I thought I was a tough guy. I thought I couldn't be pushed around. And then I got my ass kicked by two infants. It's time for a self-reevaluation.
See, it was a nice idea I had last night. My wife had just finished breast feeding, she looked pretty tired, so I told her to go get in bed and get a little sleep. I said I'd stay out in the living room with the babies. It would be a couple of hours until they had to feed again. I had it all worked out, I figured it would be pretty easy. I had a plan: Put a sleeping Luke and a sleeping Julia in their little swing thingamajigs, sit on the couch with a beer and watch the History Channel for a few hours. Wife sleeps, babies sleep, I relax, everybody wins. Perfect plan. What's wrong with that plan? Nothing, nothing should be wrong with it. It was a good plan.
That's what I thought, anyway. Things started to go downhill rather immediately. In fact, as soon as I plopped on the sofa, took one sip of my favorite stout, and let out an audible relaxed "Ahhh" sound, Julia decided to voice her displeasure with the arrangement. Alright put down the beer, pick up the kid. She stopped crying right away, I guess she just wanted Dad to hold her. Very sweet. Melted my heart. Then Luke chimed in. Ok, put down Julia, pick up Luke. He stops crying. Cue Julia. Ok, pick up both of them. I don't know why they wanted out of their swings in the first place. I mean, these are really cool swings. The seats vibrate, it plays music, they've got, like, mobiles of fish or giraffes or whatever dangling above. I'd love to sit in a swing like that. You have to pay 3 grand at Brookstone for the adult equivalent of something like this. Anyway, good luck explaining that to newborns -- Lord knows, I tried.
So I'm holding them both. The beer is a lost cause. It's losing carbonation by the second. It's gone, Matt, let it go. Let it go. Then suddenly I hear the angelic sounds of Luke crapping himself. Oh wonderful, it's leaking out of his diaper and getting on my arm. Good thing he's my kid because I usually don't tolerate being pooped on. Julia must have been inspired because she decided to take a bathroom break as well. Fine, hey, when nature calls, right? Put them both down, of course they start screaming but I've gotta run and find the diapers and the wipes. Found 'em. Ok, change both in record time. I used to pride myself on being the fastest tire changer in North America, now I'm gunning for the diaper changing record books.
Oh look, Pawn Stars is on and someone's trying to sell John Wayne's autographed boxer shorts or something for a million dollars. This will be interesting to watch. Never mind, Julia starts screaming again. Best I can tell, she's upset that she keeps hitting herself in the face with her own hand like a mental patient. I tried to address the issue verbally, using my conflict resolution skills. "Julia, that's your hand and that's your face, stop making the two collide." No luck, she's not listening. Ok, put Luke down and give her the straightjacket swaddle. But now Luke is crying, I think he's gassy. Next thing I know, I'm wrapping Julia in a blanket with my left hand while burping Luke with my right. And so far exactly 13 minutes have passed since my wife went to bed.
Repeat this process 26 more times, until I finally brought the kids back to my wife for their next breast feeding session. She got one look at me and she could tell I was frazzled and beaten. They broke me. First round knock out, there's no getting around it. As my wife started to feed them, I went back out into the living room and drank my flat, warm beer, simply out of principle. Tonight, the babies and I will match wits again. They won the battle but not the war.