FiveManns.net

Our boys have new names. They’ve always had these names since we adopted them, but now it’s official. Last Monday three toddlers whose legal names were Phan Thanh Tai, Phan Thanh Nhan and Phan Thanh Tam went to the Marin County Superior Court and came home Devon Tai Mann, Nicholas Nhan Mann and Alexander Tam Mann.

Currently we call them Devon Tai, Niko Nhan and Xander Tam. The boys recognize their Vietnamese name, so we’re using the double name until they grow accustomed to their American name as well. Our plan has been to eventually call them by their American name at home, and we may do that. However, just as the boys acclimatize to their American names, Mommy and Daddy grow fond of their Vietnamese names, which are quite beautiful.

As her parting gift to them, the boys’ birth mother gave them their Vietnamese names. To be a good and successful person, one first needs talent. Tai is the Vietnamese word for talent. That talent must be combined with heart. Tam is the Vietnamese word for heart. With talent and heart, one becomes a good human being. Nhan is the Vietnamese word for human being.

The ceremony was simple, lovely and warm, thanks to the appreciative and toddler-friendly atmosphere created by Commissioner Wood at the Marin Civic Center. The two adoption cases that day entered the courtroom first. Obviously it’s a smart move on the part of the court to empty the room of fidgety toddlers before getting on with the day’s work, but they didn’t have to keep the room clear of everyone else during our time. They didn’t have to bring out a little basket of toys for the boys to play with as Mommy & Daddy held their hands up and promised to raise these adopted children as we would any natural born child. They didn’t have to grant three scrambling monkeys unfettered access to the courtroom, something Daddy was pretty sure the court would regret.

Commissioner Wood’s sincerity in her well wishes and acknowledgement of the triplet’s happiness in our family touched us both. The court clerk burst out with, “I think I’m going to cry.” But the memory that will stick with me the most as we took pictures of our family of five, was that of the otherwise staid sheriff’s deputy jumping up and down, jangling his keys, making faces and keeping the boys’ attention on the camera. I wish I had a picture of that.

The boys fall a lot. They fall when they run and skin their knee. “You’re OK. Brush, brush”, we say as we teach them to wipe the dirt off their own hands. They fall off the play structures, some more insidious than others. “You’re OK”, we say to encourage confidence even as our own hearts skip a beat. Tam fell and rolled into a creek, giving himself a pretty good scraping. Faceplants into parking lots bruise noses. Heads bonk hard as brother trips over brother. Falling, scraping, bruising and bouncing are part of our educational routine.

The other day Tai fell from the top of his dresser. He’s not supposed to be on top of his dresser. Daddy told him so a thousand times. Daddy hoisted him down from the dresser a thousand times. Daddy yanked him down unceremoniously hard a few times. Daddy scolded … “That’s a no-no!!” Daddy explained … “You could get hurt if you fall.” Daddy moved the bed, which served as climbing base camp, further from the dresser. Daddy tied the drawers shut with rope to eliminate the scary north facing route. Daddy did everything but grease the sides and put shards of glass on top, and for a moment considered even those. But all of this served only to make the irresistible climb to the dresser’s summit more difficult and more hazardous so that, the other day, Tai fell from the dresser.

A few weeks prior to Tai’s fall from grace off the dresser, Tam took what in rock climbing would be known as a whipper. Tam took a nose dive off the banister to plummet 12 feet to the base of the staircase. Mommy was cooking and glanced away for an instant. Daddy was bathing Nhan near the bottom of the stairs. Thud!! Daddy looks around to see Tam’s body roll the last few steps to the floor. Terrible thoughts race through Daddy’s imagination as Daddy races the few feet to the now hyperventilating-crying-fear-gripped little boy while naked Nhan drips water all over everything.

Daddy’s first words were “Don’t freak out”, ostensibly spoken to the rapidly approaching Mommy because Daddy didn’t think he could keep it together if Mommy lost it, but he was probably talking to himself. What to do? Pick him up? Keep him still? Take him to emergency? Daddy can’t think beyond holding Tam still so his spine doesn’t move. Mommy gets the phone and we dial 911. Daddy is filled with love, compassion, concern and is deeply moved by the genuine suffering and courage of such a small lad having taken such a huge fall.

Within minutes the sirens are wailing. “Dey! Dey!”. That’s toddler Vietnamese for “Truck! Truck!” The other two boys who aren’t paralyzed with fear and shock are excited by the sound of fire trucks. The thought passes through Daddy’s head … too bad we can’t take them out to see the fire engines. A dozen firemen, paramedics and a sheriff’s deputy pour into the house and down the stairs. That’s way too many strangers for Tam, who, after just beginning to settle down, freaks out again. More crying and wailing and, a great relief to Mommy & Daddy, a lot of squirming as evidence of a healthy spine.

The nice paramedic asks Daddy to carefully take Tam upstairs. We tell the story. “Hi little boy …” says the paramedic, keying on the alertness of Tam’s eyes. Any loss of consciousness? No. How did he land? Shoulder, I think; there’s a small bruise. Is his behavior currently normal? Relative to his tumble of terror and shyness around the invasion of strangers, yes. We wait. We talk. After about 45 minutes Tam starts to giggle. He runs into Mommy’s arms. He smiles. The paramedic is satisfied. Mommy and Daddy are satisfied. And fortunately, the sheriff’s deputy is satisfied as well. It is mandatory for the sheriff to show up at any 911 call involving an infant to check for child abuse. Oh.

Daddy spent most of that night building balsa wood mock-ups for how to secure the stairwell. He spent $400 and all the next day building a two foot high, wood frame and polycarbonate extension to the banister. The shelves which provided access to the banister were removed. Making a house triplet resistant knows no end.

How does a toddler launch himself off a banister? Daddy would have thought a million years of evolution would have built in more sense of self preservation. Just how did the toddlers of Mesa Verde survive? Daddy never thought to tell the boys, “Hey, stay away from this deadly 12 foot precipice”. However Daddy did tell them to stay off the dressers. Daddy told them a thousand times. Daddy did everything he could think of to prevent that fall from the dresser.

In spite of Daddy’s efforts … thud!! Tai tumbles from the dresser. Daddy hears the hyperventilation cry. Daddy opens the door to the boys’ room. Tai is on the floor crying. Nhan and Tam are gently stroking Tai, patting him and providing comfort. That was cute. Daddy’s response was different. Daddy was loaded with (a) I told you so and (b) Hell, after the banister, this is nothing. “You’ll be fine. Stay off the dresser.” That was about the extent of Daddy’s comforting. Apparently it wasn’t enough because Tai plots his revenge.

About an hour later the boys were upstairs. All seemed calm. Daddy was unsuspecting. Tam pooped. The poop stunk. Daddy smelled the stink, picked up the pooper and carried him downstairs for a diaper changing. Daddy’s nose has grown keen over the last few months and there’s very little time lag between the pooping and the changing. It’s quick. Diaper changing is quick, too. Boy on mat. Pants down. Diaper in the can. Wipey wipey all around and slap on the clean diaper. No time at all, minutes at most.

Crack!! What was that sound!?!? Daddy’s ears have grown keen as well. He knows all the sounds of mischief. The toy car rattling across the furniture. Forbidden ascents of the toddler gate. The tearing of book pages. Forbidden light switches. Clanking of the shelves. Even the puffy-soft landing of tossed plush doggies creates the audible signature of a household no-no. Daddy knows them all but he doesn’t know this one. How bad could it be? Daddy’s only been down here a minute. Squeals of delight. Uh oh.

The diaper’s done. Daddy goes upstairs. What’s that … something large and black and deformed in the shared hands of Tai and Nhan. Scanning the room.

When Daddy was single he started working for an internet consulting company at the height of the boom time. After 20 years of renting single rooms in shared housing, he bought this house. Daddy moved in with no bed, no furniture, and no kitchen supplies to speak of. He owned camping gear and books. What’s the absolute first thing Daddy bought for his bare, sterile house? A stereo and TV, of course. Daddy was a guy. A big stereo with enormous, four foot tall, expensive, high quality speakers from Lexington, Kentucky. Fifteen years later Daddy is still terribly proud of those speakers. He even put a layer of thick cardboard underneath the grill to protect the speakers from prodding fingers.

But he never thought of protecting the grill itself.

Crack! In the few minutes it took to change Tam’s diaper, Tai and Nhan organized a raid on the speaker grill and smashed it, dragging it’s spent, unrecognizable carcass around the living room. Oh, Daddy got angry. Daddy yells. Daddy put the culprits in timeout. Daddy gets so angry he smashes what remains of the grill to bits. Whoops. More crying. By this time Mommy has arrived. Now Mommy’s upset as well. Mommy’s angry at the boys for making Daddy upset. Mommy’s upset with Daddy for ramping up the destruction. Mommy’s upset ramps up Daddy’s upset until it’s an upset-fest.

And then it’s over.

Perspective returns … after all, it’s just a speaker grill, even if it is a $180 speaker grill. Daddy reassures Mommy. Mommy comforts Daddy. Mommy and Daddy console the culprits. Daddy puts pants on Tam. Calm returns. Mommy and Daddy are slowly learning to put love before anger. Things are getting better like people said they would. Slowly.

And the boys? One would think big falls would be fast teachers. One would think. The morning after Tam’s whipper he worked hard to find an alternate route to the banister. Tai still surmounts his dresser summit nightly. Headfirst falls over the kitchen toddler gate, no matter how loud the crying is in the moment, do nothing to deter dangerously precarious perches along the ridgeline. Watching Mommy cook is just too fun to do from the ground.

They’re not supposed to be on top of the gate. Mommy told them so a thousand times. Mommy hoisted them down from the gate a thousand times. Mommy yanked them down unceremoniously hard a few times. Mommy scolded … “That’s a no-no!!” Mommy explained … “You could get hurt if you fall.”

Thud!!

We had a Big Meltdown this week. It was horrible. It was ugly. It was the Mann Family Chernobyl. And it wasn’t one of the boys that melted, it was Daddy.

All great disasters stem from a perfect storm of collaborating mess-ups. Last week Daddy crushed his finger with a 200 pound boulder. His finger popped like a balloon and Daddy howled in pain while dressing the wound enough to drive himself to the emergency room for his eight stitches. The nanny took sick. Strep throat. No nanny. Then Daddy’s back blew out, leaving Daddy writhing on the floor in pain trying to not tear open his new stitches.  Daddy moved to the couch, cane by his side.  Daddy was out of action. No nanny. No Daddy. That leaves Mommy against three.

Mommy gets disturbing news from a close friend. Mommy’s upset. An upset Mommy is a sensitive Mommy. A sensitive Mommy is a reactive Mommy. A reactive Mommy needs emotional support from Daddy. Meanwhile, mash-fingered, hunch-backed, cane-carrying Daddy finds out his project proposal was too late to be accepted and he was not going to get the work. Less work means less money.  Less money means fearful Daddy.  And a fearful Daddy is incapable of emotionally supporting reactive Mommy.

Meanwhile, with three months under their belts, Mommy & Daddy have come to the realization that the triplets are extremely sensitive to their environment. If either Mommy or Daddy are stressed out, the boys will go nuts. If Mommy & Daddy hire a babysitter who has a bad day, they will tear the house apart. If everyone around them is calm and in a good mood, they are a perfect joy. One day a week Mommy & Daddy are fortunate enough to be able to hire a Tibetan babysitter of unbelievable calm. She walks in the door and the boys just settle down and there is hardly a cry the entire time. This is generally true with all kids, but our three are not only very sensitive individuals, they also ramp themselves up as a trio, amplifying the effect.

So … the scene is set. Crushed finger. Blown back. Sick nanny. Upset Mommy. Worried Daddy. Three sensitive kids. Foul moods funneled through three-phase power amplifiers. What do you get? The Big Meltdown.

Even before the actions starts, the boys sense agitation in the air like wolves sense prey. They get excited.  Ears back.  Eyes alert.  The house is tense.  They push, and push hard. They climb stuff.  They break stuff. Mommy reacts! She yells. She yells way louder than normal. The kids respond. They disperse.  Before Mommy can finish yelling about what Nhan did, Tam and Tai have moved onto something else.  They’re jumping up and down on the turned-over lamp. The lamp is destroyed.  What the hell are you doing!?!?! Crack!  The wooden gate breaks. Security breach. Timeout! Timeout! Timeout! All of you are in a timeout! And stay there in a timeout!  Mommy herds wolves into the timeout zone, backed into a corner between the couch and the wall.  Up against a wall, the wolves fight and claw their way out.  Stay!  You stay there!

Daddy’s trying to get work done. Not possible. That screaming!!! Daddy’s head is exploding. He thinks Mommy is losing it. He thinks Mommy should get herself under control. More screaming. Daddy gets up. He’s going to go out and help. Daddy’s intention is to suffuse the insufferable chaos with a calming presence.  He opens the door.

Daddy opens the door just in time to see Tam take a hard swing at Nhan.  Whack! Tam slams Nhan in the head. Nhan screams.  What the hell!?!?! You brat! Daddy reacts! It’s timeout for Tam!!  Normally Daddy walks a boy to the timeout zone and quietly blocks the exit with a pillow and sets the timer, stay until the beep, please.  Today it’s a scene from the movie Alien, where the victim gets chomped and dragged screaming to his doom. This timeout is rough. Too rough to describe here. It’s ugly. Alien Daddy is humiliated at his own behavior. Nhan throws a toy. Crash goes the toy against the window. Damn! “Come here! Nhan! Timeout!” The Alien Daddy drags another screaming victim into the timeout cave. This timeout is also rough. Alien Daddy’s got his angry face two inches from the toddler’s face. Nhan smirks. Alien Daddy wants to take his cane and … well … no need to describe what Alien Daddy wanted to do (but didn’t!). Alien Daddy is again humiliated. Mommy is shocked.

This isn’t helping. Alien Daddy slinks back to his nest. The door closes, but it’s a thin door.  Mommy is screaming again. The triplets are off the charts. Sounds come through the door.  Unusual sounds.  Crunching and rattling sounds.  This can’t be good.  This can’t be happening. This is a meltdown. You would think that angry Viet Cong soldiers were adopted by the Americans that brought you the Mei Lei massacre.

Just like the movie, Alien Daddy keeps appearing suddenly from his nest to claim a victim.  Alien Daddy manhandles.  Alien Daddy yanks wolves down from the tree branches of the DVD rack.  Thud.  Screaming.  Mommy keeps saying over and over, “It’s not their fault.  It’s not their fault.”  Alien Daddies don’t reason.  Alien Daddies don’t think.  Alien Daddies are pure predation in the name of the rule of law, and in that moment, only Alien Daddy’s instincts are the law.  “It’s not their fault”, says Mommy, even as she screams all the louder.  When does this end?  Where is the door?

It goes on all day.  Playtime is hell.  Dinner is short and sparse.  Bedtime stories occur double-speed.  “Night night”. The door closes.  The wolves lash out at their den, destroying the last vestiges of the window shades.  Exhaustion kicks in.  The triplets collapse into sleep.  Mommy and Daddy are left to ponder.

Mommy is right.  It really isn’t their fault.  If Mommy & Daddy are calm, they are calm … er.  If Mommy & Daddy are having troubles, then Mommy & Daddy and the triplets are all in trouble.  Mommy needs emotional support and a break.  Daddy needs some rest.  And a substitute nanny must be found.

Daddy gets on craigslist and then gets on the phone.  He doesn’t care that it’s nine at night.  Daddy limits his thoughts to simple, focused thoughts.  “Must find nanny for tomorrow.  Must find nanny for tomorrow.”  Mommy gives herself a good cry, but in private.  East Europeans are tough, but even they need an outlet.  The walls are thin.  Mommy and Daddy find some time to talk.  They talk of humiliation and frustration and anger and upset.  They talk of how they want their family to be, and how today wasn’t that.  They share.  They understand.  They are too spent to be anything but still.

Someone calls back.  Daddy has found a nanny for tomorrow.  She’s warm.  She’s sweet.  She’s happy to show up.  Help is on the way.  Mommy will get some support.  Daddy will get some rest.  Tomorrow will be better.

On September 26, many local friends joined us for an informal picnic in the Corte Madera Park to celebrate our boys’ adoption.  It was also an opportunity for us to thank so many of our friends for their help and support in the transition from a family of two to a family of five.

The weather could not have been more cooperative – it turned out to be a hot sunny day, perfect for hanging out in the cool shade of our picnic spot. And although we had made our plans pretty last minute,  close to 60 people stop by throughout the afternoon.  It was great to see everybody.

We selected to have the picnic in a park, thinking that nearby play structures might provide sufficient diversion if our or friends’ kids needed a change of scenery.That turned out to be a life saver, as our boys got very excited and, completely oblivious to potential hazards of touching a hot barbecue, wanted to help Daddy grill.  They were soon surrounded by friends’ kids. Under a watchful eye of our nanny, they were taken under the wing of several young girls who treated them like baby brothers, from bringing them snacks, water, and more snacks, to holding their hands, and lovingly bossing them around. The triplets seemed to have time of their life. And yes, by the end of the event their bellies looked like extra big balloons from all the snacking! But it was their party, and we were glad they had fun.

Everyone told me that toddler routine is the key to toddler happiness.  You break the routine at peril of toddler upset.  This, I have discovered, is not the whole story.

No doubt our boys love routine.  We get up.  We change diapers.  We drink milk.  We eat breakfast.  We play on the deck.  We go for an outing, we lunch, we nap, we play, and we go out again.  We shower, eat, drink milk, read, sing and go to sleep.  That’s the routine.  To deviate in the slightest, to skip a step, or to change the order is to invite a cascading series of vocalizations culminating in a meltdown.  Routine.  Every day.  Like clockwork.

Or is it?

That was our routine.  Then one day after dinner Nhan pointed and grunted.  Point!  Grunt!  What?  What do you want?  Point!Point!Point!Grunt!Grunt! Music?  Do you want music? Point!Point!Grunt!Grunt! OK, not music.  What then?  The candle?  Point!Point!Grunt!Grunt! The picture?  Do you want to see the picture?  Smile!Laugh!Point!Grunt!Yyyaaaaayyyy!!!  Oh, you want to see the picture!

Our friends gave us a multi-image frame with pictures of Mommy & Daddy, and each of the boys.  Nhan holds it.  He looks at it.  Points to it.  “daaaddeee”, says Nhan as he points to Daddy.  Our hearts melt.  “daaaddeee.”  He points at each member of the family in turn, mumbles toddlereeze, and points at the cute little animals on the frame.  That was soooo cute!

The pictures, especially pictures which arouse congratulatory ooohs and aaaahs from Mommy and Daddy, must now be seen by the brothers.  Tai looks at the pictures.  He points.  Mommy and Daddy oooh and aaah.  That’s soooo cute.  Tam looks at the pictures.  Ooooh.  Aaaah.  Tam starts to disassemble the frame.  No, no, stop that!  Picture time is over.  Clap.  Clap.  Everyone loved picture time.

Picture time had not been part of our routine.  That was new.  That was unexpected.  Most importantly of all, that was fun.  The toddlers enjoyed picture time.  But unbeknownst to Mommy & Daddy, picture time just became assimilated into the routine.

The following night dinner ended.  As always we clapped.  “Good job!”.  Clap, clap, clap.  We start to put the boys down.  GRUNT!  GRUNT!  “Hey, you!  Adults!  This is wrong!”  UPSET!  Crying and screeching ensue.  What the hell?  What’s got into you?  Daddy’s looking around frantically … did the house catch on fire?  Is there a kernel of rice out of place?  He runs through the checklist of upsetting things … dirt, dogs,  doorbells.  Nothing.  What gives?  Point!  Point!  Daddy looks around … the picture!  Oh … you want to see the picture?

But this isn’t a request any more.  This is no longer curiosity at work.  After a single act of spontaneity, this has become routine.  This is expected.  We now expect to look at the picture.  We have achieved entitlement.  Good job.  We can now modify our routine schedule.  Immediately following dinner but preceding milk, there will be picture time.  That is now our routine, newly evolved.

Daddy ponders.  Daddy thought toddlers did not like change in their routine.  Daddy was wrong.  Toddlers love change as long as they love the change, then they don’t want it to change back.

Being a scientist, Daddy built a model for the way that toddlers think.  It looks like this:

Daddy’s office is off limits to the triplets.  It’s filled with computers and phones and papers and everything from everywhere else in the house that we didn’t want destroyed.  One day in an act of spontaneous Daddy-ness, Daddy brought Tai into the office to sit in Daddy’s lap.  Daddy typed on the keyboard.  Tai dialed Botswana on the phone.  Tai loved it!  Tam and Nhan loved Daddy office visits, too.  Yeah!  Tam carved up Daddy’s desk.  Nhan shredded paper.  That was fun.  The boys were happy.  It brought some peace to the house.  Daddy office visits seemed worth it.

Until they became routine … which happened pretty much overnight.  Whereas office visits used to bring joy, now they could only satiate an irritating entitlement.  Whereas office visits used to be special, now they needed to occur with the regularity of Old Faithful.  Office visits were expected.  And what happens when a toddler does not get what he expects?  He throws a fit.  This would not work at all, because Daddy could not work at all.

So office visits were banned.

Office visits were banned cold turkey. Office visits were banned weeks ago.  Although not entirely throwing fits any more, Daddy’s knuckles still feel the strain of the occasional toddler tug in the direction of the office.  They remember.  It’s long gone as part of our routine, but it’s lodged in their hearts as a welcome change.  This is a place where the triplets dream of a day when the routine will break, when we will spontaneously visit the office, and once again assimilate visits into the routine.

Before Triplets, or BT, I believed the obvious solution to bedtime was to let children go to bed when they were sleepy.  Period.  Let them follow their natural rhythm.  Parental efforts to impose anything else were misguided and selfish attempts to rid themselves of responsibility to do the right thing.  Some people are night people.  Some people are morning people.  Thus, it stood to reason, so are children, and any parent whose primary concern is the development of a whole and wholesome human being must, obviously it seemed to me, accommodate the true and natural rhythms of their child.  While visiting Friends-With-Kids, I’d watch as, at the anointed hour, the bedtime battle began with one parent or another begging, cajoling and prodding the young one up the stairs, subsequently disappearing for the dreaded Bedtime Ritual, only to reappear into the adult world an hour or so later.  Not me, thought I, never!

What a load of uninformed, backseat-driving BS that was.

It’s After Triplets, or AT, now baby.  We’re talking about real children living right now in our house.  My all-natural bedtime plan didn’t take into account the necessity for Daddy to survive having Triplets.  If survival is selfish, so be it.  My all-natural bedtime plan failed to recognize the horrific toddler consequence of deviating even slightly from the now sacred Routine.  Routine is King.  Long live the King!  Now the relevant question is … do I want to eat my dinner before midnight?  Do I want to hear something in my ear during the day besides the harmonic chorus of high-pitched toddler-rukus?  Whose house is this anyway?  This is my house and in my house we have bedtimes.  Period.

This first order of busines is, of course, what time is bedtime?  At the orphanage bedtime was 9pm.  “That seems reasonable”, says Daddy.  “What!?!”, replies Mommy, “Children in the Czech Republic go to bed at 7:30.”  “Seven-thirty!?!  It’s not even close to dark.  We might as well put them to bed after lunch.”, replied Daddy sarcastically.  Sarcasm rarely works as well as you think it’s going to.   Mommy scowls.  Remember the Daddy Report about eating?  You can guess who won this discussion.  It’s a good thing, too, because this early in the process Daddy had yet to realize that he was arguing against his own best interest.  Forget what time the snooty Europeans put their kids to bed.  This is an issue of parental survival, and Daddy eventually figures out that 9pm would have been suicide.

So … bedtime is 7:30pm.

Now with bedtime chosen, how do we accomplish it?  At 9pm the Triplets fell asleep without too much fuss, as long as you don’t count Daddy having to lay on the floor playing “dead bug” and repeatedly putting them back in their beds for 30 minutes as “much fuss”.  At 7:30pm their routine was to run around and squeal and ramp up as much intensity as possible while begging Daddy for spinnies and jumpies.  At 7:30pm it would have been easier to put a race car driver asleep on the 499th lap of the Indy 500 than to get our boys to sleep.  Although only 90 minutes lay between 7:30 and 9:00, that’s like 90 feet across a very deep chasm.  So close, yet so far.

Like all good parents, we start with the direct approach:  brute force.

We take them down, put them in bed, and kiss them goodnight.  Since obviously this is too early for bedtime, this must be a game.  Great!  The boys love games.  They get up.  We put them in bed.  They get up.  We put them in bed.  This is fun.  Let’s make it more fun by jumping on the beds.  No, stop that.  The window shades are are the most fun.  First, they have light peeking around the edges of the blackout fabric.  How interesting is that!  Most fun of all is the fwap-fwap-fwap-fwap sound they make when you get them to go back up.  No, don’t touch the shades.  They run around the room.  We catch them.  We put them back in bed.  They get up.  We hold them down.  Two parents.  Three beds.  One gets up.  Grunt!  Grunt!  Pointing at Tai with the obvious question, why does Tai get to get up?  Tai, get back in bed.

The only thing more infuriating than their not going to bed is the fact that they are enjoying not going to bed so much.  That smile … they love the struggle … in my mind I imagine they love that I hate the struggle … in my mind I start to imagine this is all a carefully orchestrated maneuver by genius toddlers to take control of the house by breaking us down.  Clearly I’m going crazy.  I’m starting to lose it.  They get up.  I put them down.  We don’t put them down any more … Mommy’s deep love of her children compelled her to leave the room before she lost it.  It’s now three on one with squealing children and a crazed, desperate Daddy.  I no longer put them down.  Rather than gentle, manly hands sweetly settling the little one into his fluffy toddler bed, it starts to more closely resemble an NBA slam dunk of a ball into a basket.  Plunk!  Now stay there!  Firm, loving hands no longer create a sense of cozy safety by holding them down; imagine something closer to dragon claws pinning  prey to the ground.  A toddler starts to whimper.  Triplets start to cry.  And here’s the really freaky part …

Toddlers fall alseep.  In the great bedtime irony of the comos, the one thing that worked flawlessly well at ending the game was to make them cry.  That wasn’t fun.  Game over.  Energy drained.  Toddlers fall asleep.

This became our new routine.  Bedtime 7:30.  Mommy hugs and kisses them goodnight and says bye-bye.  Daddy sticks around and plays the game until he cracks.  Somebody cries.  Triplets fall asleep.  It took about an hour.

The problem with this routine is that Mommy has been doing a great job teaching our triplets.  They are getting stronger.  They are getting more confident.  They are learning how to play.  They are getting better at the bedtime game.  They are pushing Daddy harder and further.  They play more intensely.  They don’t cry as soon.  Borrowing aptly from the language of the Vietnam war, the battle is escalating.  And you remember what happened with that war, right?  These are Vietnamese kids.  Escalation leads noplace good.  The bedtime ritual is leading noplace good.

What really tips me off, because it usually takes something to bonk Daddy over the head, is that they start crying on their way to bedtime.  They start to hate bedtime.  This is not good.  Now it’s no fun for anybody.

If you want to know how to raise kids, mostly you should ask Mommy.  Mommy thinks things through, like maybe outlet plugs are a good idea.  Daddy’s instincts aren’t always so helpful, taking the form of, “I survived sticking that knife in the power socket.  They will, too.  Hurt like hell, though.”  Every now and then, however, Daddy has a good idea.  You can tell it’s a good idea because Mommy agrees with it.  Also because it works.

Daddy’s idea was this.  We take them to the bedroom.  We read them a story.  We sing a song, “… if you’re happy and you know it clap your hands, clap clap …” about 10,000 times.  We end up reading random parts of the story again.  We make the sleepy sign.  We tuck them in bed.  We kiss them goodnight.  We leave.  We close the door.  They cry.

Then they scream.  They slam the drawers.  Bam!  Bam!  Bam!  They throw themselves against the door.  Kaboom!  Kaboom!  Kaboom!  They yell, tear down the shades, rip up the shades, throw pillows and kick the walls.  Every 15 minutes or so Daddy comes down, turns on the light, points sternly, and watches three toddlers scurry like cockroaches back to bed.  Silence.  Daddy leaves.  And party time starts again.

But this time Daddy doesn’t really care.  Daddy’s out grilling chicken and sipping wine.  It almost feels like a normal life, for an hour or two.

The heater was a problem.  We had a little electric heater on top of a dresser.  The dressers are tall, but with base camp on the bed, high camp on the window sill and the advanced team standing on the shoulders of high camp, they managed to reach it, push it, press it and generally create a fire hazard.  Daddy removes the heater.

Daddy checks in a few more times.  Each time the party is a little quieter. Eventually they fall asleep.  It still takes about an hour, but it’s their hour.  There’s no more battle.  They love bedtime.  They love the story.  Sometimes they curl up in bed together.  The window shades might even survive because each day party time is more mellow than the day before.  Each day they scream less and giggle more.  The Triplets are happy.  Mommy & Daddy are happy.  All is well.

Just before Daddy’s bedtime he sneaks back in the boys’ room and replaces the heater.   Very quietly.  Shhhhh.

——————————-

P.S.  A heater?  Yes, I know, it’s California in the summer.  But tropical Saigon makes foggy Mill Valley look like the arctic to our lean little boys.  And Nhan still refuses to use a blanket.  One night after they messed with the heater for the 10th night in a row I decided to demonstrate consequence.  “I told you … mess with the heater and I’ll take it away.  You better learn how to use blankets!”.  Then I took the heater away.  They woke up ice-cube cold and miserable, and they woke up earlier than the sun, which made me miserable.  Whoops.  Thus the heater.

Three little Vietnamese triplets stand out in Marin County which, in spite of it’s socially counterculture history,  hosts a largely homogeneous, ethnically white-bread population.  “Wow!  Are those triplets?!?!”.  Indeed they are.  Inevitably the next comments is, “They must be a handful!”.  I don’t mind hearing that same comment over and over.  Not only is it true, but I feel the empathy.  They, those who are parents, know this truth.  “I only had one and he was difficult, but triplets!”   “I can’t even imagine!”  “I had three, but not at the same time!”  Our pain is obvious and walks on six legs.  We are seen.  The truth is out there.

What is less obvious are those domains where raising triplets is easier.  For example, mealtime.

At first mealtime was a nightmare … spoon-grabbing, in-chair-standing, gulp-and-running, food-spitting, water-swishing, picky-eating, chaos that took forever and precluded Mommy & Daddy from savoring anything save for a few gulps of survival rations.  Those were the darkest days, where wine and grilled chicken seemed a distant memory.  And now?  Cadets in West Point cafeteria eat with less precision and order than our boys.

When the dinner bell rings they run for their chairs, climb in, open their arms to booster chair straps and their little necks to plastic bibs.  Mommy brings the bowl of food, the little spoon, the cloth wipey, and the little plate for food whoopsies.  All attention turns to the bowl.  There is silence pregnant with anticipation, perhaps a gleeful squeak slipping through.  Mommy lifts the bowl.  Picks up a spoonful of yummy.  “Nhan, are you ready?”, Mommy asks.

At those magic words, any remnant of fidgeting, feet kicking and games of hold-the-bib-over-my-face halt instantly, little face turns to Mommy, and mouth opens wide.  “Yuuummmmm”, says Mommy as she inserts the spoonful of food, food which can be and is anything.  Oatmeal, strawberries, chicken, broccoli, blueberries, quinoa, bananas, stew, salmon, pasta, rice, beans, peas, yogurt, carrots, crackers, cheese, zucchini … you name it, they eat it. They eat it quickly.  They eat it happily.  The chew it completely … with their mouths mostly closed.  Should something dribble on their face, “Grunt!  Grunt!”, they ask for the wipey and wipe off their face.  A kernel of rice hits the table?  “Grunt!  Grunt!”, point the triplets until the offending mess is cleaned up and placed onto the whooopsie plate.

“Last one”, announces Mommy as the last spoonful comes around.  They know.  They understand.  When the last spoonful is complete, there is a round of spontaneous applause by all.  Toddlers remove their bibs.  Mommy & Daddy undo the buckles.  All is well.

How could this be?  You’ve read enough Daddy Reports by now to know these are not enlightened, angelic beings come into the world fully-formed and preternaturally polite.  They are two year old boys.  What created this paragon of dining pleasure?  In my opinion, it was two things:  East European determination and the possibility of immediate feedback.

Mommy is from the Czech Republic.  The Czech Republic, right after it was freed from the Nazis, was occupied by the Soviets.  You don’t grow up under the Soviets and grow up soft.  You learn to push through obstacle … even three of them.

But perhaps more importantly, dinner time with triplets provides an excellent opportunity for what my child raising book calls “logical consequence”.

It started in Vietnam with the bibs.  Mommy requires bibs.  She likes clothes without spots.  She would put a bib on Daddy if they came in adult sizes.  She put the bibs on the boys.  Two stayed on.  Tam took his off.  He threw it to the floor.  I put it back on.  Tam took it off.  Mommy tells Tam, “you have to wear a bib”.  I put the bib back on.  Mommy continues, “if you don’t wear the bib, you don’t eat.”  I’m thinking that’s metaphorical reasoning.  Tam thinks so, too, and throws the bib to the floor.  “Tam!”, exhorts Mommy , “put your bib on or no dinner.”  I put the bib back on.  I still think Mommy’s just trying to make her point stronger.  I don’t take her literally.  Neither does Tam.  He throws the bib to the floor.

Neither Tam nor Daddy grew up in Eastern Europe.  We both failed to appreciate the extent to which they do not mess around over there.  It’s old school.  At this point Mommy gets ups, grabs Tam, picks him up, and sets  him on the floor.  “No food for you!”

This is the place where triplets are handy.  If you have one child, at this point you have simply stopped feeding your child.  Although the situation has changed, there’s nothing to immediately compare it to.  After enough days of no feeding, the child will eventually get really, really hungry.  But by the time hunger sets in, the connection to tossed bibs is pretty much lost, and the whole educational feedback loop is gone.  You’ve just got a hungry kid who still throws bibs on the  floor.  Not so with triplets.

Mommy proceeds to feed the brothers, Tai and Nhan.  “Yuuuuuummmmm”, goes in the food.  Neither Tai nor Nhan are stupid.  They’ve been watching this whole thing and like wolves in a pack, they are more than willing to eat all of Tam’s food and let him starve.  If Tam starves, that’s his problem.  In that sense, Tai and Nhan are pretty much thinking like Mommy.

Tam starts to cry.  This is predictable and does not impact the flow of food to Tai and Nhan.  “Yuuuuummmm”, goes in the food.  Tam starts to screech.  Daddy softens and starts to intervene.  Mommy scowls at Daddy.  Daddy withdraws and puts in earplugs.  It’s a battle of wills, in a way, but all the will is on Tam’s side.  He has taken an untenable position, a fight with no enemy, for Mommy is not fighting.  Mommy is simply feeding the two children who are working their way toward Darwinian domination and survival in the Mann family by eating their dinner … bibs on.  “Yuuuuummmmm”, goes in the food.  All the power is in Tam’s hand, the rest is “logical consequence” … no bib, no food, Tam’s choice.  There’s no yelling.  There’s no upset (other than Tam’s).  All is flowing smoothly.

But even Tam, no dummy himself, is starting to notice his predicament.  Presumably a scientist at heart, he decides to test his hypothesis.  He points at the food and grunts.  “You have to wear your bib”, says Mommy.  “Let’s give him a chance”, says Daddy.  Daddy puts Tam back at the table.  Bib goes on.  Quickly, Mommy feeds Tam a bite for positive reinforcement.  “Yuuuummmmm”, goes in the food.  Tam rips off his bib.  He throws it to the floor.  Mommy goes into action.  Tam is on the floor.  Nhan and Tai proceed to eat Tam’s portion, threatening his survival.

Finally, after a few more experiments, Tam makes a correct assessment of the situation:  Mommy is from Eastern Europe and you don’t mess around with Mommy.  To his credit, he figured it out a lot faster than Daddy.

That was just step one of many.  Today … we don’t tear at the tablecloth.  We open our mouths when Mommy asks, “Are you ready?”.  We sit while eating.  We eat what is served.  We chew with our mouths closed.  We keep our fingers out of our mouths.  To survive in the Mann family, this is how you eat.  So this is how we eat.

To be fair … the kernel-of-rice, neat-freak thing … that was orphanage training.  I don’t think they tolerated spilling food in the orphanage.  The caretakers came from Vietnam, not Eastern Europe, but I don’t think you mess with them, either.

Triplets … I ask myself, how did this become my life?

I think a lot of fathers ask themselves their version of that question.  The answer depends a lot on the context of the asking.

For example, I asked it of myself this morning about half way through the half-hour screaming and fighting fit taking place over any one of three identical and readily available toy cars.  How did this become my life?  This is the more rhetorical form of the question, a moment of self pity, to which there is no helpful reply other than to suck it up and have a little compassion all around.

The other form is more matter of fact:  how did the triplets come into our life?

First, Daddy-to-be met Mommy-to-be.  They got married.  Then they tried to make babies in the time honored way of their ancestors.  A close friend and exceptional seer even told Mommy-to-be and Daddy-to-be, “I see the three spirits of your children hanging around you.  You’re going to have three children.”  This was very exciting news.  Daddy-to-be and Mommy-to-be tried again and again in the time honored way of their ancestors to make babies.  As fun as all that was, no babies came.  This was a great disappointment.

So Mommy-to-be and Daddy-to-be decide to use in vitro fertilization, or IVF.  IVF involves giving Mommy-to-be vast quantities of tests, pills and shots for weeks on end so that she will produce large numbers of eggs like a chicken.  Daddy-to-be has to go into a small room and watch videos.  But no babies came.

Mommy-to-be and Daddy-to-be decide to try again.  Mommy-to-be endures another round of rump-bruising  shots and pills.  Daddy-to-be watches the video again.  This time Mommy-to-be produces three lovely eggs.  Wonderful, it would seem, those must be our three children!  But still no babies came.

At this point Mommy-to-be has a very intense dream.  She dreams of three people telling her they have to leave.  This is a very disturbing dream, for Mommy-to-be sees it as the three children leaving before they make it to our family.

The third and final round of IVF is again not successful.  No babies.  No hope.  This was the end of the line.  There is much sadness and grief.

A few months later Mommy-to-be and Daddy-to-be meet with their friends Tom and Betty.  Tom and Betty tell us their story.   They tried to make a second baby in the time honored way of their ancestors.  No baby came and there was much sadness and grief.  They decided to adopt a baby from China.  But even as they moved forward with this adoption, it was difficult to completely let go of their desire for a biological child.  Like most people going through international adoption, Tom and Betty waited a long time for a match, and all that time, there was the aftertaste of regret.

Until the ladybugs came.

The symbol used by the Chinese partners of their adoption agency was the ladybug.  All the documents and communications had ladybug images on them.  One day their yard was overtaken by ladybugs, thousands of them.  They had never seen ladybugs in their yard before, and now it was a ladybug festival.  One week later they got a match with  a beautiful little Chinese girl.  Their take on the ladybugs? … it was meant to be.  In their eyes, this was the universe’s way of saying, “This child was meant to be with you.”  That ended the regret.  They were at peace with their new blessing of a daughter.  And Mommy-to-be and Daddy-to-be were inspired.

So Mommy-to-be and Daddy-to-be decide to adopt.  They do a little ceremony to tell the three little spirits, “Hey, if you want to come live with us, you better get over to Vietnam and find some bodies to be born into.  We’re going to adopt!”  But the three little spirits were already on it.  They were born to a birth mother in Vietnam one week after Eva had her dream.

Mommy-to-be and Daddy-to-be start working on the application.  The deadline is approaching because Daddy-to-be turns 50 on January 9 and becomes inelligible because of age.  Mommy-to-be is crazy with urgency.  There’s a huge winter storm and power is out on the mountain for a week.  Mommy-to-be and Daddy-to-be check into a hotel that still has power, bringing computers, routers, networks and printers with them to work on the application.  The day before Daddy-to-be’s birthday, the application goes in.

After the application comes the dossier.  The dossier is a story unto itself.  It involves more bureaucratic mess than a reasonable person could imagine.  Even if you set out to create a difficult process, you probably would not think to create all the stuff required in a dossier.  Get your doctor to write a letter on his or her letterhead using the exact wording specified by the Vietnamese bureaucrat.  Schedule an appointment.  Schedule a mobile notary to meet you and the doctor at that appointment.  Receptionist prints letter.  Doctor signs letter.  Notary notarizes letter.  Take letter and notary page to the county in which the notary lives.  County adds a piece of paper saying, yes, this is a notary.  Take those three pieces of paper to Sacramento where they add a fourth piece of paper saying, yes, this is a county.  Do this for a thousand different documents.  For some of them do it a second time because, well, don’t ask, just do it.  It’s a full time job.  We did it.

The application has a little checkbox.  Would you accept twins?  Sure, that would be great.  But forget about it, the agency tells us.  They don’t use fertility drugs in Vietnam.  You don’t see twins come up for adoption.  It doesn’t happen.

Besides, there are bigger problems.  The memorandum of understanding for adoption between the United States and Vietnam is expiring on Sept 1.  Any couple who is not matched by Sept 1 is going to be out of luck.  A match normally takes 1 – 2 years after submitting the dossier.  For Mommy-to-be and Daddy-to-be, that Sept 1 deadline is a scant 6 months out.  Furthermore, Daddy-to-be is now ineligible to apply again because of age.  If it doesn’t work out this time, that’s it.  It looks bad for Mommy & Daddy to-be.

On June 12, 2008, 3 days before father’s day, 3 months after submitting the dossier, 3 months prior to the termination of US/Vietnam adoption, and more than a year earlier than would be expected, Mommy & Daddy to-be get a phone call.

“How about triplets?”, inquires the social worker.

Mommy asks, “Can you send pictures?”.  Daddy asks, “What about 2 out of 3?”.  Mommy scowls.  Daddy thinks about the cost of college.  Mommy takes one look at the pictures and says, “Yes!”.  Daddy thinks about the cost of nursery school, food, clothes, cars, braces, insurance and airline tickets.  “How can you say no to these cute faces?”, asks Mommy.  He couldn’t, really.  The bases were loaded.  The deck was stacked.  It was all or nothing and nothing seemed like a bad choice.  But knowing that you can’t say no is a long way from actually saying yes.  Mommy tells the agency yes.  Daddy catches up about a week later, and has been playing catch-up ever since.

So, if you ask us, these are our children.  That they incarnated into the beautiful young bodies of Vietnamese triplets is dwarfed by the miraculous journey of three spirits from the seeing eye of our friend to the screaming, fighting little bundles that vex me today.

That’s how this became my life.

This morning I changed two back-to-back Class 5 Diapers.

A Class 0 Diaper is new.  You would never change a Class 0 Diaper, unless of course, you taught your toddler the baby sign for “change diaper”, he learned it, he used it, and you got all excited that your otherwise wordless, grunting  toddler was actually communicating a clear and specific desire to you, and rushed the boy downstairs to the changing area to discover a nicely dry, Class 0 Diaper.  You’ve been had.  Your toddler has learned that by rubbing his little fists back and forth (i.e., “change diaper”), he will received immediate attention and, even better, without invoking Stern Daddy Voice.

I try putting the diaper back on.  Instant crying … he won’t have it.  I told him that whenever he wanted a diaper change to make the sign.  He made the sign.  He wants his change.  Damn.  I’ve been had.  How much do these things cost?  It adds up.  I consider using Stern Daddy Voice, but I’m laughing too hard to find it.  I could just make diaper changing a less desirable experience.  But, somehow, even lacking Eva’s good intuition, I’m sensing this is not a good call.  I fall back on the  hope for potty training.  This, too, shall pass.

A Class 1 Diaper is wet.  It still looks and feels like a diaper, but it’s wet.  The wetness is restricted to the diaper itself.  These are the best.  Quick.  Easy.  Minimal mess.  Minimal use of baby wipes, whose cost also adds up.

A Class 2 Diaper is soaked and weighs a ton.  The kid’s been walking around with a bloated, sagging pee balloon between his legs.  It’s amazing how much liquid those things can hold, but by this time, the diaper doesn’t hold all of it.  His pants are wet.  One has to marvel at the percentage of body weight that a toddler can convert to pee over the course of an evening.  As a comparison, imagine if you as an adult filled a bucket … that would be impressive.

With Class 3 Diapers we’re moving into solid waste management of the poopy diaper.  A Class 3 Poopy Diaper contains your classic, well defined, identifiable unit of a turd.  These are almost as easy as Class 1 and 2.  Wiping is pretty targeted.  Minimal mess.  All is well.

A Class 4 Diaper is more challenging.  The poo spreads out.  There’s a lot more wiping.  There’s a lot more odor.  There’s a lot more hazard.  I learned from watching the caretakers in Vietnam.  You’ve got to hoist the feet hog-tie style, get the diaper off and into the can, grab a baby wipe and start wiping without ever letting poo hit the changing mat.   Foot-activated diaper cans are helpful.  Ambidexterity is essential.  But it’s a learnable skill that even a guy can master.

When I was taking a mountaineering class in Wyoming many years ago, we did two exercises to help us learn how to survive difficult conditions.  One was to purposefully run out of food 5 days and 50 miles from the end of the trip.  The other was to spend all night on the icy summit of a mountain with just the clothes on our back.  The former was much easier than I expected.  After a day or so, I wasn’t really hungry, just weak and tired, but the 5 days went by without incident or any particular suffering.  I learned that going for days without food is nothing to be concerned about.  The latter was far more miserable than I expected, as the icy hours dragged on and my shivering abated only when huddled in a piece of spare plastic.  The plastic allowed me to warm up enough to fall asleep, but at the expense of trapping my sweat.  I’d fall asleep, the wind would blow the plastic away, and I’d wake up soaking wet and shivering, only to repeat that process all night.  I never want to go through that again.

Diaper changing has been like both of those.  Although it was the thing I absolutely feared most about adopting children, it has been the thing that has bothered me the least.  There is a sort of sensitive intimacy between father and little boy, whose flexibility allows him to lie on his back, present his butt upwards, and watch you with a smile, all at the same time.  Although conceptually revolting, it’s true what they say.  Just as we are not repulsed by our own biological processes, I experience dealing with the triplets as I would myself.

Right up until Class 5.

A Class 5 Diaper is a thing to behold.  Spread out in a thick, sticky smear from mid-back to testicles, poop covers everything with a fermented stink that could burn away plastic.  My nose burns.  My eyes water.  I cry out in agony, which only inspires the happy toddler to get his hands down there and figure out what all the excitement is about.  NO!  DON’T TOUCH THAT!  Too late.  Now there’s a problem.  Do you let go of his feet to wipe his hands and mess the mat, or keep working on the back?  There’s no choice … gotta go for the hands.  Now there’s poo everywhere.  Focus.  Wipe.  Dispose of the wipey.  Focus.  Wipe.  Dispose of the wipey.  One step at a time.  I block his hands with my legs.  I fake a smile.  Wipe.  And his little private parts … all those wrinkles … how do you get all that poop out of those wrinkles?  I try as carefully as I can.  This takes a lot of wipes.  He starts laughing hysterically.  Now THIS is fun!  Great.  Is this even legal?  No wonder they start making the “change diaper” sign.  I’ve become a poop wiping gigolo.

I give up.  It’s off to the shower for Class 5 Diapers.

This morning I was rushing to get ready for my 9am client.  No problem, honey, I’ll change the diapers before I see the client.  Usually in the mornings I’m dealing with Class 2 Diapers.  Quick change.  Quick wipes.  Off we go.  But this morning was different.  This morning was  back-to-back Class 5’s.  Oh god … there’s nothing worse than dealing with Class 5 changes while you are in a rush.  Patience … patience … focus … wipe … dispose of the wipey.

I borrowed from the rating scale for whitewater boating to create my diaper scale.  Back in the 80’s when I did a lot of whitewater canoeing on the east coast, a class VI (i.e., 6) river was considered unrunnable, certain death.  These days top boating experts run class VI rivers all the time.  I have never seen a Class 6 Diaper.  I hope I never do.

It’s been three weeks since we arrived home. It feels like ages ago … The memory of Hanoi with its serviced apartment, convenient restaurant and room service, and boys’ many hours of sleep seems far, far away. Instead we’ve had the reality of very jet-lagged boys who never seem to want to sleep, and 2 zombie parents who almost forgot what sleep feels like. After few days, Wallace had to go to Utah to fulfill a prior commitment, and Eva stayed with the boys alone – with the help of a few last-minute-found nannies, and many wonderful friends. It’s been quite a wild ride …

Despite the lack of sleep, we have had some great experiences – from the many wonderful friends who have generously devoted their time and energy to help, to the great progress that we see and the amount of joy that is starting to appear in our boys’ eyes when they discover something new – which is often.

Fran and Jan gave us a warm, van-&-balloon welcome home at the airport; we learned about all things sand with Megan who took us for a fun trip to Stinson Beach; we went for a lovely park visit with Betty and Pat; and we had wonderful visits with Mark and Innesa. The boys experienced a profound release and change after two osteopathic treatments that they received… the difference from one day to another was quite amazing. Thank you, guys! We have also had many exciting new explorations with Christina – among other things, she introduced us to the Discovery Museum, which became the favorite destination of our half-day outings.

During this time we learned that our boys were afraid of not only dogs but also pigeons; that the house was nowhere nearly childproof for 3 enterprising toddlers – both from the child and house safety point of view; and that the boys love driving in a car and run for it squealing with joy the minute they are let out. More recently, they even started pointing at their shoes and the diaper bag once their breakfast was done – they can’t wait to go!

The boys also learned to master many new physical skills – from simple ones like running up and down our steep stairs and walking on steep playground “hills” to sliding on a big curved slides, and climbing big kids play structures like pros. Where 4-yr olds hesitated, our boys didn’t even slow down and were swiftly up. We visited Little Gym and although our boys had no appreciation for sitting in a circle, they outdid all the other kids on the rings and during various climbing exercises. We also introduced strollers, finally. Before taking them for an outing, we let the boys play with them leisurely on our deck, which made them think the strollers were a new cool version of a ride-on.

Did I mention the boys’ passion for ride-ons? Whereever we go, they keep an eye for any type of a ride-on that they could get their hands on. We got a little Plasma car for them as an experiment, and it was an instant hit. We might have to buy two more of those!