Venturing out

The kids and I had a big day Monday. With momma at work I had the twins by myself again, and decided it would be fun to venture out into the world for the first time alone! First things first, where to go? Let's see...the Children's museum? Probably a bit too ambitious for our first outing, sans mom. The Zoo? Probably not as special for 2 month old infants as I have built up in my mind. How about the Target store less than a mile from my house...perfect! I needed to get some new socks and boxer briefs anyways since my current garments have been in the rotation for a solid 4 years now. It was your classic two birds one stone scenario.

Preparing to go anywhere with infant twins is logistically on par with a small military campaign. Hauling two kids, their car seats, the Kolcraft stroller, all of the baby gear, and rations; one could easily be mistaken for setting up an Army bivouac. Just getting out of the house requires Navy SEAL-like maneuvering. At approx. 1500 hours, I led my platoon to the operational canteen for chow; at 1530 we exercised tactical burping; at 1545 we initiated evacuation procedures, locking all infants down in car seats and securing transportation in the GMC Envoy, once the supply line loaded all provisions into our vehicle; our squadron left alpha base at approx. 1600 hours to rendezvous point, code name- Target. Hooah!

I pulled into the Target parking lot and found a spot near the front. Stepping around to the back of our SUV, I extracted the mighty Kolcraft Stroller. This stroller is amazing. It's the Cadillac of twin strollers, and I don't mean one of those new hybrid Cadillacs, I'm talking old school Caddy. The kind that got 3mpg. The kind that planes could land and take off from, aircraft carrier style. Our Stroller is seriously only a hood ornament and some tail fins away from being one of Elvis' personal cars.

I unfolded the stroller and locked the wheels in place. I carefully extracted Z from the car, being cautious not to wake her. After locking her seat in place, I retrieved E and performed the exercise again. Stepping behind the controls of the stroller I felt somewhat like a Gladiator riding a chariot, this was probably more of a Walter Mitty type overreaction to having the high point of my day being pushing my children around Target in a stroller...but whatever.

I began to cruise through the parking lot, the stroller responding fluidly to my every movement. As I neared the entrance, I saw a few Target employees that were on a break. One of them, a middle aged lady, remarked aloud towards me, "There's something you don't see everyday!" I realized she thought it unusual that a man would be taking his infant twins out to Target for an afternoon activity. It was as if I was breaking some unspoken social norm, as though I was doing something that only a mother does. Smiling back to her I quipped, "maybe there's a reason!" Panic stirred as I thought to myself...maybe there IS a reason you don't see this everyday.

My panic quickly faded as I crossed the threshold of the consumer Mecca, known as Target. The entire store filled with two distinct groups of people; working moms making a quick stop on their way home after work, and housewives hauling their children around on as they checked off items on their to do list. I was the only person there with enough testosterone to grow facial hair, (excluding the elderly lady with the spotty beard, whom I assume was on some sort of hormone replacement therapy.) There were fewer men at Target that afternoon than at a Gloria Steinem lecture.

I made my way to the back of the store, to grab some socks from the men's section. It seemed as though every Y-chromosome-less, eye was inexplicably drawn towards me as I pushed the twins to and fro. The reaction of these women were all the same; they would tilt their heads to the side, bend down slightly as if to get a better view of the kids, raise their eyebrows, and silently mouth Awwwwwww! I had somehow attained a celebrity like status at Target. These women seemed to believe that I somehow understood what they go through as mothers. "This man gets it. He gets what my lazy-good-for-nothing husband could never comprehend! God bless him." They swarmed around the stroller like paparazzi chasing down a photo-op of a celebrity couple and their newly adopted Cambodian baby.

Women began to approach us, a mob of goodwill and cheer. It was like being accepted into some exclusive club for mom's only, full of play dates, power walking, and Target shopping. The only thing that could possibly be similar is, if I were to land on an uncharted island after a plane crash, and the natives mistook me for some sort of magical being. I half way expected these women to begin fanning me with palm fronds.

"Well look at you!"
"Aren't you brave!"
"Isn't that just precious!"
These were the type of comments we were getting, followed by offers of help.
"Can I get you something to drink? You sure have your hands full!"
"Do you need me to push a cart for you? I can follow you around and do my shopping tomorrow, you sure have your hands full!"
"Do you need help to your car? Can I pay for your items? You sure have your hands full!"
What a great experience, Jami must love taking the kids out with her!

I bashfully shrugged the comments off and grabbed my socks and boxer briefs. I checked out to a slew of more appreciative looks, oohs and ahhs. As I packed the Envoy back up, I'm sure I was glowing. Those women who don't know me and have never really seen me interact with my kids are right, I am a great and brave father.

I got home, unloaded the car, and realized that time had really gotten away from me. Jami would be home soon, I surveyed the house and realized that perhaps the Target crowd had an unrealistic portrait of me. The diapers strewn about, the laundry backed up, the dishes in need of washing, all betrayed the Super Dad image my Target groupies might have had of me.

While my first trip out was successful, I think more than anything it reaffirmed to me how amazing a wife and mother Jami is. I compare small excursions with the kids to scaled down Military invasions. Jami just does them because, like the hundreds of other things on her to do list, they just need to be done. She takes care of the kids, without complaint and just the other day my beautiful, smart, funny, and vegetarian wife...also made me a delicious meatloaf. So to all the incomparable stay-at-home moms and working moms, I salute you; and if you should ever see me with the twins at Target, tell me to hurry up and checkout, because the house ain't gonna clean itself.

www.cecilfam.blogspot.com

Standards & playdates

I've never had what you might call strict standards when it comes to things like cleanliness. My apartment in college was likely what the State government would refer to as "unfit for human occupancy". There was an odor to that place, not necessarily a bad odor mind you, but a very distinct, stale, boys live here odor. Many people hold to the adage "cleanliness is next to godliness", my roommates and I preferred the adage "out of sight, out of mind". If our apartment looked clean in the right areas, then that was good enough.

When I got married I came to understand the error of my bachelor ways. My wife calmly explained to me the value of keeping a clean living space, maintaining a scheduled laundry routine and instituting proper personal hygiene goals. If these new standards were not exercised correctly by me, my relationship with my spouse became decidedly less intimate and our lines of communication were also strained. I quickly learned that I needed to pitch in with laundry duty if I wanted to have a pleasant home life.

Now with E & Z in the picture, I feel as if both Jami and I's standards have loosened up a bit. Not to the depravity of my college years, but our idea of what's acceptable is a bit more relaxed. Case in point, as it turns out, neither of us "needs" to shower everyday. If we can work it out, well that's great. However, the reality is this: if you are stuck at the house all day with the kids and have no plans to visit any of the community's institutions...what's the point of taking a shower? As a matter of fact, what's the point of even changing out of your pajamas?

When either of us come home from work to find the other in the exact same outfit as the night before, or in the same location as when we left for work, we are neither shocked or disappointed. This phenomenon has become commonplace - I call it the time warp factor. When caring for infant twins at home all day, time loses all of its power and meaning. As such, the caregiver in charge cannot become dirty, necessitating a shower or change of clothes. In other words, I do not build up a filmy layer of grime on my skin or clothing by constantly changing diapers and feeding babies whilst watching TV and doing laundry, so what's the point in making any changes in my attire or hygienic status...leave well enough alone.

There are some conditions to this theory that require action. For instance, when changing a diaper and your offspring urinate on your sweatpants, you are obligated to change the aforementioned sweatpants, however you are not required to jump in the shower. Likewise, if you find that the kids are napping well and you would like to feel refreshed and awakened you are allotted 5 minutes in which you may take a quick shower, however there is no need to change into so-called "clean clothes"; because let's face it, that just creates more laundry to do and you're not going to be getting out of the house anyway. Conversely, if you manage your time well and muster up the fortitude to exercise hard enough to work up a good sweat, you need to take a shower and change your clothes. However, I've found this situation to be more rare than a pack of forest elves riding unicorns, hunting centaurs.

Recently my wife has been finding an excuse to break away from this new normal, leaving me as the sole parent to not shower or change out of my PJ's while in the line of duty. She calls her excuses "play dates".

As I understand it, Jami will clean up to visit a friend that is similarly confined to their home and held down by the constraints of providing children with appropriate care. These play dates seem to follow a loosely held schedule, whereby the host home rotates depending on whose children are more suited for travel on that particular day. These play dates seem to really invigorate Jami, and make her day less monotonous. I also have reason to believe that these play dates involve a carefully orchestrated plot for the matriarchs involved to somehow co-op the care of the children, thereby reducing the stress associated with being a parent.

I cry foul! These play dates are an unfair advantage. I'm unable to participate in these play dates. So when Jami comes home on Mondays to find me in the exact same condition as when she left 12 hours earlier, it gives the impression that I have some weird form of male postpartum depression. Here's why I am unable to take advantage of the play date scenarios.

1. All of my friends work during the week. I'm the oddball with Mondays off.

2. All of my play date possibilities would be with my wife's friends, which would be weird. "Hey Jenni wanna hang out and watch our kids together this afternoon?" Of course this doesn't work. Because to hang out with my wife's friends in the absence of my wife is too strange and not allowable.

Though I've never actually witnessed a play date first hand, I feel like I know how they work. The kids play or nap, and the moms help each other with bottles and diapers while talking about their feelings as they encourage one another for being great mothers. I don't like talking about my feelings, and outside of a high five I would feel awkward giving one of my wife's friends encouragement. Having said that, if any of you moms out there would like to hang out and talk about the last UFC pay-per-view or the relative artistic merit of 90's rock music, give me a call and we can set something up for next Monday.

Unfortunately, I don't know if daddy play dates will work. I think letting your buddies see you being a father requires an uncomfortable level of vulnerability. Guys feel silly when they use their baby voice in front of other guys. "Does wittle baby have a poopy diapy?" we exclaim in a cartoonishly falsetto sing-song voice. As guys, we are legally required to make fun of our friends if they talk in such a manner. Let's be honest, our daddy play dates would probably devolve into the dad's playing video games while the kids are put down for a nap whether they need it or not.

Soon winter will break, and the weather will be more hospitable for going out. My kids will be a little less all consuming with the constant bottle feeding. I will be able to pack them up more easily and enjoy getting out of the house. Until then, you can find me in my black sweats and old t-shirt, sitting in the rocking chair, with a baby on my lap and a Dr. Brown's bottle in one hand and the remote in the other. For the next 12 hours I will feed my beautiful children, change their diapers, and with the help of DVR and Hulu.com, get caught up on my shows.

And The Award Goes To...

I just returned home from the Father of the Year awards in Oslo Norway, where I was nominated in the Father of Infant Twins category. The competition was fierce, and the ceremonies were wrought with scandal. Being quite jet lagged, I will do my best to recount the details s I remember them.

I was nominated for my first "Daddy" award, in part because of my parenting skills displayed when Jami went back to work and I subsequently began my turn of staying at home alone with the twins on Fridays for 8 hours and a 12 hour shift on Mondays. The honorable Father of the Year Academy, raved about my double bottle feeding technique, my multi-tasking abilities, and the overall energy and sense of sincerity I brought to the role of Fathering of Twins.

My fellow nominees were certainly worthy. Hans Gruber from Munich Germany is a father of twin boys who elected to be a stay-at-home dad, a noble achievement indeed. Joseph Umbasi of Capetown South Africa, is the father of new twin girls, as well as 4 other children all under the age of 8! Representing Sao Paulo Brazil, Mario Silva is a single father of twin girls doing the work of mom and dad, way to go Mario!

I felt good about my chances of bringing home the hardware, following an interview session with the "F.o.t.Y" advisory panel. I also felt like I had strong showings in the swim suit and talent portions of the competition. My confidence was running high as I took my seat at the closing ceremonies, somehow I just new that I would be walking around at the post ceremony gala holding a shiny new "Daddy"...and of course pictures of my kids.

My excitement began to grow as my category drew closer, I walked through my acceptance speech in my head. "Wow, I didn't think that I would win...It's an honor just to be nominated. I want to thank my beautiful wife Jami, you're my best friend and an amazing mother. To my fellow nominees I share this award with you. I want to thank my agent Ari, you are the hardest working man in the business. Thank you to the Father of the Year Awards Academy for this achievement and all they do to celebrate Fatherhood. Finally, I want to thank my kids, you are the reason I do what I do, I love you with all of my heart...now go to bed (fake a little laugh here and pause for audience reaction)"

Just before Denzel Washington was set to take the stage and present the Father of Twins award, "F.o.t.Y" Chairman Saul Goldberg, walked to the podium for a surprise announcement. A murmur began to swell through the crowd, what could this possibly be about?

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is with a heavy heart that I am forced to announce that Father of Twins nominee Josh Cecil has been disqualified from the competition and stripped of any potential Father of the Year titles. The academy has learned from an inside source, of an incident that shows gross ignorance for even a new father, be it a father of twins or otherwise."

As panic began to rise up into my throat, I squirmed in my seat. Slowly every head in the auditorium began to turn my way, accusatory malice filled their glares. "What have you done?" they seemed to ask collectively. I stood up as the sweat began to trickle down my brow. I looked at Jami's confused face, so gorgeous was she in her Vera Wang gown. Confused though she was she stood with me and grabbed my hand, determined to "Stand by her Man". We stumbled towards the exit, I was mumbling something to the affect of, "this is outrageous, I have no idea what this is about!"

Instead of the beautiful orchestral piece that would have whisked me from the stage after the acceptance of my trophy, I shamefully fled the auditorium to a rising chorus of boos and hisses.

The plane ride from Oslo to Newark was a torturous trip that felt like an eternity. Silence filled the cabin as I sat despondently looking out the window and Jami thumbed through a Sky Mall catalog. Our silence was finally abated on the flight from Newark to Indianapolis.

"So...you want to tell me what that was all about?" Jami queried.
"I...I...I have no idea." I passively offered. "I thought for sure I'd won..."
"That's not what I mean. What were they talking about? Gross Ignorance?"
I hesitated. Unsure of what to do, I broke down and explained the circumstances that must have cost me the Father of the Year award.

"Ok, listen...and promise you won't be mad."
Jami crossed her arms, and prepared herself. Her lips were pursed together, and I thought I could see a small storm just beneath the surface of her forced calmness.
"I suppose there is no point in hiding this anymore. That first Monday that you went back to work, and I had the kids all by myself for 12...no, 13 hours. It was really hard, they were really fussy. It seemed like every time I turned around they needed something else, a bottle, a diaper change, or just to be held. I was trying to be a good father and husband... honest I was. I was doing laundry, I even ran the vacuum. I wanted you to come home to a quite and clean house after a long shift at the hospital. Well...I put the kids down for a nap around 1:30 or 2:00. They seemed to be sleeping soundly, and I had the urge to do some cooking...you know how I love to cook! Well I decided to make some Mac and cheese, I used whole grain pasta...cause I know how you like whole grain pasta. Anyways, I boiled the pasta, and made my own chipotle cheese sauce. I was putting it all together to bake off in the oven. When the kids began to wake up. I set the cheese's burner to warm, and went to check on the kids. Things just got hectic really quickly. The kids both wanted a bottle, and I still needed to bake the mac and cheese. So I was running from the living room to the kitchen; feed a baby, mix the mac and cheese, burp a baby, put the mac and cheese in the oven, feed the other baby, check on the mac and cheese, burp the baby, take the mac and cheese out. With both babbies fed I began to clean up the kitchen, and run a load of dishes through the washing machine. With the house quiet again I sat down to eat some of my Mac and cheese creation. I thought I smelled something funny in the house, but I figured between the baking and the dishwasher, my olfactory sense was playing tricks on me. Right before you got home,...and keep in mind I 'd had a long day and now I had a pretty bad headache..."
Jami was tired of my spn doctor storytelling antics,"Get on with it!" she yelled. Other passengers stared in her direction.
"Well, I was walking past the kitchen and I could smell that smell again. This time it had a familiar odor, but I couldn't quite place it. Then it hit me..."
"What?" Jami exclaimed.
"Well remeber how I said I put the cheese sauce on the stove top to warm...?"
"Yes?"
"well I may or may not have remembered to turn the stove off...and the house may or may not have been filling up with natural gas for several hours with me and the kids inside."
"What do you mean may or may not?"
"I mean I deffinitely forgot to turn the stove off."
"What! Josh do realize that you could have given the kids and yourself Carbon Monoxide poisning! Or worse yet blown the house up! What were you thinking? Hours? Hours, you left the gas on!"
"I know, I know." I broke down, "Believe me I was freaking out. I had a headache, and it must have been from the gas, so I wondered if the kids had any reaction to it. Then I thought maybe they weren't really sleepy but just high on Carbon monoxide. Then I started freaking out about all the long term damage I must have caused, and how they wouldn't get into a good college. And then I began running different scenarios through my mind, like what if I had lit a candle...Kaboom!
"Good Lord Josh! and to think you were up for Father of the Year?"
"I know, I know...I'm A Monster!!!!!!"

And that my friends is how I have chosen to tell you the reader about the first day Jami went back to work, and I nearly killed myself and the kids with a little help from our natural gas appliances. On the bright side, if that was my first day watching the kids by myself for 13 hours...I can't possibly have anywhere to go but up. I mean how much worse can it get than a near death experience. As for Father of the Year...well, there's always next year.

Crappy with a chance of showers

I have what I would describe as a hair-trigger gag reflex, no foolin'. It's not like I vomit every time I'm set off, it's more akin to a dry heave combined with a choking cough. I typically turn my head to the side arch my back in a retching motion, as tears well up in my eyes. These gag bouts are usually short but intense. This affliction puts me at a severe disadvantage as a new father. The first two months of my children's lives has been full of one bodily fluid or another. The palette of these glorious liquid expulsions is primarily full of earth tones, however the spectrum of textures is wide & varied.

I've learned that I don't really care for changing diaper's. I realize that's not a profound statement. However, I bet some people probably genuinely enjoy the diaper changing experience. Though, for the life of me I can't imagine why; they probably fool themselves into thinking that they are somehow fully embracing parenthood by their love of diaper changing.

My first go at diaper changing was while we were still in the hospital. At an astounding 37 minutes, I don't think I broke any records. I approached the task before me in the same manner the Ghostbusters approached a haunted house. Equipped with a face mask, rubber gloves, gown, shield, and helmet, I was equally prepared to change a diaper or remove a bomb from a government building as a part of an elite bomb squad.

For the first couple of weeks of a newborn's life, their poo...let's just pause right here. I hate the words poo & poopy or any likeness thereof. Right now I use the phrase "poopy diaper" at least once a day. It's so childish, I feel foolish when I hear the words escape my mouth. With no end in sight, sentences like "do you have to go poopy?" will soon become a part of my everyday vocabulary as the children grow and need to be potty trained. There's another word that sounds silly - potty. I would like to replace poo and poopy with crap or even turdy. Apparently these words are considered socially taboo. Likewise the phrases "Do you have to rock the deuce?", "drop a duke", or "release the hounds" are considered inappropriate for parents of infants; however I would feel less ridiculous if I could speak to my children in such terms. That being said...

The first couple of weeks of a newborn's life their "deuce juice" is this weird black tar like substance that is small and has no odor. As such, that first diaper change in the hospital was much less traumatic then I imagined it would be. Unfortunately, I still have no excuse for the inordinate length of time I took to change the diaper. My wife and the nurses made diaper changing look like one of those rodeo competitions where the cowboys use a lasso to tie up a calf, "We have a new world record in the diaper change with 8 seconds by Jami Cecil" said the southern drawn voice in my head every time Jami changed a baby.

I mentioned the varied textures of baby poop before, let me elaborate. We start off as I said with a black tar like substance, we move into a mustard color with what looks like seeds, from there we move into a cottage cheese type substance with a burnt sepia tone, that brings us to the current mocha tinged splatters. An added bonus to the mocha splatters is their aroma, one might assume that the fragrance of the diapers would match the mocha-like hue of the child's scat. However, instead of pleasant Starbucks esspresso notes, the diaper's bouquet is full of a mixture of sulfur and Indian curry. Let the gagging begin.

A few weeks ago, as I had just gotten over my poopy diaper aversions, I went to the floor to change E's drawers. It was the first diaper of his that was truly disgusting, in both odor and aesthetics. As I lifted up his legs to survey the damage, the smell of methane hung heavy in the air, while the spray pattern of the poo looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. As the smell of the poo wafted up towards my nostrils and my eyes took in the mess before me, my gag reflex was awakened. I began to make funny noises like a badger stuck in fur trap, my back curled up and I turned my head to the side. I looked to Jami for help. Laughing diabolically, she seemed more interested in watching the comedic situation play out in front of her.

In a feat that cemented a theory that I have long held (my children are in cohoots with their mother to play tricks on me and force me into uncomfortable situations for their own entertainment) E decided to exacerbate my gagging fit; he kicked me when I was down, he added insult to injury, he poured salt into the wound...he peed on me. My son whom I love gave me the Golden Shower.

I yelled for help. Jami guffawed, clearly enjoying the hysterics. My son looked up at me with a smirk. My daughter's face contorted as she worked a special "gift" into her diaper for dear 'ol dad.

Diaper changing has become easier, I've managed to trim a good 18 minutes off of my average time. Jami and I had a race a few days ago, she's still much faster. On a bright note, I haven't had a gagging episode in two weeks. I think I'm finally settling in and getting used to the whole poopy diaper thing. However, I will have my revenge...oh yes, I will have my revenge. Eventually I will be an old man who is unable to adequately control his bowels, that will be the day my children will be forced to change my diaper. I have many years to concoct my dastardly plot, so laugh it up kids...your time is coming.

Growing Pains

I hear this comment a lot, "oh they grow up so fast". You know what? Good. As a matter of fact, can I do anything to help them grow up faster? The other morning I couldn't find their formula to make a bottle, so I used some of my Strawberry Whey Protein powder instead, I might make this a regular habit if it accelerates their growth. Maybe I should crush up some vitamins and add that to their diet. I'm not above tinkering with Human Growth Hormone, they could at least then play major league baseball. Someone will surely say, "Oh Josh, you need to cherish these moments". Really? What moments?

I can't wait till they're grown enough, that I don't have to wake up at 3:30 in the morning to feed them. Changing dirty diapers...not a fan. The second I can remove the word "poopy" from my everyday vocabulary, I am going to throw a small party for myself.

People always get this really far off look in their eyes and say something like, "It seems like just yesterday that my kids were that small." That's nice. Tell ya what, since you're feeling all warm and fuzzy with nostalgia, why don't you come over to my house around 1:30 am and you can try and figure out why my kids are crying and whining. Do they need their diapers changed? Do they need to be fed? Do they need to be held? Maybe they have some gas, or they're working on nice big poopy? Perhaps they're just fussy? Come on over and relive all your fond memories as you stay awake for the next four hours and discover that their reasons for a sob-fest are all of the above. Have fun.

Everyone forgets about the late nights, incessant crying, & constantly being on alert. What do they need now, I am continually asking myself. It's just the few sweet things that parents want to remember.

For instance, the way that Z curls up into a little ball and falls asleep on my chest...OK, I will miss that.

E does this really cute stretching routine that lasts like twenty minutes when he first wakes up in the morning. I will admit I love watching that no matter how tired I am.

When Z is really hungry, and you get the bottle anywhere near her, she gets super excited and usually pumps a hand in the air as she kind of hops around in your lap groping for the bottle. That is admittedly cute.

They smell really nice after a bath and are eager to cuddle, I could see how I might miss that.

E waves his hands around a lot, sometimes it looks like he is conducting the philharmonic. He must be constantly forgetting and rediscovering that the things waving around in front of his face are hands that belong to him, and that he controls them. That's always good for a laugh.

Both of their faces are really expressive, at least once a day they make a really funny face. Z is like one of those Precious Moments characters, her eyes seem like they're too big for her face, but in a good way that just draws you in; they're so bright they almost sparkle. I have to confess that when she looks up at me and her eyes seem to say, "Thanks dad, I love you", I sort of melt a little bit. Anyone with half a heart would obviously miss that feeling.

E sometimes lets out this single burst of a cry when he's frustrated, it's really more cute than it is annoying. I might miss that. He also has this smile where only the left side of his mouth turns upward, as if he just thought of something real funny. That's pretty stinkin' cute, I will miss that.

Perhaps there are things that I will miss, assuming the sleepless nights don't send me to the sweet rest of the grave prematurely.

Just a little off the top

I am so excited to have a son. Can I just say that? Seriously, I can't wait to play football with him, teach him some submission grappling, make him mow the yard and trim the hedges, etc. So high was my excitement level over having a son, that I thought it would be only fitting to accompany him to the operating room on his second night in the hospital as he underwent the right of passage we men refer to as Circumcision. **Warning** for those of you who are a little squeamish when it comes to talking about sensitive biological matters, you may want to forgo this particular posting.

cir·cum·ci·sion
noun
1 : the act of circumcising: a : the cutting off of the foreskin of the males that is practiced as a religious rite by Jews and Muslims and as a sanitary measure in modern surgery

The second night of our stay in the hospital, the doctor saunters into our room on her nightly rounds through the hospital. She asks if we'd like to go ahead and get E circumcised tonight? We didn't have a lot going on so we said sure. Being a proud father, I agreed to accompany my boy back to the operating table. I believed that this wasn't something he should have to go through by himself. On some level I also thought that this would be a great sort of "male bonding" experience together. Future fathers be advised, if you would like to bond with your son...take him fishing, wrestle with him, in fact do anything other than escorting him to a room where a doctor will cut the tip of his penis off. Trust me, there are better ways to bond with your child and better memories to be had.

And now, a history lesson. The institution of circumcision was established when God told Abram that in order for He and his descendants to be God's chosen people, the 'ol foreskin-trim was going to have to be a part of the deal.

Genesis 17: 9-12 This is my covenant with you and your descendants after you, the covenant you are to keep: Every male among you shall be circumcised. 11 You are to undergo circumcision, and it will be the sign of the covenant between me and you. 12 For the generations to come every male among you who is eight days old must be circumcised, including those born in your household or bought with money from a foreigner—those who are not your offspring.

Abram had to go and tell his people this lovely little tid-bit, I imagine that had to be a pretty hard sell.
Abram speaks up after dinner. "OK everyone I have an announcement. I talked to Yahweh this morning...he says hello by the way. Anyway, the good news is He's really keen on us being His chosen people, the bad news is it's going to involve some minor surgery for us guys."
"What kind of surgery?" Ira Goldberg asks from the back of the room.
"It's nothing really, we just have to cut our foreskins off, oh and also I don't think were going to be able to eat bacon." Abram tries to gloss over the details.
"Wait a minute, what was that?" Morty Weinstein interjects.
"Yeah I know, no bacon. That really sucks."
"No, no the part before that."
"Oh right, the foreskin thing...I thought that was kind of weird too at first, but...you know, He's God so..." Abram explains. Like I said, a tough sell.

But I digress.

I carried E back to the operating room, I could tell by the look in his eyes, he knew something was up. The overhead florescent lights gave off an unnatural light as they sang their humming song. The doctor placed E down in a chair like contraption that I’m pretty sure was loosely modeled after the middle-ages torture device called the iron maiden. After strapping his head and all "five" of his other appendages down with Velcro straps, doc began to prepare a litany of stainless steel objects many of which resembled the middle-ages torture devices known as thumbscrews. I was beginning to see a theme. Now that I think about it, the whole scene played out like one of those action movies where the hero gets captured by the terrorists, and they take him into an interrogation cell that has a single light bulb hanging above a wooden chair. Then the terrorist says something like, "We have ways to make you talk." as he slowly unwraps a small collection of sharp metal tools. I halfway expected our doctor to bust out some sodium pentothal, and try to coerce E into divulging his secrets from the womb.

Here's an interesting detail, until recently the only pain reliever our doctor used for this procedure was...a pacifier dipped in sugar water. What!!!! If you are going to cut into my son's member, you better be dipping his pacifier in something a little more substantial, like Oxycodone or Ketamine. Thankfully doc had enough foresight to include some injections of a numbing agent in addition to the sugar water. With all the gentleness of a Mafia hitman, the doctor began giving a series of three or four shots directly into my son's penis. E momentarily began shrieking like a mad banshee, I proceeded to black out briefly.

I came to my senses and assured the medical team that I was fine. The look in their eyes led me to believe that I probably looked as queasy as I felt. "Are you Ok?" the doctor asked. I was having hot flashes, dizzy spells, and my legs felt like I was cruising the high seas on the Black Pearl, "aye aye Capn' Sparrow!" I barked at the doctor. "Let's get him a chair" was her response.

Having allowed some time for the local anesthetic to kick in, the doctor began to prepare the child's groinal region. She placed E's "man tackle" into a device that looked like a cross between a Pez dispenser and a cigar cutter. I find it ironic that fathers traditionally hand out cigars to their fellow male friends and family members at the birth of their sons. Not coincidentally has this tradition died down since fathers have been allowed to watch the circumcision procedure.

The details of the circumcision are somewhat vague in my memory. I believe that this is due to my post traumatic stress and the measures my mind took to protect itself. However there are certain images that have been burned into the limbic region of my brain, consequently I have a recurring nightmare where I am holding E in my arms running through a field as we are chased by the doctor whose eyes are full of malcontent as she wields a small French Revolution era Guillotine.

As far as the procedure goes, I seem to remember a stretching of skin, the use of scissors to cut the skin, a disk like device that used a twisting motion to strip the skin, a peeling back of the skin, & finally some clamping of the skin. At one point I found myself involuntarily crossing my legs, as I vicariously felt the pain that E had to be enduring. The doctor tried to make small talk with me, presumably because she could see that my flesh was taking on a sort of green tone and my eyes were rolling back into my head. On the verge of passing out I muttered "Now's not a real good time doc," as I cupped my crotch and keeled over. As the doctor finished up the circumcision there was a lot of screaming in the air, I can only imagine the sounds had to be similar to those on the battlefield at Gettysburg. Cries of pain and anguish rang out in that small room, however the doctor politely asked me to quiet down and gather myself. When I dried my eyes I saw that E was more or less unaffected by the torturous dealings doc had dished out. He was contentedly sucking on his pacifier and looking about the room.

It was hard to change E's diaper for about a week as he healed up. The skin around his "area" was pink and raw, and I felt nauseous every time I looked at it. However, three and a half weeks removed from the event, E seems to have healed up nicely. Our pediatrician says the circumcision looks good, and per my inquiry, doesn't believe E has suffered any long term emotional damage brought on by the ordeal.

I still look forward to teaching my boy to catch a football, how to properly submit an opponent with a kimura, how to shave, tie a tie and play a G chord on the guitar. So, I guess all's well that ends well. If I have another son, I don't know if I will watch him get circumcised. It's too soon to tell whether or not my fragile mind is capable of withstanding another round. If I do indeed have to witness this rite of passage again, I can assure you that I will be heavily sedated.

The insomniac texts, 1st entry

Sept 5th, 3:27 am.

I am currently on my 43rd hour of not sleeping since bringing our newborn children home from the hospital. Tired...so tired. The sounds of my children squeaking and squawking fill the air; they are incessant. Helpless though they may be, their whimpering has kept me awake for longer than my mind can bare. Unsure of what is reality and what is merely a sleep deprived hallucination, I drift to the kitchen stopping only to say hello to the leprechaun burying his treasures beneath the tile in our hallway. As I open the refrigerator, a light bulb goes off in my head. I make a note so I won't forget my brilliant idea later, "solar powered cow" I scribble on the notepad magnetically clinging to our fridge. Upon further review, I'm unsure what this means, but assume I will figure it out tomorrow.

Right now I need something...but what? Fruit Loops! Toucan Sam stares at me from the back of the cereal box, "Do this cross word puzzle" he beckons me. I stare at his first clue, "A _____ a day keeps the Dr. away" 5 letters. I should know this. It's there on the outer rim of my consciousness... but I cannot recall it from the nether regions of my memory.

Tired...so tired.

The cereal loving cartoon Bird is smiling, his multi-colored beak is mocking me. His lifeless eyes seem to speak to me saying, "Bawk! I can sleep whenever I want to, stupid human. Bawk!".

"You will pay for this Toucan! I will empty this box in a days time!" I exclaim aloud. Too loud. The children stir in their sleep, I fear I may have awoken them and further delayed my chances of ever falling asleep.

I hold my breath and dare not move for fear of making a sound and waking the children fully. "Lub dub, lub dub", I can hear my heart pounding in my head. Can the children hear it as well? Every sound in the house is amplified. Please God don't let them wake up yet, I need to sleep, I will do anything, please!

Tired...so tired.

The children begin to stir. "Blast!" I shout under my breath. I run to their bed side, and begin to sing Brahms lullaby to them. Unsure of the actual words, I make them up as I go. "Go to sleep, Go to sleep, Go to sleep little babies. You are sleepy, freaking sleepy, Toucan Sam is a jerk." Slowly the children's breathing settles, they shift ever so slightly and fall back asleep. Exhaling stealthily, I lay my head on the floor and sing Brahms lullaby to myself.

Tired...so tired. Drowsily the room around me begins to fade. Miraculously, I slip away into REM sleep. I dream of hunting the Toucan with my new found friend the leprechaun. I am awoken a mere three and a half minutes later to the piercing shrieks of my kids crying for food. Noooooooooo!!!

Tired...so tired.

My Wife the Cyborg

First off for those of you who haven't been to Comic Con, don't generally recognize Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings trilogy as the greatest cinematic achievement of all time, or have no idea what a Graphic Novel is; I should probably explain what a Cyborg is because you clearly don't speak Geek.

Cy-borg (sigh-bore-g) noun: Cybernetic Organism, a person whose physiological functioning is aided by or dependent upon a mechanical or electronic device, i.e half-man/ half-machine. As made popular by Arnold Schwarzenegger's portrayal of the Terminator in James Cameron's Film of the same name.

I don't know how my wife does it. "It" meaning, finding the energy to selflessly take care of the kids, a home, and a husband, all the while staying beautiful, energetic, and fun. I'm amazed, and frankly a little suspicious.

During our postpartum stay in the hospital, I slept in our little room on a fold out chair. The chair provided very little in the way of comfort, or a solid night's rest. At best I was drifting in and out of sleepy town. Due to the lack of sleep and it's effects on my cognitive state, I can neither confirm nor deny the possibility that my wife was either: A. replaced by a Cyborg replica; or B. possibly outfitted with complex cybernetic technologies.

Before you jump to any conclusions about my sanity, and start saying things like; "that's a little far fetched Josh " or "sounds like science fiction to me Josh" or "You've read to many comic books because you have no life or friends and you spend too many weekends at home like a loser playing role-playing games like Settlers of Cattan with the few geeky friends you do have Josh, and it has clearly gone to your head and now you are creating some weird fantasy movie for you to play out." Allow me to make my case.

My reasons for questioning Jami's possible Cybernetic persona are three fold:

1. Jami has managed to consistently and routinely feed the twins almost every 2 hours since we got home from the hospital. When She isn't feeding she methodically works her way through a series of routines that include, pumping, doing laundry, vacuuming, and wiping things down in our house in an effort to keep our home clean and tidy. She does all of this without complaint, and still contends that she loves me; even though I'm incapable of noticing when the laundry could be washed, when the vacuum could be run, when the bathroom mirror could use a little Windex love, or when I complain about getting up at 3am to feed our helpless children who are a gift from God.

2. Jami has gotten exactly 34 minutes of sleep in the 3 weeks we've been home from the hospital, yet she is still stunningly beautiful and has tons of energy.

3. In the middle of the night I stumble groggily out of bed to the whimpering sounds of our children slowly waking from their restful sleep, to find that Jami has already stepped up and started feeding them, while simultaneously reading them a story and baking cookies. Her hair is in pristine condition her clothes are immaculate and she has a smile on from ear to ear.

This is not normal. At least it's not normal for humans, however this seems like quite the typical behavior for cyborgs. When you've eliminated all other possible alternatives, whatever is left no matter how illogical, must be true. My wife is obviously a cyborg. I am left with no other option but to covertly stockpile weapons and establish an evacuation plan for me and the children, in the event that, God forbid, my beautiful cyborg goes haywire. A rogue cyborg is not to trifled with, if you don't believe me watch the Terminator I & II.

It's Game Time part 2

Before we go any further, let's back up to about week 31 of Jami's pregnancy. Our doctor told us to go to the hospital because we thought Jami was going into pre-term labor, due to the fact that she had more than 6 "contractions" in an hour. Whatever those symptoms she was having, I have a hard time calling them contractions.

Back to the birth story. As we sat in triage, Jami was experiencing the grandeur of real contractions. The difference between the contractions of 31 weeks, and her current contractions was significant to say the least. Her previous "contractions" were almost ticklish compared to what she was now experiencing. Jami said it felt like a really intense and painful version of abdominal crunches that one might do to tone one's midsection. Judging by her reaction when the contractions hit, it looked more like doing a crunch whilst being tortured by a electrocution device made from a converted car battery and a piece of chain link fence in some Vietnamese POW camp; I kept waiting for Jami to answer any questions I might have had by repeating only her name, rank, and social security number.
"How are you feeling babe?"
"Private first class, Jami L. Cecil, 318-49-1234!"
"Can I get you some ice water?"
"Private first class, Jami L. Cecil, 318-49-1234!"

If you've ever seen a woman have contractions, you know that they come in waves. You also know that it's obvious when she's having one. She has a sort of distant stare, as if she's remembering a far off time when she thought getting pregnant would be a wonderfully beautiful experience. If you've ever seen a woman have contractions, you also know NOT to ask her questions or take her picture. She can't answer your questions because contractions literally take her breath away. She doesn't want her picture taken because she believes you are in some way making light of her current painful state, which YOU are responsible for. Since I had never had the pleasure of witnessing contractions before, these realities were unknown to me. I was taking pictures like Ansel Adams, until Jami gently asked me to cease and desist.
"DO NOT TAKE MY PICTURE RIGHT NOW!" she said in a guttural voice several octaves below her normal pitch. I was half-way expecting her to start speaking in Latin, and for her head to begin spinning around. I was reaching for some Holy water just in case this whole pregnancy thing was just a ruse and I actually needed to do an emergency exorcism.
"The power of Christ compels you." I said under my breath.

Eventually our doctor stopped by to tell us that we could go ahead and do the C-section at 12:30, which was a little less than two hours away. I was conflicted, three emotions were stirred up within me.

1. Joy. My little guys were almost here! I have been waiting so long, imagining what they would look like and what it would feel like to hold them.
2. Empathy. I felt really bad for Jami, she was clearly in a lot of pain. I wanted to be able to take it all away from her.
3. But also...Fear. I felt woefully unprepared to be a father in less than two hours. Shouldn't we wait a bit longer? I mean that's only thirty minutes after lunch, I seem to remember something about not going swimming for at least twenty minutes after you eat; I can only imagine that something as immense as giving birth would require at least a two week waiting period following a noon time meal. Let's just slow down there doc.

From about 11:30 till about 12:30 when we were moved from triage to the delivery room, life sort of got blurry. Probably because my world was spinning at a pace akin to those contraptions astronauts find themselves spinning in for gravity defying training purposes.

We arrived in the delivery area, where Jami and I had to part ways momentarily. The nurses took Jami back to prep her for surgery, which included the much needed spinal anesthetic that would help Jami's labor pains evaporate. I was given some materials to wear over my clothes so as not to contaminate the sterile environment of the delivery room.

I opened the package I was given, inside I found what I at first thought was a "Haz-mat suit". Between my frazzled nerves, and the intricate structure of the suit I had to wear over my street clothes, it took roughly 45 minutes and the help of two nurses, a physical therapist, and a hip-replacement patient that had just come out of surgery to help me into my new duds. I had my booties on, my jumpsuit zipped up, a mask pulled taught against my face and a lovely hospital-blue hair net to cap off the ensemble.

Trying to calm myself down, I paced back and forth across the hospital room stopping repeatedly to sanitize my hands with the foam dispenser attached to the wall. Left, right, left, right, left, right, turn; left, right, left, right, left, right, sanitize. I was like a germ-a-phobic Buckingham palace guard with OCD. My routine was finally broken when the nurse came back to get me and bring me in to the delivery area.

Jami was sprawled out and strapped down to the operating table. The doctors had set up a base camp comprised of a tent of blue sterile napkins covering the lower half of Jami's body. Her belly was rising up from the middle of the sanitary blue ocean like a Leviathan out of the deep sea.

I've heard many a person say that watching the birth of their child was one of the most beautiful events they'd ever witnessed. I'm not sure what program they were watching, but it can't have been the same thing I saw. What my eyes were privy to, was a cacophony of violence and a menagerie of bodily fluids. It began with a thick coat of rust tinted iodine slathered across my wife's stomach. With the skill of a samurai, the doctor took her scalpel and made a careful and precise incision just below my wife's waistline; that was the last I saw of anything I would classify as skillful, careful, or precise.

The doctor and her cohort maneuvered both of their hands on either side of the gap the incision had made. They proceeded to lean back with all their weight, tearing the gap and the tissue beneath even wider. It looked like they were having a tug-o-war using my wife's abdomen for a rope. Once the exit wound was wide enough, the team of doctors and nurses began the process of securing the portal from which the babies would be brought forth; this included a lot of clamping, sucking, and more tugging. As the queasiness began to rise up inside of me, the surgical team began to stuff a giant hoop inside the hatch they had carved into my wife's belly. I proceeded to throw up a bit in my mouth. I was later told that the hoop was a gentler way of performing a C-section which allowed them to not take several major organs out including the uterus. My thought is: if this is a newer gentler way, what did the old way look like?
"Nurse hand me my field knife, and give the patient a stick to bite down on...this is gonna get messy." said the doctor in the movie that was playing in my mind's eye.

The doctor said something to the effect of are you ready, and plunged her hands into the cavity in my wife's midsection. When she withdrew her hands there was a tiny human head gripped between them. I can remember a Christmas when I was young and my cousin let me hold her new baby at grandma's house, my mother kept cautioning me to be gentle and support the baby's head and neck. You can imagine my horror then, when this medical professional was yanking and twisting my offspring out of their womb...by the neck!

My first thought when I saw my children for the first time was pure joy! They were finally here, with me and their momma. The whole moment was surreal, and a tear welled up in my eye. Once I caught my breath, I realized that my children were beautiful yes, but...also kind of gross. They were covered in goop, had a blueish gray pigmentation, and heads that were seemingly too big for their little bodies; but mostly covered in goop. Let me reiterate, that when the doctor presented my children to me fresh out of the womb, they were beautiful yes; however I did want to ask the doctor, "Hey doc, you're gonna clean those up before you hand em over to me right?"

Thankfully the answer was yes. Once the kids were pulled from whence they came, the medical team quickly took them over to little stations set up in the room. As I followed the flurry of action, I saw people poking, prodding, wiping and weighing my babies. Excitement and emotion grew inside me, I can't believe these are mine. When the doctor finally told me I could touch them, I was overwhelmed. I extended my finger and touched my daughter's hand, to my amazement she gripped it and squeezed. Inside I melted, and decided as soon as I got a chance I would get on the internet and buy my little girl a pony. Seeing my children grab hold of daddy's finger was one of greatest moments of my life.

After Jami was sewed up and cleaned up, the babies got to meet their momma. To see the love in her eyes as she met the children she had been carrying for 9 months was another of the greatest moments of my life. I have a new appreciation for my wife; what she is capable of, her unconditional love, and her selflessness amaze me.

So there we were, Mom and dad; with our babies 50% me and 50% her. We were a family for the first time. My heart was, and is...full.

It's Game Time part 1

8:45 am- Wednesday morning, I'm sipping down the last few drops of my coffee getting ready to head in to work. I was thinking about how my day was going to look, when my beautiful wife sticks her head around the corner and says, "I should warn you, I think I'm leaking."

My first thought, "Leaking? Humans don't leak."
"I don't know if that means my water has broke or not." Jami elaborated.

Understand that this is a lot to take in before having a full cup of coffee, I'm still a little groggy and zombie-like at this point. Jami tells me she'll keep me posted on her plumbing issues as I head out the door and off to work, my mind never really registering the weight of her words.

10:15 am- I'm sitting behind my desk typing some emails, when my phone rings. "My water's broke, they want me to come in." Jami said rather bluntly.
"Who is this?" I offered.

The oxygen level in the office immediately drops by 82%. My saliva glands unanimously agree that it would be in everybody's best interest to stop working, and my mouth feels like I just had a snack of cotton balls, sand, and crackers. Adrenaline releases into the bloodstream, which tailspins me into hyper-alert mode. Unfortunately, though I'm hyper-alert, I have no real direction; as such, I'm kind of like a crazed lumberjack lost in the woods hacking his way through the forest cutting down a lot of trees but not really getting anywhere.

10:17 am- In a moment of clarity, I realize that I should probably pick Jami up, seeing as she is the one carrying the children in her womb. I make it from my desk to the driver's seat of the Pontiac Vibe in just three strides. (note to self: Check with Guiness Book of World records to see if I've set a new land speed record...will probably need to measure distance)

I take off in the Vibe, and reach 80 mph before I've even left the parking lot. A slew of injured critters, and possibly a sweet elderly woman in a motorized cart, mark the trail I blazed back to my house; they should've seen me coming...I had my hazard lights on.

I make it home in just under 13 seconds. I walk in the door and see Jami is comforting the dog, or maybe it was the other way around, I didn't stop to ask. I hurdled both dog and spouse, head to the bedroom to pack my bag; socks...check, underwear...check, sweatpants...check, t-shirts...check, jeans...check, toiletries...check. For some reason I ask Jami if I should pack my bathing suit? Not sure what I was thinking there, perhaps I might have time for a leisurely swim before we bring two new lives into the world.

I stuff my items into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I race out into the hall, I pick Jami up in a fireman's carry and sprint towards the car. I throw Jami into the car, and realize that in my haste I accidentally picked up Bailey our Golden Retriever. I go back into the house with dog, exchange her for the wife, she refuses to be carried, I still have no saliva and can't seem to get enough O2 into my system. I'm trying to stay composed so I don't panic Jami, inside I'm a hot mess and I'm afraid it's starting to show.

10:20 am- With 2 car seats, a double stroller, breast pump, diaper bag, mom's bag, my bag, and my contracting wife in tow; I pull out of the drive way and make a B-line towards the hospital. The sound of steadied breathing filled the car. Breathe in 2, 3, 4...out 2, 3, 4. I talked myself through these ancient breathing techniques desperately trying to calm myself down, Jami was having a pleasant conversation on the phone.

10:21 am-We pulled into the hospital, I parked in the closest space available. As I ushered Jami from the car, I struggled to swallow because my saliva had yet to make its trumphant return. Voices were shouting at me from every direction, confusing me. I was unsure which voice to listen to.
"Sir you can't park here!"
"Sir you need to move your car immediately!"
"Sir this zone is for ambulances only, you're blocking an emergency lane!"

With squealing tires, I started to take off towards more civilian type parking. Jami's contractions were picking up in intenstiy, so she serenely suggested I drop her off out front; as serenely as a woman can be when she has a vice grip around her husbands throat. I dropped Jami off and moved my car to the next closest parking space, conveniently located in the long term parking lot several miles from any entrance. As I rode the tram back to the hospital's main entrance, I sounded the alarm to alert the media that I was about to become a father. Two mass texts to our friends; and a phone call to mom and dad, "come on if, you're comin!", was all my saliva deprived mouth could say. I stood before the entrance of Clarian Hospital, like Frodo before the gates of Mordor, I knew my life was about to be radically changed.

to be continued...

Safety in number$

Let's talk a bit about the baby product industry, by talk I mean rant. I feel as though someone out there in the consumer research world decided that there was a huge opportunity to make a little cash if they could convince parents that the health and safety of their infant children were at a great and immediate risk.

We were in the process of researching and purchasing car seats, and by we, I of course mean my wife. At some point in her research she informed me that the car seats needed to be installed by a professionally trained and certified car seat installation person. Thankfully we have a friend from church who is certified and offered to do this for us for free. My mind began to race; in the sort of lethargic yet scattered manner it races towards one tangent after another. What if we didn't have a friend at church who was nice enough to install our car seats? Please step with me into the randomness, that I call my thoughts...

Tangent 1: Wait a minute, why do car seats need to be installed by someone who is certified? If installed improperly will my children fly through the windshield when I roll to a halt at a four-way stop?

Tangent 2: Besides our church friend, who else is certified? If not for our friend, who would I get to install the car seats? Is there someone who can do that at the hospital? That seems like a logical idea. Have your babies then pull your car around to the maintenance garage and our certified technician will professionally install your seats. Parents exclaim, "Thank God you're here, I was worried I'd have to do that myself, in the comfort of my own home...where I put together all the other toys, chairs, and various other items that my child will occupy"

Tangent 2b: What an odd job to have...
"What do you do for a living?"
"I work at the hospital."
"Oh, are you a doctor?"
"No I install car seats for new parents, I'm certified."

Tangent 3: My wife informs me that firemen are certified as well. So, do I just stop by a firehouse then?
"Sir, can we help you?"
"Yes, I have an emergency! It's ok though, tell your boys to kill the sirens, and there's no need to suit up for this one. I just need you to install my car seats. You are certified correct?"

Tangent 4: How does one become certified? Is there a class? A written test, and a practical test? It seems as though if someone just showed you how to do it once...you could consider yourself certified.

Tangent 5: What tools are required for a secure and proper installation? Obviously you need a laser level, some vice grips, a pair of needle nose pliers; and I would think that a Sham-wow, though not necessary would be a convenient resource to have on hand.

I asked my parents what they did in the days before we as a society realized that we needed to make certain that our car seats were properly installed. They informed me that they didn't have a car seat. What!

Then I realized, there was a time when parents weren't hyper-protective, and weren't scared that if their child fell down and bumped its head they would incur intense physical and emotional harm; the likes of which would result in their stunted growth.

Somebody in the baby safety industry is making a lot of moolah, off of us sucker newbie parents. Do you realize that there are companies that you can pay to come in and "baby-proof" your home? This consists of them plugging plastic covers into you outlets, and hooking your kitchen drawers and cabinets in such a way, so that your children can't pinch their little digits, but you can still get to your cereal when you need to.

I 'm pretty sure that if these same companies were to come to my childhood home, they would've called CPS to take me and my brother into protective custody; consequently the state would have condemned the house. I distinctly remember that we had an old TV that was concealed inside an all wood chassis that weighed in the neighborhood of 700 pounds. Said TV was deftly balanced on a dinner tray that was missing a bolt, though I'm pretty sure the bolt was non-weight bearing. Every time the air conditioning kicked on the TV would sway ever so subtly. Thankfully it was held up by the frayed electric cord used to power this marvelous appliance. The cord itself was plugged in to an outlet that was also occupied by at least 6 other appliances of various shapes and sizes. The outlet was conveniently located on the opposite side of the room. In fact, in order to go to the kitchen you had pass the agility test of stepping over the cord. Some would call the sparks that the cord emitted upon the changing of TV channels, a fire hazard, we considered them more of a means of entertainment during commercials. All that being said, my parents, my brother, or myself never considered ourselves in any danger. Even as my brother and I sprawled out underneath the shaky shadow of our ancient entertainment system, and turned the knob that surfed through all 6 stations...with our feet.

That's all for now, I have to go let the baby-proofers in, they charge by the hour.

in the begining...

I thought that when it got closer to the babies coming, I would have this sense of completion or wholeness. This Friday will be 37 weeks, essentially full term for twins. This morning I realized that there was still no sense of wholeness. "What's wrong with me?" I contemplated over my morning coffee. Soon I will have my own family, complete with a beautiful wife; a boy and a girl; a spectacular, albeit, dumb golden retriever; a cat who is as apathetic to my existence as I am to his; a lovely well furnished home that is equipped with cable TV and wireless high speed internet; a gas guzzling SUV that I have convinced myself is not a desperate attempt at a cooler version of a mini-van, and a small sport-wagon, which is totally different than a station wagon.

What else do I need to fill that small pit of loneliness and despair that has taken up residence in my heart? Then it occurred to me, "oh right, a blog!" It was so obvious I'm surprised it took me that long to see it. Of course! A blog would give me that sense of completeness I so yearned for. Finally a way for friends, family, or complete strangers to stay up to date with the goings on of me and my family. As I looked into it, I even discovered that it is, in fact, a law that; if you live in the suburbs, have at least one child, have bought groceries from Whole Foods on at least one occasion, and/or you are involved in selling "all-natural" health and beauty products from a company that sets itself up in a pyramid like structure; you are legally required to have a blog about your family. That law may only be enforced in Hamilton county, I'm not sure.

So, if you're hearing a sound of rushing wind right now, don't panic. It is simply the sound of my blog filling the vast void that used to exist in our world; before I created a space on the internet where you, the reader, could come and get your heroin-like fix of my family's most recent pictures, videos, and stories. So check back often because if you read it here, it saves me a phone conversation later. Also, I'm told that besides this blog, there are also "websites" on the "internet" that feature stories about politics, global affairs, economic news, and other "important" things. You might want to check those out, after you read my latest blog entry of course.

The babies are coming soon, so stay tuned for pictures of the kiddos, tales of fatherhood and play-dates, & of course poop stories and their affect on my aversion to feces and the very strong gag reflex that I posses. It's the adventures of the Cecil family...possibly the most important site on the internet.