Who’s your daddy?

"Wait a minute. If you're my dad, who's that guy taking the picture?"

Most people think my best friend Brian and I are twins. I’ve been hearing this for as long as I’ve known Brian (30 years now – yikes!) We’ve been confused for siblings and one another by coworkers, strangers and friends. I even went to his high school open house and was handed cards by his grandma and aunt. They hugged me and wondered how I was by the front door when they had just seen me in the basement. I should have stuck around long enough to clean out his envelopes.

Yesterday was the first chance Ryan and Brian had to meet. Ryan woke from a nap and found himself facing two copies of Dad. He spent the night perplexed and staring. He didn’t know what to make of our guest.

We’ve found half of our ideal babysitting team. Ryan wouldn’t even know I was gone.

Daddy’s little helper

I can’t say I’ve ever broken a sweat vacuuming before. That was until I tried doing it while holding a plump, anxious baby. Remind Gina and I not to wait to clean until the whole house is dirty next time.

Sharp dressed man

Gina was determined to get a good picture of Ryan in his baptism outfit. He was having nothing to do with it the first three times we tried. So we gave him a four-month grace period. Luckily, it still fit. We must not have realized how big it was on him the first time around. After half a roll of virtual film, we finally got what we wanted:

Ryan was out of sorts the rest of the day after we stuffed him into his old nemesis. But now his suit is retired for good. Unless it still fits on his birthday . . .

Ryan’s new crib?

Gina and I were hoping that we’d win a house today. That’s the grand prize of the raffle we’ve been entering the last few years, and this time we were so excited we went to the drawing with Ryan. Both of us spent a lot of time fantasizing about a new home. Gina wanted Ryan to have his own room instead of bunking with our treadmill, and I dreamt of how we’d have to worry about our jobs and finances less.

The organizers drew the winning tickets from a hand-cranked drum. There were 75 prizes. Second place was $25,000. But everyone was there for the house. The winners’ hometowns were announced before their names were read. And when they called our city for the grand prize, Gina and I held our breath.

Somebody else won the grand prize. Gina sat in her seat for awhile. But we both knew that we’d already won the greatest prize of all: a healthy, happy, beautiful boy who was eager to get home.

How to choose a pediatrician

A month before Ryan was born, Gina and I thought it was a good idea to find a pediatrician. The baby books offered all kinds of advice for choosing the right one, but we preferred the scientific method. We looked at the candidates’ pictures. 

“She doesn’t look too friendly,” Gina said on the phone as we scrolled through the providers’ mugs. I’d found a website with head shots of all of the doctors in our network.

“She looks like a mean nun,” I said. “I don’t want to get lectured.”

“And what is she wearing?” Gina said, scoffing at a doctor who lost our business with her questionable taste in scarves.

“What about her?” 

“She looks nice, but her smile’s kind of fake. Like she could snap or something.”

We were burning through our choices fast.

“What about two down from the last one?” I said.

“That’s a way more natural smile.”

“All right,” I said. “We have a winner. Let’s give her a call.”

The week before the baby was born, we interviewed our selection (yes, our criteria went beyond whether we thought our doctor photographed well.) And after over a dozen visits, we’re happy with our choice.

So not only is a picture worth a thousand words, it makes for a good referral.

Nixing the night shift

After four months of working the night shift every Tuesday and Thursday, I’m going back to working days beginning next week. Gina and I feel Ryan’s old enough to go to five days of daycare, and even though we’re torn about it we think it’s the right thing to do. I won’t go home on Tuesdays and Thursdays only to wake up and go straight to work, and Gina won’t have to be alone with the baby when things go bump in the night. Most important, we’ll be able to go back to spending each day as a family. No more handing the baby off and only seeing each other in passing twice a week.

Plus, with me going in earlier so I can pick up the baby sooner, there will be just enough time before Gina gets home for the boys to play videogames.

Insult to injury

The magazine I work for has an essay called the Last Resort on the last page of every issue. It’s usually a humorous piece about the issue’s theme. Our last issue featured interior design, and I submitted my blog post about my obsession with painting our living room. I figured it was a good fit with the theme and the feature’s lighthearted tone. But the editors already had an essay that they had assigned.

I called Gina to tell her that my story was rejected.

“What did they say?”

“They said that I should hold onto mine and maybe they’ll use it as a Last Resort.”

“Well, that’s rude,” Gina said.

She felt better when I reminded her that was the name of the department.

So much for that idea

I don’t think that Ryan’s ready to feed himself just yet.

Grandma the prophet

Last year my grandma turned 90, and to mark the occasion each of us grandkids took turns taking her out to eat. Gina and I took Grandma to a local diner she liked.

Grandma isn’t quite the conversationalist she once was. Her hearing’s shot, a source of constant frustration for her, and she tends to repeat some things. But we were having a nice time. She told us repeatedly how she always gets a doggy bag when she eats out, adding “I’m not ashamed to admit it” each time that she did. Then she turned her attention to Gina, who was six months pregnant at the time. After some small talk about the pregnancy, Grandma straightened up, and made a pronouncement with the authority of an Old Testament prophet. “You’re having a boy,” Grandma told Gina, pointing her finger at her. Then Grandma sank back into her seat as if the Spirit had passed. A few minutes later she told us how whenever she eats out she always asks for a doggy bag (and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it,) but Gina and I were struck by Grandma’s moment of clarity.

Shortly afterward we were at our OB getting the verdict via ultrasound, and when the nurse told Gina “congratulations, you’re having a boy,” Gina immediately wept tears of joy. I did too, and in the back of my head I thought, “Grandma was right.”

Happy birthday, Grandma. Maybe you can predict our next one, too.

Jenny and the teleport chamber

The house I grew up in in Griffith had a magical spot on the second floor that let you teleport. At least, that was what we were able to convince my sister Jenny.

The “we” in question were me, my brother Andy and my friend James. Andy and I often butted heads with Jenny back in those days, when Andy and I were in middle school and Jenny was around nine or ten. This was partly because, as I recall it, Jenny was a bit of a brat, but also due to the fact that, though she had a sister in Mary, the oldest, she also had the misfortune of being born after a string of three boys. 

There was a square of hallway on the second floor of our house that was enclosed by doors on three sides and a wall on the fourth. James and I, somewhere along the line, concocted a tall tale about it. With Andy roped in, we told Jenny that if someone stood on that patch of hallway and let themselves be boxed in, they would magically find themselves transported to the same spot on the first floor.

To prove it, we had James volunteer to be the guinea pig. The “teleport chamber” was framed by a bathroom and Jenny and the boys’ bedrooms. We had Jenny go in the bathroom and close her door from the inside, while Andy and I manned the bedroom doors and shut James in. Naturally, one of us devious brothers let James out through our side, and when Jenny ran down the stairs from the second floor bathroom, sure enough, there James was.

Enticed and amazed, Jenny would inevitably volunteer to go next. James took her spot manning the bathroom door, and we shut Jenny in. Only this time there was no brother who let her out of the pitch black hole. My memory is conveniently spotty here, but I imagine we finally let Jenny out when she started to cry or bang on the doors. We would then shrug our shoulders as to why the teleport chamber had failed, offering the theory that it only worked on boys.

We pulled this cruel hoax on Jenny a number of times. I have to think that after the first few occasions Jenny was just playing along, sucking it up for the rare chance to play with two of her older brothers. Boys may be boys, but it was one of the meanest things I remember doing as a kid.

Dr. Jenny grew up to be an accomplished, beautiful woman, and one of, if not the, most happy people that I know. On her birthday, I would just like to say I’m glad we didn’t scar you with that whole bogus-teleport thing, and that I love you and I’m proud of you.

And that it was James’ idea.