Thanksgiving. Really.

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

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

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

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...)

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

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

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.