A day off, with twins - Column

At four o'clock one recent morning, as I was walking laps around my house with my new twin sons Liam and Joseph on my shoulders, trying to induce the boys to belch, I noticed a car sliding backwards down our hill. Then I noticed that the hill was covered with snow. There was a great deal of snow. This is a rare event in our wet Oregon valley, and it would, I knew, shut down the town. As I watched the car slide slowly out of sight, I realized that (a) I could not get to work, (b) I could let my wife sleep, (c) I was on duty all day.

Out of a writer's itch to record, and the need to tell the world how very bizarre a day with newborn twins can be, I decided to keep a running account.

Five A.M.: Still can't get over snowfall. Shocking event. Snow falling silently in gobs the size of cats. Sight reminds me of James Joyce--doesn't Joyce end a story that way? Shuffle over the bookshelf, leaving Joseph on the couch, carting Liam under my arm. Ah, yes, "The Dead," in Dubliners: "...snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead." Great ending. Liam belches--another great ending. This means he can be rolled up in his blankets like a pink cigar and stashed in the bassinet. I head for a couch to nap. Joe begins to cry. The prospect of a nap falls away faintly, faintly falling.

Six A.M.: Joe still crying. He began with a whimper and built up to an operatic series of screams and wails. I put a Puccini tape on very softly; Joe likes opera and is sometimes settled by it. He simply picks up his pace and drowns out Kiri Te Kanawa. Probably never been done before. I give up and get bottle ready. Liam sleeping like tree. Boy can sleep through anything. I envy him; it would be a great pleasure to have enormous hands come out of the sky and wrap me up in blankets and put me to sleep.

Eight A.M.: Liam sleeping like log, rock, mountain. Joe wide awake. Guzzled entire bottle in two minutes. Has not yet belched and is squirming uncomfortably. Have exhausted Puccini, Verdi, Vivaldi; am moving into jazz. Joseph doesn't like jazz much. Tough. I like jazz.

Nine A.M.: Joe asleep, Liam awake, their sister Lily, age three, calling from upstairs: "Dad, I have to go to the bathroom." Construct wall of pillows around Joe on couch and then grab Liam like football and shuffle upstairs. On the way pass master bedroom, tell lovely exhausted wife that she's off duty, I'm home for day. "I love you when you're home," she says, and disappears back into blankets.

Ten A.M.: Both boys awake and yowling. Lily watching "Sesame Street," eating a banana and two cookies for breakfast. Lily loves it when dad makes breakfast. She is seated in tiny rocking chair, covered with blanket, clutching bear. Theme song comes on; Lily sings along. Appears to know some thirty characters and actors by name. Dad resolves to write love letter to Jim Henson. Good man--made my daughter happy. Remember that Henson is dead. Resolve to pray for him, poor man.

Noon: Lily eating banana and cookies for lunch. Wife in shower. Both boys asleep on dad, who is still in robe and slippers. Boys arranged in such a way that dad can with great difficulty open the sports section of the paper. Can only get to one page, though--the agate type, results of games, lineups. Good enough. Read with interest. Results sound familiar--check date and paper. Paper ten days old. Sigh. Nothing to be done; keep reading paper. Section mostly Oregon high school football results. Hey, Klamath Falls won! Wonder where exactly Klamath Falls is. Resolve to find out someday.

Two P.M.: Shower. Bliss. Wonder what genius invented shower. Resolve to find out someday. Stay in shower almost until...

Three P.M.: Wife feeds boys, who sprawl on the bed in milky stupor. Wife and daughter go out to play in snow, build snowman, etc. "Boys should be asleep for quite a while," says wife. Door closes with a click. Boys snap awake and stare at me.

Five P.M.: Joseph imitating airplane on takeoff; I put on Don Giovanni, he falls asleep like a stone. Brief prayer for soul of Mozart. Great guy died young. Had sons, I think. Wonder what he played for them? Resolve to find out someday. Mozart's sons remind me that Shakespeare had twins. Wonder when he found time to write.

Seven P.M.: Dinner--yesterday's chicken, two rubbery carrots, what appears to be a zucchini, three green beans. Steam everything in sight and then mix with pasta. Result presentable. Thank stars for pasta. Wonder briefly who invented pasta. Boys howling in bedroom; upon checking, discover wife changing one and juggling other. Pause in action for kiss; wife's face so lovely and tired that I open best bottle of wine in the house and put it by her plate. Lily busily eating banana and cookies for dinner.

Nine P.M.: Lily in bed, wife in bed, boys asleep for the moment; lock up house, turn out lights, adjust thermostat, stare out window. It has begun to rain, and the snow is slowly sliding down the hill. Realize that I will have to go to work tomorrow. Work never seemed easier; no one cries at work. Realize with surprise that I will miss the lovely funny chaos of day at home with wife and chidren. Realize that I love them with inarticulate, ferocious love. Filled with joy, briefly ponder staying up to read like a mature normal curious man of letters, get grip on reality, resolve to get into bed and snatch half hour of sleep, and...

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