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  • I think they’re big enough to qualify as entrees

    Earlier this week, the twins’ daycare provider informed me that a coyote had been spotted in her back yard.

    Which was unexpected. I realize that in some parts of the country, this kind of thing is commonplace. People get eaten by bears all the time in places like Alaska and Hawaii (except for Hawaii). Arizona, from what I understand, is overrun with rattlesnakes and poisonous spiders (as well as roadrunners and coyotes, although that may be more of a Looney Toons fact than a National Geographic fact).

    But here in the bucolic green suburbs of Boston, a coyote wandering around the swingset, sandbox, scattered playground balls and exersaucers that house my juicy 13-month olds on a daily basis is considered news.

    The fact that theWife is out of town as this happens leaves me in the predicament of trying to determine the proper reaction to this revelation, minus the normally sure guidance of her moral compass and maternal instinct.

    But I’m pretty sure I did the right thing. I spoke to the daycare provider, expressed my concerns (“they hide in the trees, you know. In the branches.”), and left the girls in her capable hands.

    Lightly basted in a maple chipotle glaze.

  • What was I saying?

    Yeah, okay. So it’s been about 11 months since I last tried this. I’ve been busy, a’ight?

    Basically: things happened that interfered with my ability/willingness/desire to participate in the brave new world of blogggging. What had once seemed like a fun way to blow off steam suddenly became the least important thing in a life where my priorities changed dramatically overnight.

    That being said…

    Let’s give this another shot.

  • Holidays in the Sun

    Saturday marks the 1-year anniversary of our last actual vacation. (This claim has an asterisk: we spent Columbus Day weekend last October in DC, but as no actual work days were missed, I figure this is exempt from qualifying as “vacation time.” Basically: if my employer doesn’t know about it, it never happened.)

    A year is a long time to go between vacations. True, my wife has been away from work since the end of June, but somehow I don’t get the impression she’d define ‘maternity leave with newborn twins’ as a vacation. Although I welcome you to suggest it. (Please let me know in advance, so that I can be sure to sit a safe distance away.)

    But a solid year of work without a break… it’s a bit of a grind. Hell: because of crazy deadlines, pressures and stresses at my still-kind-of-a-startup-company, I could only take three days off when our twins were born. What this means is that a) I’m starting to grow roots here at my desk (or not, as the combination of fluourescent lighting and humidity probably make me more of a fungus than an actual plant); and b) our own vacation last Aug/Sep is so distant and yet so magically remembered that it now seems almost dreamlike in recollection. Who were those people out there in the sunlight, smiling and happy?

    (People like that suck, I reply instinctively.)

    We spent the week up in Acadia with the Hurricane. Acadia National Park, I feel compelled to explain, is the only national park in the northeast — it comprises a big chunk of Mt. Desert Island on the Maine coast, about 5 hours north of Boston (maybe 2/3 of the way to New Brunswick). Remember a buncha years back, when Alka Seltzer was introducing some kind of cold remedy and they used an old, hearty Maine fisherman as a testimonial spokesperson? “Beat this Bar Harbor winter cold, Alka Seltzer did” he intoned. (Or something like that. Forgive me for not remembering exactly, but the ad aired a long time ago and I’ve had a lot of beers and kids since then.) Anyhow: Bar Harbor is on Mt. Desert Island, and is one of the towns bordering Acadia.

    In fact, we rented a place in Bar Harbor itself for the duration. I realize that when a lot of people head off to a week in a national park, they like to camp out & spend their nights under the stars. I respect this decision. I’ve camped myself a few times, and understand the allure. However, my wife and I have long since decided that we prefer vacations where we can blend the wonders of the natural world with the conveniences of modern culture. All of which makes Acadia the perfect destination for us: we can spend all day hiking mountains, biking along carriage trails or sea kayaking. Then, when we’re done, we take a nice hot shower, go out for a big dinner with a nice bottle of red or a few select microbrews, and then retire to the comfort of a clean queen bed.

    Gooooood times.

    The Hurricane, of course, had never been out in the wilds before. And I’m sure he won’t recall any of the trip in years to come. But let it be said: travelling with a 17-month old certainly lends a different dynamic to a vacation.

    As I mentioned, the drive up to Acadia is approximately 5 hours long (directions: follow I-95 north to Bangor, then turn right. Follow the road until you hit the ocean.) (Secondary recollection: here’s an opportunity to tell my favorite Maine joke, which was told to me by a guy who actually grew up in Bangor. Ready? “Bangor? Hardly know ‘er.” The joke makes more sense when you tell it in a thick Maine accent.). We’d done the drive many times in the past, and had always celebrated our arrival with a nice dinner out in Bar Harbor. Naturally, we decided to follow suit on this trip… walking around town, we found this cool new (to us, at least) Cubano restaurant called “Havana” which offered a great-looking menu, stylish decor and a nice wine list. “We’ve got a winner,” we thought to ourselves, and made a reservation for that evening.

    We’re kinda stupid sometimes.

    What we had failed to take into consideration, of course, was the possibility that our 17-month old – who had just spent 5 hours trapped in his car seat – might not take warmly to the idea of a quiet, calm dinner in a nice restaurant. Sure, he was usually not a problem when it came to hanging out in a high chair while we scarfed down food… but the 5-hours of previous confinement were a new experience for him, and as we quickly learned it made for a… uh… nonconducive experience.

    Meaning: he started screaming as soon as we walked into the restaurant that evening. And didn’t stop when we sat down. And didn’t stop when we ordered. And didn’t stop until – less than 15 minutes later (thank God we were there for an early dinner, before most other people had arrived) – my wife walked out the door with him and took him back to our rental place. And me? I finished up my nice glass of wine, then proceeded to spend something like $90 for a takeout dinner. (The people at Havana were incredibly nice and polite about the entire experience, I must add, and I sincerely hope they are being rewarded with riches and success even now. And I gotta say: even as reheated takeout, the food was delicious.) Lesson learned: avoid upscale restaurants with toddlers after long drives. Check.

    Anyhow, that was the low point. Things proceeded to get much better from there. We tailored our choices to more Hurricane-friendly environs, including several kickass dinners out at the Lompoc Cafe. (http://www.lompoccafe.com – excuse my lack of hotlinks, but I’m working on a Mac in System9, which means TypePad doesn’t allow me to make hotlinks the way other folks do. Sniff.) God, I miss the Lompoc. I’m not sure if they have a formal relationship with the Atlantic Brewing Company, or if they just happen to feature their beers, but the place is heaven for a microbrew fan like me. Phenomenal, tasty, local beer on tap… great, eclectic food… low-key, friendly atmosphere and service… hell, they’ve even got a bocce court. I’ve had their cookbook for years, and swear by it. And did I mention that we had our wedding rehearsal dinner here? True story.

    Anyhow (again): the Lompoc was perfectly fun & kid-friendly, and more importantly the Hurricane seemed just as happy to be there (and to scarf down hot pitas) as we were. God bless you for that, Hurricane. (I hope the little guy won’t be scarred by a childhood spent in brewpubs, because that’s the direction his life is currently headed.)

    Of course, in-town attractions were just the beginning. My wife and I had been up-and-down the mountains around Acadia many times, had been biking all over the place, had gone sea kayaking all around the island… but with the Hurricane in tow, we wondered if it’d be a less-fun experience. Answer: nope. We borrowed one of those toddler-hauling Kielty backpack things, tossed him in, and off we went… every day we’d take on a different mountain (admittedly we stuck to the smaller, shorter hikes… maybe 4ish miles and less than 600 feet of vertical climb). I gotta say: hiking with 35ish pounds of squirming toddler and shifting equipment on your back is a different animal than climbing on your own. Especially on descents, when you’re trying to pick your way down along a steep, treacherous path of loose till and granite blocks. Inevitably, it’s at the moments when you need your balance most that the toddler in question will choose to pass out — collapsing face-first into the back of your head and giving you a solid SHOVE forward at precisely the wrong time. Wheeee!

    But that’s nitpicking. It felt SO good to get out in the mountains and fresh air. And every time we summitted on these minor mountains, we’d pull the Hurricane out of the backpack and let him run around a bit… watching him – only 5 months after learning to walk – trying to carefully make his way up and down little granite outcroppings, creating his own little “hikes.” The smile on his face – the visible pride – when he made his way up for the first time without falling… man. That’s the kind of mental image you keep with you forever. A good one.

    Then we’d head back down, drive into town, shower, and have the rest of the day to explore the “civilized” outer ring of the island. We’d make a pilgrimage to the Atlantic Brewing Company’s actual brewery in the town of Mount Desert, the Hurricane happily playing with some toy by my feet while I discussed the merits of their Coal Porter with the tasting guy (his quote: “It’s the best thing I’ve ever put into my body.”). Or we’d wander around gorgeous Southwest Harbor (where they filmed the Stephen King miniseries “The Storm of the Century,” if you remember that one), my wife meandering through the boutiques while I helped the Hurricane master the intricacies of stepping up into a store… and then stepping out again… and then back up and in… and then down and out (repeat 700x to get full effect). Or we’d stop by the Bar Harbor Brewing Company — basically a shack hidden behind a couple’s house on the outskirts of Bar Harbor proper, and home to one of the finer stouts (mmm… Cadillac Mtn. Stout) I’ve had. Or we’d swing out to the Jordan Pond House, and do the classic thing and enjoy some popovers while we gazed at the mountains and water. Or we’d…

    Hell. We’d do a thousand different things. Because it was a vacation, and all the time we had was OUR time. We were a million miles from home, and exactly where we wanted to be.

    Sigh.

    (That’s nice. Now get back to work.)

  • Gobble Gobble Hey

    So at 1:30am last night, as I juggled squirming, squealing, voracious and sleepless twinfants, a thought occurred to me: perhaps there’s an organic solution to the newborn sleep deprivation problem (and by organic, I don’t mean throwing your infant to the wolves and allowing nature to take its course). One that blends America’s greatest cultural traditions with state-of-the-art infant feeding technologies. One that is both socially and environmentally conscientious; rich in nutrition; and highly marketable to today’s progressive young parents.

    Follow my logic, if you will:

    1. “Sleeping like a baby” is a cruel myth. (Yes, yes… I know: some people are lucky enough to have infants that eat, burp, then sleep soundly for several hours until their next feeding. These people suck. My own personal experience – and I presume I’m not alone in this – is that the only humans that actually sleep like a baby are those far removed from any and all actual babies. This is not only a reflection of my current twin horror: kid #1 (the now toddler-aged Hurricane) NEVER SLEPT. One of the last movies my wife and I saw before the Hurricane was born was “The Ring” — phrases and scenes from which kept bouncing around my head for months and months afterward as we struggled through his infanthood… in particular, the haunting way in which Bryan Cox tried to describe the evil that was his daughter by simply saying “she never sleeps.” Of course, his kid came back from the dead and killed loads of people via the magic of videotape, whereas ours restrained himself to the more common practice of screaming and spitting up, 24/7. But had the Hurricane been a girl… I think we woulda renamed him Samara.

    Sorry. Did I have a point here?)

    2. Infants gotta eat, right? (I feel pretty confident in making this assumption. Granted, I’m no medical professional… but most of the literature I’ve seen seems pretty strong in endorsing the feeding of infants.)

    3. Thanksgiving happens every year. (I feel pretty confident in this assumption, as well. I could probably do more research on the topic, but I personally can’t remember a year in which there wasn’t a Thanksgiving.)

    4. Thanksgiving means turkeys. (Unless you’re a vegetarian, in which case it means tofurkey. But let’s pretend for a minute that the deviant vegetarian lifestyle is not a concern.)

    5. Turkeys are chock-full-of-tryptophan. (Tryptophan, as I’m sure you’ll recall, is an amino acid that helps the body produce naicin, which in turn helps the body produce the neurotransmitter seratonin… which plays a key role as a calming agent and in HELPING YOU SLEEP. When people say that eating a Thanksgiving turkey makes you sleepy, they’re talkin’ tryptophan. Studies now suggest that tryptophan may not be as potent as people think… but I like to pretend those studies don’t exist.)

    6. There’s ALWAYS leftover turkey. (Okay, so everyone eats a lot of leftover turkey (and stuffing, and mashed potatoes, and everything else) in the days following Thanksgiving… but there’s always some small percentage of the turkey that goes uneaten. Maybe it’s the dark meat… maybe it’s a part that’s a little-too-pink for comfort… but there’s always something left.)

    7. There are a LOT of turkey carcasses out there. (Let’s do a little rough math: assume there are 270 million people in the US. Assume that every Thanksgiving gathering averages 8 people to a turkey. Even if, for some reason, 1/3 of all Americans aren’t having turkey on Thanksgiving… that’s still something like 22 million turkeys.)

    8. That means a lot of free-floating tryptophan, just waiting to be used properly. (You’re starting to see where this is going now, aren’t you?)

    9. Recycling works. (I’ve seen this written somethere, and therefore presume it’s true. If we can recycle bottles, cans, newspaper and cardboard… why not the tryptophan in turkeys?)

    10. Food technology is sophisticated. (Basically, American manufacturers can do just about anything they please. They can turn cheese into a substance that sprays out of a can. They can develop 75 different formulas for Coke. They can turn cucumbers into pickles, and grapes into raisins. For science-impaired individuals like me… this is all basically magic.)

    11. THE CONCLUSION: America’s food technology leaders need to find some way to recycle all this Thanksgiving tryptophan and incorporate it into nutritious infant formula, thereby creating a product that both feeds our infants… and makes them immediately sleepy thereafter, without any of the pesky side-effects of, say, opiates.

    12. THE PRODUCT: TryptoLac – Full Baby + Sleeping Baby = Happy Baby

    Tell me you wouldn’t buy this if you saw it in the store. Tell me that Whole Foods couldn’t market this as some kind of organic baby chow breakthrough, and wouldn’t reap monster profits as a result. Tell me that there’s not a huge demographic out there of people just like me, desperate for some way to make “sleeping like a baby” something more than the biggest, cruelest lie in the history of mankind.

  • Seven Weeks, Minus One

    So tomorrow, my (our) twin daughters will be seven weeks old. And over that course of time, I’d estimate (roughly) that they’ve slept a grand total of perhaps fourteen (14) hours.

    Extensive mathematical analysis provides us with the stunning deduction that this figure equates to approximately two (2) hours of sleep each week. Of course, further study indicates that these two (2) hours are – unsurprisingly – nonconsecutive hours, and are (in fact) comprised of discrete units of 10-35 minutes.

    The conclusion: we do not have daughters. We have monsters. Sleepless, screeching, bloodthirsty monsters that apparently feed on the misery of others. I see them growing fat on our fatigue. I see great blubbery rolls accumulating on their thighs and upper arms, each roll corresponding to a new dark crater that forms beneath one of our eyes.

    Some say that this is a hallucination, or an exaggeration. I say: you must be a part of the conspiracy. No normal human – with the capacity to feel for others; to empathize with the most core of human needs and emotions – could possibly miss the fact that these two tiny girls are demonic homunculi.

    (Did I spell homunculi correctly? I could look it up, but they’re probably monitoring me carefully for just precisely that kind of research. Because when they discover that I’ve uncovered their true nature… I will become a liability. And we all know what happens to liabilities in this brave new economic world: they must be eliminated.)

    A friend of mine recently sent an e-mail asking if the girls had tried yet to kill me in my sleep. This was funny, primarily because it presumed that I was actually experiencing periods of sleep in which I might be killed. But I think that he cut to the core of what this battle is swiftling evolving into: a kill-or-be-killed battle of wills. Suddenly, I understand why sharks and alligators eat their young, and with that in mind am starting to consider which marinades might work best in this scenario. Darwinism, nourishment and tangy BBQ: great tastes that taste great together.

    Seven weeks in, and I’m considering cannibalism as a logical alternative to sleep deprivation.

    Yeah. “Let’s have another kid” is looking like a great idea in retrospect.

    (slamming head repeatedly against concrete floor)