I do so very much want to continue with this. Changes will be forthcoming.
However, so much has happened that people NEED to know, if for nothing else than to completely embarrass my children twenty years down the road. I predict that blogs will be akin to family slide shows. Your girlfriend comes over to the house and your parents whip out the projector and the documentation of your trip to Disney when you were five.
“And here’s one of little Scotty throwing up all over the Teacup Ride. He wet his pants shortly after this. Isn’t he cute?”
That didn’t actually happen to me. I was citing a theoretical example. You know, for clarity.
In that vein, I propose to do more damage to my children’s psyches in the next five years than all the naked trips to the unlit, unheated basement could ever do.
That didn’t actually happen either. I was citing another example.
I recounted for you a few days ago the ongoing saga of our trials and tribulations in getting the twins to go to bed in a halfway normalized fashion. Just what does tribulations mean anyway? Let’s Google.
Jesus, Lord Almighty. Literally.
Unlike what I originally thought, it has nothing to do with Tribbles. Personally, I would have believed you if you had told me that tribulation was the act of Tribbles copulating. Don’t know what a Tribble is? Google it. I’m too tired to embed the link.
Tribulation: A period, generally thought to be seven years, in which the Antichrist comes to power, and the world is destroyed by war, disease, rampant crime, earthquakes, and other nastiness. The Tribulation is supposed to take place immediately before Christ's Millennium.
You know, if the twins don’t start going to bed without a fight soon, I might be inclined to believe that definition.
So the other night, I decided to take the proverbial bull by the horns and make a preemptive strike against their resistance network. Immediately after putting both Noah and Aidan in their beds and under their covers, I forced them to get up, and marched them into the bathroom. One of their best methods for prolonging bedtime has been to wait five to ten minutes after we turn the lights out, and then scream, “I have to pee!!!!!!” until the structural framing of the house reverberates in a harmonic that I am convinced will eventually cause its collapse.
I, being the super-smart All-Father, hatched the brilliant idea to make them go before they had the opportunity to utter a word.
Aidan stepped up onto the helper stool, and like a minor leaguer at the plate in the big leagues for the first time, immediately got stage fright, hopped down, and was sent packing back to his bed.
Noah’s turn then came around. Up he went. Down came the pants. And the pee? Not a drop. Noah clearly looked disappointed. Whether this was because his plans had been thwarted or because he actually wanted to pee, I don’t know. But his words will echo in my brain for all eternity.
“There’s no pee, Daddy. This penis is empty.”