teeth.” I’ll not inflict you with the mental anguish that comes with a trusted parent describing your uncontrollable biological maturation as “dumb.”

Instead I would simply like to point to the example of some of our most prominent public figures: Bill Gates, Matt Lauer, Barry Bonds and Tom Brady. What do they all have in common? Teeth my boy. They all have teeth. If you want to accomplish something in this life you’re going to need teeth.

Have you ever seen the headline “Man Gums Dog”? There’s a reason. Try and gum a dog and that dog will kick your ass. I’m sorry to be the one to point out these harsh facts of life, but it is true. No one ever gummed the ear off a live dog.

Why is hockey the least popular of the major sports? The reason is that many of their players have no teeth. You think this is just a coincidence? I think not.

How many President of the United States had no teeth? Exactly one. And that was over two-hundred years ago. His punishment? He’s condemned to the currency bill of the lowliest denomination. You think Lincoln would be on the fiver if he had no teeth? Think again.

I wouldn’t be so hard on you if we weren’t talking about your future here. What kind of parent would I be if I ignored your seeming lack of interest in cutting a tooth? The kind that hates their child. And I don’t hate you. Quite the opposite.

So cut some friggin’ teeth already.

Contrecoup, Craniosophic, Limerent

2005-09-11T11:07:00.000-04:00

The Next Big Thing: Phantom Limb Phenomena (September 09, 2005): "Activist lexicographer Erin McKean checks up on John Linnell of the band 'They Might Be Giants,' to see if he's delivered on his promise to promote three under-appreciated words. "

This is a cool cause gone about in an even cooler way. Bonus: McKean has a very cute radio voice...

Go Nats!

2005-09-10T08:50:00.000-04:00

On Thursday night I finally got my lazy ass over to RFK to see the Nationals take on the Florida Marlins. This would not have happened if my good friend had not been persistent in bombarding me with potential dates to go to the ballpark. Literally, he's been sending me emails from before opening day trying to find a day when I wasn't committed to work, spending time with the kids, or some obscure Jewish Holiday like the Fast of Gedalia. It hasn't been so difficult because of a lack of desire on my part, but one of the changes in a life with twins is that it becomes that much harder to take time for yourself.

I took the metro to the ballpark, which was a lot more pleasant than I anticipated it would be. I walked from the office to Farragut West so I wouldn't have to worry about changing trains. Not that it is so hard to make the transfer at Metro Center, but it was a nice day and the five minute walk above ground was worth it. One of my favorite things to do in New York is to ride the D-train to Yankee Stadium. I always love how the train gradually fills-up with Yankee fans so that by 96th Street, you are basically on a mobile extension of Yankee Stadium. And these are Yankee fans so the mood in the car is fairly exuberant -- bordering on menacing if you happen not to be a Yankee fan. Well, DC folks have been out of practice for a long time, so while the mood in the Metro car didn't even begin to approach what you'd experience in NYC, I was impressed with how many people were sporting Nationals gear before the train even reached the Archives station. The car filled-up with people not just in hats, but decked-out in jerseys, warm-up jackets, shirts, and the like. This may be setting the bar kind of low, but any time Washingtonians can devote themselves to anything other than their jobs and the Redskins I'm impressed. Now we just have to work on getting the rowdy element to harass the punk who dared show-up on the train in a Marlins hat.

One chilling moment on the way to the ballpark was walking past the DC Armory after exiting the Metro. About 200 New Orleans evacuees are living there right now while they find their feet. There were trailers for mobile health centers and a variety of other corporate philanthropic vehicles. I kept thinking about the people in there. I wondered if on top of everything else, does it compound their misery to watch tens of thousands of people streaming into RFK to enjoy something as frivolous as a baseball game? Not sure. I only hope MLB was generous with the offers of free tickets for the kids there.

I've been in DC for ten years, but I had never made it to RFK Stadium. I guess I was prepared for something much worse. The place is definitely beat-up, but clearly still usable. The field looks great and the outfield is enormous which cuts down on homeruns, but there were three triples hit during the course of the game, which I frankly enjoy more. The game itself wasn't really competitive after the fifth inning -- that was when we gave up a rare RFK homerun to the opposing pitcher, Josh Beckett. He had never hit a home run in his major league career. It was all down hill from there. But that's not so much the point. I had a great time and stayed until the last out. It was fun just bullshitting with my friend, talking baseball, eating peanuts out of the shells and plotting how I'll get Boy Twin and Girl Twin to a game next year.

I grew-up a baseball orphan as my father abandoned all allegiances to teams when the Dodgers moved to LA. So like all kids, I was a front-runner. I loved the Yankees in my early childhood, especially Craig Nettles and the tragic Thurmon Munson. Later in High School I followed the Mets more closely when they made their run. I always remember Game 6 of the 1986 World Series as the night I almost got to second base. Almost. Thrown out stealing. For that reason, the name Mookie Wilson always makes me think of breasts. Say it. "Mookie."

After the game was a long Metro ride back to my car at the far end of the red line. To be honest, I probably could have made it home from Camden Yards faster. But at all the Orioles games I ever went to I was rooting against the Orioles. This time I was rooting for my home team -- anyway, that's how I hope Boy Twin and Girl Twin will feel.

What I Saw on My Drive To Work

2005-09-06T20:57:00.000-04:00

Today was T3 in DC - that is Terrible Traffic Tuesday. For some reason the day after Labor Day is one of the worst morning commutes of the year. Kids are back in school, folks are back from vacation, and despite gas prices that are headed higher than the water level along the 17th Street levee in New Orleans we're all in our cars again crawling along. I pass about 7 gas stations on my way to downtown DC. The cheapest I saw a gallon of regular selling for was $3.25. At the stations by the Georgia Avenue entrance to the Beltway there were little kiosks with mortgage officers offering to finance your next tank.

I drove along with the sunroof open and the windows down so I wouldn't turn on the A/C and maybe get a few more miles per gallon out of my scuffed-up Saturn. I felt a little dweebish when some guy would pull up next to me with sternum-thumping bass pounding out of their stereo, and I'd have to crank up the NPR.

"Ahem. Excuse me young Master MC, but I can't hear Nina Totenberg over your incessant racket!" Get off of my lawn you darn kids!

Some other things I noticed:

1) Metro buses still have ads on them for FilmFest DC which ended back in April. Good to see that Metro is squeezing every last bit of revenue out of advertising before raising rates. Again.

2) They just finished like 18 months of work on the entrance to Walter Reed Army Hospital and now they're just going to close it down. Probably convert it into housing that I can't afford. Only thing they've contributed to my life is about two flat tires from the razor sharp metal plates they lay down at night to cover their work.

3) Do the Mormons think there's a goldmine of conversion opportunities in Mount Pleasant? I swear every time I cross over the bridge after Arkansas Avenue I'm guaranteed at least one sighting of missionaries in their white shirts, black pants, and name plates that announce, "I don't belong in your Latino neighborhood." If I don't see a pair of them before I get to Harvard Street I assume it must be some sort of holiday.

4) I think I can quantitatively prove that the signs in front of churches get more fundamentalist and macabre in their messages the further you get from downtown. I truly think I could graph this if I was not the sort of person whose math skills are so bad I was forbidden from taking statistics. Sample from a good African-American Baptist Church downtown: "You have to get down on your knees to rise-up!" Nice. Message of humility and devotion. I dig it. Sample from closer to where I live: "Turn to His Light, Or Prepare to Burn." Gulp. SPF-10,000 anyone?

5) Why are there two Temples of the Scottish Rite of Masonry within a mile of each other on 16th Street? Wasn't one creepy enough?

6) As I come down the hill after Mt. Pleasant I have this great view of the White House and the Washington Monument and the Jefferson Memorial. Great. But ever since 9/11 I also notice the air-traffic crossing from National Airport and half expect to see one of the jets crashing into the Washington Monument. This happens every morning. With the evacuation of New Orleans so much in the news the past week, I find myself thinking more and more about how our cities are not nearly as permanent as we would like to think.

7) Who sees a paper sign stapled to a telephone pole and actually thinks to themselves, "Hey! I could earn $5,000 a week working from home!"

8) Why is the speed trap by Carter Barron Ampitheatre so friggin' obvious? Why do I snicker with glee everytime I see a BMW with Virginia tags get nailed by it?

9) Would the MOWA think I was crazy if I said I wanted to go to the Connecticut School of Broadcasting to enter the exciting field of communications!

10) Why isn't there anywhere for me to buy more coffee between the Dunkin' Donuts by Viers Mill and my office?

11) Why didn't I take Metro? Oh, this is why...

Change of Address

2005-09-05T19:42:00.000-04:00

So it seems that Matthew at Childsplay has done and gotten himself a fancy new site. It also seems that in the transfer he lost his place in the cyber-trailer park we call Blogger. He's without a forwarding address at the moment, so we're putting out the APB for him. He's a fellow twin-daddy blogger (and a non-profit do-gooder as well). If you already know him, this is where you'll find him. If you don't know him, you should check him out anyway.

Over Coffee

2005-09-03T09:03:00.000-04:00

The kids are napping upstairs and I'm enjoying a bagel and coffee while the MOWA enjoys a well-deserved sleep-in. It's going to be a beautiful day and I have lawn work on my agenda along with perhaps taking the kids on an outing of some sort. Probably a walk. Meanwhile, as I sip my coffee and enjoy a Rockwell-esque picture of domestic contentment, NPR relays tales of lives turned upside down all along the Gulf Coast. I feel blessed and guilty and grateful and impotent to help. Yesterday I bitched quietly to myself as I pumped $3.25/gallon gasoline into my car and then immediately felt small and petty. "You're lucky to have a car, let alone a pot to piss in," I think to myself.

Remember that saying that gained popularity after 9/11? The New Normal. It was an accurate and yet somewhat vague statement into which you had to read a certain menace into the word, "New." And at some point, "The New Normal," just became "Normal," not nearly so new and with a menace that did not seem omnipresent, even if it had not totally receded. My daily life has not changed one iota since Katrina, and yet I see everything differently. I see my children differently. I see my home differently. I see my job and my community differently. It's not so much a veil being pulled back as a change of perspective. Disorienting at first, and I am sure after awhile, it will feel unremarkable. That the days when we could not imagine an entire American city's population ravaged by disaster and transformed into a mass of desperate refugees will feel as quaint and anachronistic as a Rockwell painting.

Little Fat Man Isn't It A Shame?

2005-09-02T20:22:00.000-04:00

Pet Cobra posted the lyrics to City of New Orleans on his blog, which inspired me to post this, by Randy Newman, a New Orleans native. It's been going through my head all week. The part about President Coolidge shows how little things have changed...

What has happened down here is the winds have changed
Clouds roll in from the north and it started to rain
Rained real hard and it rained for a real long time
Six feet of water in the streets of Evangeline

The river rose all day
The river rose all night
Some people got lost in the flood
Some people got away alright
The river have busted through clear down to Plaquemines
Six feet of water in the streets of Evangelne

Louisiana, Louisiana
They're tyrin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away
Louisiana, Louisiana
They're tryin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away

President Coolidge came down in a railroad train
With a little fat man with a note-pad in his hand
The President say, "Little fat man isn't it a shame what the river has done
To this poor crackers land."

Louisiana, Louisiana
They're tryin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away
Louisiana, Louisiana
They're tryin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away

A Can't-Do Government

2005-09-02T15:40:00.000-04:00

As painful as it is to hear the stories of suffering, at a certain point it becomes almost too painful to read about how badly the government has bungled the situation. This from the Paul Krugman:

A Can't-Do Government - New York Times: "Even military resources in the right place weren't ordered into action. 'On Wednesday,' said an editorial in The Sun Herald in Biloxi, Miss., 'reporters listening to horrific stories of death and survival at the Biloxi Junior High School shelter looked north across Irish Hill Road and saw Air Force personnel playing basketball and performing calisthenics. Playing basketball and performing calisthenics!'"

Gimme Shelter

2005-09-01T21:14:00.000-04:00

The MOWA was feeling a little down tonight so I offered to treat her to take-out from her favorite Vietnamese restaurant which took my on a slight detour and lengthened my commute home (not that I minded). The longer drive gave me plenty of time to listen to the news, including most of the Newshour with Jim Lehrer that is simulcast on WETA. Of course, the vast majority of the news was about the terrible situation in New Orleans. Following 9/11 the MOWA and I assembled a little disaster preparedness kit in-case something were to hit the Washington area again. I thought to myself as I was driving home that it was probably time to update the kit (hey, maybe throw in some baby formula for those kids we've had in the interim). But as I continued driving I realized that a 9/11-type kit wouldn't have done me jack-shit in the circumstances that people are facing in New Orleans. It's not enough to have the stuff, you also need to be able to take it with you, possibly without the benefit of a car -- because we're seeing right now that the government can't be relied upon to quickly meet the needs of large numbers of refugees. Believe me, there are people, both in and outside of New Orleans tonight who are going hungry, who have no water and no prospect of aid reaching them in-time. Growing more frantic on my route home I realized we needed a plan for how we would flee on-foot and suddenly the nightmare spread out before me. We could employ the tandem stroller we used when the twins were infants as sort of a mobile luggage cart and put the kids in their other stroller. The tandem would hold canned goods, water, and perhaps whatever photos we could grab on the way out the door. I'd grab the backpack I used to go through Europe and put our clothes in there. The MOWA would carry other clothes in the kid's back-pack diaper bag. But wait, I thought, maybe we should put the kids in bjorns and use both strollers to haul shit. I got home hyperventilating.

And then we sat down for our nice meal of Vietnamese food, in our dry and comfortable house, where the lights burn brightly and the refrigerator hums its comforting tune in the background as I sit at my laptop to share my darkest fears with the blogosphere. Meanwhile, my co-worker's parents are spending another night in the dark, in one of the few dry sections of New Orleans. Hot, tired, running out of food and without clear instructions as to how they are supposed to evacuate from their home, they're living my nightmare. I pray for them tonight and selfishly, I pray that me and my family are never confronted with such horrible circumstances.

Help Katrina Victims... Give to the Red Cross

2005-08-31T21:58:00.000-04:00

"Victims of Hurricane Katrina are attempting to recover from the massive storm that is still making its way across the Mid-Atlantic States. American Red Cross volunteers have been deployed to the hardest hit areas of Katrina's destruction, supplying hundreds of thousands victims left homeless with critical necessities. By making a financial gift to Hurricane 2005 Relief, the Red Cross can provide shelter, food, counseling and other assistance to those in need."

The above is straight off of the Red Cross Website. They need cash people. So mouse over and give what you can. Tell 'em Not-For-Profit-Dad sent ya.

Love The One You're With

2005-08-31T11:37:00.000-04:00

Ever since the kids were born we’ve been trying to get them to bond with certain objects in their cribs so that when they awake during the night, they can grab said object – be it a teddy bear, stuffed monkey or some schmata and comfort themselves back to sleep without calling upon the services of their slumbering sleep-deprived father. Like everything else in parenthood, this has not worked out quite the way we planned.

First is the case of Girl Twin. Which needs a bit of a preface. The MOWA never really had a stuffed animal that she slept with when she was growing up. I won’t speculate here as to how this has affected her psychological development except to say there was a need there. When we first began trying to get pregnant we had a sense of euphoria and optimism. I went with the MOWA to an appointment with her OB/GYN as sort of a pre-pregnancy work-up. In the office building was a toy store that sold these great stuffed animals by Mary Meyer and thinking that we would soon have a crib to decorate we purchased a stuffed bear and named him Siddhartha (Sid for short). Well, things didn’t exactly go as planned and Sid began spending nights in-bed with the MOWA as we struggled with IF treatments. In February, to atone for being absent on a business trip over Valentine’s Day, I bought the MOWA a Mary Martin Golden Lab. She appreciated the gesture, but actually exchanged him for a larger model and the original gift was put on a shelf “to be re-gifted.” The new dog was named Per-Kristian (the MOWA has a hankering for things Scandanavian despite being a short, dark and Jewish) or Pekoa for short. Soon both were sleeping and traveling with us, and in a prescient way that we could not appreciate at the time, came to represent the twins we would ultimately have.

Jump/cut to the present. One morning I brought Girl Twin into bed to sit with the MOWA while I deal with the toxic waste in Boy Twin’s diaper. GT immediately grabbed for Pekoa and begin stuffing his plush snout into her mouth. This was extraordinary because GT hardly ever puts anything in her mouth aside from food. Seeing how much she loved Pekoa, we decided to put his smaller, yet-to-be-regifted cousin into her crib in the hopes that she would bond with him and the MOWA could keep her stuffed animal. We even named him Jan-Erik to fit-in with the ScanStudies theme. No such luck. The other night, the only thing that would calm my little girl was removing Pekoa from my dear-wife’s clutches and placing him in her crib. We think this may have something to do with my wife’s scent being on Pekoa, and so today she is walking around the house with Jan-Erik stuffed in her bra. We’ll keep you updated.

More bizarre is Boy Twin’s obsession. He has become obsessed with bottles of nasal saline spray that we use with a bulb syringe. He grips the bottles as tight as he can and refuses to let go. He crawls around the house using only one arm, like a wounded dog, “limpin” from room to room, the saline bottle firmly in his clutch. It’s gotten to the point where he won’t eat unless he’s holding the bottle. Ladies and gentleman, last night we even let him sleep with it. On the bright side, the bottles are cheap and easily replaceable. On the other hand, uhm, it’s just a little bit weird.

Counting the Cars on the NJ Turnpike

2005-08-24T20:44:00.000-04:00

We're on the second leg of our East Coast tour. The visit with my parents is done with. I'd summarize the situation as things are better with my mom, and uncertain with my dad. Thanks for all the helpful comments. Fathers are truly a great mystery in life. My dad's dad died when my father was 15 so he never had an adult relationship with his father -- so maybe part of this is not really having a role model.

However, for now I'm glad to have the visit in my rear-view mirror. The kids have been amazingly well-behaved on this, their first really long road-trip. They have rolled with sleeping in strange places -- crib one night, pack-n-play the next. The only real hiccup has been that Boy Twin had a run of about three nights in-a-row when he was waking up at 4:30am and refused to go back down for about an hour and a half. At almost thirteen months he has yet to actually cut a tooth, so we assume he must be getting close. We gave him baby orajel, baby tylenol, a sippy cup of water and finally a small bottle with formula before he went back to sleep. Thank god the bottle worked because after that the only thing left in my bag of tricks was to reach for the whiskey and swap shots with my son until one of us passed out. But last night he made it through without our early-morning rendezvous so hopefully we're past that now.

I really love road trips. Back when I was in college I cherished making the trip back and forth from New Jersey to Iowa by myself. I may have been one of the few people who would regularly turn down offers to share driving and split gas money because I loved clearing my mind with hours and hours of solitary driving. The drive between Iowa and Jersey was great because I would basically get on I-80 and just go -- no thinking required, just keep the car pointed toward the horizon. I used to call it my mental enema.

Of course, music was a vital part of the experience and I would prepare special mix tapes for my drives. I've reconstructed below one that might have been made in the spring of 1994. Wish I had the technical savvy to podcast it, but maybe in the future.

Yo La Tengo - Detouring America With Horns (the perfect song when you set out over the rolling hills of Central Iowa early in the morning)
Michelle Shocked - Come A Long Way (another great travelling song)
Mighty Mighty Boss Tones -- Illegal Left (now we're moving)
Uncle Tupelo - Gun (don't tell me which way I oughta run)
Bruce Springsteen - Open All Night (hey ho rock n roll deliver me from nowhere)
Superchunk - Precision Auto (sorry, I can't hear you)
Sugar - A Good Idea (no anger issues here)
Liz Phair - 6'1" (really, all of Exile in Guyville was rocking my world then)
Soul Asylum - Spinnin' (from before they sucked)
David Baerwald - A Secret Silken World (for when it's getting late)
Uncle Tupelo - Still Be Around (damn, do I miss this band. Wilco is too arty)
Yo La Tengo - Speeding Motorcycle (going fast was never so slow)

He Was Born a Pauper to a Pawn

2005-08-22T14:15:00.000-04:00

Blogging remotely on a road-trip with the twins into the heart of the megalopolis to visit my parents and her sister. The real purpose of this entry is that I had a sort of realization last night. MY DAD DOESN'T TALK. Not about anything real. Not with me anyway. I've tried. Good lord I've tried. And to his credit, he's taken an interest in everything I've ever had an interest in (with the possible exception of indie rock -- I could never get him to see the artistry in Superchunk). But that interest it seems has only served to widen the range of our chit-chat. Last night at dinner he went on for -- I kid you not -- ten minutes about how houses in Bucks County, PA need to build special sewage mounds to comply with local ordinances meant to protect the ground water and how this turns a minor project like adding a bathroom into an expense of tens-of-thousands of dollars. There has been some real tension in our relationship recently and he knew I wanted to talk about it and for some reason he just kept prattling on about raw sewage (over dinner no less). The truth is, my dad is furious at me and he can't just turn around and say it to me.

And I'd be more philosophical about it if: (a) It weren't such a time-worn stereotypical situation, "The-Father-And-Son-Who-Can't-Talk" sob-story. And (b) It weren't my father acting like he's never actually been in therapy. My mom says not to take it personally. He just doesn't talk and after thirty-seven years of marriage and forty years of a relationship she's just become very good at guessing how he's feeling.

Don't get the wrong notion. My dad is a great dad. Did all the right dad things and more importantly, didn't do the really-bad dad things that poison too many relationships. But as we've tried to shift into an adult relationship, something's hit a snag and it required him opening up more and he just hasn't done it.

Which begs the question: Are we doomed to become our fathers? How do they get this way? Is it the scars of being off doing the bread-winning while the mother and kids form a more intimate bond? (And with a solid generation of women breadwinners now, are they susceptible to the same feelings of isolation? Or is there just something different that comes with the experience of being a working mother?) Is it the knowledge of our own creeping mortality? I know my dad considers himself a very different father from his dad. Likewise, I'm very different from him. But how different? Am I flattering myself to think I won't end up with my feelings as walled-off from everyone else as my dad's are? Is Boy-Twin going to be posting the same old whine to his blog in thirty-two years (albeit he'll do so from the space station orbiting Upsilon Andromedae b)?

So This Family Walks Into A Talent Agency...

2005-08-20T21:32:00.000-04:00

The MOWA and I got to take in a movie last night -- many thanks to the MOWA-in-Law. We chose to go see The Aristocrats which I had been anxious to see since I had read about the film being at Sundance last January. We had gone so far as to find the South Park version of the Aristocrats joke on-line, which is one of the more offensive versions. I think I nearly peed my pants the first time I heard it. I love that the film is a glimpse into this secret world of comics where literally nothing is sacred. In case you haven't heard, it explores this joke that has a standard intro, "This family walks into a talent agent's office..." and a standard punchline, "The Aristocrats." What comes in-between is what makes the joke and comics try to outdo one another to make that middle part as offensive and taboo shattering as possible. It also makes me want to make sure that my daughter never dates a comic.

Now, if you are offended easily DO NOT GO SEE THIS FILM. I cannot stress this point enough. But if the occasional incest joke doesn't ruffle your feathers you're going to love this film. All the comics in it are great and best of all, the film doesn't overstay its welcome, running a shade under 90 minutes. By the time you're thinking to yourself, "Hmmm, I think I've heard enough talk about fisting minors and grandmothers covered in shit and spermatazoa," the movie ends.

Suprisingly, Bob Saget is one of the dirtiest, funniest guys in the whole film. If I were Mary Kate or Ashley, I wouldn't let him within 100 yards of me. And while we're at it: All Hail Sarah Silverman! I am counting the days until the release of Jesus Is Magic. As I explained to the MOWA, I would never want to date her, but I'd love to hang out with her. Finally, it was good to see Paul Reiser, who has a new film called The Thing About My Folks coming out in the fall, co-starring Peter Falk.

This afternoon I went to pick up the kids from the MOWA-In-Law and she asked how the movie was. I told her very, very funny. Then I thought about it for a second, and considered if she ever saw it, how her opinion of me might be affected and countered, "Actually, you probably wouldn't like it."

Almost Cut My Hair

2005-08-19T12:36:00.000-04:00

A perfect example of life in the not-for-profit world:

So at last night's event one of my patrons comes up to me and whispers in my ear, "I think you looked better without the facial hair." She was referring to my goatee which I have proudly worn for almost five years now and is not exactly a new development on my face. I politely explained to the woman that the times I had considered shaving it off, the MOWA had expressly forbid me from doing so because she loves it and thinks it finishes my face.

Later I realized that was the wrong response. I should have said, "I'll shave it if you increase your pledge!"

Catch Me If You Can

2005-08-17T18:05:00.000-04:00

So, this afternoon I went with a co-worker to Costco to purchase some supplies for an event we have tomorrow night. While I was there I figured I would pick up a few things that I know we need at home. So, while she pushed around the cart with the business stuff, I commandeered my own cart to contain the following:

(1) Jumbo Pack of Huggies Gigg-fucking-astic
(2) Jumbo pack of Kirkland Baby Wipes (in our house pronounced: ass-weepays)
(3) Jumbo pack of toilet paper

This is a new co-worker, and we're just getting to know one another, but that didn't stop me from turning to her and saying, "Are you noticing that all my items are sort of organized around a theme?"

I'm sure she's working on her resume as we speak.

Gigglastic vs. Cruisers

2005-08-16T18:34:00.000-04:00

Okay. Admission. I wish Pampers Cruisers didn't give my daughter a rash. Why? Because I hate rewarding the dumb-ass marketer who thought that calling a stretchy waistband "gigglastic" was ever a good idea. There's a special place in hell for him/her. Really. There's only three things I care about when it comes to diapers: containment, comfort and cost. If the diaper has elastic waistbands, just say it has an elastic waistband.

I'm so grumpy. And Mr. Gigglastic is laughing all the way to the Gigglbank.

Ricciuti's Sucks

2005-08-15T20:31:00.000-04:00

Pay attention google.

Problem: You have twins and have been invited out for dinner with your in-laws.

Solution: Make a reservation for four adults and two highchairs for a ridiculously early dinnertime on a Sunday evening.

Result at Ricciuti's Restaurant: Arrive at the reservation check-in. Have the perky girl with the blond hair and the vacant eyes punch her display screen and say, "Not-For-Profit-Family? Four adults and two highchairs?" We respond in the affirmative. She grabs the menus and bellows, "Follow me."

So we follow her and arrive at a table set for six adults and no highchairs. "Just a second," she says and disappears to look for aforementioned high chairs. Returns with one high chair after about five minutes. A cohort follows shortly after carrying A FUCKING BOOSTER SEAT. Did we reserve a booster seat? No. So why are you bringing us a booster seat? "Uhm, we seem to be out of highchairs. They're all in use."

Now, I know how reservations work. Okay? I'm not naive. Plenty of times I've shown up for a 7 o'clock and been parked at the bar until 7:30. But you can't park toddlers by the bar until the next highchair frees up.

By this time, the kids were getting cranky for their food and so we just cut and ran. Making it worse was the fact that the restaurant people never said, "Sorry. We screwed up. How can we make it up to you?" As we walked out the door, I told them, "We're not coming back. There's a reason you make a reservation. If you couldn't honor it, you should have said so."

Salt on the wound, as we walked out the door, I saw around a corner one family balancing a snap-and-go carseat on an upside-down high-chair. I'm not 100% certain, but I'd bet that's a safety hazard, and while I don't wish the child any harm, I do hope someone chokes on a bone in their veal chop and sues the pants off them.

Wow. I thought that post would be cathartic. Turns out I'm not one jot less angry about the whole thing.

What A Difference A Year Makes

2005-08-14T21:43:00.000-04:00

We took the Twins for their one-year check-up with the neonatologist this week. This is the doctor who was responsible for the kids' care during the three weeks they were in the Georgetown University Hospital NICU. Our's was this great mothering Hungarian woman who was always telling us in her thick accent, "Dohn't wooory about eet. Have a milkshake." Seriously, this woman had a thing for milkshakes. They were her cure-all. Having trouble breastfeeding? Have a milkshake. Stressed-out about not knowing when your kids are coming home? Have a milkshake. Worried about the frequency of apnea episodes in your daughter? You get the point.

But she couldn't have taken any better care of the twins and so it was with great personal pride that she declared to the doctor studying under her on a fellowship while examing Boy Twin -- "You see, this is common in exceptional preemies. By the time they're two years old you won't be able to distinguish them from a full-term child." Hey, we're happy to give plenty of credit to her and everyone else at GUH (except for the lactation nazi who told us we should leave our not-quite-three-pound child on an I.V. rather than allow him to be bottle fed. Let me take this opportunity to repeat to her publicly, "Fuck you, you heartless bitch.").

The whole appointment felt like a valedictory address. Congratulations, you've come out the other end of the preemie experience. Your kids do everything they're supposed to be doing according to their adjusted age, and some things they shouldn't be doing for another couple of months. Sure, Girl Twin should stick with the physical therapy (which she is kicking-ass in now). And yes, work on getting Boy Twin to expand his vocabulary. But otherwise, via con dios, send us a postcard when they graduate from high school.

To communicate how this felt, you need to step into the way-back machine with me to last summer. The kids were born six-weeks early. Which is one thing. Boy Twin was also born with a condition known as IUGR - Intrauterin Growth Restriction. This explained why his sister was more than a full-pound larger than him at birth. He came out at 2 pounds 15 oz, and that was with a full head of hair. After the MOWA pushed out the placenta, the doctor actually showed me that Boy Twin had sort of had a lousy insertion point for his imbilical cord into the placenta. While Girl Twin's connection was in the meaty center, Boy Twin's was more off to the side -- kind of like trying to drink from a straw that only gets part of its bottom into the soda.

After the anxious beginning, and following a perfect APGAR score, it became clear that this lack of size was really his only problem. Cure? Time. Stand back and watch as he gets bigger -- as one of the nurses said, "Think of his isolette as a see-through womb."

His sister meanwhile, at a comparitively robust 4lbs, 2 oz; over the next several days began having apneas and bradycardias which scared the shit out of us because no one else seemed very concerned about them. We were like, excuse me? Our daughter's stopped breathing for a moment and her heart-rate is dipping! And the NICU nurses would casually respond, "Oh, that's very common in preemies, they always come out of it." Once, when the MOWA asked, "Well, what happens if she doesn't come out of it?" To which the nurse responded, "Do you really want to go there?"

Their first week of life came and went with no indication of when they would be coming home. We were told that if they were six weeks premature, we could expect that they might be in the NICU for as long as six weeks. This seemed unbearable to us. Our kids were in these isolette-incubators which we could only take them out of to feed them and then for only 30-45 minutes at a time. That meant we could only hold them once every three hours because they couldn't maintain their body temperature for longer than that outside the isolette. We had to reach through the hand-windows to touch our own children -- like something out of the Andromeda Strain. When we did hold them they were hooked up to monitors with sensors attached to their chest and legs. The absolute joy of their birth was offset by the unspeakable sadness we felt at not being able to bring them home, to hold them when we wanted to, to leaving them in the care of strangers while we went home and looked in their empty nursery.

We were also hyper-aware that ours were probably the healthiest babies on the NICU. And we felt guilty for that too. But that the child on the other side of the NICU was on a vent and ours wasn't didn't make us feel any better. If anything, it only made us fear Girl Twin's apneas and bradys more and wonder if the next time we came in, we'd see her hooked up to a ventilator.

But true to our Hungarian doctor's promise, the kids just needed time to get better and after three weeks, Boy Twin had just about caught-up to Girl Twin in weight. My beautiful princess had ceased having regular bradys or apneas (thanks to a little caffeine -- no kidding). We were finally able to take them home -- albeit on monitors. But home nonetheless.

Ok, jump/cut back to the present. We've just received our glowing check-up from Dr. Milkshake and we decide to roll over to the NICU to see if any of the nurses who cared for the kids were on duty so they could have the opportunity to marvel over them. Of course, our favorite nurse, the one who really taught us the most about taking care of preemies and gave us as much responsibility as one could have in a NICU was there. She oohed and ahhed over the twins and as we were getting ready to go a set of parents wandered out of the NICU into the waiting room where we were having our cooing-fest. They looked bedraggled, and with a familiar look of elation and deflation that most every parent in the NICU wears. They stared down at our plump 50th percentile babies and the mother asked, "Boy/Girl twins?" We told her yes and she said, "That's what we just had on Thursday." I told her that her kids were in the best hands possible in the G-town NICU, and pointed to our son and said, "He started off at 2 pounds 15 ounces and look at him now."

The mother's eyes popped open wide and exclaimed, "Just like our son!" And suddenly I remembered similar conversations with other NICU alumni -- where the sight of these big, fat toddlers gave me hope that someday our kids would leave that place and be capable of finishing 30 milliliters of formula in under 45 minutes without the use of an NG-tube. And now here we were, providing a glimpse of a possible future to this couple.

And before I could help myself I said, "You should go home and get some sleep. This is the most expensive babysitting you're ever going to have." It was something people had said to us repeatedly as we insisted on getting a hotel room close to the hospital so we could arrive in-time for the 6am feed and not leave until after the 11pm feed. It was something people said when we refused to go out for dinner, but chose instead to eat take-out in the lobby. It was something people said to us the entire time we were there and they were 100% correct. And I wanted to punch the lights out of every person who said it because the bottom line was that it wasn't their child in an isolette.

Luckily, the husband in this couple just smiled wanly and said, "That's hard to do."

Hearing myself, I could only agree. "I know."

He looked down at his watch and she mentioned something about needing to go "try and pump" which summoned-up a whole different trauma for us. And so we quickly said our goodbyes and they were on their way, down the road we'd been on only a year-before.

I know the MOWA had lots of things she wished she could tell the mother. And if there was one thing I could have told the dad, that I didn't have the chance to, it would be this:

"One night, I actually took the dumb-ass advice I just offered you and convinced myself and my wife that it was okay to go home and get a decent night's sleep. When we got home I sort of wandered around the house without a purpose until I got really mad at the entire world and ended up punching the guest-room wall. Really hard. Hurt my knuckles and left a dent in the cheap-ass sheet rock. It didn't make me feel any better. For weeks all I could see when I walked past that room was the spot where my fist had done the damage. Even after we got the kids home it was still the first thing I saw when I went in that room. And maybe it was the cumulative exhaustion of having twins and maybe it was the pain of the NICU fading away but after awhile -- months probably -- it stopped being the focus of my attention in the guest room. Now, I'm actually a little surprised when I see it still there. As if I must have dreamed that incident or it happened in a different life. Whether you punch a wall or not, you'll be me someday and you'll never forget the hell you're going through right now. But it won't hurt quite so much. But there's no way you'll believe me until you live it, so call me in a year. It makes a huge difference.

Make A Little Birdhouse in Your Spleen

2005-08-08T21:28:00.000-04:00

The former owners of our townhouse were many things. Lesbians, for one. We're pretty sure about this as catalogues of hot g-on-g sex toys continue to arrive in our mailbox up to the present. Either that or grandma has a very strange way of hinting at her next Channukah present. The former owners were also bird lovers. This was evidenced by the outdoor bird-themed thermometer that is permanently stuck at 71 degrees in one of our den windows and the many mosquito-attracting bird-baths in our backyard. At time of move-in there were at least three. They also bequeathed us a gigantic, towering wooden bird-feeder/planter that stands at around seven feet tall. This was the only bird paraphanalia I did not throw-out, mainly because it was so friggin' big. That and the squirrels seemed to like it, including one particularly jumpy grey squirrel that the MOWA gave the same name as my father. The MOWA actually grew quite attached to this squirrel and at one point, at the height of our struggles with infertility , she began feeding the squirrel pistachio nuts that we had bought at Costco. This, ladies and gentleman, was the happiest squirrel in the history of rodenthood.

In any case, we got pregnant, we stopped obsessing about squirrels, we had twins, we became very sleep deprived, blah, blah, blah. But the seven foot avian fortress slowly underwent some changes which I attribute to two factors:

One, the woodpecker who discovered its tasty goodness after sampling the facia below our eaves. Endangered species my ass.

Two, one seriously pistachio deprived squirrel who vented his rage on the roof of aforementioned avian fortress.

So, come the middle of the summer the avian fortress has much more of an open-air feel to it as the woodpecker/pistachio-junkie-squirrel have torn the roof clear off. That combined with the fact that I have never actually planted anything in the planter portion of the fortress and have allowed weeds to grow there unhindered have forced me to reclassify the avian fortress. Whereas it used to be a mildly amusing nuisance, it is now a piece of crap. A rotting, fetid, eyesore that if the neighbors could peek over our fence, would panic to have witnessed the onset of blight in their neighborhood.

So, I came to the unavoidable conclusion [okay, the MOWA came to this conclusion and I obeyed] that the fortress would have to go. I called up the sanitation department and ordered a bulk pick-up (I had no clue I could get five of these a year). Then I went into the backyard and wrestled that 'sumbitch out to the curb and waved goodbye. Then I raced back in the house stripped off all my clothes in the foyer and ran buck-naked upstairs to the shower because something (lice, vermin, scabbies?) had crawled off the rotting corpse of the bird-feeder and onto my lily-white skin.

On Saturday morning I gleefully waited for the garbage-men, ehm, sanitation workers, to come and take the birdshit away. When they failed to remove it from our suburban environs, I thought to myself, perhaps they only take the big stuff during the Wednesday pickup. When Wednesday came and went and the avian fortress still stood proudly by the curb, I began to have serious doubts. By the time the next Saturday came and went, I was in full-blown denial. I decided to treat the tower of termites like a medieval lord would treat his bastard child -- pretend I have no connection whatsoever to the little whelp.

Now, I'm not sure what to do. All I know is that my once-former symbol of personal backyard blight is now a very public symbol of our neighborhood's blight and it IS MY FAULT. I'm tempted to cover the thing in gasoline, flick my bic and walk away. I can't exactly throw the thing in the back of the Saturn and drive it to the dump. Am I actually going to have to pay cash money to get this thing taken away? Will no one rid me of this troublesome lesbian totem to Audobon-induced fetishism?

Back Again...

2005-08-07T21:01:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry for the protracted absence. I have lots of excuses, but none of them are very funny so I'll be brief. I can write off one week to a professional conference I went to that had me running from dawn to dusk and with only sporadic access to a computer. Another week can be accounted for with the preparations for Girl and Boy Twins' Birthday Extravaganza which took place 30 July. The final excuse I'll offer is that the MOWA and I have been working through some issues regarding my family and that's the least fun and funny of the three.

None of these are real excuses for not blogging and I thank those of you that are still checking this blog for your loyalty. And to those of you who wrote, thank you also for your concern that I was trapped under something heavy or permanently detained under the Patriot Act. None of these scenarios are actually the case. I just suck.

Take Your Toddlers To Work Day

2005-07-14T17:39:00.000-04:00

In a special treat for me the MOWA brought the kids downtown to the office yesterday. It was great to be able to show them off to my co-workers who are forced to listen to what must feel like interminable stories about the antics of the Twins and how the MOWA and I struggle to cope.

Wait. That's basically the same interminable content as this blog.

Anyway, I have been annoyed and stressed at work recently for the reason that I have been called-on to do things that are beyond my job description. Nuf sed. It's not that what they're asking me to do is unreasonably hard -- just time consuming and it takes me away from the parts of my job that I love. I subsequently feel like I am now in a very deep hole regarding what are my normal responsibilities. Every minute spent on these other matters is a minute that I'm not doing what I'm really best at.

Add to that mix a two-hour visit to my office by the kids during which no work got done. But it was the best part of my day. Even if the hole was that much deeper when I got back to my desk I was thrilled to have had that time with them. Why? Because for those two hours I got to do the job I love even more than what I get paid for: be dad. If it costs me some more work on the other end, so be it.

In the meantime. Here's one to file under "Candidates for Mother-Of-The-Year." Not.

Tooth and Nails Across a Chalk Board

2005-07-10T22:21:00.000-04:00

Girl Twin finally has a tooth. After eleven-and-a-half months she took her sweet time getting it, but at least she has something to show for all that gumming of her index finger. Boy Twin can't claim as much, and there's far more drool under his bridge. GT has been batshit crazy the last couple of days starting with unexplainable hives on Thursday night, which turned out to be caused by an ear-infection when we took her in to get checked-out on Friday morning. Of course Dr. Fucktwat, the pediatrician who we spoke to on Thursday night made us feel like paranoid, over-reactive parents.

We love the pediatrician we normally see. She's a little frumpy and has many an issue with her mother which she always seems to awkwardly work into the conversation in a way that makes us slightly uncomfortable. She'll say something like, "Yeah, I'd die from shock if my mother ever offered to help out with my kids." Not sure how to react to that doc. But she's great with the kids and she never makes us feel bad no matter when we call and encourages us to schedule follow-up appointments or to call with questions. There's another doctor in the practice who is as good as her, young and female. We love them both -- Dr. S and Dr. L.

On the other hand are the two old white men in the practice who should just retire. We all have had jobs we don't like. That's normal. However, when you start taking out your frustrations on the clientelle, it's time to call it a day and check-in to Century Village. Dr. Fucktwat told us that the hives were probably nothing and there wasn't anything to do about them anyway. Dr. Fucktwat's Partner on Friday was at least able to diagnose the hives on my daughter's body as a symptom of her ear infection. But when the MOWA asked if some of her discomfort could be connected to teething, Dr. Fucktwat's Partner laughed condescendingly and said, without even checking her mouth, "She's month's away from cutting a tooth. How else can I explain it to you? She has an ear-infection and that's why she's uncomfortable. As a mother you should be able to understand that."

Thanks dickwad. Oh, by-the-way, you must have meant hours-away from teething and not months away.

If only Drs. S and L could be on-call 24/7. Why won't they do that for us? Why won't Dr. Fucktwat and Dr. Fucktwat's Partner take their enlarged prostates and shuffle off to someplace where children won't be an issue.

The Subway Sleeps Tonight

2005-07-08T17:10:00.000-04:00

So strange that literally hours after I wrote this seemingly innocent post it is now haunted by the attacks on the London Transit system. I spent a semester in London during college and I have great affection for the tube and the many rides I took on the Circle Line to the National Theatre. My thoughts and prayers are with the victims and their families.

Memo To DC Tourists and Summer Interns

2005-07-06T22:06:00.000-04:00

Re: Riding the Metro so as not to make yourselves obnoxious nuisances

It has come to my attention that there ought to be some sort of publication describing proper etiquette for visitors to Washington, DC who find themselve riding on our Metro system. Those who have been on the gritty NYC subway, the ancient London tube, the stylish Paris metro or the efficient Berlin U-Bahn might be confused by the relatively quaint stature of our humble WMATA Metro. They might go so far as to think that it was created solely for the transportation of tourists -- something akin to the Monorail as Disney. Sadly, this mass transit system is how many of us get to work every day, and unfortunately the Washington-area has no tradition of shaming and humiliating those outsiders who violate our norms. In New York you can be legally disembowled by a fellow strap-hanger if you maintain eye contact for a split-second longer than is allowable. In Washington, we're more likely to let it slide, but that doesn't mean we're not fuming underneath. So herewith are my suggestions which are by no means definitive and do not represent the opinions of anyone other than NFPD...

1) Shut the fuck up. Really. We don't want to hear about what you saw at the Museum of the American Indian or how you tried to make a Secret Service guy laugh in front of the White House or how you JUST REALIZED that the Hard Rock Cafe is overpriced. I don't want to hear about your vacation anymore than you want to hear about the volume discount I deserve to get on Preparation-H from riding this sub-par public transit.

2) Your kids bug the shit out of me. Make them sit down and shut up or I'm throwing them off the train. Let me add that I don't hate kids. I have kids. I was a kid. If I ever come to your town and ruin your morning commute by having my kids scream repeatedly about wanting me to buy them astronaut ice-cream you have permission to drop trou and piss on all of us.

3) At each stop, do not announce how many more stops you have until you get off the train. Mostly because it makes you look like a moron who is incapable of counting silently in their head. I half expect you to hold out your fingers and say we have "this many" stops until we get off. If you persist in this behavior I'm going to get off at your stop with you, follow you back to your hotel, and wait until you go out for dinner. When you do I will break into your room and steal everything but your toothbrushes and camera. I will take pictures of your toothbrushes in my various non-oral orrifices and leave you to figure it out.

4) It's very simple. Stand right. Walk Left. If you are incapable of making ascents without the reassurance of someone standing right next to you, then please take the elevator. You may not be in a rush, but some of us need to load-up on coffee in order to make it through the day. This coffee collects in a place known as the bladder. When the bladder is full it demands to be emptied. If not emptied promptly, a full bladder could cause one to beat obstructionist escalator riders severely about the head and chest area. Your are warned.

5) You don't have to be in MENSA to work a metrocard machine. Come on people is this really so hard? If those machines were selling Merit Ultra-Lights I bet you'd be able to work them lickety-split. But to show that I am not entirely filled with hatred I make you this offer. If you are confused I will help you buy your metro ticket. However, I get to keep 50% of the remaining cash in your wallet.

6) It is pronounced "Lon-font Plaza." I don't care that you can't do this, it's that you keep TRYING to say it and guess how it might be pronounced. Visit the Alliance Francaise and take a class and they can teach you, but stop trying to figure it out while I'm doing the crossword puzzle.

7) Get your own fucking sports pages. They hand out the Express for free. There's really no excuse for reading over my shoulder. Persist and I will sneeze on you.

8) If you wear flip-flops on the metro don't act surprised when I break your toe. That would be like eating a corndog and not expecting to get the Hershey Squirts. It is simple cause and effect. Don't blame the corndog. Don't blame me. You knew what you were getting into.

9) Do not ask me how to take the Metro to Georgetown. But in-case you're curious you take the Metro to National Airport (National Airport, never Reagan Airport), find a plane that is flying to your hometown. Get on the plane. Go home. Get in your car. Drive back to Washington and pay $20 for parking like a complete asshole.

10) We know we had a mayor who smoked crack. We're over it. How about you get over it? Your President snorted cocaine and rigged intelligence reports so he could invade Iraq. All Marion Barry did was get laid and give his friends jobs. Who's worse?

Enjoy your visit.

Return to Witch Mountain

2005-07-04T08:45:00.000-04:00

I apologize for not posting for awhile. I've been digging-out from the consequences of our vacation.

The MOWA and I were on vacation sans Girl Twin and Boy Twin. I took the MOWA to Disney World (her choice) for a belated birthday present. I like going to the Mouse House (who doesn’t enjoy a nice fascist utopia every now and then), but the MOWA LOVES going there – although I think an explanation of why would be appropriate.

As I have alluded to before, the MOWA and I went through Infertility Treatments in order to have our precious twins who now deprive us of sleep and stain every item of our clothing with their vomit. Thanks guys. When, acquaintances, friends, co-workers or random strangers ask, as eventually they always will, “Do twins run in your family?” I like to answer it with a peppy, “Yes! And with the right medications they can run in your family too.” I sometimes punctuate the ending with a softly muttered, “Asshole.” On days when I’m really grumpy, my response to that question usually is, “No, they don’t. But depression, heart disease and cancer do. These kiddies are courtesy of the ole turkey baster.” So, I’m a lot of fun to strike-up a conversation with. But that’s not my point. There was a period of two years when we were trying very strenuously to get pregnant and not succeeding – I’m borrowing a term from The East Village Mamele here, but I liked to refer to that period in our lives as the Bataan Sex March.

During this time period the MOWA traveled to Disney with her mother, sister and her then almost-three-year-old niece. The MOWA had not been to Disney since she was a kid and was surprised at how much the “magic” of the place still had a hold over her. The only drawback to the visit was the not-quite-three-year-old niece whose needs dictated what rides they went on and how late they could stay at the park. I know, a real buzz-kill. In fact, my niece was probably a little too young for the park, but you can get in for free until you are three and they wanted to get her through the gates under that wire. So she decided that the two of us should go back to Disney by ourselves, since no doubt we would be pregnant soon and permanently shackled to beings not tall enough to ride this ride.

We made the plans in January but didn’t go until June, a time-span during which our desperation over not getting pregnant escalated to the point where we sought treatment from a reproductive endocrinologist. Being around kids, and babies in particular became a uniquely difficult experience. To see other happy child-filled families made us depressed. To see child-filled families where the parents publicly demonstrated questionable parenting skills made us depressed, bitter and angry. For that reason, as the Disney trip approached, we were still excited, but dreading it in a certain way for the surplus of both family types we would be bombarded by non-stop while under the auspices of Uncle Walt.

The trip was excruciating. Not that we didn't have fun, but Disney is exhausting under the best of circumstances and even more so when your wife is prone to emotional melt-downs at the frequent sight of women under the age of twenty who are hugely pregnant and pushing a stroller with a three-year-old toddler in it. Even better was when the Baby Daddy was ten paces ahead, a Marlboro Red hanging from his lips, elbowing Asian tourists out of the way to grab a fast-pass to Space Mountain.

And it rained like God hated us. Every day. The MOWA desperately wanted to see the Spectromagic Electric Lights Parade -- and we would camp out on the curb of Mainstreet, USA waiting for two hours in advance for the parade to begin. And it would piss on us the entire time -- I would sit on the curb in my yellow Mickey Mouse poncho getting soaked, miserable, a parody of some kind of Disney-esque homeless person. The first night we did this they ended up cancelling the parade altogether -- and it felt both to the MOWA and to myself like another negative Home Pregnancy Test.

Getting to see the parade became an obsession for both of us. When the weather finally cleared one night long enough for the parade to go on we were ecstatically happy. It was the highlight of the trip. During the parade something curious happened. The float carrying the fairies from Sleeping Beauty was rolling by when time seemed to slow down for a second or two. The green fairy, Fauna, pointed her wand at the MOWA, waved it dramatically and seemed to bless her -- as if granting her a wish. I've replayed the moment on the video we made of the parade and it may sound corny, but Fauna was definitely pointing at the MOWA. Now I know she did this every two-hundred feet to someone in the crowd, and that she's not a real-fairy, but an under-tall actor in a felt costume with enough wattage running through it to run the electric chair at Sing-Sing for two weeks straight, but the MOWA really took it to heart to mean that our wish -- a baby -- would come true.

When, thanks to the good folks at Shady Grove Fertility Center, our wish did come true -- doubly so, the MOWA spread the credit around to include our R.E., the doctor who wielded the turkey baster for the IUI, and Fauna the green Fairy who granted that her wish would come true during a damp evening in the swamps of Orlando.

So, the return to Disney was like closing a circle in certain respects. It was also a way to use the extra days on our Park Hopper Pass that had gone unspent because of the massive downpours the last time we had been there. We paid our respects to Fauna, and enjoyed a free upgrade at the Hyatt Regency Grand Cypress -- okay, I'm going to use this blog to shill for a second, so pay attention Google... THE HYATT REGENCY GRAND CYPRESS IS THE BEST HOTEL I'VE EVER BEEN TO IN MY ENTIRE LIFE. See, give me free stuff and I'm your bitch for life. They, for reasons we still don't comprehend, chose us to upgrade to their Regency Club level, where we enjoyed a complimentary (and yummy) continental breakfast, hors d'ouevres and cocktails, pretty much anytime the mood struck us. By the end of the week we actually believed we were naturally entitled to this kind of VIP treatment, as opposed to being a struggling middle-class family that lives in a townhouse on the wrong side of Georgia Avenue where our neighbors like to spend the weekend alternating between sipping beer on their front steps and playing the home version of Pimp My Ride in the parking lot.

Still we had a nice, but exhausting vacation. It was very emotional for the MOWA and sort of emotional for me to the extent that I'll admit that I have emotions to re-travel the arc of our infertility. As we lay in bed on our first night home, the MOWA turned to me and said, "I'm happy we went, but I made a bad choice -- we should have gone someplace and just laid on the beach doing nothing. We're back one-hour and I'm already exhausted again."

MOWA, next time I'm holding you to that.

Love Is the Seventh Wave

2005-06-18T00:36:00.000-04:00

Can't sleep so I might as well get an entry done.

Today I think I touched bottom at work. [ah, I unpacked this thought a little, but I excised it from the post. you'll just have to wait for the director's cut. - nfpd]

The good thing about touching bottom is that you can count on that nice rebound when you push off and start swimming for the surface. What remains is the crucial question of whether you'll break the waves before you run out of breath?

Girl Twin has a new skill. I call it, "How can I reach into daddy's chest and pull out his still-beating heart and hand it to him." This requires the combination of two seemingly innocent skills. The first skill she's been doing for weeks. She says "da-da." Ask her to say "ma-ma" and she replies, "da-dad?" In the morning, in her crib, ready to get up, over the intercom it comes wafting into my dreams: "da-da! da-da!" The second skill is a bit more recent. She waves. Wave at her and she waves back -- sort of a Queen Mum wave with a lot of hand and elbow and not much wrist action. She waves at the neighbors. She waves at her mommy or daddy when they make the coffee in the morning (always a full pot). She waves just to show you how smart she is and it doesn't matter if she doesn't roll or crawl like her brother. Can he wave? He can? Oh, well, but can he wave like the Queen? No he cannot, thankyouverymuch.

I discovered the fusion of these two skills this week when I dropped the kids off at my Mother-in-Law's. After spending a few minutes with them, I got ready to go and started heading for the door. I gave Girl Twin a wave, bye-bye because she generally likes that. She waved back, but asked, "da-da?"

Translation: You're leaving me? Her eyes were sad and questioning: But I trusted you. You're the strongest man in the whole wide world and you're just going to leave me?

Wave. Wave.
"Da-da?"
Sad eyes.

I smiled and waved again and made another move for the door.

Wave. Wave
"Da-da?"
Really sad eyes.

At this point I bailed and bailed quickly because if she didn't start to cry, then I was going to and that just looks bad in-front of your mother-in-law.

Jump/Cut.

Two-hours later. I'm at my desk being productive. The phone rings. It's my mother-in-law. Apparently Girl Twin has been periodically looking around and asking sadly, "Da-da?" I am put on speaker phone so that my little girl can hear her daddy's voice and be reassured of my existence. I am not sure if this reassures her or makes her wonder how da-da has transformed himself into a giant hunk of plastic.

My wife calls me later that afternooon. She got stuck in a bad traffic jam after she picked the kids up at her mother's. All the way home, from Girl Twin's side of the car came the plaintive question, "da-da?" "It's like she re-lives the pain of your abandonement every time she says it," the MOWA observes.

My daughter is a drama queen. Worse, I'm a sucker for her drama. I think I am going to have to recuse myself from "tough love" parenting decisions every time she puts on those eyes, gives that wave and asks only for the possession of my very soul with her inquiry, "da-da?"

And After That He Yelled, "Say My Name!"

2005-06-16T20:56:00.000-04:00

McBride tells paper: Tyson 'bit my nipple': "'Tyson is crazy. He bit my nipple,' McBride told the paper. 'I didn't realize it at first but he had his teeth around it. I just felt a strange sensation and then realized what he'd done. He could not get up high enough to bite my ears! good job he wasn't a midget, otherwise he would have bitten something else.'"

'Hate' is a Four-Letter Word

2005-06-16T19:25:00.000-04:00

I just wrote a long entry venting about a run-in with an ASSHOLE OF THE FIRST ORDER at work today. I thought if I wrote it and then deleted it, the exercise of purging would have spiritually cleansed me.

No such luck.

By the way, this entry that I deleted was the wittiest, most biting piece I had ever composed. I took apart my foe limb by limb with my compositional skills and left him crying on the ground, bleeding from the head and soiling his BVDs.

Hating people is so exhausting.

The Call

2005-06-12T18:25:00.000-04:00

Last night, while I am at work, I check the voice mail on my cell phone to receive this message:

The kids have been crying for over two hours and I can't get them down, so I'm calling to tell you not to call home and check-in, because the last thing I need is the phone ringing. Ugh, (crying heard in background) I'm going to start the whole bed-routine all-over again. I've got to go.

Unfortunately, this message was preceded by the following conversation:

Me: Hi!

The MOWA: Didn't you get my message? (tense)

Me: Uh, no I saw that--

The MOWA: They've been crying for two hours, I can't get them down. I'm
starting the bath routine over and this whole evening has just gone to crap.

Me: Uh, sorr--

The MOWA: I've gotta go...

Me: (feeling useless) I love you.

The MOWA: I love you too. Don't call.

There's no worse feeling than being at work and knowing I've stranded the MOWA in one of our kids' rare-but-unforgettable BAD NIGHTS. I was helpless to help her and my sympathy didn't really do jack-shit for her. I wish I could have left work, but it was one of those situations where I couldn't have except for the most dire family emergency. Adding to my guilt was the fact that part of "work" consisted of the One Ring Zero concert which was totally awesome and which I really couldn't fully enjoy.

In reconstructing it, it looks like Boy Twin had the problem, but cried so hard he got Girl Twin into the act out of sympathy. Even once the MOWA was able to get Girl Twin settled, he still popped-up crying every 1/2 hour or so and kept the MOWA up until midnight. I got home to relieve her by 1am and was up with my boy at 2am, 3am, 4am and 5am. A morning run to the doctor with Boy Twin revealed a severe ear infection that had punctured his ear drum. It shocked us because he went all winter in daycare without getting one of these nasties and it seems strange he should get it now when he's out of daycare and the weather's nice. Also, he really wasn't tugging on his ear. So now he's on antibiotics and tonight he's got gunk leaking from his right eye, so we're bracing for another potentially rough evening.

I got to nap a little bit this afternoon, but we're still exhausted.

Oy.

See Me, Hear Me, Traffic Report Me

2005-06-10T20:57:00.000-04:00

Why is it that I feel personally slighted when I am sitting in my car, in a traffic jam, and I turn on my all-news radio to find out what is causing my delay and then there is no mention at all in the traffic report? This usually happens either on 16th Street or further north on Georgia Avenue. There's traffic there all the time. But does it get mentioned? No. They always mention the traffic on the Beltway or if there's a stalled car in the 7th Street tunnel or if 270 is slow heading into the interchange. There's a running monologue every day about the unending drama of the Mixing Bowl. But there has to be a squad of ninjas skull-fucking a flotilla of senior citizens tying up traffic on 16th Street before they'll deign to mention it on the radio. It's like when they don't mention it, my pain at being stuck in traffic doesn't exist. At least when it gets noticed, I have indirectly gotten noticed. I've participated in the news in some small way.

So kindly traffic reporter, please look for the over-caffeinated Jew in the Saturn on 16th Street banging on his steering wheel. Acknowledge his suffering. I beg you.

Three Up, Three Down

2005-06-08T22:04:00.000-04:00

I don't mean the end of an inning. What I do mean is that the kids have taken to an interesting pattern of sleeping through the night for three nights in-a-row and then popping up at various sundry hours of the night for the next three nights in-a-row. They then go back to sleeping through the night, and so on and so on… We’re not doing anything different and they don’t appear to be acting any differently during the day. Whether they sleep the night does not seem linked to how well or poorly they napped during the day or how much or little they ate or drank. One thing is for certain.

THEY ARE TRYING TO KILL ME.

I. Am. So. Tired.

I’ve been working late all this week and so not tucking myself in at the customary hour of 10pm or so. Worse, those nights that they do not interrupt the drip-drool irrigation of my pillow lulls me and the MOWA into a false sense of security that we can stay up until 11pm and still get six hours of sleep. It is at this very moment with the twin agents of sleep disruption strike.

The silver-lining to working so much is that as part of my work (which I no longer discuss on this blog) I had the opportunity to attend a concert last night by John Zorn and the Masada String Trio. If you’re not familiar with John Zorn, he’s been a renegade musician on the cutting-edge of the radical jazz scene for about 20 years and a leading proponent of new radical Jewish music. The concert last night did not involve him playing – he does wicked things with a saxophone – instead he conducted in a very unorthodox way this string trio consisting of Mark Feldman, Erik Friedlander and Greg Cohen. Their playing in many ways made me think of what might happen if you put the Fiddler on the Roof on crystal meth. They would explore these very traditional sounding klezmer riffs and then slowly (or quickly depending on Zorn's mood) deconstruct these comforting sounds into their elements. They would continue to break them down even further until they were utter gibberish, just pure sonic energy, all wild plucking strings and madly dashing bows across frets. Sometimes they would then reassemble the riff, other times let the chaos take them where it will. It was enthralling to watch and perhaps not easily comprehended outside of a live performance. Dude, it was punk klezmer.

The other concert I'll be attending is this weekend with One Ring Zero. If you've not heard of them, they're just about the coolest geek band there is. They started off as the house band for McSweeney's in NYC and because they were constantly the music for all these readings, they decided to make an album of songs with lyrics written by modern authors including some well-knowns like Paul Auster, Daniel Handler, Margaret Atwood, Dave Eggers and Myla Goldberg, Neil Gaiman and some you probably haven't heard of unless you are extremely well read and cooler than I am but whom I am incredibly interested in based on the songs they've written. As for the music, it is often compared to They Might Be Giants, but I actually find them a lot less cloying.

Okay. Going to go to bed and hope we can stop the sleepless slide at one night.

Marks of Experience

2005-06-07T11:32:00.000-04:00

Early this morning as I was changing his diaper, I noticed that Boy Twin now has very pronounced callouses on his knees -- the result of his newly-found passion for crawling. This began while I was taking a nap on Saturday at my in-laws. Before I laid-down, the most he could do was prop himself up on all fours and flop forward. An hour later when I woke-up he was locomoting himself around the living room with intensity and purpose. Luckily the Minister of Wifely Affairs captured the moment on video, but still I was disappointed that I was not in the room when my son threw that switch. Girl Twin still shows little interest in crawling and just as little interest in rolling for that matter. Why crawl when you're perfectly content to play with the same toy for a half-hour at a time?

Back to my son's knees. I was fascinated by them -- the first signs of roughness on what to this point has been for lack of a more original term, baby-soft. At five in the morning I consider my own hands -- a small, permanent callous on my left palm just below my wedding band. I remember the scar on the back of the same hand I got from playing water polo in high school (another story altogether) -- I briefly remember the kid from Horace Mann who inflicted the wound.

My son is moving independently, and in addition to the video evidence is the coarsening of the skin on his knees. I like it, and it also makes me nervous. I don't want my son too coarse, too calloused. I want him tough enough to take what the world will undoubtedly hurl at him and yet retain the softness that makes him give his sister gentle kisses and sweet pats on her head.

I want to remember the callouses on his knees from his first days of crawling. It made perfect sense to me that that they should be there once I had found them, and I was surprised no one to my knowledge had ever told me to expect them. No one ever told me they get callouses. It's not in any of the parenting books I read. It should be. I found their discovery on his body entirely arresting.

I'm working late every night this week. I normally get home after they've gone to bed, so it's not like I'm losing additional time with them -- but it somehow feels harder to be physically away from them longer.

I apologize for the sappy sentimentality of this post. I'll get back to a snarkier, blog-appropriate tone later. I'm just momentarily letting my guard down to note how taken aback I was by the twin phenomena (no pun intended) of my Boy Twin's commencement of crawling while I napped and the resulting, inevitable, but still remarkable marks on his knees.

Deep Throat, Dick and Dad

2005-06-02T10:35:00.000-04:00

The revelation of the identity of Deep Throat has gotten me ruminating on one of my favorite themes: How Richard Nixon dominated my childhood. Him and Hitler - except Hitler was dead and Nixon lived just down the road in Saddle River, NJ. (I also think I had trouble keeping John Erlichman and Adolf Eichmann distinct in my mind.) More specifically, Nixon was the invisible adversary my father had been continuously confronting since his college days -- maybe even earlier, but I'm not sure what kind of political consciousness my dad had when Nixon was Vice-President.

This sense of Nixon as the adversary hovers over my childhood not as a narrative of combat, but in specific, almost visceral memories: riding in the back seat of my dad's VW Sirocco as he blasted CSN&Y's "Ohio."

Tin soldiers and Nixon coming, we're finally on our own...

Another memory, November 1980, when it became clear that Reagan was going to be president. The look on my dad's face, as if, even with Nixon vanquished, my dad saw Nixon in Reagan's ascendance.

The covert moments of discovery: Riffling through my dad's closet and coming across his old jewlery box full of old peacenik buttons: Gene McCarthy for President, "Tricky Dick," Reproductive Rights, NORML, Let-It-Grow-Cuff Links.

Another time discovering on some forgotten bookshelf, a copy of Lawrence Ferlinghetti's Tyrannus Nix? I stayed up til 1am reading it -- loving every page, with its intensity, righteousness, biting humor and indignation. I can still quote my favorite line, "What kind of fucking Quaker are you?"

I remember at one point my dad took a short-story writing class at the New School in NYC (I think it was part of one of his mid-life crisises). He let me read his story which was about a fictional descendant of Helen Gahagan Douglas -- Nixon's Democratic opponent in the 1950 Senate campaign in California who he smeared as a Communist sympathizer, "pink right down to her underwear." In the story the man develops a crush at a party on an attractive female historian who is a Nixon apologist. This was awkward for me because I wasn't quite sure what messages my father was sending about extra-marital dalliances -- oh, and what was this business about sloppy passes at Nixon acolytes.

Another highlight: the day my dad received his FBI dossier in the mail under the Freedom of Information Act. Along with the shocking realization that the FBI had a file on my dad, was the less glamorous reality that they hadn't put much effort into it. They had his middle name spelled wrong, the number and names of his siblings wrong, his mother's name and address wrong. More chilling were the redacted pages -- thick black marker -- obscuring the names and details on the person/people on my father's campus who had supplied information to the FBI. There was the referral from the FBI to the Assistant District Attorney recommending indictment on charges of conspiracy to defraud the draft -- my dad did not recognize the names of any of his accused co-conspirators. The indictment was held up awaiting the outcome of the Spock case -- which went against the government. My dad knew nothing about the case pending against him until he received his FBI file.

For my big AP US History paper in High School I researched the Trial of the Chicago Seven (or Eight if you count the bound and gagged Bobby Seale). I became as obsessed with Nixon and the crimes of his administration as my father. To this day, I am still obsessed by it. My wife has a picture of us relaxing on the beach, in my hands a giant copy of Stephen Ambrose's multi-volume bio Nixon offset against my rapidly sunburning chest. I've been trying to finish a play about Nixon's funeral for years, and several years ago I made a pilgrimage to the Richard Nixon Presidential Library and Birthplace.

The revelation of the identity of Mark Felt as Deep Throat is just another milestone on this life-long, one-sided wrestling match with the legacy of Richard Nixon. It makes me wonder if I'll ever be done with this topic.

It also makes me wonder what type of obsessions my kids will inherit from me. Will Boy Twin be obsessed with the 1986 NY Giants? Will Girl Twin become an avid collector of rare Yo La Tengo CDs? What's going to happen when they start viewing the world through my preoccupations and make them their own?

Girls versus Boys

2005-05-30T19:55:00.000-04:00

A long weekend, but more to the point a deep weekend. I think I've seen and thought enough these past three days for several posts, so I guess I'll spread them out through the week rather than rush through them here.

First thought: Thank you, on behalf of the MOWA and myself to those of you who wrote in to express your sympathy, support and to share your own experiences regarding the railroading she's currently receiving from her soon-to-be-ex-employer. Interestingly enough, venting on the blog about the predicament has not cooled my anger (and certainly not hers), only made it more articulate. We're counting days now until she's out of the woods.

On a more pleasant note, I need to remark on just how much having twins rocks.

Boy and Girl Twin are as entertaining as any two 10-month-olds around -- made more so by how different they are. Boy Twin is just such a BOY. Capital B-O-Y. It is already clear to his mother and myself that this kid is the one "most-likely-to-bring-home-a-dead-bird-as-a-present." He's messy. Give him a teething biscuit and it ends up all-over his face, hair, body, high-chair and somehow, smeared on the walls. The kid was born with a shit-eating grin on his face and hasn't stopped flashing it for a day. He's an incorrigible flirt and just loves, loves anything blond with boobs. At play he is a study in constant motion, rocketing from one toy to another -- his favorite thing to do is turn whatever large toy he has in his grasp upside down and bang the crap out of it. His second favorite toy is usually whatever his sister is playing with, which he'll grab from her and spark her crying. Once we return the toy to her, she stops and he just happily barrels forward looking to see what else he can clobber into submission. Often that very thing are the walls of the kiddie corral we've set-up in our living room to keep him from the cables, outlets and other dangerous items that we've neglected to kid-proof. He'll crawl over to the side, place his legs against the walls, and just start kicking and kicking them like he's one of Tony Soprano's boys teaching a gambler in over his head a lesson. While we originally looked at the corral as something of a prison, we've since realized that for Boy Twin it is more like his own, personal Where The Wild Things Are island where he can be his savage self without our interference -- gnashing of teeth, rolling of eyes, kicking of sisters, the whole kit and caboodle. He doesn't eat Cheerios, he double-fists them into his mouth. Perhaps he's compensating for the fact that due to his prematurity and freakish metabolism he's still in the 5th percentile for weight and not much better in the height department. As a kid who had Intrauterine Growth Restriction, I guess he's been conditioned from the womb to scrap for every little thing he gets -- and we realize he's likely to stay that way.

That being said, he is a kid of relatively few words -- mostly grunts, giggles, laughs, cries and more grunts. That is his biggest contrast with Girl Twin who is verbose by any comparison. Girl Twin doesn't cry when she wakes up from a nap. No. She launches into a monologue of "Dadadadadas" and "GeeGeeGeeGees" and another sound that is a decent impersonation of the Millenium Falcon's laser cannon. Unlike Boy Twin, Girl Twin hates getting messy. This has been a problem in getting her to feed herself. She was much faster to begin eating solids like Cheerios, however she likes to receive them in the manner of a communion wafer -- mouth-open, eyes closed, genuflecting on the gift she is about to receive. We've managed to get her to pick them up out of our hands, but she balks at the mess involved with putting the Cheerio in her mouth and so merely waves it around like she's on the Cheerios float in the Tournament of Roses parade. Our attempts to get her to hold onto her own teething biscuit have been met with revulsion and the implicit understanding that she fully expects one of us to hold the biscuit while she ferociously gums the business end of it. While her brother darts from one toy to another, she can entertain herself with a single toy for hours -- her powers of concentration only interrupted by Boy Twin's repeated efforts to take whatever toy she's playing with. This may have something to do with the fact that she has so far shown no interest in crawling or rolling, although she does shake and shimmy while she sits and the MOWA has hypothesized that in Girl Twin's mind she believes she's cruising all over the kiddie corral. While her brother can seemingly headbutt the wall without an adverse reaction, if Girl Twin feels herself beginning to fall she breaks out in tears. She doesn't care what you think of her and she's certainly not going to finish her bottle just to make her parents happy. Like a cat, if you try to give her affection when she does not seek it, she'll arch her back and attempt to get away. Of course, when she smiles it lights up the whole room (her brother is a laugh whore and so his smiles are cheaper to come by). When she feels affectionate she clings to you like a baby koala bear and nestles her soft cheeks up to your face. Her love is the purest there is in the whole wide world. In short, she's my little girl.

No, you may cry, "Sexist!" What a stereotypical comparison of boys and girls -- the boy all physical and aggressive, the girl verbal, prissy and emotional. "They're that way," you'll say, "because you've merely placed society's expectations for boys and girls upon them and thereby trapped them into the oppressive patriarchal hegemony."

Dude, you think I never took a women's studies class in college? Albeit in a fruitless attempt to get laid. I know all this and I've tried to get my girl more physical and my boy more verbal and my girl messier and my boy less aggressive (at least towards his sister). But at a certain level I've become a very big believer in nature over nurture. At least for now. You can't convince me that it was our treatment of them that made him a squirmy, hyperactive demon in his isolette in the freaking NICU or that a sexist, misogynistic society has encultrated her to be more passive and observant from day one. This is who they are. I'm not comparing them to draw judgements but their contrasts only make their individuality shine all the more.

To recap: Twins just plain old rock.

A Salute to the MOWA

2005-05-27T08:48:00.000-04:00

This post is a salute to the Minister of Wifely Affairs who has been enduring a terrible time at work. The school that she has taught at for the last six years has been through some tough times -- administrative turnover, enrollment drops, out-and-out mismanagement and malfeasance. Through it all the MOWA stuck by the school because she considered it her community and she cared deeply about the kids she taught. She stood by the school as it unwisely dismissed the Headmaster for not being focused enough on fundraising. She stood by the school as it ran-off or dismissed the older teachers who represented the "old guard." She stood by the school during a catastrophic 18-month reign of a tyrannical new Headmaster who arbitrarily expelled students, hired her friends as expensive consultants and then double-paid them by putting the on-staff, and left the school in a cloud of lawsuits and financial crisis. The MOWA has endured all of this and has become the ranking Eighth Grade teacher and the storehouse for much of the institutional memory of the Middle School.

How has she been rewarded for her loyalty?

Before the twins were born the MOWA made an arrangement with the school to teach part-time. She's there five-days a week and stays for a long-day twice a month. For this, she nets $150/week after we pay for the two days of daycare (the other three half-days are split between her mother and myself). The new management expressed no interest in renewing this deal for next year and didn't even offer her the option to return full-time. Instead she is being replaced by two teachers with a combined three years of experience. The MOWA has been told that she, "doesn't offer as much to the school." The teacher with one-year of experience coaches softball and the other teacher with a mighty two years of experience -- well, I'm not sure what she does, but I'm sure it's a commodity as precious as softball coaching. That the MOWA has a degree in teaching writing and research skills isn't as important as the encouraging the girls to "show some hustle out there."

There's only one word for such idiotic decision-makers: braindouches.

The best part is the email the MOWA has received daily since she learned of her dismissal. It comes from the Headmaster and encourages the MOWA to make a contribution to the school's annual fund so that the school can meet a challenge grant from its biggest benefactor promising to double his gift if they can get 100% of the faculty to contribute. Fat fucking chance of that assholes.

Yes, the management of that school is a serious bunch of braindouche-bags. I could name names, but I won't. Even more despicable is the fact that the administration hasn't been forthright with the kids about why the MOWA won't be back as the most popular Middle School teacher next year. They've fudged this issue to make it seem like it was her choice, when in reality no choice was given. They've deceived students and parents and treated a valued member of their community like crap.

Today is the MOWA's last full day in the classroom. She deserves a hero's send-off from a school she has given so much too. She probably won't receive that. But honey, know that there's a hero's welcome waiting for you at home, along with two of the most amazing kids in the world who are lucky to have the world's greatest mother and teacher rolled into one.

On the Beach With Dave Chappelle

2005-05-26T15:44:00.000-04:00

TIME.com: On the Beach With Dave Chappelle: "On the Beach With Dave Chappelle
In South Africa, TIME's Simon Robinson talks with the comic about his sudden disappearance from Chappelle's Show"

I know I'm about ten-days late picking up on this item, but still it is nice to know that Dave isn't foaming at the mouth.

Cheerios, Coffee and Docs

2005-05-25T22:11:00.000-04:00

Boy Twin started eating Cheerios by himself this afternoon. Luckily, the Minister of Wifely Affairs got it on tape for me because I was still at the job-I-no-longer-blog-about. It is amazing how on Monday he was suddenly able to consistently pick them up. On Tuesday he could put them in his mouth sometimes if we led his hand there. And by today, Wednesday, he's scarfing down the O's three and four at-a-time.

I am really feeling the fatigue right now. Both kids woke-up at 3am last night. We're 10 months into this adventure and it was supposed to be easier by now.

My fatigue did inspire a bit of improvisational genius this morning. I was lamenting how tired I was and that I wished I had a bigger travel mug to take in the car with me when I hit on the perfect solution. It was so obvious I don't know why I hadn't thought of it earlier. There are two cup-holders in the front seat -- so bring two big 16oz cups of coffee. Mmmmmm coffee. The sad part is that I drank all 32oz in the time it took me to drop the kids off at day-care and drive 15 minutes to the Shady Grove Metro Parking Lot and Demolition Derby.

Caryn James has a great little write-up of documentary films on the New York Times website. I think her analysis of Mark Wexler's "oh-pity-me-for-my-arrogant-father" documentary Tell Them Who You Are is dead on. I saw this film and wish Wexler had been able to get out of the way and just let us spend time with his dad unmediated by his nebbishy commentary.

Not-For-Publishing-Dad

2005-05-24T22:00:00.000-04:00

If you've been reading my blog or taken time to read through some of the past posts I should let you know that I've taken down some stuff about work that really, in retrospect is smarter to keep off the blog. I think I was discrete, and in terms of writing about my life, the stuff was certainly relevant. However, in darting about the blogosphere, I've come to the conclusion that unless you are self-employed or in a very, very accommodating work environment (see DadGoneMad) you're probably running a high risk of getting Dooced if you divulge too much about the office. I happen to have enough arrogance and hubris to believe that pretty much nothing I could do short of malfeasance could get me fired -- and because I know I am a complete idiot I have overruled my ego and taken the potentially offending posts down.

So, uhm, welcome to the era of Not-For-Profit-Dad talking about everything except what his day is like in the salt mines of the not-for-profit world. No talk about quirky habits of co-workers and their questionable personal hygiene. No venting about donors and their excessive need to have their egos stroked. No inspiring moments where I feel tapped into my mission and experience being in "the zone" that somehow compensates for being chronically underpaid.

However, in-terms of people having a bad week in the Not-For-Profits, I take my hat off to David Levy at the Corcoran Gallery of Art. David, it seems we in Washington do not deserve to have as cool a structure as Frank Gehry's design for the ne'er-to-be new wing of the Corcoran. Too bad, as something like that might have actually shook up the landscape and done something different. It was just your bad luck that all those bazillionaires out in Virginia lost a hefty chunk of their net-worth when the tech bubble burst.

Okay, that was lame. I need to get some sleep and maybe tomorrow I'll write about the steady improvement of the rash around my daughter's vagina.

Give the people what they want.

Entry In Which I Do Not Blog About the Weather

2005-05-20T21:00:00.000-04:00

But it just depresses me when it rains like it did today.

Anyway, this morning I am racing to get the kids to daycare so I can get to work on-time and the nice daycare workers can ignore the fact that my twins need to go down for a nap for about three hours before they do anything about it. The MOWA leaves for work before me in the mornings -- at least for another week or so until school is over -- so it is entirely my task to get the kids dressed and out the door sometime before noon when my employer contacts the Federal Marshal service to bring me in dead or alive. I've gotten a pretty good system down over the last few months whereby I get the kids upstairs to dress them one at a time. Usually Boy Twin will roll around in his crib playing with the insidiously created Ocean Wonders. He's developed a sort of mix-master style where he starts and stops the music over and over again, laughing his head off while I dress his sister. Girl Twin usually lays in her crib vainly grabbing at her mobile or talking quietly with the stuffed animal we have dubbed "Monkeyhead."

Once I have them both dressed I let them play in their cribs -- sometimes combining into one crib so that Girl Twin can enjoy the baby heroin that is Ocean Wonders. I go downstairs and load the cooler with their bottles and food for the day and take it out to my car along with my work bag and a fresh travel mug of coffee -- if I forget the coffee I am actually legally prohibited from operating a motor vehicle. I then go back upstairs and get Boy Twin into his jacket and bring him out to the car and strap him into the car seat. The BT always goes first. Why? Because the Girl Twin has some abandonment issues and will howl like a banshee attracting the attention of the neighbors, Child Protective Services, CNN, FoxNews and MSNBC if I leave her alone in the car. I deserve this of course, as what kind of parent leaves their child alone in a car? The kind that has twins and not four arms. I used to involve a middle step where I got both kids onto the first floor of the house so I could theoretically have them both in my line-of-sight at all times, but I've streamlined the process at this point to save me a couple of trips up and down the stairs. I know how that sounds and in-case you missed it the first time here is the link for CPS.

This morning, just as I am about to place Girl Twin in her car seat and drive off, I catch a whiff of a scent her Pampers Cruisers are incapable of muffling. So with her in my arms, hovering over her car seat, I contemplate what to do with this undisputable evidence that my beautiful baby girl has just dropped a deuce and dropped one big time. I could bring her back into the house and change her but that would also involve taking Boy Twin back into the house too which would mean starting the process all over again which would delay our departure by 15 minutes and deprive the nice daycare workers of precious time to deepen my children's sleep deficit. But what kind of parent knowingly places their daughter in a car seat to sit in their own filth for the seven minute ride to the daycare center?

At least I didn't act suprised when the daycare worker wrinkled her nose when I handed her the Girl Twin. "Yeah," I said, "I heard her grunting in the backseat while I was driving here. You should probably change her." I then turned tail and darted out the door to retrieve the Boy Twin from the car.

Am I the worst father ever? Or am I merely an overwhelmed father-of-twins who made what felt like the most practical decision in the moment and then fortified it with a little white lie to the daycare worker?

I throw myself at the mercy of the court.

Dr. Carter to the ER

2005-05-19T22:49:00.000-04:00

The MOWA is subjecting me to Noah Wylie's last episode on ER. I lost interest in the show long ago. There were only so many iterations of child endangerment, bereaved spouses and death randomly distributed that I could stomach. This episode includes a pregnant woman falling four stories just so we can wonder if she and her baby will live. Perhaps I found this stuff more compelling before I had kids, but now I just find it to be manipulative bullshit. I'm just glad that now that my wife's fictional crush is off the show we won't have to watch it anymore.

I've been taking the Metro a lot this week. I seem to arrive at work a little bit fresher than when I drive. It also allows me the opportunity to get some reading done, and so I pass along my whole-hearted endorsement of Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair and Lost in a Good Book. These are great crime novels set in an alternate universe where the Crimean War has been going on for over one-hundred years, people own cloned Dodos, travel by dirigibles and have violent arguments about literature.

Also need to give big props for Ben Fold's new album Songs for Silverman. I've been listening to it in heavy rotation. All the dads out there should check out Bastard and Gracie. The two songs are a nice frame for both the anxieties and joys of growing older. Also, the song Late is a tribute to the dearly departed Elliot Smith.

One more little note. Silverdocs is the big-deal documentary film festival run out of the AFI Silver Theatre in downtown Silver Spring, MD. It's right up the street from the Discovery Channel who are hoping to turn the event into the Sundance Festival for Docs-- a title more legitimately held by the HotDocs Festival in Toronto or the Full Frame Festival in Chapel Hill. Anyway, Silverdocs has recently announced their schedule. To try and pull-in niche audiences, they've created a schedule that sorts the films by interest -- which is a good idea. However, one of the interest categories they list - Asian - has no films under it, proving that sometimes no idea is better than a good one done sloppily.

Okay, gotta go and have nightmares about being rushed into an emergency room only to find the bimbo from Newsradio, the grumpy daughter from Rosanne and the chick from Bend It Like Beckham are in charge of stuffing all my vital organs back into my hollowed-out chest cavity.

From the ATL

2005-05-15T17:31:00.000-04:00

Blogging remotely from Atlanta. The site of my little sister's college graduation. Left the MOWA and the twins behind. This is a quick turnaround and not a journey the MOWA was eager to make. One quick observation from last night when I bathed both kids and put them to bed while the Minister got some much-needed headspace and Vietnamese food prior to my departure. If you had told me two years ago that I would be able to bathe, dress and feed two toddlers and get them to bed without making a total mess of it I would have told you that you were nuts.

I also had no clue how much I would love being a dad. I've been privileged to do some very cool things in my life, travel to awesome locales and experience things most people don't get the chance to. I once said in my early twenties, after a particularly busy and experience-packed few months, that if I got hit by a bus tomorrow, I'd have nothing to complain about. I was an idiot. I now greedily treasure every moment with my kids, and I'll never get enough. God, if you're listening, keep your damn busses out of my path.

Rhymes with "Kojak"

2005-05-14T09:06:00.000-04:00

Warning Long Post...

This week saw the conclusion of my long journey to life insurance. Should I get hit by a bus now, my family is covered.

Which is good to know.

As I type this, the MOWA leaned over my shoulder and said, "I really don't like you blogging about life insurance." It scares her and she doesn't like to think about it. But it is a half-decent story so I am going to tell it here.

When the MOWA got pregnant with the twins we decided it was probably time to get life insurance. We came to this conclusion through a number of routes. First, most books on pregnancy mention that this is something you should do. Almost all pregnancy books intended for fathers highlight this important step in a way that was actually kind of funny and morbid to me. They almost seemed to say, "Your wife is growing your child(ren) inside of her. This is the miracle of life. You can be helpful by making arrangements for your own untimely death."

And so I went about doing so. On the advice of my father I went online to one of those sites that gives you dozens of insurance quotes. I quite randomly decided to apply for $500,000 worth of insurance from GE Capital. Why GE? Truth be told, because I got 4 shares of GE stock for my Bar Mitzvah in 1985 and watched those shares split and reinvested the dividends until I sold them a couple of years ago to help with the downpayment on my house. GE has been good to me over the long haul.

So I clicked on "apply" and a few weeks later a packet arrived in the mail with all sorts of forms to fill out. I completed the forms and was contacted by a paramed to come to my home and have me pee in a cup and draw some blood. And then the wait started. I was contacted by GE to say they were having trouble getting some of my medical information from Kaiser Permanente, which had been my healthcare provider until recently. This began several weeks of frustrating phone tag with the people in the medical records division of Kaiser. I finally was able to secure the release of the records they were asking for and then another long silence ensued.

It is here that I need to backtrack. Like many Americans I am descended from a people who ate much brisket and other foods in which rendered chicken-fat was a key (and sometimes the only) ingredient. As a result, I have high cholesterol which it seems neither diet nor exercise can keep south of 250. So my doctor prescribed a fairly common statin drug for me to take. Around the same time, I turned 30, got married and had a fairly significant breakthrough in my career -- all of which left me horribly depressed. It turns out that this too is a genetic trait with a long and distinguished association with my family -- when your best meal option is gribnes (fried chicken skin) I can see where one might get a little blue. To remedy this my doctor prescribed a common anti-depressant. I won't say which one, but it rhymes with "Kojak." Finally, around the same time my wife noticed a mole on my back and asked that I have my doctor look at it, which I did. The doctor said it was probably nothing to worry about but gave a me a referral to see a dermatologist if I wanted to. I promptly forgot about the referral and never went to see a dermatologist.

Flash forward a year. It has been several months since I last heard from GE. The kids have been born. I had even been in a fairly severe car crash that reminded me rather sharply that I am indeed quite mortal. Finally a letter arrives from GE Capital explaining that they have decided not to insure me. It doesn't make you feel too good when one of the largest corportations in the world decides that they're not interested in taking your money because they just don't see you as a safe investment.

Somewhat dispirited I went to see my father-in-law's insurance agent. My father-in-law is a pack-a-day smoker with high cholesterol and a family history of depression -- and this guy managed to get him insured, so I figured I was in pretty good hands.

He tells me that because I've been denied insurance once, I'll now probably have to pay almost twice what I normally would have. We write to GE to find out why I've been denied and they get back to us six weeks later to say they're worried about the drug that rhymes with "Kojak," the cholesterol and the undiagnosed mole on my back. Jesus. I knew I should have gotten that thing checked out.

So, I call my doctor who makes me wait two weeks to come in so she can give me a referral to see the dermatologist who makes me wait another month before he can give me an appointment. He slices the mole off my back and sends it off to be analyzed. Meanwhile I have much fun complaining to the MOWA about the hole in my back and make her bandage it because it is located in that one spot above my ass and on my spine that I have no chance of reaching.

Finally the biopsy comes back negative. We proceed with the insurance applications until one day I get a call from my insurance agent... "Did you tell them in the insurance interview that you plan to travel abroad?" Yeah, I tell him, I go to Berlin every year for work. He sighs like I am the biggest idiot in the world and says, "Let me fax over the international travel forms." My error, I am told, was a bit like arriving back from your Carribbean vacation with some nice floral shirts and telling the customs agent that you have something to declare. You'll be fine in the end, but you've just delayed everything unnecessarily.

Finally, I write a check for twice what I was quoted online about a full year ago and my agent tells me that assuming the policy is approved, I will be covered retroactively from the date I wrote the check...this was in February.

Last Friday, I pick up some messages from work and it is my agent... "Give me a call. I have some good news for you...and some other news." I get the message after his office is closed so I spend all weekend fixated on what the "other news" could be. Some possibilities I came up with:

Good news -- you're insured. Other news -- the over/under on you collecting on the policy is six weeks from now.

Good news -- you're only dying very slowly. Other news -- yeah, no insurance for you buddy.

Good news -- I just saved a bunch of money on my car insurance. Other news -- you on the other-hand are an uninsurable wreck.

Monday morning I call my agent and he tells me, "Well the good news is that you're insured and it's going to cost you half as much as I quoted you, so you'll be getting a big refund." The other news is that he wanted me to invest the savings in another, even more expensive policy, which I think took balls if nothing else.

So now, at long last I am insured. It was a huge pain-in-the-ass, but I guess I do feel better knowing the MOWA and the kids will have some resources if anything should happen to me.

Ooops. By the way, there were two F-16s and an Apache buzzing your city.

2005-05-12T16:25:00.000-04:00

D.C. evacuation scare analyzed for lessons - Terrorism & Security - MSNBC.com:
City officials out of loop
There was one notable exception: Mayor Anthony Williams said city officials weren't told about the threat until the all-clear was sounded, more than 10 minutes after the White House and Capitol were evacuated. A city government building that houses the mayoral and District of Columbia Council offices, located two blocks from the White House, was not evacuated.
"Critical and potentially life-or-death information about threats facing district residents needs to be shared immediately, not five, 10 or 15 minutes after the fact," Williams said.

White House, Capitol Evacuated

2005-05-11T12:45:00.000-04:00

White House, Capitol Evacuated: "White House, Capitol Evacuated
Small Engine Plane Entered Restricted Air Space; All-Clear Given 15 Minutes Later"

Great. I work about six blocks from the White House. As much as I tell the MOWA not to worry about my location, it is moments like these that give me pause. Is it just me, or has it been enough time since 9/11 that I'm beginning to get nervous that we're due to get hit again?

Hey! Someone's Paying Attention!

2005-05-11T10:40:00.000-04:00

DCBlogs.com

Just when you think your blog is strictly for posterity it turns out someone is paying attention. And embarrassingly, they pick the blog excerpt with a typo...

Off the Tracks

2005-05-10T22:05:00.000-04:00

Perhaps it was hubris. Our kids have just been so good since we managed to get them on a schedule. We were even working towards gently eliminating the last of the night feeds. Then in the last two days Boy Twin and Girl Twin decided that they were no longer going to take naps. As much as we tried to reason with them that this was not a good idea, as nine-month-olds, they were not so much interested in listening to reason as they were in sticking their fingers in their mouths, drooling, and giving us devilish smiles after we succumb to their whining and pick them up out of their cribs five-minutes after putting them down.

This has been especially hard on the Minister of Wifely Affairs who was home from work today and who bore the brunt of their stubborness alone -- the no-naps campaign capped-off by a not-gonna-go-down-at-our-normal-bedtime rally.

GT seems to be leading the charge and started giving us trouble with her naps yesterday. She still went down for one decent nap, but by evening she had gotten her brother in on the act and bedtime was a donnybrook for the MOWA.

We're not sure if this is teething, or some response to the days being longer, or the fact that they're gaining new physical skills every minute (it feels that way) and they're just too excited to sleep, or they're gassier than normal or they've just decided in some freaky twin language to make life hell for us for the time being.

Mother's Day Post-Game Wrap-Up

2005-05-09T08:25:00.000-04:00

For the first time around it was a pretty good mother's day. First off, the kids cooperated with me during the morning routine allowing the Minister of Wifely Affairs an extra hour or so of sleep. We then all proceeded to wake her with no less than six-custom designed Mother's Day Cards. Those were a big hit -- including the one in which I Frankensteined my wife's picture into a group shot of the cast of Desperate Houswives. Then the kids threw us a curve-ball when Girl Twin only took a 25-minute nap. This set-up a situation where for the rest of the day, there was never a time when they were both napping, essentially meaning no downtime the whole day. This could have been a disaster. But aside for the initial "not-gonna-nap" fussiness from GT the result was a lot of great one-on-one time with each of the kids throughout the rest of the day.

With twins your attention is almost always divided -- even if you're playing with one particular child you've got to keep at least one eye on the other kid to make sure they're not attracted to something potentially dangerous and destructive like an electrical outlet of the platform of the Republican Party. So to be able to be totally devoted to one kid or the other is a just such a pleasure and makes me momentarily jealous of parents of singletons -- not that I would in an instant forego the blessing that my twins are. But when I'm rolling around and horseplaying with my Boy Twin, I'm conscious that at that moment I'm not rolling around horseplaying with the Girl Twin. So I limit the horseplay and then redistribute the attention evenly. It was nice yesterday to let these play cycles assume their own natural rythms as opposed to cutting them short for fear of emotionally neglecting one child or the other.

Of course BT and GT have each other to amuse themselves with most of the time -- an advantage singletons do not have. Many is the time we sit them down across from one another and let them play by themselves while we take care of some minor task or other.

The afternoon was taken up with doing some yard work. I have seriously neglected some of the physical upkeep of the house and grounds -- and since we can't afford to have someone else do it, the effects are beginning to show. I spent several hours just clearing out corners of my small townhouse yard that were overgrown with weeds that had grown to the porportions of California Redwoods. I filled two large leaf bags with weeds and then sprayed the ground with something incredibly un-eco friendly to make sure they don't grown back. The MOWA and I have been having low self-esteem about our neighborhood and its appearance lately, and I am hoping that if I can whip our yard into shape we'll feel a little better.

It's not that we have buyer's remorse almost two years into this suburban sojourn. We're just disappointed with the neighborhood in general: the trash that seems to always end up on our lawn, the people who are chronic illegal parkers, the high-percentage of renters in townhouses we thought were occupied by the owners. We've met some nice people on our block, but on the whole it has been a disappointment. We're already dreaming about the next house, even as we know that moving-up will be very difficult given the local housing situation. So rather than curse the darkness, I'm trying to light a candle by taking on this landscaping project.

I'm woefully unprepared for it. I grew up in a house where you hired landscapers. So now I have to do some serious self-education on lawn maintenance, weeding, shrub trimming and the like. My father-in-law is handy with these things, but as I lean on him heavily for every little home-repair I need to make (I also grew up in a house where you called the plumber if the faucet leaked), I'm trying to do this as independently as I am able. My goals are modest: a decent looking front and back yard without killing anything that's already thriving, and without poisoning myself or losing any vital digits off my hands.

Mother's Day Weekend - Saturday

2005-05-07T19:29:00.000-04:00

First off, congratulations to the Washington Wizards for actually winning their playoff series against the Chicago Bulls. Is this a great, big deal in my life? No. But I do think one has an obligation to root for their local team (the exception being the Redskins whom I love to watch suffer). I listened to part of the game on the radio last night and I was glad to turn on SportsCenter later in the evening and see that they had won. Does this mean the curse of "Les Bullez" is dead? No. They're going to get creamed by Miami. But who cares. They've now surpassed our low expectations of them, so hurrah!

This morning I gave the Minister of Wifely Affairs an early Mother's Day present and took the twins' morning routine so she could sleep in. This was tremendously satisfying for me. One, because I like those opportunities to remind myself that I am capable of competent independent parenting of twins -- at least over short periods of time. Two, I'm glad the MOWA got to catch up on her sleep a little bit. I suppose now is as good a time as any to pay public tribute to what an amazing wife I have. She is the greatest person ever to enter my life. That she gets to celebrate her first mother's day tomorrow makes me so happy -- and there aren't words to describe what an incredible job she does being the lead-caregiver for our kids. She's my parenting hero. She's also amazing in bed, but that's for a different post.

After the kids got up from their first nap we went to Barnes and Noble where they were having their 25%-off sale for teachers -- which the MOWA is employed as until the end of June. I had a $20 gift certificate from my brother-in-law that had been burning a hole in my pocket since February and I had my eye on some CDs.

The candidates were:

Ben Fold's Songs for Silverman, which I knew I had to have.
Bruce Springsteen's Devils and Dust -- I'm a Boss fan from birth and an authentic Jersey Boy.
Jolie Holland's haunting Escondida. She's a new artist to me and I've fallen in-love with her voice which makes her sound like the love child of Tom Waits and Billie Holiday.
Talib Kweli's The Beautiful Struggle. I've been listening to a lot more rap recently and I really liked his stuff from Black Star. I thought I might check it out. Ultimately, I think I'd rather pick and choose specific tracks that I want online.

There was no way I was walking out of the store without the Ben Folds CD. I think he is an amazing songwriter and musician whose lyrics really connect with me on some level. I think he's constantly bemused by the contradictions between his self-perception and his reality which is a condition I very much relate to. I might be projecting there. In any case the Ben was a done deal and I had to make a choice between my boyhood love of all things Springsteen and the adventure of a new love with Jolie Holland.

I love Nebraska. At one point I listened to it all the time and I would be happy to sit down and listen to it beginning to end now -- Johnny 99, Atlantic City, Used Cars, Open All Night are all amazing songs. He also repeatedly uses the refrain, "Hey, Ho, Rock n' Roll deliver me from nowhere" on several different tracks -- which I think is one of the greatest pop lyrics ever written and sums up the Springsteen ouvre perfectly. In the same vein, I bought, The Ghost of Tom Joad. I listened to it once. I just don't know that I can justify buying CDs that I'm only going to listen to once because I somehow feel obligated to buy them. Listen, I fully acknowledge that a crappy walkman and a complete collection of Springsteen albums that I recorded onto cassettes is all that kept me from completely losing my shit when I was in eighth grade. I'm really grateful to the dude. But, I've gone to plenty of concerts, bought plenty of albums and I think we can call it even at this point. Best of luck Bruce. Should our paths intersect sometime in the future, it would make me very happy.

So I walked out with the Jolie Holland. Will I still be listening to her album in a year? I hope so. In any case, I know I could listen to Old Fashion Morphine about a dozen times in a row right now. Same goes for Mad Tom of Bedlam. It is a bit like having a new girlfriend and you just can't wait to spend time with her. Is it true love forever? Only time will tell.

Friday On My Mind

2005-05-06T22:55:00.000-04:00

This was definitely one of those good days. For starters, I played a little hooky from work. I find that when I allow myself to take a mental health day and clear the boards I usually come back to work a lot clearer. So I'm not going to act defensive about bailing on the office -- did that sound too defensive?

I dropped the kids off at the daycare and then went to do one of those rare but wonderful activities in my house...shop for red meat. You see, the Minister of Wifely Affairs is a vegetarian. Plus we keep kosher which necessitates keeping an entirely separate set of dishes basically just for me since the twins aren't out of the herbivore stage yet. Also, I really don't mind, I would be a vegetarian too if not for the fact that I have NO WILL POWER WHATSOVER. I gave up red meat for a couple of years in college, but I found that for me it was poser asceticism rather than any real conviction. I like red meat. I'm not obsessed with it. I don't need to eat it every meal, or every day or even every month. But eat it eventually I will.

We had a good friend coming for dinner tonight and as a sign of how much we enjoy her visits, the Minister suggested I pick up some steaks for the two of us. So after dropping the kids off, I made my way down to Shalom Kosher Market for some ribeye steaks. On the way back home I stopped off to pick up some supplies for the top-secret Mother's Day Present I'm preparing. I'm afraid I can't go into more details here as the MOWA will most certainly be reading this.

I then spent the balance of the morning answering some emails from work and mostly devoting myself to said project. I'm really excited about it. This is the Minister's first Mother's Day and it's kind of a big deal. When we were going through IF treatments for a year and a half, occasions like Mother's Day were a depressing reminder that we were not yet parents. That was really hard for MOWA and there wasn't really any consolation for being childless when we so desperately wanted to have one. Last year she was pregnant during Mother's Day so it was fun to celebrate the anticipation, but this is the first time she really gets to glory in it. I want it to be special for her. Not special like, spend $2500 on it. We don't have it to spend anyway. But special in a way she'll remember.

When our friend came over we played with the kids and when she and the MOWA took them upstairs for their bath I went to preside over my manly grill. OK, the glory was somewhat trunctated by the fact that I first had to make the MOWA's veggie-burger on a meat-free grill. But once that was done it was rib-eye heaven. Is there anything as good as that smell of cooking cowflesh over hot charcoals? I'm salivating right now just at the memory.

A couple of other things I wanted to hit on before I finished this post. Yesterday was the kid's 9-month checkup, so they got shots and such. Amazingly, they weigh within one ounce of each other, with the Girl Twin having the slight edge. Even so, boys and girls being different, the Boy Twin is only in the fifth percentile for weight, while his sister is in the twenty-fifth percentile. So we're now giving him special bottles a couple of times a day to try and pork him up a little bit.

I so often forget now that my kids were six-weeks premature. The Boy Twin was really small at birth-- only 2lbs. 15 oz. Even the GT was only 4lbs 2oz. They've filled-out so much and come so far in their development that I forget that they're still statistically behind other kids their age. Because they were preemies everything gets monitored much more closely. When MOWA observed to the doctor that our Girl Twin was far less physically active than our Boy Twin -- to the point that she rarely rolls over while he tumbles all over the room -- the doctor first said there was probably nothing to worry about, but just to be safe we might want to see a pediatric neurologist. Now, all it took was a breakthrough session the next day with the physical therapist to reassure us that everything is probably okay and that our little girl is just moving at her own pace... but we'll hold onto the referral just to be safe.

Well, Did You Think All Those Weed Jokes Were Something He Copied From Cheech & Chong?

2005-05-05T10:54:00.000-04:00

Variety.com - 'Chappelle' yuks yanked for now

Less than 24 hours after its upfront presentation to Madison Avenue, Comedy Central has yanked this month's third-season premiere of its marquee series "Chappelle's Show" and halted production on the skeins. Comedy Central offered no explanation for the move, instead issuing only a brief statement noting production has been suspended "until further notice. All parties are optimistic that production will resume in the near future."

Industry insiders familiar with Comedy Central's decisionmaking process indicate the net's announcement was prompted by the need for star Dave ChappelleDave Chappelle to seek treatment for unspecified personal issues.

A Comedy Central spokesman declined comment as did a spokesman for Chappelle.

High and Dry

2005-05-04T14:47:00.000-04:00

So when I drop the kids off at daycare this morning I am greeted by one of the teachers with a slightly disapproving glare and the interrogative, "Did you bring more diapers?" I recognize the tone, because it is the same as the one used by my high school pre-calc teacher when inquiring about my homework. They're expecting a negative answer.

I don't disappoint.

"Uh, I thought I brought some in last week?"

"We used those up. We circled on their take-home forms that we needed more diapers. Didn't you look at the take-home form?"

So with my tail between my legs I rush back to the house and pick up more diapers. While I am there, I dig-up aforementioned take-home form and sure enough, "more diapers" is clearly marked. What is also revealed though, is that on that same day, my son had his diaper changed at 10:30am, 12pm, 12:50pm and 2pm. All wet diapers.

Now, last I checked my nine-month-olds did not have bladders the size of the Hoover Dam. Really, unless they've dropped a deuce is there any reason to change the diaper more than once every three hours? Do they think that because I can (barely) afford two days of daycare a week, I'm so loaded down with cash that they can toss around my hard-earned Pampers Swaddlers like they were generic brand snot-rags?

On the drive back to the daycare center I've worked myself into a lather of anger and I'm preparing to rip into the caregivers. But, stuck at a traffic light I start to think about how underpaid daycare workers are. I also consider that the reverse would probably be a more troubling problem -- if the kids got so little attention their diapers never got changed. Maybe they think I'm a terrible parent who would prefer to let their children steam in their own urine? By the time I pull into the center I've completely wussed out of even commenting to the teachers that perhaps, changing a child four times in four hours, absent a bowel movement is a tad excessive.

When I get to work (1/2 hour late because of the extra diaper run) I call the head of the center and ask if she could mention to the teachers that they could hold back on the rapid-diaper-turnover. I am apologetic for asking and appreciative of the attention the kids receive. The director tells me I'm not the first to make this observation and promises to say something to the teachers.

Is it ever possible to be 100% comfortable with your daycare arrangement?

But They'll Still Be Offered at the Piercing Pagoda...

2005-05-03T21:46:00.000-04:00

This from today's Washington Post...

Routine Childbirth Procedure Deemed Unnecessary:

"Contradicting the long-accepted rationale for the operation, called an episiotomy, the analysis found that it increases the risk of tissue tears during delivery, leading to more pain, more stitches and a longer recovery after childbirth. In addition, it increases the risk of sexual difficulties later and does not reduce the risk of incontinence, the federally sponsored study found."

Ok, before the Minister of Wifely Affairs got pregnant with the twins I had never heard of this procedure. If you had asked me what it was I would have guessed that it had something to do with the inner workings of the Catholic Church. The first time she told me, I swore she was shitting me. I didn't question it because it DOES make a certain amount of intuitive sense. If you can't get something through the door, try taking the doors off the hinges...err, or tearing a gash in the door jamb.

No one ever mentioned that this was just something they thought up in the NINETEEN FREAKING-THIRTIES and that there wasn't really so much science backing it up. For crissakes in the 1930s they thought you could figure out who was Jewish by measuring their skulls. I think they were still using leeches.

If you ask the Minister of Wifely Affairs what was the worst part about vaginally delivering twins, she'll tell you it wasn't the actual entrance onto the grand stage of the kids -- there was too much adrenaline and emotion involved in that for the pain to be the overwhelming memory. No. The most painful thing of the whole experience was getting stitched up after the fact to repair the unkindest cut. Now to find out, eh, probably didn't make a difference, coulda increased her risk for infection makes me want to go back in time, find the guy who had this bright idea in the first place, and carefully slice one of his nostrils to help him blow his nose.

Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?

2005-05-03T15:09:00.000-04:00

Study Says Costs Push Montgomery Firefighters Out of County: "The report is another indicator that the middle class is bypassing Montgomery County and other close-in suburbs in search of affordable housing. Last month, county planners projected that the median price of a new single-family detached home in Montgomery will exceed $1 million in about three years."

So, when the Minister and I outgrow our current (town)house, I guess my commute will be even longer.

A word about commuting

2005-05-03T09:35:00.000-04:00

I used to have the shortest commute in the world. I lived in downtown DC, a half-a-block from work and not only would I roll out of bed mere minutes before I was due at the office, I would frequently come home at various times during the day to eat lunch, grab something I forgot, spare my ass the indignity of not-for-profit toilet paper and use my own john. When the Minister of Wifely Affairs and I got engaged she balked both at the location of my apartment which would have created an ugly reverse-commute for her, and to put it kindly, the unrecoverable unsanitary conditions in which I was living. I don't know, I guess I never really took the time to consider whether those flaking paint chips contained any lead. Oh yeah. And I used to share the apartment with an ex-girlfriend -- bad mojo to start a marriage off with.

So we compromised and moved to a location roughly half-way to both our places of work. It was just over the District line, convenient to a metro and bus stop, and walking distance to all sorts of exciting things that were being developed in downtown Silver Spring. While I was uneasy about leaving the city, I was postively giddy at the prospect of having voting representation in both the House and the Senate. We hoped eventually to purchase a home in the same neighborhood.

In short, we were idiots. The Manahattanization of real estate prices has taken hold in the DC area in a big way. The speculation over the revitalization of downtown Silver Spring essentially priced us out of the neighborhood, so we looked a little father out -- just beyond the beltway. These places were a couple minutes drive to a metro, or a long walk. There we found we could afford houses in neighborhoods where the schools had terrible ratings, a high percentage of mid-year transfers and crime rates that you just don't associate with "the burbs." So, factoring the eventual need for private school into the cost of a home, we concluded that these neighborhoods were also not possibilities. And so we looked even further out...

We finally found a place we could afford, that didn't need too much fixing-up about 20 minutes north of the Beltway. The schools are the pride of Montgomery County. There are nice stores a short drive away. I'm about an hour drive from work in traffic, and about 20 minutes from the Metro that makes the most sense for me to take to work -- the train then takes about 30 minutes to deposit me about a 10 minute walk from my office. So I've gone from one of the shortest commutes in the world to one of the longer ones.

NFPD still wishes he lived closer in. Who really likes commuting? But given all the options -- including the harsh reality that I'm just another not-for-profit slob who has been priced-out of the community I serve, I think MOWA and I made the right choice.

Night Shift

2005-05-02T08:13:00.000-04:00

With twins you have to be organized. There just isn't a choice. Luckily, I married the right woman for this task and the Minister of Wifely Affairs keeps the twins in the structure that they need so that we can still function as people. In the beginning this meant a very orderly division of the night-feeding responsibilities. Being a night person, I would stay up late with the kids and be responsible for any wakings that occurred before 3am. MOWA would take over from there (she usually went to bed at around 9pm). This worked well from August when we got the kids home, through January when we changed things up a little bit...

I go on one big business trip a year. It is out of the country and it is vital to being able to do my job on a high level, so there was just no demurring out of it this year. This unfortunately meant leaving the Minister alone with the kids for around 10 days. So, out of guilt, in the runup to my departure I began to volunteer to take all of the night feeds. This wasn't entirely a martyr's mission because Sadie in particular was pratically sleeping through the night -- she rarely woke up before 3am anyway.

When I came back from my trip in February, we continued with me taking all of the night feeds and that is still the case today. The kids are nine months old as of this past weekend. They were six weeks premature, so their adjusted age is really seven and half months, but really at this point they should be sleeping through the night. And they're not. Even Sadie, my most reliable sleeper has begun to backslide. The last few nights she's been waking between 1 and 3am for a bottle I presumed she no longer needed.

We're a little flummoxed as to what the proper next step should be. Because they were born prematurely at low birth-weights our instinct is to feed them whenever they're hungry -- even if they probably don't need that anymore, emotionally I still perceive my kids as the smallest babies in the world. Crying it out won't work with twins because they share a room and if you let one cry it out, they'll wake up the other one. We've thought about diluting the night bottles so they're not depending on the nutrition, but we haven't really committed to that path. We have an appointment with the pediatrician this week and it will definitely be on the agenda.

All that being said... I love doing the night feeds. I love the predictability of Gabriel's behavior. How he'll pant and cry harder when the bottle gets within reach. I love how he'll pretend to be asleep after finishing the bottle and then give you this little smile when you try and burb him. How he pulls both hands up to his head and rubs his temples when you put him back down and how he's usually asleep before I'm even out the door. I love moving through the darkness of the house while the Minister sleeps, and cleaning out their bottles. Occasionally I'll empty or fill the dishwasher after I'm done feeding them. Once I actually sat down and did a crossword puzzle before going back to bed. I keep telling myself that I am inscribing myself into my children's dreams.

The Minister was devastated when breastfeeding didn't work out for her. But if it had it is possible that I would never have been incorporated into the night-feeding scheme. Now it is one of my favorite things.

Don't get me wrong. I long for the day when the kids can sleep the night. I require a ridiculous amount of caffeine to make it through your average day. And it would be a dishonest lie to say that I rise from bed like some drippy Hallmark commercial every time I hear one of them crying on the monitor. More often I am resentfully calculating whether they'll cry loud enough to make the neighbors call Child Protective Services if I make a detour to take a pee on the way to heat-up their bottle. Last night I was ready to cry uncle during a string in which I was up three times between 1am and 4:30 feeding one of the two of them.

Still, I find that it is very easy as a father with young kids to feel unnecessary. If you leave for work before the kids are up and get home just before they go to bed, that leaves the majority of your parenting opportunities for the weekend. Parenting shouldn't feel like hobby. I love feeling like a vital part of their daily upbringing and I worry that I won't feel as involved when they don't need me at night anymore and our daytime interactions are constricted to those moments before I leave for work and the rare nights when I get home before they go down to bed.

Still, a solid six hours of sleep is like a week at Club Med for me now.

I Blog, Therefore I am

2005-05-01T21:41:00.000-04:00

Another addition to the blogosphere. Necessary? Certainly not. Requested? Not by anyone I know, although the Minister of Wifely Affairs (MOWA) was certainly encouraging. The point? I guess I'll just have to reserve judgement on that for now. I guess I'd like to write on life from the 501(c)(3) side of the fence where the grass is never greener than on the for-profit side, but that doesn't mean it is without its advantages.

The dad part? Well that sort of changes everything once it comes into play no matter what your job is; doctor, lawyer, tribal casino chief. I spent the years of the largest peace time economic expansion toiling for a not-for-profit and unwittingly making it my career. I love my job. I believe passionately in the mission of my organization. I didn't even mind being underpaid because I was at work for much of the time for the first several years. Okay, when I got married it became a little more stressful, because hey, you want to be able to give the wife some nice baubles every now and then. Even scarier, MOWA was teaching middle-school when we first started dating and was out-earning me by several thousand dollars. She bought our first sofa with the proceeds from a summer teaching gig.

When we (finally) got pregnant, the whole economic thing got a lot more stressful. When we found out it was going to be twins, I had a moment of panic in which I thought I would have to go private sector in order to make things workable. Thankfully, I had an understanding employer and a very resourceful wife so that hasn't proved necessary... yet.

So now I have two great causes. The job. And the kids. Push to come to shove. Mr. Chicklethwaite and Mrs. Zabooboo would win hands-down. But the conflicts (at least to me) are never so black and white. Lots and lots of grey. I guess that's what I'll be writing about here. Hopefully it will be funny, because nothing gratifies me more than a good laugh. It also tends to cut-down on the woe-is-me navel gazing that no one is ever very interested in. There's also the off chance that I'm not the only one in this situation -- in fact I'm certain I'm not. So maybe there's some good that can come from that too.