All is well. The kids still hijack my bed. They still curse. And a few weeks ago Cecelia handed me a log of dog poop.

Most recently, Layla thinks that every overweight man and woman is pregnant. Yesterday, while Rachelle was talking to our neighbor, Layla continually pointed at his stomach and asked Rachelle if he “has a baby in there.” I considered being honest with her and explaining that only girls can have babies and most of the time people are just fat. But “is he fat?” isn’t more polite then ”does he have a baby in there?” So for now I’ll just avoid all large people.

We got back from our Disney vacation recently. Except instead of “vacation”, it should be called “strenuous test of mental and physical endurance.” The meltdowns were staggered and plenty. When the kids noticed that I was alone, they sprinted in opposite directions. I had to choose between which child to fetch first. Logic kicked in: which one is most likely to be successfully kidnapped? I went after Layla first. She’s faster but weaker. Cecelia is heavy as an anchor. A predator wouldn’t be able to carry her very far and certainly not very fast.

There were enjoyable parts of the vacation, like playing golf, and watching how kids reacted to meeting the princesses. I took a picture with Cinderella. She smelled amazing. Hey, it was my vacation too.

Coming up, we have 37 kids’ birthday parties, and Father’s Day, where all I want is breakfast, lunch, and dinner in bed while I lay on cold sheets and watch television shows about sports or  animals.

Last night I was sitting on the couch reading a book while my 3 year old sat on the floor playing with toys. Her back was facing me.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye that she had looked back to see if I was watching her. When she was convinced that I was not, she proceeded to pull down her pants and underwear, then closed her hand into a fist except for her index finger, inserted that finger into the crevice of her butt cheeks, and topped it off by smelling the unlucky finger. Satisfied with her work, she resumed brushing Rapunzel’s hair.

I shook my head and turned the page.

Here’s a rough-draft picture of our sleeping arrangements on Monday evening.

A few questions probably come to mind:

• Why are our kids sleeping in bed with us to begin with?
• Why am I laying at the foot of the bed while the kids are laying sideways?
• Why is Rachelle wearing a nightgown with her name on it?

To each, I have no good answer. I was on a crusade last night to make sure the kids slept in their own beds. They needed to “cry it out.” The house was filled with terrible, hysterical screams. I put on my headphones to drown out the sounds, because I’m weak. Finally I popped an ear bud out of my ear and listened. Silence. We did it.

I stood up feeling victorious, drank a glass of water, turned off the lights and walked up the stairs to my chamber. When I opened the bedroom door I found Layla sprawled out in my spot next to Rachelle.

I’m fortunate to have missed this one.

Layla’s motherly, nurturing instinct kicked into high gear today. After smelling poop in Cecelia’s diaper, she decided that Rachelle needed a break and so she attempted to change Cece’s diaper. The result, I’m told, is that there are tracks and smears of feces throughout our living room. When I spoke to Rachelle she was understandably snippy with Layla. I could hear tones of defeat and desperation: “It’s just so bad. I don’t know where to begin. It’s on the couch, in their hair. Oh god it’s just so bad.”

Long story short, when I come home tonight the place will smell like a nursing home.

The kids have discovered when and how to use the word ‘Shit’ by observing what happens when their parents do things like bang their knees on bedposts, or drop something on the floor.

I tried telling Layla that it’s a bad word and we say “Shoot” instead. She replied with, “Ok, shit. ha!”

Rachelle recommends that we ignore it altogether, since she’s just doing it to elicit a reaction. So now Layla remembers the word and says to her sidekick, Cece, “Hey Cece, shit.” Then the two of them march around the house putting on a little shit parade while we stand around like dolts. “Shit, shit, shit.”

For the last few months, Layla has been haunted by the scary man that trolls her bedroom. She refuses to fall asleep because of this man. When I was first informed of the man, my jerk reaction was to laugh about the silliness of it (because of course only children have irrational fears). I explained to her that she’s safe and that there’s no scary man in her room. Last night she made my wife check behind the toy box. If the scary man can fit behind the toy box then he’s 3 ft tall and made of loose leaf.

Kids and their silly imaginations, I thought.

Then it hit me. A child’s imagination is strong and without common sense to ground it. She truly believes that there is a scary man creeping around her bedroom. To her, there’s no question.

So I put myself in her shoes.

I pictured laying in bed and reading a book. My eyes start getting heavy, so I place the book on the table next to me and flick off the light. After about two minutes my eyes become adjusted to the dark enough to recognize the dark shapes and silhouettes of the objects in the room. Two minutes after that, I notice that there’s a scary man sitting on my dresser.

No thanks. I’m not going to bed either.

I see now where Layla is coming from. So my attitude has switched from dismissing the idea as ridiculous, to helping her search and realize that there is no scary man freeloading in her bedroom. In the unlikely event that there is something living in her room, better her than me. Ghosts never hurt children.

After spending almost a year in hibernation, I’ve decided to write again. Set the bar low, because my seesaw, addictive personality might discover a different urge tomorrow, such as a sudden passion for stamp collecting.

So for now, to the 6 people who read this site, we’re back.

Her chin and jowls form a 3-leaf clover

At 7:30, we put Cecelia to bed. She’s cute…with her little 11-month old, worm-like body crawling towards the stairs, beyond excited for the bottle she’s going to fall asleep with in the crib. We place her on her back, give her the bottle and watch as her eyes close as she fades to sleep.

By the time we get downstairs, Layla is either banging on my flat-screen TV, or lighting matches.

“It’s time for night-night, Layla”

“Soon. Night-night soon,” she replies

“Night-night now.”

“Okie,” she agrees.

I carry her up to her crib. I crouch down and bend over in front of the crib, like the slave that I am. She walks on my back, lifts one leg over the rails, then the other.

“BOOKS!”

We throw a few books in the crib.

“HUGS AND KISSES!”

We lower the rails and kiss her goodnight.

“NO BOOKS!”

We remove the books from the crib.

“HUGS AND KISSES!”

Goodnight, Layla.

When we close the door, it starts. The inhale for her scream begins when the door closes. She holds it for so long, building up negative energy, that it doesn’t actually make a sound until we hit the bottom of the stairs. It sounds like she’s being burned alive.

In one room lies a sleeping baby, dreaming of stars and breast milk. In the other, lives shrieks of terror that all but peel the paint off of the walls.

What a tranquil way to unwind for the evening.

Since I haven’t had much motivation to write, I thought I’d post this short video to prove that we’re still alive and well. Cece does this weird smile where she squishes her face together and flashes the only teeth she has.

Layla likes to walk all over me, literally. It’s a game. She tugs at my arm and begins barking commands at me.

“Die Lown, daddy.”

“Ok, I’ll lie down.”

The game is this: I lay down on my back, while Layla balances herself and walks from my feet, to my legs, to my stomach, all the way until she reaches my head…uses my head as a springboard,  jumps off and we start all over again. It’s a game of balance, and finesse. From what I’ve gathered, the object of the game is to inflict as much physical pain on me as possible, while retaining her balance and successfully crushing every bone from toe to head.

Coloring a picture is too boring for Jigsaw.

About a month ago, we were in the middle of this great game when she was standing on my legs. She wasn’t ready to move yet, she just wobbled back and forth to feel my thigh muscles tearing under her feet. Her next step was a double axle, and she landed directly on my crotch.

“Ahhh, watch daddy’s bal….boys!”

By the time I corrected myself and got the word “boys” out, she was about to walk on my throat.

She stopped and realized she had hit the grand slam of whatever this sick game is called.

“dadddddy’s boys….”

She stepped backward and walked on my collar bone. I smartened up. “Ah, not daddy’s boys again.” She let out a sinister laugh and stepped on my clavicle once more for good measure before gracefully diving to the floor.

“Gonna get MOMMY’s BOYS,” she exclaimed while running into the kitchen.