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