bahmerbunch

Thanks, Boys

2010-11-01T17:58:00.000-07:00

I normally try to write something in this space that is funny, or insightful - or, if I'm really trying, both. But tonight I just want to thank my little boys for being so patient and enduring their father's unfulfilled childhood dreams.

First, they've patiently pretended to care about learning to bat left-handed and throw right-handed (that's a ticket to the major leagues, see). And now, this. I always wanted to be a member of Kiss...

Thanks for sitting still during the makeup session, boys.

Save the Planet - If You Can

2010-09-19T20:50:00.001-07:00

My 10-year-old daughter is a liberal. I already know it. In fact, I've known it for a long time.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. I'm just saying. And her tendencies began to show in February of 2009, shortly after President Obama was inaugurated.

She had spent part of a Wyoming winter day looking out her classroom window at the blowing snow, and she began to wonder what the homeless do at times like that. And she began to worry that they have no place to go, no place to get warm.

So she sat down at her desk and hand wrote a letter to the President, urging him to make sure that there are enough shelters for the homeless.

I dropped the letter in the mail myself. Despite what must be a rare letter from an elementary schooler in Wyoming, we have yet to receive a response. Doesn't matter. I'm very proud of her for writing it in the first place.

At home, she's become known as The Rulebook. If you leave a light on, she explains to you the energy you could save if only you'd turn it off. Same with letting the water run while you brush your teeth. Can't get away with it if The Rulebook is around.

Saving the planet, and all its inhabitants, got a bit tougher when her three brothers arrived. We often joked that at nearly 30 diapers a day for the first several months, we'd developed our own plan to single-handedly destroy the planet.

She didn't think it was such a good joke.

I was reminded of her concern for the planet and all creatures great and small recently as she was playing with her brothers on the driveway. See, she's the kid who catches spiders in the house and releases them out on the deck, rather than instantly crushing them, as I would.

She was helping her brothers ride their tricycles and drive their mini-Mini Coopers down our long driveway when Luke jumped out of the car near the newspaper box. In this year of a grasshopper rampage, there were were literally thousands of bugs for the boys to catch, and squeeze, and stick in their mom's face for review.

Luke immediately began stomping on grasshoppers with both feet. It sort of looked like the old high school football happy feet drill: pick 'em up and put 'em down as quickly as you can, but this time with a grasshopper under each foot.

Allison calmly grabbed Luke by the arm and escorted him back into the car. I turned off the lawn mower in time to hear her tell him that there was no need to kill the grasshoppers. After all, she said, they hadn't hurt anyone.

My wife and I think Allison will be a veterinarian. Doesn't matter what she decides to do professionally.

She'll be a good, kind-hearted young lady. Just as we always knew she would be.

We love you, sweetheart.

Nature vs. Nurture - Part 2

2010-07-20T22:39:00.001-07:00

I've written here before about the battle between nature and nurture - the natural tug-of-war between what we teach our children and what they appear to 'know' on their own.

Last time I noted that my boys just knew to fall asleep in front of the TV with their hands in their pants. Nature 1, Nurture 0.

Much has happened in the time since that post. My boys walk and run. They talk and sing and dance and play with friends. They've really come to love their sisters. In fact, there are times when Luke needs help but he won't accept it from me or my wife. He will only allow my oldest daughter to console him.

They turned 2 last month, and they are fully in the throes of learning to be 2-year-olds. Ben yells 'No!' at me, no matter what I say to him.

Here's an example. Me: "Ben, how was your day?" Ben: "No!"

Here's another. Me: "Ben, that picture you drew of you walking with your mom is terrific!" Ben: "No!"

And Jack has learned the 2-year-old's art of dramatic interpretation. Or, maybe it's just drama. If his brother takes his toy, Jack slowly tilts his head back, closes his eyes, widens his mouth into a toothy oval, and screams to the heavens.

If Jack asks to be picked up and a parent declines the invitation, Jack slowly tilts his head back, closes his eyes, widens his mouth into a toothy oval, and screams to the heavens. Doesn't matter the issue. The response is the same.

And Luke. Well, Luke has learned that he's bigger than the other two. Which means he can bear hug or aggressively tackle at will. He grabs his brothers and squeezes until Ben yells "No!" and Jack tilts his head back and hollers to the heavens. And just tonight, he decided that he was pugilist enough to box with me. He misjudged that matchup.

All of that seems pretty normal to us. So perhaps it's Nature 2, Nurture 0. We've always wondered what it would be like to have boys. And defying, hollering, and tackling seem to be it.

But recently, Luke took the age-old argument to another level.

We've been working on potty training for a while now without great results. A few weeks ago, though, Luke told us that he needed to go peepee on the potty. So we rushed him to his little training potty, pulled down his pants, and sat him down.

At which point he immediately got up, went to the bookshelf and got his favorite book, and then returned to his seat on the potty. He needed something to read.

I wish I could have taught him that.

Nature 3, Nurture 0.

Paradise Found

2010-04-22T10:06:00.000-07:00

The man walked up the concrete steps slowly, occasionally looking behind him at a little boy who remained in the front row along the left field foul line.

By the time the man reached the top of the steps, a smile had spread across his face. The boy had caught a foul ball, the man said, and he was politely - but aggressively - asking for autographs from every player who passed by.

"I'm 53 years old," the man said, "and I've never caught a foul ball."

The boy, 10 years old, was his son. And they had come to Spring Training in Arizona together to watch professional baseball in the most intimate setting possible.

It's the same reason I flew to Phoenix by myself. To escape the Wyoming "spring", and to watch major leaguers get ready for the 2010 baseball season. Going by myself had its upside - I didn't have to persuade anyone to stay for the entire game, even if it was clearly out of hand by the fourth inning.

But it had its downside, too. I was alone. My boys are still too young to sit still for three-plus hours and watch baseball. And my dad died when I was in high school.

So I wandered around the Camelback Ranch complex by myself, listening to Hall-of-Famers give up-and-coming rookies tips on hitting big league off-speed pitches. I stood beside the bullpen and heard pitchers who were stars when I was a boy teach the next generation how to throw a big league slider.

And I watched fathers chase their sons who were chasing players to get autographs and pictures.

I expected the trip to be exciting, restful, and warm. It was all of those things. What I didn't expect was the constant reminder of all the plans my dad and I had made to go to Spring Training someday. Someday.

We talked about it a lot. In fact, one spring we planned a trip around the country to watch games in every major league stadium. But we never did it. I had all but forgotten those plans until I saw the man beaming while his boy elbowed for position in the front row so he wouldn't miss a chance to meet a ballplayer.

My dad and I shared many interests, but baseball was foremost among them. We suffered together through the dark months, from late October to the start of Spring Training in February. Then we spent our summers playing, watching and reading about baseball.

At almost two years old, my boys can already throw a baseball. Last weekend we started learning to hit off of a tee. And at least four nights a week, they point at the TV and shout 'Go Rockies'.

You were too young this year, boys. But in another year or two, you can stand next to me by the batting cages at the Rockies complex near Phoenix. We'll eat hot dogs and learn to keep score and spit sunflower seeds. I'll chase you as you chase your heroes, politely - but aggressively - trying to get their signatures on the round horsehide trophy that you'll cherish as long as the ink lasts.

My dad and I talked about it a lot, but we never did it.

We will, boys.

Cereal and Toilets

2009-12-09T13:55:00.000-08:00

I was trying to take a nap when I heard my wife scream.

I didn't jump up off the couch or anything to see what was going on. Screaming at nap time is pretty normal.

Usually you'll hear her scream because at some point during their play time together, Jack has grabbed a handful of Luke's hair and pulled him to the floor. Jack laughs. Luke cries. My wife screams.

Sometimes you hear it when, at some point during their play time together, Luke's arm inadvertently passes through Ben's play space. That's when Ben leans over and bites Luke so hard that he leaves a circular imprint of teeth on Luke's skin. Kind of looks like a little tiny dog bite.

Ben plays. Luke cries. My wife screams.

This time, though, the screaming had much more to do with the boys' newfound mobility. They've been walking for several months, and even running for a few of those months.

But now, they're into climbing. And beyond the earlier references I've made to the gender differences we discovered in the diaper changing process, the climbing has made it clear to us that boys and girls are different.

I just don't remember the girls struggling to get up on the couch. When they were big enough, and strong enough, and when they cared enough, they just hiked themselves up there. The boys, on the other hand, have been struggling for months to hoist themselves onto the couch for the sole purpose, apparently, of flinging themselves off the couch back to the floor.

They are so determined to climb that lately they've begun to build makeshift ladders. Luke prefers to use a plastic rocking horse as a staircase. And he has learned the hard way the risks of using an object that is built to rock back and forth as his support mechanism.

Just before Thanksgiving, Ben climbed up on a chair in the living room so he could flip the light and ceiling fan switches about four thousand more times. At some point during the flipping, he lost his balance, fell off the chair, and smacked the bridge of his nose on the arm of the chair on his way down.

Double-barrel nosebleed. Broken nose. Purplish-green bruise mask for Thanksgiving. Nice, Ben.

During my nap, though, the boys conspired in a new adventure. See, they're tall enough now that simply closing the doors in our house won't keep them out of rooms we don't want them in. They just get up on their tip-toes, stretch as far as they can reach, and open the door.

And now, there is no space in our house that is safe. During my nap, they pulled open the pantry door, climbed up the shelves, pulled down all the cereal boxes, and dumped piles of cereal on the floor. Cereal which they then, of course, ate. They would not eat it if they were sitting at the dinner table. But off of the floor? You bet.

The wax would have blown out of my ears if I'd opened the pantry door to see three 18-month-old boys sitting in piles of cereal and eating it off the floor. My wife screamed. And then took a picture.

Later that same afternoon, the boys pushed open the door to the bathroom (a realm that had been, up to this point, strictly off limits, because of their tendency to close each others' heads in the toilet seat, or to stir the toilet water with their arms), climbed up on the toilet and dumped a recently watered plant onto the floor.

This time when my wife ran to the bathroom to see what hell the triplets had wrought, she found an ecosystem of flowing black potting soil, a child with his sleeves soaked up to his armpits, and six blue eyes staring at her as though Elliot Ness had just shot the lock off the door.

She screamed. And then took a picture.

I just rolled over and went back to sleep.

Sometimes it's better just to pretend that you didn't hear it.

Invincible - Part 3

2009-08-17T14:52:00.000-07:00

Fortunately, we are quick learners. Because we didn't plan our first day at the beach very well.

Being from Wyoming is no excuse - we have lakes, with, um, beaches. But we haven't taken a baby to the beach in years. And we've never taken three of them at a time.

So you'll forgive us if we didn't plan well to push, or pull, or drag the triplet stroller through the ankle-deep sand. In the end, it wasn't really that tough. But as I stood, looking past the thousands of other people who also decided to go the beach on a Thursday morning (what do these people do for a living, anyway?), I had no idea how we were going to get everyone down near the water.

We finally decided to take each of the babies out of the stroller one at a time and carry them to our chosen spot. Then all of our gear. And then, at last, the stroller itself.

By the time we got everyone within a stone's throw of the ocean, I was already tired of being at the beach.

The girls were so excited, they were all but uncontrollable. Chasing seagulls, kicking sand on innocent sunbathers, losing their sandals in the deep sand. Thank God we had the foresight to dress them all in matching swimsuits - it was like they were wearing pink uniforms that made them a little easier to find among the mass of Frisbees and tents and coolers and other little kids who were running around as crazy as ours.

Meanwhile, we spread our beach blanket out perfectly on the sand, set out our lunches, surrounded the blanket with beach toys for the girls and the triplets.

And then we took the boys out of their car seats. And that's where the fun ended.

Jack hated it. Despised it. Cried almost from the moment his little board shorts hit the blanket. He stopped crying just long enough to scoop up a handful of sand and shove it in his mouth.

More crying. And then, of course, he rubbed his eyes. Babies are apparently not fond of a cement-like mixture of sunscreen and sand in their eyes.

Luke took off crawling into the sand. He could not be stopped. He crawled off the blanket, and we put him back. He crawled off, and we put him back. Ben tried to crawl away, too, but for some reason, he didn't want to put his knees in the sand. So instead, he hiked his butt up into the air and elephant walked on his hands and feet.

It was funny, but there was no time to enjoy it. Jack had more sand in his eyes. And the girls were there somewhere, we were pretty sure.

And just when it seemed as though the agony had reached its apex, my wife (and God bless her for this) wanted to take pictures of the family at the beach.

I don't know if there is a single one of us in the picture who appears to be enjoying our little trip to the ocean. Maybe the only person who really enjoyed it was the random beach-goer who was chosen to take the picture.

It wasn't long before we lured the girls away from the beach with the promise of lunch on a patio and ice cream - and we got out of the sand as quickly as we could put all the boys back in their car seats, pack up our lunches (now fully coated in sand), organize our beach gear and toys, carry each boy back to the sidewalk, and pull the stroller through the sand.

But they, and we, learn quickly. We were in California for the annual TripletConnection convention, part of which was a beach party on Saturday evening. Suffice it to say, after our Thursday afternoon sojourn, we were not looking forward to the beach party.

This time, though, I put the stroller behind me, got low to the ground, and pulled it through the sand with the boys still attached. It looked a little like the training scene in Rocky III, but it worked. And we sat next to someone with a huge umbrella - and this time much closer to the water.

Turns out, when sand is wet, it packs. And babies have a much harder time eating it. And everyone has much more fun.

The girls played in some powerful waves, the boys played in the ocean, too, and we really enjoyed the last major event of the convention. The Orange County Register even took our picture and published it in the Sunday paper (you can see the picture here: http://www.ocregister.com/photos/convention-beach-triplets-2492123-one-three/pid2492125 ).

Good thing we're relatively quick learners. Or next year's vacation to the Caribbean would have to be in Wichita.

Invincible - Part 2

2009-07-22T14:49:00.000-07:00

I have historically not been much of a joiner.

Oh, I have my pet organizations that I belong to. But after having been invited into a couple of prolonged bad experiences, I've gotten a little picky about the ones I choose.

So I'll admit that I was a little leery about going to a convention for families of triplets. First things first: the only practical way to get to the convention was to fly. Just thinking about that nearly gave me an ulcer.

And then there's the whole business of sitting in a hotel ballroom with people you don't know, talking about subjects that are either too vapid to merit attention, or too personal to talk about with this group of strangers.

And then there's the banquets and parties and kids' games and small talk.

So I try to be a little careful. But my wife has been a religious reviewer and participant on tripletconnection.com, a web site that has provided her with tremendous amounts of great advice from parents who have already lived the life we are just now experiencing. They helped her through the pregnancy, through the early days and sleepless nights, and still through the transition from crawling to walking, and from formula to solid foods.

Even as devoted as she has become, we still probably wouldn't have gone. Except that the TripletConnection convention organizers were looking for workshop facilitators. I've done some of that, and I thought it might be fun to run the workshop for fathers of triplets - forgotten as we often are in the whole multiples discussion (unless you're Jon, in which case you and Kate have generated enough multiples media attention for a decade).

I offered to do it, and the gracious Susan Holloway took me up on the offer. And with that, we were off to California.

I've read about the connections that people forge in difficult times, and through shared circumstances. Maybe in the way that two combat veterans need no introduction or small talk - they can simply plunge into a conversation as though they've known each other their whole lives.

So it is with parents of multiples. We met the first family at the convention while standing in the lobby waiting for an elevator. They are quads from Ohio, in their early 20s, and they are the most remarkable young people. Our elevator came and went while we talked with them.

And before we could catch the next elevator, we met a couple from California whose triplets are five months old. Leave aside for the moment that the father reminded me very much of an old baseball buddy of mine. What surprised me is that when he began talking about the last five months of his life, I knew right where he was. I've been in those shoes.

That night I had the opportunity to tell a little bit of our story, a speaking opportunity that normally requires a lot of background and explanation. Not every audience understands what you mean when you say you had to build a fence in your family room to trap the triplets. At this convention, they just smiled at each other and recalled their own fences.

The next day I facilitated the Super Dads workshop - a candid exchange for men only. An opportunity, I hoped, for men to talk about the challenges they face, and to share some of the solutions we've developed. Our 90 minutes passed in a blink, and I think we could easily have stayed another 90 minutes. Our discussion was entertaining, our solutions were enlightening, and our issues were deeply personal and universal.

A great group of men, who are doing an outstanding job of dealing with the difficulties - and enjoying the blessings - of having triplets. I am grateful that they let me share some small portion of their lives.

I'm glad my wife convinced me to call about facilitating the workshop. We met so many wonderful people, from California and Ohio and Washington and England. And we made connections so effortlessly. One triplet dad we met had no issue with just taking one of our boys out of the stroller and playing with him. The family from England took Luke during breakfast and played with him for the better part of an hour.

And we let them. It felt a little odd to be so comfortable with a group of strangers.

In some ways, they aren't strangers at all. Maybe we are combat veterans of a sort.

And we are clearly more alike than we are different.

Invincible - Part 1

2009-07-22T13:51:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: We didn't die, or move to a country without Internet access. We are still here. It's just that the boys can move around now. A lot. And we are tired. But we'll write more often. There is so much to say...

We could see it in their eyes.

And the closer we got to our gate, the more clearly we saw it.

The TSA officials in the security lines were fascinated by the spectacle. At first they wondered how would they get all of these people, and all of their stuff, through security. But they jumped right in, passing babies and carseats and the triplet stroller through the metal detectors, and reuniting us with our children and belongings on the other side.

Passersby were delighted, stopping us to look at the boys and compliment the girls. Triplets? they would ask. Yes, we would answer again. Fraternal. And no, their sisters are not triplets. And yes, we're glad they're ours, too (and not yours...).

It got a little repetitive, but it was wonderful. All of those people who were so interested in our little traveling circus.

As we got closer to our gate, though, their attitudes began to change. Their smiles were a little less open. A little short on the sparkle. A little more guarded. And worried. You could almost see them praying silently behind their fake grins that we wouldn't be on their flight.

It wasn't until we reached our gate that we really began to see it. Because that's when it hit them, those poor cursed souls sitting at the Frontier gate at Denver International Airport who had just realized that we were getting on their flight. All eight of us - three little girls, triplet boys, my wife, and me.

They were very nice. Cute family, they'd say. Adorable babies, they told us. And are these their sisters? Oh what a wonderful family!

I appreciated and agreed with everything they said. But at the same time, I was sure they were offering up that one last prayer, their final hope, the possibility - however slim - that we wouldn't be seated in their row.

Well, not to worry. We took up an entire row ourselves. My wife, two of the boys and our oldest daughter on one side of the plane. And me, one of the boys, and our two younger daughters on the other side.

It was our first flight as a family - slightly more than two hours in the air to Orange County, CA, for the TripletConnection Convention. And there were babies screaming on that flight, as well as on our return flight to Denver.

But it wasn't our babies doing the screaming. Nope. They slept most of the way to California, and they slept from gate to gate on the way home. Our advice: plan your flights around nap time.

So now we think we are invincible. There isn't anything we can't do.

I mean, we traveled successfully from Cheyenne to Orange County and back (and by successfully we mean that we returned with all of our children and most of our wits) with three babies, three bickering girls, four Hyundai-sized suitcases (one of which was packed almost entirely with food and booster seats), one triple-decker stroller, and three bags of seashells from Newport Beach.

And in the meantime, we spent five wonderful days on the beach and attended a terrific convention for families with triplets or more - there were two sets of quads and one set of quintuplets at the convention.

We understand the look in their eyes. We probably wouldn't have wanted to sit next to us on an airplane either.

But our kids were amazing. And we feel invincible.

Nature vs. Nurture

2009-03-06T09:37:00.000-08:00

EDITOR'S NOTE: THIS POST BORDERS ON THE INAPPROPRIATE. BUT WE THINK IT IS CRAZY FUNNY, AND WE HOPE YOU ARE NOT OFFENDED :)

When I was in college, we called it the sleep button.

It was that magical place, just below the belt line, somewhere between your belly button and your nether regions. You'd slouch on the couch to watch David Letterman, slide your hand just under your belt - and fall asleep. Instantly.

Sometimes the sleep button was so effective that you'd be asleep before Letterman got to the Top 10 list.

And on any given night, you were likely to find one of the three young men who shared our apartment snoring on the couch with his hand on the sleep button.

This phenomenon is but one of the many mysteries of men that have sparked the classic Nature vs. Nurture argument at my house. It goes something like this:

"Look what you've taught your son to do," my wife might say. "He's sleeping with his hand in the front of his pants!"

So I did look, and Jack was indeed asleep in his swing, in front of the TV, with his hand in his pants. It was like a preview of his college apartment 20 years from now.

"I didn't teach him that," I'd say defensively, secretly wishing I could have taught him that. "It must be natural."

He fell asleep in front of the TV. With his hand on the sleep button. Manly. Perfect.

But it gets better, and more primal.

We learned the hard way that changing boys' diapers is operationally different than changing girls' diapers in at least one important way. With our girls, we just took the diaper off, performed the open-air clean up, and put on the new diaper.

Those of you with boys are already smirking. You know that when we used this approach with our boys, they peed on us, on their changing table, and often, on their own faces.

There was another peculiarity we discovered during the diaper changing, though. Luke just can't take his hand off of it. He grabs it, he pulls it. In some ways, he really is not very nice to it. And he giggles the whole time. He loves it.

Same thing during bath time. He sits up in the sink with his hand under the water, and he just laughs and laughs. We have to physically remove his hand from it in order to get him dressed.

I'm a baseball fanantic, so I'm open to the possiblity that some of this, ahem, adjusting could be learned. But not by an 8-month-old baby. It has to be natural.

Triplets are a great opportunity for biological and sociological experiments. They are all growing up together, in the same environment and with the same influences. So we should be able to draw certain inferences from their behavior.

As a 36-year-old man, here are some of the inferences I've drawn from my boys:

We didn't 'learn' to fall asleep in front of the TV. We didn't 'learn' to put our hands in places they ought not be, at least in polite company. It's nature, not nurture.

My boys taught me that. Thank you so much boys.

Just Being Honest

2009-02-08T15:49:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-08T15:19:00.000-08:00

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.

Thanksgiving. Really.

2008-12-09T16:09:00.000-08:00

Some of our friends looked at us as though we'd lost our minds.

It wasn't an easy decision, mind you. But in the end, we thought it was the right one.

So we loaded up six kids, one dog, and enough toys and clothes to get us through the weekend, and we headed off on a 350-mile road trip to Grandma's house for Thanksgiving.

When I told one friend about our plans, she just shook her head and laughed. Another's eyes popped wide open at first, and then began to slowly tighten as the realization began to set in.

"You're taking three, six-month old babies on a 6-hour road trip?" she asked. Yep, we were.

I'm increasingly convinced that context is everything. If you have one child, and you are faced with taking that one child in the car for six hours to Grandma's house, that appears to you to be a daunting challenge. So if you have one child, the thought of taking six on that same trip seems overwhelming. Outlandish. Ridiculous.

Stupid.

But we went anyway. And the first leg of the trip wasn't too bad. The girls watched movies and the boys slept, except for a brief, 20-mile stretch outside of Casper, during which they wailed for all they were worth, and had us wondering if we were going to make it.

Beyond that, the trip was just like any other. Including Grandma's turkey and famous stuffing. And playing in the park, and painting rocks, and going to the Christmas parade. And spending time with Grandpa, uncle Justin, aunt Cammy, Aunt Jan, Uncle Dale, and Great-Grandma Jo. It was terrific, and, dare I say, pretty easy.

Pride, however, truly does come before the fall. Put another way, the initial ease of the trip made us a little cocky.

On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, we loaded everything back into the minivan (and by we, I mean my wife, because I am incapable of cramming that much stuff into that small a space), and hit the road for home.

And then it began. Imagine a baby in your car screaming from before Casper all the way to Wheatland. That's about 150 miles. That's a little less than half of the trip home. Got it? Ok, now imagine three babies screaming for that same period of time, and at least one of your daughters screaming too, because she's tired of sitting between two screaming babies.

I've suffered less hearing damage at Metallica concerts. And my nerves have been less wracked as well. It was, shall we say, not the most pleasant time our family has spent in the car together.

In retrospect, we are so glad we went. Our family lives quite a distance away, and we don't get to see them often. The trip was worthwhile just for that.

But the difficulties of the trip itself reminded me of how much we have to truly be thankful for. We are thankful for the boys' voices and the inescapable reminder that they are alive and healthy. We are thankful for the girls' irrepressible need to carry the boys around and the reminder that they are well-adjusted and love their new brothers. We are surrounded by such reminders every day. We truly do have so much to be thankful for during this season and all year long.

And although we may be rightly accused of pride now and again, we aren't stupid. We won't be making the trip to Grandma's house again anytime soon.

Family Pictures

2008-10-17T13:45:00.000-07:00

Say these two words to the next parents you see: Family Pictures.

Then just watch and listen. Their eyes will roll, their jaws will tighten. They may clinch their fists, they may break into a sweat.

But the one thing you can be sure of (or at least 99% sure of), is that the words Family Pictures strike fear and frustration in the hearts of parents everywhere.

First, there's the preparation. Which, in our case, means dressing the girls early enough to get out of the house in time to make it to our appointment. But not so early that they have time to lie on their backs in the foyer and effectively sweep up dog hair with their dark sweaters.

And it means curling hair, putting on tights, getting everyone a snack (which has to be strategically chosen, so as to reduce the likelihood that chocolate will be smeared on their clothes), getting everyone into the car without a fight and without messing up their carefully coiffed hair. And then reversing the entire process when we get to the photo studio.

This year, we added 100% more complexity. Because Family Pictures now also means getting the boys changed, dressing them in clothes that look very cute but that are absolutely the least functional baby clothes anyone has ever produced, protecting those non-functional clothes from the puke that we know is coming, and trying to keep their eyes from getting red and puffy as a result of their protracted crying on the way to the photo studio.

Oh, and the adults have to get ready, too. Which, for me, means putting on whatever clothes my wife has selected for me and trying not to drench them in sweat as I execute steps 1 and 2 above.

At the photo studio, chaos ensues. The girls can't sit still, preferring instead to spin on the photographer's chair until one of them invariably falls off. Which requires an effort to minimize the puffy red eyes. And we have about a 15-minute window with the boys, a window which crashes down quickly if we dare to push to a 16th minute. Getting everyone to sit still, together, look straight ahead, smile like a regular human being (rather than a member of the Insane Clown Posse), and not throw up, is nearly impossible.

I try to avoid Picture Day with any excuse I can muster. It is, without exception, one of the most frustrating days and experiences in my life. I have rarely made it through without pitching a tantrum of my own.

But the results. Oh the results. They're totally worth it, don't you think?

Smiley, Cranky, and Lumpy

2008-10-05T20:59:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago my wife came across one of the outfits the boys wore when they came home from the hospital. It was, quite honestly, no bigger than the pajamas our daughters put on their dolls. It was so tiny, it hardly seemed possible that it could ever have fit them.

And that had us marveling at how quickly the time has passed. My boys are four months old now, and they barely resemble those skinny, miniature little babies we brought home last summer.

What an incredible four months.

I'm a guy who likes to stick a person with a good nickname. My college roommate: Buffalo Head. My wife: Tbird. My oldest daughter: Alley cat. My middle daughter: Boney Maroney. My youngest: G-bear.

And so, for a few weeks at least, the boys had nicknames too. Rusty. All of them were Rusty. Because their hair, such as it was, had begun to resemble my father's. Red.

But much has changed in these first four months. They've gained almost 10 pounds each since birth, with Luke tipping the scales at about fourteen pounds. They consistently sleep five-and-a-half hours each night - enough to make me think I've got the free time to run for office this fall! And they eat, eat, eat.

Of course, there's been sickness. A cold or two, and a couple of ear infections.

Most interestingly, though, their personalities have emerged and are unmistakable. Ben, who two months ago was a pale, shriveled little guy with a poor sense of humor, is now the wiggliest, smiliest child. He flails his arms and legs so aggressively that it's tough to get a diaper on him. And whether we're changing his diaper or waking him up to feed him, he always smiles a wide, gummy smile. Our Olivia has even started calling him the Smile Maker.

Jack, who was once our mild child, is no longer. He is still a sweet little boy. But let's just say that he's found his voice. And the rest of us have found it, too. We find it loud and obnoxious. Sometimes, no matter what we do, he just hollers. He hollers until he gets tired of hollering. Then he takes a short break, and he hollers some more. Doesn't matter, though. Those large, round blue eyes somehow help soothe the ringing in our ears.

And Luke. Well, he's Luke. He's hefty. Big and round and intense. He leans back in his seat, his belly arcing in front of his face, and he surveys the room, his blue eyes darting around as though he's afraid he'll miss something. And unlike Jack, who lets a good cry build up for a few minutes, Luke goes straight to the finish. Sometimes at night, all will be sleeping soundly, and suddenly Luke will unleash a piercing blast that shocks everyone out of bed. He's a lug, a big, solid hunk of screeching baby.

And so, the boys have new nicknames. Smiley, Cranky, and Lumpy.

All this in only four months. Can't wait to see what the next four will bring.

And the Girls are Great, Too

2008-08-29T14:27:00.000-07:00

I remember the moment - the very moment - that each of my girls was born.

I don't remember what time of day they were born, though Allison arrived at 3:27 a.m. See, we'd moved to Colorado the year before she was born. So it was somewhat unfamiliar territory. And all during our prenatal classes at the hospital, we practiced the route we would take when the big day came.

But my wife was well into labor when we left the house, and I got a better idea on the way to the hospital. Which meant we got lost, and we arrived too late for my wife to receive pain medication before Allison arrived.

She's still grateful for that one.

What I mean is, I was in the room when each of my daughters was born. I saw them arrive. Heard their first cries. I guess that's increasingly common for dads these days, but I'll never forget how each of those moments made me feel.

Last month, Allison started third grade. And Madeline joined her at school for her first day of Kindergarten. Two of my babies have suddenly become school-age.

All of the wise people you know will tell you to pay attention. Take it easy, and keep it all in perspective. The time, they'll say, will go by in an instant. Before you know it, they'll be rebellious teenagers, and then out of the house, on their own. And you'll wish you could have all those colicky nights and dirty diapers back again.

I'm beginning to think they're right.

At breakfast one morning, Allison asked me why the Bible doesn't mention dinosaurs. She followed up that cold water in my face with this perfect syllogism: the first people were cavemen; Adam and Eve were the first people; so Adam and Eve must have been cavemen. Right, dad?

Madeline is more emotional than her sisters, and I love that about her. She hangs on me, and many mornings, she refuses to let me go. But she's also learning to read, and write, and she has developed skills and opinions. Some evenings during dinner, I listen to her talk, and I wonder who this little girl is. Where did she come from, and how did she get so big, so fast?

And Olivia is perfectly willing to call me on my parental BS. If she senses that I'm trying to put one over on her, she juts out one hip, firmly plants her hands on her hips, and tells me that I'm wrong. She doesn't have to know the truth. She only feels compelled to point out when I'm wrong.

Some days, I feel like Tevya. My father told me this time would come. I just didn't think it would come so quickly.

As smart and bold as they are, that's not even the best part. They are just good girls. The first time we took the boys to see our doctor in Cheyenne, a group of nurses and others in the waiting room quickly gathered around the boys. They asked a lot of questions, and ooooed and awwwwed. And barely acknowledged that my daughters were standing there, too.

When the show began to wind down, I realized that my daughters had simply stepped back out of the halo and allowed everyone to gawk at their brothers. So I took the opportunity to tell the crowd how wonderful the boys' sisters have been. So helpful, so gentle with their brothers. And how they're growing up, heading into pre-school, Kindergarten, and third grade.

Yes, the boys are doing well, I said. And my girls are great, too.

I love you, ladies. And I appreciate the grace with which you have accepted your brothers.

Two Months (or 8 Weeks...)

2008-08-01T07:28:00.004-07:00

My wife had placed Luke in the crib, sandwiched in between his two sleeping brothers, and had tiptoed out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

Almost before she was out of the room, the screaming began. It had quickly dawned on the boys that although the room was cool and quiet and dark, they were no longer swaying in a swing, or in their mother's arms.

So they let loose with their indescribable wailing - something akin to the scream a hawk makes, only over and over again at the tops of their lungs, until they're almost out of breath. After nearly an hour, the screaming stopped. They had worn down. They were learning to put themselves to sleep.

Except for one last whimper.

Allison, who has turned out to be perhaps the most helpful 8 year old in history, heard that last cry as she was walking down the hall to her room. Ever the dutiful assistant, she opened the door, turned on the light, and began vigorously shaking a baby rattle about five inches above Luke's face - a technique she had learned to help soothe the babies during the day.

And then the full-throated screaming began again.

The boys are a little more than two months old now. And it's not that I haven't wanted to write more frequently. It's just that every time I have a free moment to think about posting an update, I realize that's a moment of quiet that can be used for sleep. So I run to the couch, flop down, and fail to get any rest because I lie there anticipating the next request for help - either in English from the girls, or in Hawk from the boys.

In these two months, the boys' faces have rounded out, and they have more than doubled their weight. Our pediatrician told us that when babies get to be about 10 pounds, they are capable of sleeping through the night without waking up to eat. And thus, the daytime force feeding has begun.

The idea is that if we feed them a bit more often during the day, they won't need to wake up to replenish at night. And by putting them to bed (in the dark, behind a closed door in our bedroom) in the evening, they'll learn to put themselves to sleep.

Which they did, in fact, do. We are hopeful that we'll begin to get more done during the day, and in the evening, as they settle into a routine and learn to rest without coaxing. And my wife and I are hopeful that we'll begin treating each other like the best friends we are once we begin to get some sleep. Once we begin to recognize each other again through the darkness, and the bleary eyes, and the screaming chaos that our house has become in the last two months.

Correspondents on a triplets blog that my wife participates in assure us that this is the toughest part. We're in the trenches, they say, and if we can just hold on for a few more weeks, life should begin to return to normal.

Our boys are really beautiful. And their personalities are clearly beginning to emerge. I think we can hold on.

If we can just keep the helpers away.

Instant Celebrity

2008-08-01T07:28:00.001-07:00

Some months back I remember seeing news video, the kind that plays on endless loop on cable news channels, of Britney Spears stopped at a traffic light. While she was sitting there in her car, the cars around her emptied, and photographers rushed up to her vehicle, snapping as many photos as they could before the light changed.

Some held on and others chased even after the light had gone green.

That, minus the insane dysfunction that is present in every news story about Britney Spears, generally resembles what it's like to take triplet babies out in public.

My daughters look forward to Cheyenne Frontier Days for only two reasons: 1) Grandma comes to our house for a week or two, and 2) they get to go to the carnival. And since my wife and I vowed to work as hard as necessary not to let our daughters get overshadowed by our sons, we loaded up the Expedition and took all six of them on our annual trip to the carnival.

It rained a little, as it does every year at this time. And we ate carmel apples and ice cream, as we always do. Allison rode the carnival rides, as always - though she was tall enough this year to get on more of them than she has in the past.

Only our triplet stroller was out of the ordinary at the carnival this year. That thing is like a rolling neon sign that flashes the words "Britney Spears Inside". We walked barely 10 steps at a time before being stopped by a group of strangers who wanted to gawk at the babies. (Some even wanted to touch the babies. But as you can imagine, my wife put a swift, fake-grinning stop to that.)

And there were paparazzi, too. Well, sort of. One carnival worker asked to take a picture with his cell phone because he'd never seen anything like this. We tried to keep moving through the onlookers, but it was no use. There were simply too many of them. At last, we resigned ourselves to our instant celebrity and simply tried to enjoy still another dimension of triplet parenthood.

It happened again later in the week, when we took the family to Cheyenne's historic Union Pacific Depot Plaza to enjoy the evening and listen to music. This time, though, the photographer was a German lady who said she had twin daughters, and the kicker was a free beer given to us by a man from Nebraska.

In Nebraska, apparently, one demonstrates his pity by offering free beer.

I was surprised at how all the attention affected me. Self-conscious. Borderline embarrassed. I had trouble just looking around the crowd - for fear that someone would think I expected them to notice the triplets, and I expected them to stop and tell me how amazing it all is, and how beautiful my boys are.

Meanwhile, my wife, whose self confidence I find both enviable and difficult to emulate, simply beamed with pride. Once again, she appears to have taken the smarter approach.

Frontier Days is over now, and I think I'm glad for it. It is 10 days long, but for us it was really only two surreal days of pushing a triplet stroller and getting stuck in traffic. Stopping to let strangers take photos. Answering the same questions over and over and over again. Riding the Cliff Hanger with my 8-year-old.

Celebrity is exhausting.

Triplet State of Mind

2008-07-26T11:53:00.001-07:00

No one has ever had my back like my friend Ron has my back.

Minutes after learning I hadn't received a job I'd worked very hard to get, he began working the phones on my behalf.

He once drove into town from his farm 60 miles away for a 6:30 a.m. breakfast he'd arranged for me with a prospective employer. And he all but shrugged off a tragedy in his own life to help celebrate the miracle in ours.

He's the guy you can tell anything to and ask anything of. Never, ever judges.

So it is no surprise that on Friday night, as we discussed the joys, and perhaps more to the point - the extreme difficulties - of having triplets, Ron picked me up once again.

As the babies' first month at home melts into the second, and the shiney newness has begun to soften just a bit, the adrenaline that carried us through the first several weeks has begun to dull a bit too. The nights are longer, with less sleep. As we get more tired, the boys seem to eat more slowly. The feedings stretch from one early-morning hour into the next, and we wonder how long we'll have to pat their little backs before the burps come.

And believe me, you want the burps to come. If a baby doesn't burp, the brothers don't sleep. And if the brothers don't sleep, the parents don't sleep.

Every morning, after the 5 a.m. feeding, I put the baby I'm holding back into his bed, and I trudge down the stairs to get ready for work. There is no end to the routine. Some nights, it seems there will be no reprieve.

Ron knew I was wearing down. He probably saw it in my eyes. Maybe he heard it in my voice. Maybe it was that I mashed up chords to songs we've played together 100 times. After we'd packed up our gear and headed home from our Friday night gig, he did what he always does.

Sometimes it's tough to know when he's holding me accountable. He never rebukes. He doesn't criticize. He simply reminds me of important, basic truths in his forward-looking, ever-optimistic way. Like, knock off this obsessive focus on how difficult things are in the short-term and focus instead on the long-term, the big picture, the incredible family that needs me to keep my head about me.

He said, in other words, that my problem was my state of mind.

It had to be the timing. This was stuff I already knew. But, as always, he said what I needed, when I needed it. So I woke up early Saturday morning and happily fed all three boys by myself. Then I shuffled my wife and daughters off to the Cheyenne Frontier Days parade, and I cleaned the house while they were gone.

It felt great. It was, as I told my wife that afternoon, the easiest work I've ever done. When I stopped complaining, for just a moment, about how tired I was and instead focused on the wonder in my life, my little boys began to look like miracles again.

Now I'm aware that sleep deprivation is often used as a form of torture, and I have become reacquainted recently with its very real physical impacts. But dealing with it, for me, is a matter of the mind.

Sometimes I just need someone to help make the obvious clear again.

Thanks, Ron.

The Call

2008-07-20T00:46:00.000-07:00

If you are familiar at all with the geography of Wyoming, you know that the 100-or-so miles between Casper and Shoshoni is perhaps the most desolate stretch of highway ever constructed. Endless desert plains, dotted with sagebrush and antelope. Nothing more.

You do not, therefore, want to receive this voicemail on your cell phone when you are some 30 miles out of Shoshoni:

"Steve, you need to call me right now. I've tried to call about 15 times, and you're not answering. Jack has a hernia and the doctor says it is life threatening. I'm on my way to Denver and I need you to call me right now," through sobs, the screaming of a baby in the background.

You've got just enough cell service to hear the message, but you're about 10 seconds away from losing the signal. No context. No explanation. Just the fear that you may lose your son. Again.

Last time this happened it was a surprise only in the sense that we didn't even know our twin boys were mono-amniotic/mono-chorionic - a very high-risk twin pregnancy. When we saw them motionless on the ultrasound monitor, neither heart beating, we were stunned silent. But we had known it was high risk.

This time, our boys had arrived healthy. So the prospect of a life-threatening condition six weeks into Jack's life was a shock. Particularly since I received the news with no way to ask any questions or gather any more information.

My wife did get Jack safely to the hospital in Denver. And the most astonishingly selfless group of people I've ever known moved into our house and took care of our five other children until family arrived, and until I was able to return from my business trip to the northwestern-most corner of the state.

In the meantime, we learned that Jack had an infected lymph node, and that although it could have serious implications if left untreated, it was not likely to be serious at all. My wife stayed with him in Denver for two days, and she, Jack, and I all arrived home at about the same time on Friday afternoon.

As I've written before, there is simply no thanking the people who helped us through this. Except to be first in line when the next set of parents needs help. Be assured, we will be standing at the front of that line.

And there is no fear like the cold panic that seizes you when you think your child may die, and you are too far away, and too disconnected even to offer comfort to your family.

We think often of Jeremiah and Jacob. We hang ornaments on the Christmas tree each year to help us remember them. And we thank God that their three brothers and three sisters are here with us, safe, sleeping peacefully in their beds tonight.

I suspect this fear never truly fades.

She's Right

2008-07-11T10:17:00.000-07:00

My wife and I have a running argument that I think most parents will recognize. Her proposition: men are just not tough enough to bear children.

My response: the two genders have different roles to play so I don't accept the premise. It isn't necessary for men to be 'tough enough' to deliver babies, because our biology prohibits the need. We just don't have to do it, so the argument is nonsense.

But, I always hasten to add, we could do it if we had to. After all, we smash our fingers under the hoods of cars, suffer the searing agony of ripping athletic tape off our hairy legs, and survive crushing blows from large middle linebackers.

Now, I love to argue just for the fun of the argument - and for the mental exercise. But if I'm honest, she's right.

For the better part of 34 weeks, my wife took handfuls of medicine, vomited almost everything she ate, reorganized our bed 10 times a night in failed efforts to get comfortable enough to sleep, turned the heat up, turned the heat down, rocked at least three times to get enough momentum to get herself off the couch, and - wait for it - gave herself shots in her hips.

Oh, and she continued to work (albeit from a laptop on our couch) and take care of our daughters. In fact, the day she was to be admitted to the hospital she refused - she had to get back to Cheyenne to attend Madeline's preschool graduation party. She simply told the doctor she'd be back to check in later that week.

I'm bed-bound for at least a day when I start to feel a headache coming on.

Now, I suspect most politically savvy husbands who publish blogs about their families post at least one item about how wonderful their wives are. But I'm not kidding. The only differences between my wife pre-triplets and post-triplets are that she no longer gives herself shots, and she now takes care of six children rather than three. Oh, and she is doing it on less sleep.

I've always thought my wife was the perfect role model for our daughters. She is smart, bold, and accomplished. I'm certain that she will be the perfect role model for our sons as well. Strong, committed, and compassionate.

So please know, my dear Tina, that I see the exhaustion in your eyes. I appreciate your patience in soothing our boys through the night - and letting me sleep. I appreciate your boundless - if depleted - energy in caring for our daughters at the same time.

I admit it: I'm not tough enough.

You may never fully know how much I appreciate you.

Kindness

2008-07-07T21:11:00.000-07:00

I don't think I'll ever forget the look on his face. He just sat there on the couch across the living room from me, his chin resting in the palms of his hands, his eyes scanning the floor. He said nothing.

After several long minutes, he simply stood up, and began to walk to the front door. "I'm so sorry," he said, "I just don't know what to say."

"Neither do I," I said. "I don't think there is anything you can say. But you came."

He came. My dad had died the day before, and this 17-year-old friend of mine felt moved to come sit silently in our living room. He wanted to help in any way he could, and presence was all he had to offer. It was one of the many times in my life that I've experienced genuine kindness.

Our boys are all home now. In fact, we are already in our second week of new rhythms, new sounds, and sleepless nights. The girls are adjusting well - probably a bit more quickly even than we are.

And I find myself holding a bottle at 1:30 in the morning, gazing down at the little knit caps and closed eyes, and wondering if maybe this time we've been blessed too much. Integrating triplets with three other children is as difficult as you think it would be, and then some. It takes all of my energy to be in all of the places that I need to be, doing all of the things that I need to do. And that's before the crying starts - just after the lights go out.

I've caught myself wondering if we really do have the energy to do this. If maybe this time, we have been given more than we can handle. If maybe this is a father's post-partem.

And then another in a long line of selfless people offers to help. Sincerely, and in any way they can. And then another. And then another. Like the friend on my couch, they say very little and ask nothing in return. They are, simply, very kind.

This week we began letting them into our lives, helping feed the boys, providing food to make dinner preparation easier, driving the girls to ballet. I always offer them the same line: we stopped being proud a month ago.

We didn't, of course. We still haven't. And letting people in when you are accustomed to thinking you can do everything yourself is not easy.

Like the friend on my couch, I just don't know what to say.

We are humbled, and deeply grateful.

Weenies

2008-06-30T13:59:00.000-07:00

I am a modest man. I don't run around the house in my birthday suit, and I take great care not to expose my daughters to anything they don't need to see just yet. Up to this point, only Franklin (the dog) and I had anything to hide in our house, surrounded as we have been by females.

So we were quite surprised when Olivia came running into the room one evening several months ago and announced that she had burned off her weenie.

This, apparently, was the explanation one of her young friends had offered for the appearance of her girl parts. The messages are being sent, of course, whether we are sending them or not.

So, ok, my daughters already knew boys and girls were different, even if their explanation was a bit off-base. But they didn't know what they didn't know - until their brothers' first baths at home.

On Friday night, my wife stripped each boy down, one by one, and bathed them in the kitchen sink. It's a veritable ritual in our family, complete with a staged photo that is staged so as to make it appear spontaneous. Up to this point, however, there had been no audience.

With each bath on Friday, the girls hovered over the sink, pointing and giggling.

"I see his weenie," one would say. "Can I touch his weenie," another asked. "My weenie doesn't look like that," said another. Weenies are now among my young ladies' favorite topics of conversation.

It was funny at first. And then it made me uncomfortable. I wasn't sure what to say to them, so I decided to say nothing at all. And then I decided just to go with it - it was hilarious. How often, after all, do these kinds of discussions take place in normal households?

Plus, as the father of three daughters, I know the day will come when such conversation in my house will not be funny. Not at all.

I grew up with one brother, so this sort of intrigue never dawned on me. And until about three weeks ago, I have raised only daughters, so this sort of intrigue has never been an issue.

Still, it's hard to believe I didn't see this one coming.

Released - Part 3: Homecoming

2008-06-28T09:34:00.000-07:00

My wife says the last couple of nights have been comparatively very good. The boys are sleeping nearly four hours a shot, and feeding them has taken only about an hour each session. We have a fairly efficient assembly line worked out - she changes diapers and hands them off to me for feeding.

After three rounds, we all go back to sleep for another three or four hours.

All three of the boys are home now. Ben was released from the hospital on Thursday, after a momentary scare that he might have to stay a few more days. He had satisfactorily managed his heart rate for almost five days - which is the threshold. And then, at about 3:30 in the morning, he had another episode. We thought that would restart the clock, and he would be in for five more days. But the doctors tell us there is nothing to worry about, and he was cleared for the long ride home.

And so, everyone came home three weeks to the day after we checked my wife into the hospital for 'observation'. As I write this, my wife has taken the girls to their Saturday morning ballet class, and I am home alone with the boys.

Not to worry. All three are sleeping to the sounds of Mozart. And, despite my wife's assurance that the last couple nights have been fairly easy, I am working on my second pot of coffee and thinking about the endorphin boost I'll get if I can convince myself to work out.

Our house got very crowded very quickly. On Thursday morning, everything was in its place, and general harmony prevailed. On Thursday afternoon, there were three car seats in the entry way, three bouncy seats in the kitchen, bottles all over the counter, and a baby swing by the stove. There's a crib with a built-in changing table where the chair used to be in the living room (there's another in my bedroom), and there are miniature diapers all over the place.

Except for the adjustment to all their stuff - and the constant reminders to the girls that the boys' heads really, truly are very soft and should not be poked - the transition is going very well.

This morning, Ben woke up early and demanded to sleep in our bed next to his mom. Jack was next, wiggling and whining until I put him in bed with us. Olivia was next, climbing in between me/Jack and my wife/Ben. Then Madeline, climbing up on me and assuring me she had washed her hands, so it was ok for her to touch the babies. And then Allison, crawling into the foot of the bed. When Luke began to stir, all eight of us were awake together in (or very near) our bed.

All eight of us. In our home. Together.

This is precisely how we envisioned it.

Released - Part 2

2008-06-23T14:55:00.000-07:00

We will, from time to time, employ cliches in these posts. It's just easier. And now is as good a time as any.

It's not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog.

When little Jack was born, and for several days thereafter, we figured he would be the last to come home. He was the smallest, appeared the most feeble, and seemed to have the furthest to go. So much for our figuring.

Jack was released from the hospital on Sunday, and is staying with his mom and his brother Luke in Denver. Yes, that's correct, my wife is staying in a single room with two newborns and doing a terrific job of caring for both. And for herself. She is, in a word, amazing.

She'll stay in Denver until Ben is released, which we think will be later this week. That would mean mom and all three boys would be home within three weeks of their birth.

In the meantime, our little girls finally got to meet our little boys. I took the girls down on Saturday to visit their mom and meet their brothers. And, as expected, they were thrilled. The biggest challenge, as we also expected, was convincing them that no matter how cute their brothers' heads are, they simply can't squeeze and press on them.

A NICU in Denver wasn't exactly the setting I had in mind for the first meeting of all six of my children. But after waiting more than two weeks for that moment, it hardly mattered. The girls smiled, and held their brothers' hands, and gently rubbed their faces, and held them in their laps, and fed them, and smiled for the cameras.

When evening came, I had to drag the girls home. They did not want to leave. By Thursday, their brothers will be home, and we won't leave each other again for a while.

Released - Part 1

2008-06-20T12:25:00.000-07:00

They made me wear a mask, but the nurses let me into the graduate NICU on Wednesday night so I could see my boys. I just couldn't wait any more.

So I drove down to Denver after work, took my wife out to a belated anniversary dinner, and then we went together to give the boys their 9:30 p.m. feeding. Ben and Luke were sleeping together in the same crib, swaddled like Glow Worms and making the little baby noises we haven't heard in almost four years.

Jack was still in his temperature-controlled isolette. But he has been eating well and gaining weight, and today he is sleeping in the open air with his brother Ben. By all accounts, both boys should be ready to come home by the middle of next week.

We are keeping our fingers crossed.

Brutish Luke, however, was released from the hospital yesterday, only 13 days after he was born. He spent the night with mom in Denver, and he is her travel companion as she treks back and forth to the hospital to feed his brothers.

A few months ago, I was standing next to my wife at a yard sale hosted by the Moms of Multiples Club from Fort Collins when I suddenly felt dizzy. For a moment, I thought I would pass out. I was watching the moms pushing the strollers with twins (or in one case, a stroller with twins and a third baby strapped to mom's chest), and the reality that we would soon have triplets washed over me. I literally thought I was going to fall down.

How in the world were we going to handle newborn triplets and their three sisters? Our girls are, of course, potty trained. They can feed themselves. They can climb in the car and buckle their own car seats. Are we really ready to start over - with three?

A few minutes later I was standing in the checkout line next to a man who looked like he might be someone's grandfather. Naturally, the conversation turned to our triplets, and my tone, or expression, or something must have revealed my worries. He stepped close, put his hand on my elbow, and told me that one of his three children had died at age 14.

"They are a blessing," he said. "Enjoy every minute. Every minute. You will be just fine."

Indeed.

We love you, Luke. We're glad you're here and out of the hospital. And we can't wait for you to come home. We'll figure out how to sleep through the baby noises.

Life Is...

2008-06-16T21:05:00.000-07:00

A friend recently reminded me that life is what happens while you are making other plans. While we were making other plans, life was handing me a sinus infection.

Of course, people with even the slightest cough are allowed nowhere near premature babies. Nor, for that matter, are such people allowed near the mother of premature babies. Suffice it to say, then, that I spent Father's Day sick, at home with my daughters.

And not, as we had planned, in Denver with my wife and all six of my children. So the girls still haven't met their brothers. I have yet to spend more than a few minutes with the boys. And I haven't really seen my wife in almost two weeks.

When we first found out we were having triplets, the doctors warned us that our lives would change dramatically between 18 and 28 weeks. My wife would go on bed rest. I would take on significantly more daily responsibility. Life, generally, would turn upside down. Though my wife was slowed a bit, she was never really on bed rest. I did have to pick up more of the slack, but it was never overwhelming.

This, as it turns out, is the first really difficult experience. The doctors told us this would happen, too - we knew the boys were likely to stay in the hospital for several days, maybe weeks, after they were born. But I'm not sure we ever really thought through what that would mean.

The girls miss their mom. I miss my wife. She misses all of us. And the triplets are still somehow not quite real to anyone but their mom, who has spent every day with them since they were born.

They'll all be home very soon. And then the eight of us will get on with figuring each other out. And it won't be long before we have a hard time remembering the difficulty of these last several days.

This too, my grandmother always told me, shall pass.

The Vitals

2008-06-13T13:10:00.000-07:00

So maybe we'll start with the vitals. The Bahmer boys were born on Friday, June 6, 2008, at about 3:20 p.m. It all happened very quickly. One minute the doctor invited me into the operating room, and a few minutes later, my boys were born.

They were scheduled to have arrived today, which would have been one day beyond 35 weeks into the pregnancy. But a combination of factors conspired to move their birthday up by an entire week. Despite showing up earlier than expected, they are all healthy and growing.

Here they are:

Benjamin Bruce, 4 pounds
Jack Robert, 3 pounds, 8 ounces
Luke Daniel, 4 pounds, 9 ounces

Ben's middle name comes from his maternal grandfather. Jack's middle name comes from my father. And Luke's middle name is my middle name. I joke with my wife that the first names were chosen simply based on how they sound when announced through the loudspeakers at a baseball game...

And lest we forget, their sisters are eager to meet them. The girls and I have kept on keeping on at home while mom and the boys remain in Denver for, most likely, several more days at least. We're headed to Denver on Sunday, though, to celebrate Father's Day and our 12th wedding anniversary.

And to spend our first day together as a family of eight.

They're Here

2008-06-12T16:01:00.000-07:00

I'm not a blogger. I don't pretend to be one. I don't know the customs, the language, or the culture. But I do know this: I've been asked one thousand times in the last week about my three sons - the Bahmer triplets - and their three beautiful sisters.

As much as I love telling the story of the triplets' arrival, I've decided to chronicle the adventures of our brood here. I'll post pictures, relate funny stories (there are sure to be many), and hopefully keep in touch with those of you who have offered your prayers, your assistance, and your friendship throughout this wild ride.

We're just getting started!