Phase Three.
I’ve retired several years ago. The Queen of the Crazies is ancient history. I marry a woman who is more Irish than me. She’s one generation removed from Newfoundland. Newfoundlanders speak with perfect Irish accents, just to mess with outsiders, I’m guessing. Where did you say you’re from, again?
We produce children. I’m 42 years old when the first batch are born. Twins. Boy and a girl.
Yes. 42 years old, I am. I’m still something of a daredevil whackjob.
43 when we accidentally create another child a couple years earlier than we had planned.
Let me tell all you Catholics out there, the rhythm method does NOT work.
We are big believers in contraception, but the twins tried to kill their mother from inside the womb and the complications caused a delay before she could go back on the pill.
I hate condoms. Really, really hate ‘em. Never used them. And I’m a guy whose brother died from AIDS who told everyone he got it from an infected woman.
Plus, there’re are other incurable STDs out there. Still didn’t use them.
“Hey, baby! Let’s do the rhythm method”, said the ostentatiously irresponsible sex maniac.
We were tired. So very tired. Twins are hard work. You wouldn’t believe.
Our twins were natural. The couple in the hospital room next to my wife’s room had triplets by way of fertility drugs. Next to them were a couple who had quintuplets, thanks to modern science.
We consoled ourselves in our weariness by expressing our gratitude we weren’t THOSE people.
To this day, whenever we see people with newborn twins, we approach and comfort them with, “It gets easier, trust me.”
And it really does, thank God.
Then, oopsie! Number three is coming down the pike! Let’s pretend to be pleased.
And just in the nick of time, I’m laid off from my very first civilian job. And our water heater dies. In January.
BAD TIMING, LORD! JESUS H. CHRIST!
I make finding another job my full-time job, and quickly get another one. Then on my very first day there, I ask for the week off as my third baby is being born today.
The balls on me, eh?
Here’s the thing.
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Before the glorious day of our new daughter’s birth, I was shocked at the advice we were given by my wife’s women friends. They were all beautiful women with beautiful children. Very family-oriented and indispensable at helping me with the twins while my wife was hospitalized for a month after their births.
The mother hens look at the two of us. They look at the twins. They look at our weariness. They look at my unemployment. They know what my mortgage is as they live in the same houses.
They look at what they consider to be a pending doom baby, and they suggest my wife should get an abortion.
Let me tell you. My wife was more pro-choice than me. We’re talking if she was raped, she’d keep the baby, okay? Hardcore to the motherfucking bone.
She actually told me that once. Didn’t even ask me my opinion.
There is not a day goes by when I forget to thank God we did not abort our youngest daughter. I may be a little bit biased, but there is no better person than her. She is definitely going to make it into God’s book of saints. We hit the lottery with this one.
When the kids reach the age where they can communicate in a tongue we understand, we develop a bedtime routine for them. At the appointed hour, we say, “Potty-Water-Bed!” and off they go. They pee, they get a sip of water, and then muster at the bed that is at the top of the rotation.
You have to make a kid get some water before bed, or that will be a tactic for calling you later to let them get out of bed for water when they should be asleep. Children the world over all the way back to the era of the dinosaurs do this, so you have to pre-empt them.
Potty. Water. Bed.
Once they are at their assigned station, we parents join them for bedtime prayers. They are required to tell God two things for which they are grateful, and then are free to ask God to bless whoever is on their minds. We do not ask for anything for ourselves. It’s a one-way street.
Thank you for this, gimme that. Nope.
I said we were weary, right? Three kids in 14 months. This is what is known as Irish Triplets. You can look it up.
Well, one night it was just me on guardian duty, and I was a little off in my timing. More time passed than the kids needed for pottywaterbed. I was absorbed in myself and so they decided to log in some bonus playtime downstairs.
It is a real blessing to live in a house where the children’s bedrooms are downstairs instead of the customary upstairs where you can hear their annoying ruckus through the ceiling.
Twin Girl decides the curtain over the back door makes an excellent substitute for a rope swing.
Down comes the curtain with the rod bent in two. Not broken, just bent. This is important. If it was broken, I would have to replace it.
I hear the crash. I rush to the top of the stairs. I see three tiny faces looking up at me in terror. I shout “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!?” My exact words. In all caps.
Weary. Oh so weary. But I have sworn to never lay so much as a finger on these little blessings. Ever.
Timeouts? Absolutely. Out the wazoo. One minute for every year of your age. They will achieve a lot of hours sitting on the stairs over the years.
I’m looking at those ridiculously beautiful faces. We should be on our knees right now, sending mail up to God. But their faces tell me they really don’t want to be with angry Dad right now.
I am SUCH an ASSHOLE!
And then the penny drops.
Time portals and memories and ancient questions paralyze me. A bodiless mechanic scoops my defective brain, wrings it out, changes the oil, gives it a good buffing, renews the warranty, and pops it back under the hood.
I get it. I finally, finally get it.
Here’s the thing.
Before I created these precious human beings, I knew they were going to make mistakes.
I made them anyway.
And whenever they do make mistakes, it does not change in any way how I feel about them.
Not. One. Bit.
I might shout at them, like I did just now. But my love is completely unchanged.
They don’t know that in this moment, though. A large gulf has opened between us.
I realize it is my responsibility alone to reach across that gulf and close it, not the offenders.
Not the offenders. As their creator who put them here in the first place, their sins against me were my responsibility.
I descend from Ararat and I embrace them, and pat their little heads. I forgive them for being ignorant little shits. I explain the laws of physics as they apply to curtains and curtain rods. They agree it would therefore be a bad idea to be so careless moving forward. I tell them how much I love them.
And then we pray.
Boom.
The last clog melts away. The question is answered.
What does, “Jesus died for our sins” mean?
Before He created us, God knew we were going to be ungrateful assholes who would make big mistakes. He knew we would sin against Him. After all, the Dumbass gifted us with free will.
What would be the point of creating automatons? Where would be the joy?
No joy.
Now look at all of us. Swinging from the curtains. Breaking things.
And it does not change the way our Creator feels about us one bit.
When we do screw up, all we have to do is turn and face Him. Hey, sorry Big Dude in the Sky.
Then He uses His own Son as a bridge across the gulf.
Jesus died for our sins.
I’m looking at the curtain rod. It has transmogrified into a holy relic. I straighten it as best as I can and return it to its rightful place where it remains to this day.
I will never replace it. It is going to be buried with me where it will baffle future archeologists.
