Saturday, March 1, 2014

We Are About To Be Lousy With Babies

This is the last weekend I can say this:  There are three grandchildren on the way.  Both of my sons--What's-His-Name and The-Other-One--have pregnant wives.  AND the former's wife is having twins.  By this time next weekend, the first of the three will be here, and by the end of the year, I will have 5 grandchildren.  I can start my own basketball team.

While all of this is hilarious--at least to me--the rest of my family seems to be in something of a state of frenzied shock.  If I had known how much fun grandchildren were, I would have had them first, and then probably stopped. 

Of course, I already have two granddaughters and I love them dearly.  And I'm not in any way prejudiced, but as I calculate it, I have an 87.5% chance of having one or more grandsons by the end of the year.  Not that I'm counting.  (50% chance of two boys and 12.5% chance of three.)

What's-His-Name is in deep shock--twins!!!  Suddenly, a household of three will grow to one of five almost overnight.  If I could stop laughing, I would empathize.  One child is like living with an entropy generator.  Two children is like having your entire world in a blender with no lid.  Three children under the age of three all at the same time....  Words fail me, but I may buy stock in the company that makes Pampers.

Of course, as a sensitive and caring grandfather, I am being very supportive.  That is why about twice a day, I send a text message to my son:  MINI-VAN. 

I have no idea what it is like to have an instant large family dropped on you, but I am positive the best way to find out is to watch it happen to someone else from a safe distance.  And that is my plan.

Other than the two granddaughters I currently have, I don't know too much about raising girls.  From what I have seen so far, little girls are cute, incredibly sensitive, and very emotional.  This wasn't exactly my experience with raising boys.  That was more like riding a roller coaster without a track through the middle of a scrap metal yard.  If for no other reason than revenge, I hope my sons each raise at least one boy.

I remember well the time when What's-His-Name was supposed to be digging a hole in the back yard to plant a Christmas tree.  (The Doc, my wife, always insisted on a live Christmas tree since nothing will get you in the holiday spirit more than killing a tree in your living room.).  After Christmas, we would go ahead and plant the corpse in the forlorn hope that it would somehow take root and survive.  After two dozen attempts, only three trees survived.

That particular year, What's-His-Name had done something wrong and it was his punishment to dig a hole in the back yard deep enough for the tree.  From the way the boy whined and moaned, you would have thought we had asked him to dig his own grave.  And the progress was slow, despite fairly constant reminders from me to keep moving.  After about two hours, I went to check the progress.  The good news was that there was a hole (although it was about half the size necessary).  The bad news was that the boy was curled up in the hole sound asleep.

He's a good boy, and to this day, he always does what I tell him.  As long as I'm standing near him.

The number of grandkids is more than doubling in one year!   A whole bunch of new names are going to have to be thought up.  This is, obviously, not something my family excels at.  (My mother's name was Bob and I have an aunt Pete, but that is another story.)  I don't suppose What's-His-Name-2 will work.

I suppose my sons could be like this farmer I knew back in Texas who had so many children that he just ran out of names. Eventually, he just started calling his kids after the first thing he saw around his farm.

A few years later, it was the first day of school and the new teacher walked down the row of students and asked each child their name. When he got to one of the farmer's sons, the boy replied, "Wagon Wheel."

The teacher said, "I need your real name boy.", to which the lad replied, "It's Wagon Wheel, sir....really."

The teacher, rather annoyed rejoined, "All right young man, take yourself right down to the Principal's office this minute."

The youngster pushed himself out of his chair, turned to his sister and said, "C'mon, 'Chicken Shit, he ain't gonna believe you, neither."

1 comment:

  1. The blog entry beat the arrival of Bailey Olivia Milliorn by about 12 hours. Mother and baby doing well.