Archive for January 18, 2009


Life right now is reminding me of two unrelated, or at least previously believed to be unrelated, items. The first is episode one (after the miniseries) of Battlestar Galactica – the current series, not the late 70s one. That episode is called 33, and basically the humans, who are floating somewhat aimlessly through space after their home planet, Caprica, was destroyed by the human-made Cylons, are attacked by those same Cylons every 33 minutes exactly. So life is sort of normal for those other 31 or 32 minutes (forgive me people, this is from memory) and then all of a sudden chaos reigns and the attack is on, and then things quiet down almost immediately to normal again. 

The other thing is this ride I used to enjoy when I was a tot. It was on the back of a truck, and basically had a bunch of chairs that went around in a large oval, mostly slowly, but when it reached either end of the oval it spun around really quickly with a stunning jolt. Those 2 or 3 seconds of fast spinning on either end of the giant egg was this silly ride’s sole raison d’etre, but for me it was quite sufficient, metabolically unsuited as I’ve always been for roller coasters and other death machines. 

Here is how these two odd things relate to our lives – if it isn’t already obvious. Feeding times here are, if not quite chaotic, certainly an interruption requiring our total attention. They occur regularly, every 180 minutes, and they last, including post-munch awake time, about 70-80 minutes on average. After that, the boys go down, and we have these little intervals of calm in which we can: nap, eat, pump, wash bottles, fill bottles, shower, exercise, write lullabies, record music videos, cook, write thank you notes, watch TV, or other, equally absorbing activities. I do not mean to equate the wakefulness of my sons with a Cylon attack. Even when Levi offers forth his most gut-wrenching, blood curdling screams (as he does with increasing frequency these days), I still think the annihilation of all life on the planet would be worse, and worse by a lot. It’s really just the clockwork regularity of it – the knowledge that no matter what interesting or awful activity we’re engaging ourselves with, it will all come to a full stop when the time for heating bottles and wiping butts comes around. Though honestly, heating bottles and even wiping butts is mostly more pleasurable than the other things we do with our time. (Wiping a butt – especially in this pre-odorific period – is such a pure and simple expression of love, and nets such a total feeling of accomplishment, that I’ve come to cherish it. Alex and  I change about 32 diapers a day, and I don’t think either of us minds a single one of them). 

As for the truck-ride (which may or may not have been part of some larger assemblage of flatbed terror devices): it represents our 24 hour days. They are mostly calm, but from about the witching hour until the break of day, there is that special bit of jolt. We do it like this now: I do the 11:30, Alex does the 2:30, I do the 5:30, Alex does the 8:30 (or we both do it). Feeding three hungry babies at once is quite manageable when there are two of you, or when you have your wits about you (say, during the day). But when your whole body’s humming from limited REM time (and I don’t mean Murmur) things can feel fast and furious. I’ve taken to setting all three boys up, one on a bouncy and two on a boppy, and then feeding the boppied pair with one hand, and the bouncied individual with the other. And it’s pretty smooth once the bottles are actually deployed. It’s the setup, though, that’s tricky. Change boy 1, he comes to life, wants to eat the world. So I put him in a bouncy and sooth him, temporarily, with a binkie. But it’s just a matter of time before he recognizes the lack of total fulfillment being offered by the green rubbery nipple between his gums. Rinse, repeat, and then rinse and repeat again. At some point – on account of the wailing – Alex wanders out of the bedroom somewhat woozily, following her maternal instincts to tend to her howling offspring, but I greet her with a firmly pointed finger and march her right back to bed. (at the 2:30 feeding, my maternal instincts almost never kick in – I could sleep through even a spontaneous performance of Carmina Burana by the boys, though I’d be sorry to have missed it I think). Anyway, these feedings are intense, if never quite terrifying. Just like the end of the oval on that funny truck. 

Enough philosophizing for now. I owe y’all a photo or two, and I will try to trudge one up before long. Do something funny boys, hurry!


January 18, 2009 at 10:06 am 2 comments

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