Thanks, Boys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.