Christmas 2008

Amongst our own household there is serious misunderstanding about the Advent.  The problem surfaced the other day when Jeremy stated that Santa Clause would be holding baby Jesus in the Christmas parade, and continued when we learned that baby Jesus’ parents were Merry and Pippin, and he came so that he could turn into bread.  Also the real Santa Clause lives in Ventura.  Parenting is hard.

 Here are some stories that don’t make us look as bad:

 Molly, in her pursuit to begin every word with the letter H, can say Hmismas.  Others include:  Hammy (friend Tammy), Hama (Grandma), Heemup Heemup (Clean up) and HimHuit (Swimsuit.)  Molly accomplishes what she sees fit with nonchalant determination.  She assumes that she also is 4 and will enjoy the benefits whether we provide them or not. Yet she waddles over with her torso twisting, arm- waving walk to snuggle the way only a squishy 1 and a half-year-old can.  I was warned I would be wrapped around her finger.  While I am not trying very hard to avoid that, she does make it easy.

 Ian looked forward all year to being four, because we flippantly told him he could have gum when he was four.  The first words out of his mouth on his birthday after we said Happy Birthday to him in bed were “Can I have gum?”  We are never sure which of our comments will make an impact.  Our requests to get in the car, for instance, do not.  At all.  On the other hand when Megan off -handedly said that most 4 year olds don’t suck their thumbs because it can make their teeth crooked, he quit cold turkey.  Only once, crying at his inability to self-soothe, did he mention that he didn’t want to have crazy teeth.  Poor boy.

 Jeremy in his passion for art and music drew an anatomically correct picture of daddy to share with his preschool teachers.  I expected an intervention from CPS, so being a man of honor I planned to discreetly recycle it immediately. Instead it has garnered much praise from the critics so it is hung with great pride on the refrigerator with all of your Christmas cards.  Jeremy also let us know that dragon’s don’t celebrate Christmas because they would scare Baby Jesus.

 Megan says funny stuff too but not in the same way.  It turns out we are having our 4^th child in May.  Turns out is what you say when you want to imply that you were not fully responsible or aware of something. But it turns out that we are both. Being pregnant is cute the first time, annoying the second, and funny the 3^rd The things that come out of tired, pregnant women’s mouths can be quite funny; Unfortunately unrepeatable.   This all amounts to us having 4 kids 4 and under, which seems stupid; But in a joyful kind of way. While we always wanted 4, we were never quite ready to live up to the reality of a new infant.  Family planning is funny.  We are still working on the planning part.

 The ways that I am  growing and changing are neither funny nor interesting.   But I will say this. This year more than before, we love Christmas.  I am sad for it’s ending before it even begins.  I love pine trees in my living room, bare trees in our back yard, excuses to eat Christmas treats.  I love putting together toys in pajamas, reading user’s manuals and explaining them to family members who don’t.  I like the idea of things that I don’t even really like, like eggnog and rum-balls.  I love kids books designed to make me cry, that actually do.  Even my distrust of colorful sweaters can be suspended.  And if I am a bit confused about Christmas, I am so happily.  It is not the ‘true meaning’ of Christmas that confuses us.  We just feel guilty that we forget what the party was for. Sometimes that happens at a good party. Just the same I am more grateful for the gift than the party.  Whether he comes in a manger or in Santa’s lap, drink up and thank God for the best gift. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Family Photos

It never hurts to have a Brooks Photography student living in your home.  Here are the latest from our good friend and garage-dweller, Jen Turner.

Megan and Molly (1 1/2 years)
Ian, Brad and Jeremy playing airplane (boys 3 1/2 years)

Entries from the "Memorable Parenting Moments" Log

Ian 3yrs. 2mos.
Brad putting Ian to bed at night, talking about all the people who love him and all the things they are happy about. Ian says, “I’m so happy to have an Ian named Jeremy.”

Ian 3yrs 2mos
Ian singing to Molly, who is sitting on the patio, “If you’re happy and you know it sit on your bottom.” Followed by, “Good job, Molly you’re sitting on your bottom.”

Jeremy 3yrs. 2mos.
Following a surprising report at preschool, I asked Jeremy about sitting down during group time, and not jumping up. When asked how the teacher felt when he jumped around, he said, “It made her kind of bumpy. No, not bumpy. It made her kind of grumpy.”

Ian 3 yrs. 2mos
Brad tapping his foot to music. Ian says, “Hey what’s your foot doin’ down there at the end of your leg, Daddy?”

I&J 3yrs 2mos.
Ian and Jeremy both love doing crafts. Often we’ll pull out craft supplies at 9AM when Molly goes down for a nap. Ian loves naming the colors he’s using, and coloring as much surface area as he possibly can. Jeremy loves to quietly use an entire roll of tape to tape the crayons to the Crayola box; an unconventionally creative guy.

Jeremy
Often Brad or I will call our boys by the wrong name, “Jeremy, I mean, Ian.” Sometimes if we catch the mistake quickly we’ll say, “J…Ian” to which Jeremy corrects, “His name is NOT J-Ian.”

Ian – age 3yrs. – Complimenting Grandma Alice
“I like you Grandma Alice… you have cute socks.”

Jeremy Potty Training
Jeremy singing quietly to himself in the bathroom, “I am peeping my Lord, Kum Bah Yah. Oh, Lord. Kum Bah Yah.”

Jeremy on Christmas Eve
We kept the kids in the Christmas Eve service with us this year, and heard a man cough in the row ahead of him. Into the quiet sanctuary Jeremy clearly admonished, “Cover your mouth!” and had the entire row ahead of us doubled over in laughter.

Here is a test of my mobile blogging capabilities. The entries will be worse but potentially more frequent.

This message was sent using PIX-FLIX Messaging service from Verizon Wireless!

Christmas 2007

Jeremy 3yrs. Ian 3yrs. Molly 9mos.


Molly 9mos.



Jeremy 3yrs. Ian 3yrs.

Happy Halloween

Flight Crew and Ground Crew


Just Like Daddy


Happy Ground Crew

Pumpkin Patch

Ian left, Jeremy right

Cousin Daniel and Molly

Jeremy

Ian

There is a huge benefit to having a Brooks Photography student living in our home. Jen came with us to the pumpkin patch this week to take pictures for a school project; a brochure on Ian and Jeremy. This will come in handy if we ever decide to sell them. Molly didn't miss out on the action, either!

Cute story of the week: This morning Jeremy was trying to snuggle into Brad but couldn't get comfortable on Brad's collarbone. Jeremy said, "I can't find a parking spot." He nuzzled around some more and happily exclaimed, "I found a parking spot for me!"

I also watched in amazement as Jeremy placed two suction cups on his chest in the bathtub, saying "thump thump, thump thump" then he took them off and said, "Molly, here's some milk for you." Thanks, Jeremy.

Keeping Busy

This morning Brad had to sneak out to the garage to pay bills alone. I got boys dressed, properly disposed of a wayward poop that did NOT go in the hard-to-miss potty located in our kitchen, and got Molly down for her first nap of the day. Washed scrambled egg dregs down the drain, and wiped jelly off of two southernmost chairs at the table. Molly cried to be petted to sleep and as she conked out I sighed with relief and thought, "Oh, how nice that the boys are playing quietly in the living room." They had located the dry pasta wagon wheels and were practicing crunching and spitting them over the edge of the couch.

At least they were playing quietly.

We're really into potty training right now. If you come over, you might catch Jeremy fully clothed, crouched beside Ian and peering into the potty saying, "Nice and calm, Ian, Nice and calm. Good job, Ian." I also recommend that you wear shoes.

Quick Photo Update

Tummy Time Times Three


The Palm Tree Hairdo... last seen in the family in 1975... now proudly worn by 2-month-old Molly Leanne!

Molly Home Again

"Viral Something" is the official diagnosis for our little Molly. She came off the IV Wednesday night and began eating well, and generally feeling better. No new scary things grew in her blood samples overnight, either. So they let her come home from the hospital today. We'll keep a close eye on her, and continue to thank God for answering the onslaught of prayers He received this week on her behalf.

Would it have been better to keep her at home and just give her Tylenol? Seems we could have had the same results without all the drama. But I guess that's why they don't say that foresight is 20/20.

We appreciate your walking through this one with us.

Love,
Megan & Brad

Molly - Maybe Meningitis?

The quick update: Molly took an odd turn on Sunday night, and was admitted to the hospital on Monday to rule out bacterial and/or viral meningitis. Yesterday was a battery of procedures including 3 unsuccessful spinal taps and no firm diagnosis.

This morning (Tues) she woke up looking much better and today her bloodwork shows more leaning toward something viral rather than bacterial. We'll wait another day and if she improves, and no bacteria surfaces in the samples taken on Monday, we should be home on Thursday. Possibly?

Monday was hard. Today has been better. Tomorrow Great Aunt Debbie is coming up to be the twin parent, and Brad is going to fly. We hope to wake up to an even healthier Molly, and while we may never know what has hit our poor little nugget, we rest and hope in the hunch of the hospital pediatrician that it's a "viral something" that will pass soon.

We feel your love and prayers. Thank you! (Megan posting - sorry for the lack of creativity for all those who were expecting Brad!)

Vote For Chris Mundell

My good friend Chris Mundell entered a competition to be the VP of Pizza. He is in the top 3. The winner is decided by votes and it is a very close race between him and one other. Winner takes $25,000 and a lot of Pizza.

Please do a good deed and find time to vote for his entry today. I won't even begin to say all the reasons he should win, but trust me he should.. And his entry rules.

He is the one in the middle, playing guitar.

Here is the link. Please tell a friend.


VP of Pizza Contest

Furball

Average Post

I am supposed to be asleep. I should know better than to write while supine, worse to publish when my BS detector is so compromised. Some things that I write look so good in the dark:

The cars out on Turnpike have all gone home and parked, and my family has fallen happily asleep at the other end of that dark hall I am looking down. I am here, on our couch in the glow of my laptop listening to the grandfather clock ring through numbers I should only hear during the day. It is quiet except for that and the squeaks of my daughter swinging next to me. I think I came out here because she wasn’t sleeping, and here I am awake writing about how she is asleep. I am sure it will make perfect sense in the morning.

She looks like the pope; all wrinkled, hunched and peaceful. She spends most of her time looking that way…Or pissed off that we are trying to disturb her perfect baby sleep. She is shrouded in mystery. She is my daughter. My only one. I have no idea who she is. They say I will be wrapped around her finger, and somehow I don’t doubt it. I am an easy target. But for now I sit around looking at her, thinking that she will reveal something about who she is going to be. Something more than: Molly Leanne, 9 lbs 1 oz, lots of black hair. I look expectantly as though she will look up and make eye contact and say “Hi daddy I love you.” But she just sits there looking like the pope, grunting and going cross-eyed smelling like a vitamin store*. I am in love with who she will be; In spite of, or especially because of the fact that I have no control over who that is. I know that in three weeks I will know so much more, in 3 months even more, and in 3 years even more. For tonight, nine nights old, she is all guess work.


*Author’s note: While all U2 fans know that it is true that “Freedom has a scent like the top of a newborn baby’s head” Bono gave us little info on what the other end has a scent like. Compared to the scent of a toddler diaper, I am happy to call a newborn diaper "freedom."

Then There Were Five.

Molly Leanne McCarter, Born 9:43 AM March 16, 9 Lbs, 1 ounce, 20 inches.

She weighs a pound and half more than Ian and Jeremy combined at birth. She is very happy,healthy and sleepy. (And hairy)

Pink's not so bad.

More on that later.




Molly & Megan & Brad in Operating room.





Mommy & Molly






This picture only proves how hard it is for a family of 5 to share a hospital bed. (with post-op mom.)

Christmas Letter 2006

I have never heard those sleigh bells jingle-ing or ring ting-tingle-ling. But I have heard a couple toddlers running down the hall with bells hanging on their ears - and I am pretty sure that it is better. I have noticed that our heater is running a little bit harder lately and that we are running a bit easier. I have noticed that our family is putting on the winter fat. Or maybe it is the baby growing in Megan that is doing that. As for mine I would like to believe it is ‘sympathy’ weight. Sympathy for uneaten Christmas cookies.

Here are a few things we learned this year:

1. Don’t attempt conversation with toddlers present.
2. A whole new language. For instance caterpillar = peeler pilauer.
3. Family planning is a waste of time.


News brief: We are currently exactly average. We have 2.5 kids. Megan is making our daughter and doing a nice job of it (due in March.) Brad upgraded to captain and is still based in Santa Barbara. The twins just turned two and can tell you so, but don’t know what it means. Ian likes putting oranges in gopher holes. Jeremy wants to hug busses. Neither is sure whom they are looking at when they look in a mirror. They are able to sit still for up to 20 seconds at a time. Not a day goes by that they do not say something to make us laugh out loud.

This year was full of reminders that we are guaranteed nothing and entitled to nothing. The fact that Jesus showed up in a feed trough and died in his 30s is just one more reminder. So from the comfort of our overstuffed winter bed, our bellies overstuffed with interestingly shaped colorful cookies, we can only be grateful. In the light of ever-present suffering, it is our only option. For our bed, our boys, electric Christmas lights, cookies, our girl on the way, winter weight, forced air gas heating, Christmas music to remind us that she bore to us a savior, and for each other, still happy. Of all the 1000 ways that things could be different by year 3 of our marriage I have nothing but gratitude. Pure gratitude.

Merry Christmas
Brad, Megan, Ian, Jeremy, and baby sister

Punk Punks

Because I am a thoughtful and compassionate husband, I wanted to bring Megan to a water park this summer. We would have been the oldest people there who were not chaperoning a youth group. Perhaps, also, the whitest and flabbiest, except that we would have gone to a water park in New Braunfels Texas - we might have looked pretty good. Everyone thinks that they would go to Europe for the weekend if they had free airfare. But they wouldn’t. They would decide that the flying time would be a weekend, and would end up going to New Braunfels instead. It is the home of the Schlitterbahn, which is, as far as we can tell the best water park ever. It is also where Leigh Nash from Sixpence None the Richer worked on the “Coke float” when she was in high school. That truth singularly proves that anyone can be a rock star.

We didn’t go there though, because being, (or getting) pregnant at a water park is not advised. It could also be embarrassing and weird. Rather, we attended an event at which we were the youngest who were not being chaperoned. And so it was that we found ourselves last night in St Paul in the fall. Indeed our vacationing standards are different than they were. Vacation is not a destination anymore - it is an absence. We felt comfortable about being in the twin cities, but were really just happy eating meals without cutting anything into squares. When we sat in the plane, delayed for four hours, we were probably the happiest people on the plane. There were people bringing us snacks. It was really very relaxing.

Outside it was colder than Santa Barbara ever is, but inside we felt quite at home. Warmed by sweaters and stories, folk music and an old guy in a suit and red sneakers who talked 2000 adults into singing “you are my sunshine.” Megan and I saw Garrison Keillor on our second date and have listened to his live radio show many times. I will admit an impressed chill ran down our spines when he quietly stated, “We’ll go live in 10 seconds there is nothing to stop it” and seamlessly the music built as he welcomed America to the Prairie Home Companion live from the Fitzgerald Theater in downtown St. Paul. I have heard the phrase so many times. It means something different when you are in the Fitzgerald Theater.

And so I know that it is fall, Minnesota sends a message to let us know. Maybe the time will change soon, maybe we will find a leaf or two in our drought resistant landscaping to rake into our compost piles, maybe we’ll decide to wear a sweater only because it seems like we should. We won’t be hauling the docks in off the lake, or installing snow tires but we will look for our shadows to grow in stature, the lighting to change on the mountains and soon the sun will begin to set over the ocean again. I know it is fall because, in spite of my efforts to cut back on sugar, we already polished off a bag of Baby Ruths. Megan says our baby needs them. Mostly I know it is fall because the twins broadcast it for us. Not a decorative gourd escapes the all-seeing eyes of Ian or Jeremy. Not a real, plastic, painted or cutout pumpkin eludes them. It is their job. Everywhere we turn, “punk punk, punk punk.” I love the fall. Here are the pictures.


Ian 


Jeremy. Right after this we discovered he had a 102 fever. He hides it well! 


Ian throwing hay. 



Nice pose Jer. 

Left over summer pics

Here are a couple pics long over due from summer. We'll be posting the punk-punk extravaganza '06 soon (read "pictures from the pumpkin patch"). Stay tuned.

Jet Puff 1. Jeremy left. Ian right. 

Jet Puff 2. J left. I right. 

Jet puff 3. Jeremy front. Ian back. 

Oh the wonder! Ian 

J-bear sleepin. 

Jeremy 

Check it out 3 posts in one day!

Or does this one make it 4? As usual read from the bottom up for most accurate chronology.

Why God is Funny

Usually the funniest things happen when you are not allowed to laugh about them. I am not sure if the things are really more funny or if it is the guilt in laughing that makes it feel so good. I only know that I don’t laugh to tears about a mispronunciation of the “prophet Amos” except during a sermon.

Perhaps you can appreciate then, how incredibly alone I felt at Costco the other day when I experienced this: There at the end of my aisle next to the meats and cheeses was a karaoke professional. Let’s call him Dave. I am not joking. Neither was he. Hired by Costco to boost sales on the Kirkland home karaoke system, there stood Dave in his everyman jeans and white tennis shoes, looking like any mildly overweight American middle manager type on his day off. Except, that this was not his day off. He was standing in the concrete aisle with his Costco nametag on a lanyard singing Knights in White Satin, and he was really good. I could not look him in the eye. Neigh, I could hardly lift my head for fear of him knowing what troubled joy his predicament was causing me. I mean he was really good. All I could wonder was how did this happen? I wondered if this is one of those jobs that no one knows how to get. Like being a blimp pilot. No one has a friend who flies blimps. Airships were on my mind because of the recent crash of a Hood Dairy blimp in the northeast. I watched the coverage on CNN who could paint a tire blowout as a catastrophe of epic historical proportion, and they said that the disaster involved the blimp resting on the tree tops while the pilots tried to determine if they could simply repair the problem and fly away. I wouldn’t mind being in that air disaster myself. “I crashed the blimp again today” I would say as I loosened my tie and took off my blimp captain’s hat. Almost anything you could hit would involve bouncing or floating. All of that has little to do with Dave’s job except that both jobs are full of mystery to me. Was Dave a Costco greeter with a gift and nothing to loose? A hidden talent that was discovered at a company holiday party? Or is he a Karaoke consultant, hired to make it look easy to the bulk buying masses? Or worse was Dave the guy who meant it when he said “I’ll do anything to do what I love.” Be careful what you wish for. You might end up next to plastic Christmas tree in September singing Bob Seeger songs to people looking for the right salami pack.

All of this was going through my head, except a lot faster while I was looking at a shelving unit to store my own baggage in, and I kept looking up hoping for anyone to make eye contact with who could share all of these thoughts about Dave’s problem/job by sharing a quick laughing glance. But no one, and I really wanted to commune with someone about this, would look up. People were walking by him looking at the futon next him, discussing the price, a worker was assembling a display and everyone thought this was all perfectly normal. Knights in White Satin… loud enough to be heard throughout the store! I can not possibly be alone on this. I thought less of every person who passed without acknowledging the depth of the dark comedy unfolding at the end of the cheese aisle.

And what I really wished was that my friend Matt was at Costco today. Matt would have bounced with inexpressible wonder as he tried to figure out how best to capture the moment. It is things like this that make me happy in the face of the sorrow of losing Matt this week. Happy not only because it reminds me of Matt’s own dark gift of sarcastic criticism which made me laugh so many times. Not only because it causes me to share something with Matt in my mind which I know he would have appreciated. But mostly because it makes me think about where Matt is now. I know that he is in the all encompassing presence of the most creative being that is. Not just creative like he can make a monkey or an elephant, but like he made up the things that are funny about monkeys and probably thinks its weird that elephants can pull stuff to their mouth with this really long nose/arm/hand like thing. It has made me think a lot about Matt’s new residence. I think God is funny. I can’t really think what kind of jokes are funny to God. Like I am not really sure if the Amos thing was funny to God or not. But it seems like someone taught us to laugh at stuff. And someone created us funny and not funny, in his own image. I am pretty sure that Matt made God laugh and even more sure that it is reciprocal. That makes me happy, even while I miss Matt every time I notice him missing.


Here is a slide show of Matt and his family.

Cap'n

My return to normal life has been far less dramatic this time through. Camp Skywest is as numbing as usual, and home life is as relieving, but this time I did not cry on my bacon. I collected my fourth stripe and my starred wings and commenced making authoritative but relaxed sounding P.A. announcements. The biggest difference is that I now sit where the passengers see me while boarding. Which means that I need to visually exude the same relaxed confidence for the one in five passengers who looks up with the examining look, who is trying to determine whether or not they ought to trust their lives into these hands. It would make a very interesting psychology study, to see which pilots people felt would be good pilots verses which pilots were actually good pilots.

More importantly I am back to full time parenting my poor sons who still apparently think I live on the other end of the telephone. Of course they also think that the remote control is a phone.

A guy who I used to fly with, who has 5 kids and is overly wise for a pilot said that if you got dropped into parenting at any point except where you do, you could not possibly handle it. True. You start with a few cells, no needs, and no skills, yet, you are a parent. Though the rest of your life will be influenced by and centered around the outcome of those cells, for now you only need to incubate. And for now our boys’ needs are simple. Simple enough for me to handle. For now.

This is the part that is so incredibly intimidating. When I am 60 something they could look at me with the same anticipation and need for my approval as they do now. It just won’t be so obvious. When I used to play music more, there was this kid who kept showing up at our shows. He would stand directly in front of me in the front row. He would not look at anyone else. He would watch me. He also played bass. He watched my hands, and I could feel the intensity of his watching. My hands would sweat because I knew he would spot all my mistakes. He did not blink. Eventually his band opened for our band, and he showed up with my exact make and color of bass, my exact amp. Obviously it was creepy, but that’s not really my point. I could only keep thinking, “I am not that good”.

Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery but I am not sure it translates when it is genetic. Ian and Jeremy had little choice but to inherit the bad with the good from dear old dad. Similarly they may have little choice but to learn from the actions of my life. But here is my growing audience. Ian and Jeremy with front row seats to my average little show. My hands are sweating.

Excuses of Bad Bloggers

I didn’t mean to go three months without writing. I didn’t mean to, yet that is what happened isn’t it? Let me explain. In July, Megan had 3 part time jobs, then my dad said we could move into his other house on July 5th. Then Skywest said I could go be a captain if I started class on July 10th. Then Megan sent me a text message while I was in Salt Lake with a picture of a positive pregnancy test. Then I got home and unpacked some boxes. Then I was ready to put up a couple posts but then our good friend Matt died from the brain cancer he had been fighting for the last 2 plus years. Then, I’ll be honest, I could not write a thing that seemed right. I only wanted to write about what was happening with Matt, yet I wasn’t really good enough to say anything that wasn’t trite or dark or some other thing I didn’t want to subject anyone to. So it has gone that I have so many things to write about that I don’t have time to write. So what follows is a string of things that I meant to post, or meant to write better, or meant to put in a better order at a more appropriate time or something, but instead will just be spurted out now rather than never. Forgive, or at least understand, the confusion.

Props Are For Boats

Clearly I have not been writing about the boys recently. It is not for lack of material. Or desire. It would just be much easier if I could observe and write about them from a safe distance. For instance, I could install a two-way mirror in our home so that I could be in range but out of reach. I would be Brad Goodall, observer of the playful and social climbing human toddler. As it is, if I would sit down with my laptop on the couch, like I used to, and begin to watch them and type, this is what my entry would look like:

“Ian is walking towar…. Stomp… waddle…asdvassssssssvvsssssssss” At which time I would be looking for the ‘s’ key on the floor between bits of cracker, blocks and sippy-cups. After unsuccessfully searching for the key for several days it would be added to the long list of items lost in the Toddler Relocation Program (TRP). A few items recently recovered from said program include: one sandal in a baking tin in the cupboard, a pair of kitchen tongs under the dresser and the remote control in the diaper can.

Regardless, our life as often suffers from cute overload as it does from TRP. I know it is a parent’s job to find their kids cute regardless of their slobber and snaggle-toothedness, but that is not the kind of cute I am talking about. It is that after a year of double the workload we are beginning to reap the benefits of two-ness. I don’t know what we would do with one. What is better than two mop heads starting a game of peek-a-boo with each other around the side of a chair, and getting themselves laughing so hard about it that they lose control. Or when Jeremy goes pacifier hunting in the bedroom and brings back two with the express purpose of giving one to Ian. Or when Ian sees Jeremy and excitedly shouts Jay Jay.

In the news:

I received word today that I have been ‘awarded’ a new position at SkyWest. I have been a ‘First Officer’ for the last two and a half years and will now be a Captain. Initially I will be based in San Luis Obispo, until a Captain leaves Santa Barbara. This is very good news, and again very unexpected as far as timing goes. I will go back to the Brasilia: the smaller, louder, slower airplane that I flew in my first year at SkyWest. It is considered an upgrade because of the job position even though it is a ‘lesser’ airplane. It is kind of a little-fish/big pond vs. big-fish/little pond kind of situation. If you end up on one of my flights please don’t make any jokes about where first class is, or ask if I wound up the rubber bands or include any phrases about props being for boats. It is good to remember that one of the things that you should not tell a man is small, is his airplane. Your cooperation with all uniformed crewmembers is appreciated.

Beach Babies

"Hey, what's in your bucket, Ian?"


Jeremy on his makeshift cell phone


Ian

Baja Babies

Here are a few pictures from our last-minute trip to Baja. I had a week off work and airline priveledges. We had two stroller/car-seat combos, one roller bag, a day-pack and two toddlers who seemed to think Mexico would be as much fun as the toys on the living room floor. The idea was to find a "fishing village" on the Sea of Cortez side and stay in something with a thatched roof. We found it several hours up the coast in La Ventana. Here are the pics.


The Ideal. 


The Real! 


Jeremy front, Ian back. 


Why we love Super Pollo! 


Jeremy enjoying the view. 

Jeremy in the Santa Barbara snow!












Ian standing, Jeremy kneeling











While we usually brag about the warm weather in Santa Barbara, today we get to brag about the snow. We drove to the top of La Cumbre peak, and sledded with cousins, Nathan, Jake and Ryan, and Aunt Melissa and Uncle Ben. The snow was falling like crazy, and made for an exhiliaratingly terrifying drive back down the mountain in our German bobsled, Gus the Bus. Praise be to God for choosing to let us live to brag about our cold California weather.

There goes the college fund.

In spite of the boys' excellent effort in Hollywood... No one was chosen. There were 6 sets of twins who were called back. None got the job. In fact it went to a friend of the director's kid. We are too new to the business to be jaded so I'll withold my speculation about why we got to drive to my favorite town twice. All said, however, it was a positive experience. We are hopeful that the fact that casting director did really like I&J will be helpful in the future.

Goin' to Hollywood

I hate Hollywood. Not in a soapbox way like I hate the morals and left wing agenda... blah blah blah. I like movies and tv so I'm pretty much off my high horse about that. I just mean that I hate the town. It is dirty, confusing, busy, filled with people that need baths, and is anything but glamorous. So it was with mixed emotions that we accepted an offer to have the boys audition for a commercial which would be shot in Hollywood.

Before anyone gets excited let me say that we are not trying to be the next Marykate and Ashley, or Mcaully Caul.... whatever his name is that sued his parents. This all occured when we learned that twins are often in demand for photo shoots because of the strict labor laws about how long a child can work in a day. It is good to be able to swap one out for the other when one gets fussy, etc.

They got their first job before they turned one as swimsuit models for a Red Envelope Father's day catalog, which will come out, I presume, around Father's day. While on that shoot, a couple of people recommended that we get the boys connected in Los Angeles, since most of the work is down there. We sent out a few cute snapshots, including the ones below, to L.A. agencies and got a call for our first audition shortly after. This all seemed like reasonable work for a family with a stay at home mom, allowing Megan to stay with the boys while working.

The Boston Market Audition on Monday was for babies age 1-2 who could dance and "shout" or "sing" along to music. Our kids can barely stand up unassisted, and were the youngest there. But when they were asked to bang on a drum, they did so with pleasure, and when they turned on the music, Jeremy instictively clapped his hands as though that were his sole purpose in life. The audition was all of three minutes, and we left feeling pretty sure we wouldn't hear from Boston Market again. We did however, get a "call back" which is essentially a second audition after they narrow the field. Today we go back to my favorite town, along with 6 other sets of twins. We still have low expectations, but are encouraged that it seems like a reasonable story that they might get some other work.

So far it is fun for everyone and will end when it isn't, and could make a drop in the college funds.

Stay tuned, the blog is not dead, only slumbering.





Jeremy left, Ian Right


Ian front, Jeremy back

Happy Birthday Pics

The boys turned 1. Here are a couple pics from the party.



Birthday shirts. Ian left, Jeremy right.


First time ever that Ian did not smash his meal!


Grandma Janet and her 5 boys. L to R, Jeremy, Nathan, Jake, Ian, Ryan.


More confusion about cake eating. Ian left, Jeremy right. Yes, we sang Happy Birthday twice.

Pumpkins

Fall again is upon us, subtle though it is. Fall in Santa Barbara is more a manufactured event than a season. A bit like snow at Disneyland, charming if not authentic. It is hardly noticeable except for the occasional desire to wear a sweater, the proliferation of Indian corn on our mantles, and the fur on our teeth from eating all the way through to the bottom of the bag of candy corn. It is my favorite season, except for the other 3, which are also my favorites when they first begin. And all are my least favorite when they over stay their welcome, around 3 months from their arrival. Mostly, for us it means the boys want to eat dry leaves. Everything else is the same. We also changed our photo props to pumpkins. That’s about it.



Jeremy


Ian


Jeremy


Ian


Megan with Jeremy, Brad with Ian

Happy Birthday to Me

I remember turning 25 and writing in my journal that it was an age that expected maturity. Today I am 36, a number that is closer to 40 than 30, closer to mid-life crisis than college. Jesus, after all, had already changed the world permanently and been dead for 3 years by this age. I, on the other hand, change at a different rate. Not having started out perfect, I think, had something to do with that. If 25 expected maturity, I really am not sure what 36 expects. I am quite sure that it is not maturity. I gave up the maturity kick a while ago, and things seem to be going better. It is, after all, a virtue of diminishing returns. At some certain point, around the middle of your life, it is better to start working in the opposite direction. Were you to pursue it throughout your whole life you would find yourself a stodgy old rule maker, a critic of all new ideas and possibly a turtleneck wearer. Aged but not seasoned. More old, but not more wise. That is why I plan on watching South Park from here on out.

Because of my impressive maturity I now have to work for things that used to be easy. Like not getting fat. Part of my plan to not be fat and 40 at the same time is to run. It prevents fatness and makes me a hero. Here’s how: I take these two wiggly boys who have become rather un-cute to their mother by 3 in the afternoon, and put them in a Jogger and parade them by 4 miles worth of tourists at the beach, who’s comments I hear as I pass at my Special Olympics pace. By the time I come home, the babies are magically cute again to their mother and also I am a hero.

The true magic of the run though, is that I smile while I run now. It is really hard to smile and run, much harder than pushing a stroller into the wind. I used to groan my way through a run, thinking the whole way, how hard it is to run. Thinking how hard it is to breathe, to keep putting the next foot ahead of the other one and then do that again. And breathe. Now, I can do all that and smile too. It is nearly miraculous, how lucky I am. All these people go by me while I am running, unaware that they are my entertainment. Unaware of the soundtrack playing in my headphones, or of the people ahead and behind them who will also be a part of my little movie. The movie is about the same every day, but it is a good one. Only the characters change, the theme is always the same. A 4 mile string of people from all over the world all saying the same thing. The family from the Midwest who slow their 6-person surrey to coo. The girls from City College, smiling through the over sized sunglasses that someone decided were cool. The homeshcooling Mom wearing white Velcro Reeboks that she decided didn’t need to be cool. The Asian Family who forgets to get out of the bikeway as they rotate to watch the stroller pass. The scraggly and unaffected kids at the skate park even turn. The older man who lets out a smile through his bored look, the rich ladies on their coffee walk, the son who stops his rock throwing to look, and his mother collecting aluminum cans from public trash cans. They all have one thing in common. The little movie strip that passes by me is made up of people saying with their eyes, their comments, their uncontainable and unintentional half smiles, their rubbernecking walks, and swerving bikes that I am a Lucky father.

And then I come home a hero. As though I had performed a great service. Lucky me.


Ian.  

New Photos for August

Here is a little photo journal from the last week or so in the boy's life. Our life is changing quickly with the onset of quasi-crawling. Fortunately it makes them really happy to be able to get around on their own.

By the way we don't always keep Ian on the Left. It just happened that way.

Peas! Ian - L, Jeremy - R

Intro to Hiking Coldsprings trail with the boys. Ian - L Jeremy - R


Costco run: Train 'em young - Jeremy



Why "Baby Einstein" is Genius. Ian -L Jeremy - R


Bath night. Ian - L, Jeremy - R


Perhaps I've lost my ability to be discening about baby pictures. Have I turned "over-proud?"

My friend Jeremy almost died on Friday. It is hard to know how close you have to be to death to be able to claim that you ‘almost’ died. But nearly everyone was surprised that he didn’t. The accident involved a 4-point buck deer who did die and Jeremy on his motorcycle who didn’t. He T-boned the deer at 70 MPH on an Oregon highway south of Bend, flew over the handlebars, demonstrating one of those physical laws about an object in motion remaining in motion. In the same direction at the same speed he slid along for an unknown distance, thinking about the things on either side that he did not want to hit. As he slowed, the slide turned to a tumble and came to a stop on the highway where he assessed his faculties. His toes wiggled, his arms moved and all his protective gear was still in place. An ambulance took him to the hospital, which he walked out of several hours later with some band-aids and a few stitches on his knee. His worst injury was perhaps to his pride. After so many friends warning of the dangers of motorcycles, so many jokes about donor-cycles. I personally will never defend the position that motorcycles are as safe as cars, but I have to agree with Jeremy that the motorcycle had nothing to do with this particular accident. If he had hit the same deer at the same time at the same speed in his Accord he would have had an even worse chance of surviving, especially had it come through the windshield. In this case his separation from his bike may have been the best thing.

Two days later Jeremy was at our house, shuffling up our walkway with a cane and a straight leg and asking what he could do to help with the babies. I am sure that if His head had been on fire he would have politely yielded the sink to someone washing their hands. It is completely irrational, but he is genetically disposed to that type of behavior. Irrational selflessness can drive you crazy, even if it is really Christ-like. But one of the great things about Jeremy is that he lives by what he learns. I think he may have learned quite a bit on his solo drive home from Oregon in a rental car. I am looking forward to some sort of explanation of that time. Some help for those of us who haven’t seen asphalt sliding by our eyes. He is a songwriter, so I am hoping for that. He condenses volumes into verses and distills the critical truth from mere information. I can’t help but feeling that the world is at a loss for not hearing more of his songs. That sounds really dramatic, but let me explain. We both move people around in airplanes for a living. It is “important” that we do it safely, but when the flight is over it is immediately forgotten. There is no lasting effect from our effort except that people are in a different place. It is similar to a Job that we also both had years ago, as valet parkers. At the end of the day we had a wad of money in our pocket and a whole bunch of cars were in different places than when we began. I remember very little of it. Yet the songs that Jeremy wrote and recorded are still in circulation, still, in some way relevant to a handful of people who were eager to hear what he had to say. Yet, all his passengers get to hear is something about seatbelts.

So Jeremy came to our house and tried to tell us what he thought about on the trip after his fall. He said that he thought about the things that were important to him, that that is why he stopped by Santa Barbara to see us, and to see Ian and Jeremy. Neither of us is very good at talking. Which is probably why he writes songs and why I keep up this blog 7 months after our boys birth. What he tried to say was that there are reasons that it is better that he did not slide his head into the guardrail on Friday, and that our little family is one of those reasons. I fumbled around and tried to say that that meant a lot, that I was glad that I didn’t receive a different kind of phone call, then fumbled around some more, aware all the while that every time I have to say something really important I struggle to line up the right words to make it sound as important as it is. I usually give up and hope the person senses my frustration and interpolates what I was getting at. This time I decided that it didn’t really matter what I said. I named one of my kids after him after all, maybe that says best what I was trying to say.

Twins @ Giants

I used to hate baseball in the same way that I still hate golf. The kind of way that makes me embarrassed to have changed my mind. Just about everything I have ever dogmatically opposed I now enjoy with my tail between my legs. Why would I spend 3 hours watching a game that is tidily wrapped up in a 3 minute highlight show? Maybe because I married into it. Even a guy who hates sports can appreciate a wife who condones watching baseball games. I don't have to do any marital bargaining to get an approval on watching baseball. That alone may have been enough to change my scroogy baseball heart. But if it was not, perhaps being disowned by the rest of her Giant's loving family would have been. But if not all that, then I am fairly certain that the garlic fries would have put me over the edge. Now I am more embarrassed by how little I know about baseball than I am of the fact that I was a late bloomer in it's appreciation. Now I know that it is usually easier to just like something than to maintain the illusion that my dislike of something is somehow a loftier preference, as though my distaste for anything impressed anyone. I, for one, am rarely impressed by anyone's ability to continue disliking something. Just the same, I still think that golf is for old men with more money and time than I. The only difference is that now I have seen the trajectory of my own age and recognize that I will soon be an old man, hopefully with money, and maybe with time to regret that I spent my whole life hating golf.

Below are a couple more reasons that I think baseball is neat, even if your team is awful and your friends make fun of you(bring it on Matt).



Jeremy in left field.


Ian has bad parents.


Twins @ Giants

Babies are bad

Did I recently say something about sleeping more? I would like to retract that. Last night the boys tag-teamed us all night long. Alternately they woke up every 45 minutes through the night. I take back everything good I’ve ever said about them. I understand that they will not fully understand punishment if I attempt retribution now. But I have a very long memory.

Most parents send out only the cutest pictures of their babies. Intended of course to convince the recipients that that is how the baby always is. And the recipient’s heart is warmed and they wish they had a warm little cuddly baby as well. Because I think that this is a dishonest practice, I am considering posting the video that Megan recently took of the touching former bedtime routine at the McCarter household. It is nearly 5 minutes long, and is just close ups (with audio) of the boys turning red and popping veins as they join in a screaming chorus. Long, frantic, quivery screams punctuated with implosively fast gasps for air, with changes in frequency, rate, and desperation. They are equally pathetic and un-helpable. But as the tape rolls you begin to wonder what kind of parents they must have. Are they wartime journalist who would sooner film a burning man than help him? Do they take pleasure in this? Now that the boys do not perform scream fest any longer, we are glad that we took the video. It helps us remember that maybe things aren’t so bad now. It’s like watching a VH-1 segment on an awful band from the 80’s; Time has a way of turning all tragedy to comedy.

So far, last night is still not funny.

Aloha

Ian left, Jeremy right 



Greetings from Maui. The boys are pictured here before their first swim.

Vacation is easy with twins. Just bring Grandparents. We do not, however reccommend taking the Red-eye.

Twin-Celebrity

I have read back through this blog so many times now that I could have read “The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire.” It used to be shots of hope, tid bits of reasons to believe that God had arranged something greater than we could see while we were occupied driving to some doctor’s office. Now it serves more like a defibrillator. It is an abrupt reminder to me that Ian and Jeremy were not a foregone conclusion.

We need a reminder sometimes, two months ago especially, before they learned about the connection between nighttime and sleeping. In retrospect, now that they do sleep at night, it seems that the days after the nights were the greater problem. It was as if we forgot what we all learned about all-nighters in college. So there we would be standing with bags under our eyes in the check out line at Ralph’s, when some sweet old well-slept woman would look over from the next line over. At first, she started cooing, so that we heard her before we saw her. I would look away and act like I didn’t feel her breathing down my neck, invading my little irritable bubble of stupor. “Ohh, how sweet” she would say, while I tried to decide weather I could continue withholding eye contact. While I went over in my mind how we got up 15 times last night and wondered what was wrong with them. How they kept crying after we fed them, how they finally went to sleep while the sun was coming up. How Megan and I are too brain dead to smile at each other, how they, maliciously, are sabotaging our marriage. And finally she asks the question: “Twins?” There were so many responses that came to mind! None of them were “yes.” “How old?” “ Two boys?” “ Are they identical?” “Do twins run in your family?” All of which we answered politely wondering how many times we might have to answer them all again before we got to the car, because if I had to hear one more story about someone’s neighbor’s sister-in-law’s friend who had twins I was going to lay down in traffic. Twins are not that rare!

It is no small wonder that more of these well meaning baby-appreciators are not killed every year. Like drinking and driving are hormones and sleep deprivation. The worst part of Twin – Celebrity, is that it is the parents who are miscalibrated. I feel like a lottery winner, irritated that the press wants to interview me. Shouldn’t I be standing on a mountain or something? Proclaiming with a 6 foot Herald Trumpet and banners every middle of the night scream as a miracle? That, before they had names, we thought Jeremy would not survive, and that Ian, if he survived would have cerebral palsy?

So now that we sleep close to 8 hours again, we remember more often. We remember almost every night when we wake them up to feed them at 10, and they are lumpy, sleepy and put their arms around our neck and fall back to sleep. We remember that Jeremy was slowly starving to death, and was just over half of Ian’s size. That Ian’s organs were not going to develop right because Jeremy was pumping all the food for him. And now they are nearly the same size and perfectly healthy.

Now we troll for Twin-Celebrity.

What Would John Denver Do

Ian left, Jeremy right 


Today I come home from the previously mentioned 6 weeks of training. My first little bit of mental free-space is being used toward reviving the now 6 weeks dormant McCartertwins blog: Using wisely my time between flight attendant’s announcements and layovers.

I was being served biscuits and gravy by a waitress who called me honey this morning when my soul came back to life. Last night, after several weeks of simulator training I flew the plane for the first time in Idaho Falls. That is where I was, in a hotel restaurant along the Snake River, when St. John’s vocals rang through the Radio Shack stereo and nudged me awake. John Denver singing ‘You fill up my senses’, with all of his glowing conviction, and all of a sudden I felt something again. I did not think it. I felt it. Whatever it was.

After six weeks of emotional deprivation, of being surrounded by fluorescent lighting, institutional carpet, the sound of a well ventilated building with no windows, the smell of hotels trying to smell good by covering the bad smells. Surrounded by people who speak acronym and want to test my knowledge of their weird and inefficient language; people who quote Top-Gun with suprising regularity. Airports of glass and steel, more hard carpet, and continuous loops of recorded generic voices reminding you where to stand, smoke, park your car and put your stuff. Then John Denver shows up with his big, dumb heart and sings ‘come let me love you, let me give my whole life to you. Let me drown in your luaghter, let me die in your arms’ and my Salt Lake City-dried heart lurched around in my unexercised, accustomed to sitting down body and my bacon got a little saltier as I leaned over it listening to John sing it and mean it.

How can you fault a guy who loved so much? He died in his own airplane. I don’t know the details except that he ran out of gas. I picture him buzzing around slowly with his Grapenuts hair-do and a silly grin, looking at trees and mountains, loosing himself in the beauty around him, estatic at the magic of being above it all. Right up until he ran himself out of gas and into a smoking hole in the ground. Living so freely that he died.

And here he is singing for me, on the banks of the Snake River. Me, who has spent a month and half of life training in efforts to not die in this shiny airplane. Practicing every event that could kill you, so that it doesn’t. And in so doing have died to everything else that is good. I have no senses left to fill, until John Denver comes along and the thought of going home makes me cry in my bacon.

I ache to see my little stretching, yawning, smiley monkey boys, and the hero-wife woman who played single mother of twins so our family will have a dad who likes his job. If we die in each other’s arms today it will be from her sleep deprivation and my overwhelming relief of being somewhere real, organic, warm and free. Home.

Given the choice today I am not sure which is better, to become figuratively dead by trying so hard to stay alive; or to die of life-loving induced stupidity. But since I am literally alive and able to recover from my temporary, figurative death, I will call it a success and absorb all the life of my family cheerfully; until around 8 o clock tonight when the stretching, smiling monkey boys will be screaming inconsolably. Then maybe the smoking hole wont look so bad.

From the Union Street Roastery, on the corner of Fillmore and Union Streets in San Francisco, this long overdue post is born. The floors are wood, the coffee earthy, and I am plugged into the wall through Grandma Janet’s laptop.

We are in a season of Firsts. Everyday marks a first something for the boys. Mostly completely unremarkable firsts, like ‘first February,’ and several remarkable ones. Meaning of course that the proud, if long-winded, father is willing to remark. Amongst these are things that every one the 6 billion of us have done, yet become amazing, life-changing, telephone call provoking, remarkable events, when done by one of our own. Wednesday Ian rolled over; once as an accident and then once again to prove that it wasn’t. Thursday Jeremy and Ian produced what we deem their first ‘genuine’ smiles. It is always hard to be sure, but the evidence became conclusive when neither smile was followed by passing gas. Proof positive in our books. How could any of this be entertaining? I do not know. Except that perhaps it is one of the few things in our lives that we enjoy at the right time. Neither looking forward to the next first, nor glorifying the last one, but as genuinely excited as a cynical 30-something might ever be. Right there in the comfort of our own home.

Yesterday we took the boys on their first airplane ride. The same plane that I fly, of course, this time I was in the back. They apparently loved it with all the passion in their hearts, which they showed by sleeping from terminal to terminal. They unfortunately missed the captain’s announcement welcoming Jeremy and Ian aboard for their first flight and recognizing them as the world’s cutest twins, and the flight attendant saving a row in the front for them. Every profession has its perks.

Grandma Janet’s new apartment in the heart of San Francisco has proven a great retreat. Over the fields and through the woods to Grandmother’s Victorian flat in Pacific Heights we go. Today’s other firsts included first MUNI bus ride, first boat ride, and first bottle feeding in a former federal penitentiary.

My month of family leave will end with the end of the month. I will shave my beard and go back to early wake up calls. Megan will go back to a far lonelier night and early morning shift. Lord help us. We have found the twinfants quite manageable with two of us not working.

We were very surprised early this month to learn that I will be moving to the next aircraft in the SkyWest fleet. In the airline world all upgrades and moves are based on seniority. We expected my seniority to allow this move a couple years from now, not now. I will (amazingly) be able to do this and remain based in Santa Barbara. The plane is called a Canadair Regional Jet. (CRJ) It is a 50 seat jet, that is about twice the size of my current plane, quite a bit more modern, a lot faster, and prettier… Because that is what matters. Another very unexpected blessing. The only downside of this is that I will have to go to about 6 weeks of CRJ specific training in Salt Lake City. This could spell a disaster on the home front. However, we are working on several creative solutions that will hopefully keep the wife out of the psyche ward, the boys alive, the husband un-distracted, and the marriage in-tact. In other words: Pray for us.

Thanks


First Flight 

2 Years

Today marks 2 years since the day that I asked Megan if she would marry me. Then we were single, tan for February first, and skinny. I had a ring burning a hole in my pocket that I picked up only days earlier. Its weight was growing, yearning to serve its purpose. I was Frodo, single-mindedly pressing forward to unload that ring in the fires of the gazebo at Alice Keck Park. She awoke to my call just before sunrise, and followed a trail of flower petals for 2 blocks, to the center of the park where the turtles and koi, the sun rising on the water, a cup of hot chocolate, a guitar, and I were waiting. I sang a simple song, which convinced her that she should say yes. She did. It was our happiest day. Yet.

Today began with that song, a carefully timed moment to be sure. It is commonly known that you should not wake a sleeping baby, but less frequently recited is the more important rule: never wake a sleeping mother. Yet these are the trials of romance in a house of babies. If I do not awake her with our song, our boys will with their hungry cries. So I have to ask, which shows my love more, romance or sleep? Two years ago sleep was only a trifle when romance was at hand. Today we savored the 3 minute song, laughed at what 2 years can bring, laughed at what 21 months of marriage can bring, laughed at family planning, then started changing diapers.

Two years, two babies, two pale white flabby parents whose romance has not faded, only been squeezed into shorter intervals. It is not blooming. It is growing deeper roots. Perhaps we appreciated our tan-ness because we knew so little of what else there was to appreciate. Two years ago I did not know which occasions my then girl friend would have to rise to, only that I was confident that she would. Now she has risen to far more occasions than I would have hypothetically imagined, and shone. Brightly. So that I love her far more this morning than I did that morning. Pale as she is.

The Miracle of Boringness

After 45 long minutes of juggling technical jargon around the left side of my brain, it is sore. Inflamed, trying to determine when ‘relay box DC buss 3’ is powered by ‘relay box DC buss 2’ and when it is powered by the auxilliary DC bus. The airplane I fly is built in Brazil, by people who like tangled wires. It is built in the Jungle and the schematics explaining it look like the jungle. Though the lines and figures are angular, and meant to clarify something complex, they are of little help. At first glance they appear to help, then they start to wiggle, when you trace one line to another box, to another triangle, to a circle, they start to move, like a houndstooth coat under fluorescent light, vibrating. Soon you have to go back to find the line you started with. I turned to the text for relief. Airplane manuals are rife with FAA legalese which I am sure is intentionally placed for the express purpose of eliminating the weak. I have grown used to it, but our manual has another problem. It was written in Portuguese. A romantic language for a decidedly unromantic subject. Of course it has been translated for us. Sort of. I imagine that they asked around the factory floor to find someone who took English as their foreign language requirement in high school. Or perhaps they hired a staff of Amazon Pygmies who had been evangelized by English speaking missionaries from Oklahoma. I prefer that scenario. It explains far more about how the end product turned out.

Oh am I supposed to be writing about our two cute little boys?

The high drama days here at McCartertwins.blogspot.com have evaporated. I am not sure if readership has decreased accordingly. I would have no way of knowing. Hits to the site are as unknown as they ever were, it still has not registered on anyone’s buzz index (whatever that is), and advertising revenue has held steady at zero… A wonderful success, with every boring post from here out securing the miracle of boringness.

We are like alcoholics at AA. We are building “dry days.” The drama never truly evaporates from the twins’ history, but it does become less relevant with every passing day of normal twin operations. It does not dissolve but it is absorbed into their increasingly long history, becoming a smaller percentage of what is important by the day. The main difference being that we are not having any dramaholic cravings.

While I sit here typing, letting the other side of my brain fight back, Megan is involved in her own form of minimizing the importance of traumatic parts of her past. August 25th she left her office at the County after lunch for an ultrasound appointment. She left the papers on the desk and the computer on, expecting to finish up in an hour or so. Yesterday she returned for the first time. This time not as a Human Resources Analyst, but as a Mother. What became of those years of gainful employment? I mean, what did she gain? Surely we both appreciated all that money. We are not certain, however, that it was a net gain. Hours of occupying an office, doing what people do in offices, traded for dollars to use in the other hours. Is that a trade up? Of course her new occupation is not as lucrative in that way. Every hour yields benefits that last, and while they are sometimes repetitive they are always invested toward our own agenda. And every day away reinforces that any brilliant person can plan the County’s hiring agenda but only she can love and take care our boys the way she can.

Assignments

I am sitting in the low spot in our sofa, where the two cushions meet in the center. The low spot appeared sometime between the end of bed-rest and the beginning of mid-night feedings and remains in spite of cushion flipping. It is the least of the abuse that our furniture will sustain over the next several years, and for right now the most convenient of defects. The depression caused by the weight of me and my lap-top has allowed a convenient collecting place for our cylindrically wrapped pod babies. Ian's cheek is pressed up against my corduroy pants and his face frozen there in a content baby look. One which will surely leave his face striped when he decides to move. Jeremy's cheek is pressed up against Ian's shoulder and ear so he can hear his contented squeaks. All of this takes place in about 10 inches from my right hand pants pocket. Though I know they are hungry, they both have a wonderful feature which allows them to forget all of their worries so long as they are being held. In this case, so long as they are piled up against each other in a cozy depression on an entry level sofa with memory foam.

After a month on the outside, they collectively weigh more than a big single baby. While that is not a measure that anyone else is paying any attention to, we are. We have to keep reminding ourselves that our babies are small. When I see a big 10 pound baby with their great big round head, I have a moment of wondering "what is wrong with that baby." I remind myself that it takes both of ours to make that weight. Now at over 6 pounds and almost 5 pounds, the boys are feeling a little less floppy, a little more chubby but still small enough to hold against my chest with one arm.

That is all we ever prayed for. On January 5th I got to hold both my boys at once. Each facing each other, happy and squeaky, against my chest. A moment every bit as fulfilling as the day they were born. All at once the twins were reunited, the family of four became four in reality, and we marveled with deep and continuing gratitude that both are here. Here at all, here with us, here and healthy, here because, for whatever reason, they were assigned to us. Of all the months of praying for this outcome I remember the prayer that we prayed on the day that we were diagnosed with TTTS. Ben prayed that if God would spare these boys, that we would give him all the credit. A prayer that is proving far more difficult than I might have imagined. And not because it is hard to assign God as being responsible for our miraculous outcome.

While I hold my two healthy boys against my chest, I often think of the events of the last several weeks. Our friends who's son was born 2 days before Ian and Jeremy at 28 weeks lost him 4 days later. Two weeks later another friend of nearly 20 years didn't hear a heartbeat at 19 weeks and his wife delivered their son who was named after him, but never breathed. They named their sons for people they loved, prayed for them every bit as much, were supported every bit as much. In almost every way they were demographically the same as us. Yet I am holding my two sons. Can I make sense of this? Every attempt is trite at best. If I start trying it is not going to fit in the narrow column of this blog spot. A season for everything?... Regardless I hold God responsible for everything good. We can work out the details later.

For now, we are constantly aware that we were entitled to none of our blessing. That our sons are not deserved, earned, or bought by any formula of anything that we did. They are assigned and barely ours on loan.

Click here for the newest pictures.

Reunited

JEREMY LIBERATED!

More news and pictures on the happy reuniting when the premier of 'Alias' has passed.

Our New Pet

Our borrowed cat Ginger who danced on our living room floor, and endured much unwanted love, has been displaced, and replaced by our new pet. She went home with Grandma Janet a bit dejected that she could no longer hop up into the crib with all those blankets. As far as pets go, however, Ian is a little bit high-maintenance. As far as sons go he is well above average. While he can't dance yet, he does accept our love more graciously than Ginger. His highest function is to suck. A simple action that allows him to add an ounce a day to the package that we have to carry out to the car. The fact that Ginger ate from a bowl was also a plus. Ian, on the other hand,just keeps sucking, day and night: Like he's just waiting for us to put some food in there for him. They say that is normal. Normal for him if no one else. He easily makes up for his all-night sucking habit with his all-day being cute habit.

So far we have been about 90% successful in keeping him to the four hour eat/sleep cycle that the NICU nurses so thoughtfully put him on. Maybe he is too small to make much trouble yet, but we think we have it pretty easy. The only real problem with having him home is how incredibly obvious it makes it that Jeremy is not. In the beginning of our NICU stay it felt like the best thing for all of us was to have them there. Not anymore. Jeremy is a couple ounces away from his release, most likely this week, but not soon enough. The more we learn about Ian the more we are aware of how little we know about Jeremy. The more we hold, cuddle,and play with Ian the more painful it becomes to think of Jeremy in his plastic crib, receiving only visits from people who have to scrub and put on gowns before they touch him. The more we hold one at a time at different times in different parts of town, the more obvious it is that they should be together. Of course we realize that it is short lived, yet every time we go to the hospital it feels unfair that he has to rely on us taking a drive to come over to see him while his brother is under our constant care. Every time we leave him there we have to tell him that we will break him out soon, that he will be reunited with his brother soon. Our outings take place with a constant place-holder. Half of our sons is missing. We feel his absence though we have not yet experienced his presence.

All that sadness aside, Jeremy is easily on track to be home this week. He needs to be 2000 grams, last night he was 1921. He is doing great and often eating as much as his heavier brother. Just a couple of grams until freedom.