Just Being Honest

I'll be honest. I haven't always been happy about having triplets.

I have never done harder work in my life. And I worked in a lignite plant for a while in college. I delivered newspapers in hip-deep snow as a boy in my home town. I was a newspaper reporter.

I think I have a fair appreciation of hard work. So trust me when I say that unless you have multiples, you just can't know how difficult this is.

I remember the day we found out we were having triplets. We had been in to see the doctor a few weeks before, and the ultrasound had revealed that we were having twins. It was a bit of a shock, but we already had three daughters, so what could the difference between four and five children really be, anyway?

During the ultrasound at the follow-up appointment, the doctor just sat back in his seat and said, simply, "Oh my."

When he told us it was triplets, I decided right away that I could not go back for any more ultrasounds. Every time I went, more babies were discovered in there.

Shortly after making that decision, I think I slipped into a coma. I didn't say a word for the better part of an hour.

And then there was the pregnancy. We've forgotten most of it by now (a tip of my hat, here, to the fallibility of our memories), but it was extremely difficult. And then there was the sleep deprivation. And the restrictions on our lives that came with adding three babies at once.

And even after all that, our house is filled with baby gear. If your eyes don't bulge out a bit the first time you visit our house, you either work in a kindergarten classroom or a daycare. Otherwise, the bouncy seats, the baby toys, the boppies, the swings, the walkers, and the three-seat feeding table will take your breath away.

As it turns out, all that can take the space in your house away as well.

We had to buy a minivan. Enough said on that point.

I'm 36 years old, and suffice it to say that I was not eager to start over. To deal with mountains of poopy diapers, puke stains in the carpet, unrelenting crying, or children who can't buckle their own car seats.

My boys are eight months old now, and as it always does, time has provided me with a somewhat more informed perspective.

We do have a lot of baby stuff in our house. And yes, despite our best efforts, the trash can next to the changing table does occasionally overflow with messy diapers.

But we have three healthy boys. They survived a recent bout with RSV, and although the next round of sickness is never more than a week away, they are healthy now.

And happy. They smile and laugh constantly. And we learn new ways to make them laugh every day.

They never had colic, not even for a moment. We never spent a single moment walking the floor with any of them, trying in vain to get them to stop crying. Oh, they've cried. But any of you whose children have had colic know the difference.

We've never had a moment's worth of rivalry. We were excessively worried from the beginning about making sure the arrival of our boys did not overshadow the lives of our girls. And maybe we've avoided any sense of rivalry because we were so focused on preventing it. But our girls love their brothers incredibly. The hug them, and kiss them, and carry them around the house. They are, I believe, truly happy that their brothers are here.

We have terrific children. Most parents probably believe that, and count us among them. They are smart, well-adjusted, polite, loving, fun children. They make our lives full and happy. They give us so much more than they require of us.

I'll be honest. I wasn't very happy about the idea of having triplets. But after eight months of this exquisite chaos, I just can't imagine my family any other way.

And I wouldn't want to.

The Day Ben Blew Away

At risk of serious understatement, the wind blows in Cheyenne. A lot.

The Chamber of Commerce suggests that the average wind in Cheyenne is somewhere between 12 and 15 miles per hour. For that average to be correct, there would have to be days with no wind at all.

I've lived in Cheyenne for 14 years, and I have never experienced such a day. In fact, by my own measure, if you've only been slammed in your own car door twice in any 12-month period, you're having a pretty good year.

But you get used to it. You pull your hat down a little further. Cake the hair product on a bit thicker. Hold onto your grocery bags a bit tighter.

And never, never take your eyes off your small children.

One day not long ago, it was my job to get all six children in the car and get them home safely. My wife had an evening meeting, and she trusted me to get them home, fed, bathed, and to sleep.

No problem. I have done this before.

I've written in this space about the rubber-necking that occurs when we take the triplet stroller out in public. But I've never had occasion to mention that it, too, exhibits many of the same qualities as a sail. That's because until that same day not that long ago, I didn't know.

I had managed to wedge all the girls through the back door of the Expedition and into their car seats. And I had even gotten two of the boys out of the stroller and into the car (working from back to front, of course; if you take them out from front to back, the damned stroller will flip over with the remaining baby still attached...not that I have ever experienced that).

When I crawled out to grab Ben, who had drawn the short straw and was left in the wind until I could get his brothers fastened, he was gone. The entire stroller was gone.

I looked around the parking lot, and caught sight of the stroller/schooner just as it approached an eight-foot-high retaining wall, below which is an alley and all the dumpster-style accoutrement you would expect to find in an alley.

Ben was barreling right for it.

See, I normally put their baby bag in front of the wheels to keep the stroller from rolling away. But there was snow on the ground that day, so I didn't think applying the makeshift brakes would be necessary.

As I slipped and slid across the parking lot to catch Ben before he plummeted into a dumpster, I gently reminded myself that this could all have been avoided if I had only put the bag in front of the wheels. If only.

I caught the stroller a few feet before it reached the retaining wall, and I pulled it back to the car without looking to see how Ben was taking all of this. The wind had really whipped up, it was getting very cold, and I had five other kids waiting in the car.

So I pulled him across the snow to the car, and pulled the cover away from his face to check on him before putting his car seat in its base.

There looking up at me were the two brightest blue eyes and the gummiest smile I've ever seen. He even giggled a little when he saw my face.

The wind was still howling, and a few seconds earlier my smallest son had blown away. And he loved it.

I wish I had that kind of attitude.