Warning, B.A.P.M. Ahead!



Here I continue our Winter Trip Log. If you have not read days 1+2 (which is likely as this was posted only a half hour later), you may want to skip down and read that first. Or read them in in reverse order and it will be as if you traveled back in time like Superman did by circling the wrong way around the Earth. By the way, I am not giving a peace sign in this photo, but merely indicating the number of times this baby baby had spit up on that shirt. I believe after the third time, the shirt was retired with honor.


Day 3:

Started a little late, but we knew we would have to operate by the girls’ schedule. We wanted to be sure they were well fed right before getting on the road, so we could go as far as possible in the initial run. So it was about 7:45 when we hit the road, but at this late time of season we were really only departing about 45 minutes after sunrise.

Immediately we noticed an odd warning light in the Jeep Laredo. It was a yellow exclamation point between two parentheses, with a weird jagged line connecting the parentheses along the bottom. My best representation is this: (!). We were stumped. The light was yellow, which generally does not denote an emergency so Candy began searching the owner’s manual as I began driving. We are at the I-15 before we finally figure out the light indicates low tire pressure (the jagged line was tire tread). As we are caravanning with my parents, we call them up on the cell phone and pull off at the next service stop. The tires all looked fine, so we kicked them, then we purchased a pressure gauge (the air pump had none for some perverse reason), before finally determining the front, driver’s side wheel is a tad bit low. Putting in a little air makes the light go away, which makes everyone content and satisfied. Back to the road!

We had literally gone maybe a mile when we encountered the B.A.P.M. To the uninitiated, a B.A.P.M. is a Big Ass Piece of Metal. I swear to God it was as if we were in a James Bond movie and the Austin Martin had dropped this to take out the rascally pursuers from SPECTRE. It was a 6-8 inch horseshoe shaped hunk of grey steel, with a large lip of thick metal that stood straight up perpendicularly from the arch portion of the U. The horseshoe was lying on the road with its arms facing away from oncoming traffic, so it was braced to offer maximum resistance to being knocked out of the way. Seriously, they could have put a WARNING: SEVERE TIRE DAMAGE sign next to it. Thanks to its camouflage colors I did not see it until it was too late to do anything except drop one mighty F-bomb.

As soon as we went over it I knew the tire was done and I made my way to the shoulder even before the excited little yellow exclamation point could light itself again with glee. The tire the BAPM took out? The same damn one we had spent 20 minutes screwing around with to get the pressure just right. While my parents worked themselves back to us, I called Dollar-Rent-A-Car, as after all it is their car. The roadside assistance people were actually very nice and directed us to the nearest Goodyear tire dealership for a replacement. We had to change the tire ourselves, which was a bit of a mess because it required expelling everything we had so carefully packed to get to the jack and spare (full sized though).


As one might expect, our tire was the one they did not have in stock and we had to wait an extra hour for it to be moved from the other store. My parents wanted to get to Wyoming today, so we let them go ahead. The girls were remarkably sanguine about the whole thing, and greatly enjoyed their feeding in the Goodyear parking lot. We finally got back on the road around 11am, a full 4 hours later than the original targeted starting time. However, I didn’t have to pay for the tire. The minimum damage waver covered it. Go figure.



After that things went remarkably smoothly. Turns out the girls travel really well, consistently being soothed by the road noise and motion. There was some awkwardness finding places to feed and change them, but between the backseat of the Jeep, some restaurants, and one stop at a Dillards we made due. The pace was not mighty, as typically we stopped for 45 minutes to an hour and then drove for 2 hours, but the miles did fly by. By the end of the day we stopped at nice motel, the Crystal Inn just north of Ogden, Utah. There we took this ultra-cute photo of them in these Pooh outfits.




Day 4:



The biggest problem with losing travel time on day 3, was that weather had moved in by day 4. It was snowing. Fortunately it was relatively light, but it still put a major slow down on the trip, especially after we got off the I-15 in Idaho Falls. For some reason we had a lot of trouble finding a decent place to change the girls in this town, with all the fast food places having nothing but tiny, filthy closets for bathrooms (and obviously no changing stations). We didn’t want to do it on in the car, as it had gotten so cold and windy outside. We finally found a nice big sink area at DADS travel stop. As per usual the woman behind the counter claimed to have been a twin. I am not certain why anyone would claim to be one if they were not, but it seems like the percentage of people we run into who claim to either have had twins or are a twin runs about 25%, which just can’t be right…



We rolled into Jackson, Wyoming around 2pm, which was already a couple of hours behind our original schedule. By the time we had a nice lunch at the Teton Steak House (family friendly… met another twin) and picked up some groceries for my parents (including a $100 beef tenderloin!) it was nearly 4 and already starting to get dark.

The final drive to my dad’s place (we often call it a ranch, but he doesn’t do a lot of real ranching on his 60+ acres. I think they have grown alfalfa and boarded horses.) is a little more than an hour, through the flats beneath the Grand Tetons, past the South entrance to Yellowstone and then over Togwotee pass, which crosses over to the other side of the Continental Divide. Finding the final road down to their place can be tricky, and was doubly tricky as they have recently started a road widening project which has completely altered the appearance and removed all previously used landmarks. By process of elimination we did eventually find the road and pulled up to my father’s place.

To discover the power was out. No good explanation why, as the storm was real light. It was actually quite pretty, as the entire place was lit by candle and lantern light. I leave you with a photo of that evening, obviously enhanced so you can see candles rather than curse the darkness.

Manilow, Why Dost Thou Continue To Plague Me?


This is the start of our Winter Trip Log. For many reasons it has taken me some time to get these up, so I will be posting multiple days together. This is Days 1+2. Next and published at almost the same time will be Days 3+4. Days 5 and beyond I will get to when I get to it. If you seriously need them to make it through your holiday season, seek psychological counseling. Or you could pay me. Paying me to write blogs would be cheaper than a shrink, I suppose. I charge hourly or alternatively I have a most reasonable weekly rate...

Day 1:

After approximately 24 hours of washing, organizing, and packing we finally were ready to hit the road around 11:20 am on Tuesday. Even after sending all gifts, winter clothes, and other random odds and ends with my father, the poor Mitsubishi Galant was still jam-packed. Fortunately traffic was real light, so even having to stop and feed the young-uns at a Carl’s Junior in Barstow, we got to Las Vegas in about 5 and a half hours.


Here are the girls sitting on the in-laws couch. They are being good here, but they spent about 3 hours screaming while poor gramma Carolyn was watching them.




Day 2:

We spent Wednesday trying to relax. I popped over to the airport to pick up our trip car, a Jeep Cherokee Laredo. I was a bit annoyed with myself for getting conned into taking some of their car rental insurance, as I always use a credit card which provides that as one of its perks. But they were tricky, asking if I wanted Super Gold Supreme Insurance, Basic Ok-I-Guess insurance, or the minimum. Well, of course I said to myself, the minimum. Except of course the minimum is actually not the minimum. “None, please” is the minimum. Sigh.




Highlight of the day was when we visited gramma Carolyn at her job at the Hilton, present home of Barry Manilow, who I have still not forgiven for stealing Stephen’s emmy. Candy and I both got Channukah haircuts at the local salon. Biggest danger was avoiding the crazy drunken old ladies that milled all over the casino trying to kiss babies with their crazy drunken lips. My parents had some car trouble (battery) so didn’t get into Vegas until late, so a potential multi-family dinner opportunity was lost. We did share some pastries though.

Dumb Idea or the Dumbest Idea I've Ever Had

Not much time to write, as we are in the final throws of packing for our epic Christmas trip and Bataan Death March. The plan is to drive to Las Vegas tomorrow, where we will spend a couple of days with Candy's parents. Then, and here is the part that even I continue to have trouble believing, then we rent a SUV and drive to Wyoming (where my father has a ranch).

To those of you counting, that is 12 hours of driving with two babies who just turned 2 months old. Considering they still tend to need to eat every 2-3 hours, this could be more than mildly painful. I will try and do my best to update as the trip progresses, but if I don't, you can imagine I look somewhat like this brief gallery of dead tired dads. I call the photo at the top, 'Oh God, my back hurts.'

Gentle readers will refrain from noting the not insubstantial tire this poor fellow carries around his middle.

If you don't hear from me soon, send sled dogs with a big barrel of Brandy. Hell, even if you do hear from me, send the booze.

Baby Personal Trainers


I think I have figured out what is going on. Please enjoy these further baby photos while I explain my theory.

The babies don't cry for no reason. They cry to motivate their parents toward better health. They are being "proactive" so that we can reach our personal fitness goals... whether we knew we had them or not.



Think about it. It seemed thoroughly arbitrary that every time I sat down or held still, the baby would freak out, even with gentle swaying, warm arms, and the whole shebang. The baby wants you to walk, hell the baby needs you to walk, and walk so fast that you really burn the carbs. With every scream I think I can hear a "move it along couch potato! I could hang a tire swing from those love handles!"



When do babies invariably freak out the worst? Right when you are trying to eat. They see the fried chicken or pasta and say, "Hey fattie-fatso! I would like a parent who lives to see me graduate from high school. Instead of wolfing down that next tater tot, why don't we try three laps around the house? Move it, move it!"



Now I haven't figured out how the sleep deprivation fits in but they do it in the army, so it has to play some part in getting you into shape. I think it breaks down your personal defenses, making you strongly susceptible to suggestion and behavior modification. Wait, that's not the army, I think that is Scientology. Or the Army of Scientology. Anyway, I am sure it is part of a good fitness regime.










So I got to get going. I think my babies have scheduled me for some Pilates at 7pm, followed by a Spin class at 3am. In the meantime, please enjoy this picture of Two Babies and A Cat. While the cat is not presently wearing a hat, I was considering giving it one when the picture was taken...

OK! OK! I once again give you Baby Pictures!


I have been back at work for two weeks now. So far the results have been mixed. The sleep deprivation leaves me fuzzy a lot of the time. Staring blankly at the screen is not uncommon. It doesn't help I got a brand new computer at work just as I got back, which is a real easy time sink. (Setting up each new, little thing can eat an hour, easy). Even getting in to work is tough, as there is almost always something going on with babies which will just take up a few more minutes...




We definitely have needed some help. So far we have a night nurse (or doula) who comes once a week, allowing us full night sleeps. Quite pricey, but worth it for the sanity it maintains. We also have a friend we are paying to help babysit with Candy on weekdays while I am at work. Even so Candice is alone a couple of days a week, which is tough. Come January we are going to have to find a more permanent Babysitter/Nanny solution.






These guys grow so fast. As tiny as they still are, it is truly amazing how far they have grown. They are just now transitioning from Newborn diapers to the 1st level of baby diaper. Take this picture of Rylie and those tiny little chicken legs. She has put on so much weight we now have trouble separting her from Kayla. For a while Rylie had a little scratch on her nose we used as a cheat, but it healed so now we are back at square one. I suggested another scratch, but apparently that constitutes some sort of child abuse. Candy thinks we could paint one of her toenails instead. I say lets get a Tyson-style face tattoo and leave it at that.




The past week or so has actually been quite exciting, as the level of alertness of the girls has taken a definite upswing. They are looking at everything that comes in close and have even given us some smiles and what looked like a little giggle from Kayla. We broke out the Einstein Play Gym, which comes with everything from rattles to a little mirror. The girls are alternatively fascinated and horrified. I guess something with so many doodads can be a bit overwhelming.



Just dealing with the needs of the babies is enough work. Between feeding, diapering, burping, and soothing there is not a lot of extra time. Now that they are doing new things we have a whole new time sink: Staring at the babies. We spent close to an hour this week watching Rylie whap a stuffed star that was dangling from the Gym. We had planned on doing other things... but the baby was just working so hard to hit that floating star. It can be a serious danger. It brings joy, but the stress one feels at not having accomplished something basic, like washing the dirty baby clothes, brings the exact opposite of joy.



Managing the stress is a major issue. Candice has developed some hives, what look like a allergic reaction, but as far as our doctor can tell it appears what she is allergic to is the stress and lack of sleep. Probably some major hormone changes can be thrown in there as well. Now she is scratching all the time, which does not help either of our moods.



On the whole things are good. Every time we meet another mother of multiples they tell us we just have to get through the first X # of months and then things get so much better. So we are putting our heads down and pushing on through. Not even the Dark Ages lasted forever.





Some of our favorite things to do are to buy cute things to put the babies in. Yes, even I with my high testosterone level am vulnerable to the ultra-cute baby outfit. I feel just a bit less manly...but then I recall I just fathered twins and my stud quotient perks right back up. Here, for instance, are these cute towels with animal heads we bought. The green one is an alligator, the tan one a lion. If you are thinking they look a little big, you are right. We bought toddler sized towels by accident. Oh well, who doesn't like a really big towel?

Alternatively, you can dress your baby up like a hard rocker. Nothing says bad ass baby like the Ramones or the Beastie Boys. This allows the parent the illusion of not being an old person with a baby, by starting the process of living vicariously at the earliest age possible.













Once again, thanks to everyone who has given or made clothes. If you still haven't seen your outfit, stay tuned. We will get through all of them eventually. Now, let me finish with an honorable mention to Patricia, who made these adorable little sweaters.



Is that enough pictures to feed your appetities for Babies? No? Get some help people.
Or get a baby...just not mine. Although a rental is a definite possibility...

I Promise Next Time Will Be Pictures Of The Girls...



In the meantime I am still using the time I would previously have used for procrastination (or writing blog entries) to cleaning out my e-mail, a task which one might describe as Herculean, akin to cleaning out those Augean stables of myth. If I was more willing to toss everything it would go much quicker. But if I tossed everything, how would I ever find gems like this one:

Correspondence of Two English Gentlemen

This is an actual series of e-mail correspondences that started, oddly enough with some confusion over whether the baseball player Kirby Puckett was forced into retirement by being beaned with a baseball badly enough to break his jaw. The first gentlemen writes:

"On September 28, [1995] however, Puckett was struck in the face by a Dennis Martinez pitch. The blow left Puckett with a shattered jaw. He attempted to make his comeback in 1996 and hit .360 in spring training. Then, on March 30, he awoke to find he couldn't see out of his right eye."

He got the beaning of all beans. I will admit that it probably didn't exacerbate his glaucoma, as it hit him on the left and his right eye went blind, but the timing is a little suspicious. Let me hit you in the head hard enough to break your jaw and lets see how the rest of your head likes it. Remember he eventually died of a stroke, another head-related item.

Even so, I conceed the point.

To which the second gentleman, a man of most ill-repute responds:

I concede the beaning.

Aren't we polite today!

These tepid beginnings rapidly escalate out of control, leading to this entire exchange, starting with the dignified hero:

Do you mock me, sir?

Swlap! Swlap! [Glove strikes each cheek]

Pistols at dawn. You may choose the location. My second will be Sir Harold of Teplitam, a most upstanding chap. If we both survive I suggest tea in the Buearegard Gardens afterwards, with a spot of crumpet.

Good day, sir.

I said good day!

Then the loathesome roustabout:

I accept! I demand satisfaction!

As my previous second, Lord Skiffington, was unfortunately shot in the head due to an unfortunate wayward shot during my last duel, I am forced to rely on the services of Edward, the piss-boy.

Do not fret, Edward! You shall make a grand second. Do you know what is required of a second? No? It's fantastically easy; you will be fine. You do know how to fire a pistol, yes? Good boy. Please instruct the stable-master to bring my horses around. What's that you're suggesing, Edward? Why would I be leaving town? Oh, the impertinence of you, Edward -- no, my boy, I merely feel like, er, a ride. Yes. A ride.

Some time passes, where assumedly both gentlemen prepare for their tense and well thought out duel... Then another correspondence from our tale's villain:

Despite my initial cowardice, I decided to be true to my word and show my manhood -- er, manliness. I was there for our duel.

Where, sir, where you?

In your cowardly absence, Sir Harold took up your pistol. Apparently, Sir Harold informed you neither of his extreme nearsightedness nor his fear of spectacles.

As I fired into the air -- after all, I bear no malice toward Sir Harold -- he fired wildly and shot poor Edward the Piss-Boy dead.

This being my second second to die in a duel, I fear that no one will second me in the future. My dueling future is doomed!

Outraged, our hero replies immediately:

Apparently you informed good Sir Harold of the locale, but failed to send me the same missive. Now while Harold is a true blue-blood, a gentleman, and a crack shot, he is not, sadly, capable of speech, having lost his tongue in an unfortunate croquet incident during the Boer Wars. He moaned something at me this morn, to be certain, but I assumed it was his usual good-natured jests and high feelings.

It was I that figured you for a coward, having never heard back as to the location, which I believe you will recall I left up to you. I figured you had scurried back to Normandy or Gibralter or wherever such neer-do-wells such as yourself call home. Perhaps Sussex.

But now Sir Harold has appeared with a detailed diagram done in pastels (or is it oils?) of him firing at a cowering second while a bewildered nobleman looks on. You should see the subtle gradations of reds. A tour de force. Anyway, clearly this is a misunderstanding resulting in the death of a peasant.

So no harm done.

I expect you to bring your third and appear before the gates of Lorkanmanshirebergexx at dawn tomorrow. No make that 10, I am having my car detailed.

Sir Harold can then kill him and we can have that spot of tea I was so looking forward to. The Buearegard gardens do have the loveliest honeyed tea cakes...

The bootblack is properly chastised:

Very well. Lorkanmanshirebergexx at 10 it shall be. I will bring my third -- a toad, which my 11-year-old niece has cleverly named Mister Toad. Although Mister Toad is quite unable to hold a pistol -- in fact, the pistol is quite a bit larger than Mister Toad himself -- I do find that he provides a most unexpected level of emotional support. Oh, Mister Toad! You comfort me in ways I have never before known.

Speaking of hopping creatures, please inform Sir Harold that indeed, I do have his false leg in my possession after all. I am not quite certain how it ended up with my irons and woods, but here it is. I do owe him an apology: the bad is mine.

Someday, I hope to hear from Sir Harold -- well, not so much from Sir Harold as from anyone else -- the story of the dangerous leech that took his limb.

Should Sir Harold be unable to fire his weapon at such a small creature with acceptable aim, I do believe he will find that Mister Toad can be crushed under his good foot without undue effort.

Very much looking forward to tea in the Buearegard Gardens. I wonder, sir: I am very familiar with the Beauregards -- and initially, I thought that it was this fine family that named the gardens. Ah, but twice now, you have informed me that the proper spelling of the name is Buearegard -- clearly a different family. I know no Buearegards -- perhaps you could arrange an introduction?

To which the dashing young gent can only express his delight at the opportunity to assist another in social advancement:

Oh, the Buearegards! A very old family. They predate the written word, don't you know.

They live in caves and smash the skulls of passerbys for food. Could not be more ancient. Their youngest, little Lord Chaka, has just grown his first full body beard and is most dashing.

And by dashing, once again I am refering to how he will crush your skull and then eat you.

But the gardens are lovely.

10 it is. Smashing.

I suppose I must mention that in all likelihood I will be completely invisible, for tomorrow is a Friday and I am afraid my religious proclivities insist on transparency on that holiest of days. Be assured I will be there. Feel free to tell the toad to shoot wildly at any disturbance or shimmering in the air. Harold, of course, will shoot your amphibian or barring that, smash it and then eat it (he's of French descent don't you know).

Then Marmalade. I am atitter!

But sadly, like much in life, it ends with a wimper:

French? I am afraid I must cancel. I am allergic to the French.

I was wondering about the cause of today's hives.

I am still available for tea, if you would like.

I do not believe the tea issue has ever been satisfactorly resolved.

S.

P.S. Kudos to the villain Todd who ably assisted me in going so off the rails.