Having earned my C-Section merit badge with my first daughter, I roughly knew what to expect when I was led into the operating theatre by an overly friendly nurse with a darling British accent. My wife was positioned as she had been the last time, prone on a table with her arms wide and a curtain right up to her chin so that she was unable to view ‘the action’. I sat with her, doing my best to keep her entertained, and slipped the anesthesiologist a twenty for a little ‘extra effort’ in the pain management.

With Justine, I recall my wife handling it reasonably well, at least as well as conscious abdominal surgery can be handled. But that was planned – this was a different affair. The consequence of waking up without knowing you are getting sliced up is that you have a tendency to do things that are less than optimal for surgery, like eating and drinking. Because Kim had consumed her daily Lucky Charms (marshmallows only, of course), she was forced to drink some magical medical concoction to neutralize the acid in her stomach. Presumably this was to prevent her from spraying her intestinal contents about the walls during surgery. Instead, it actually seemed to intensify that possibility.

So there we sat, awaiting birth. Kim was intent on getting water to remove the nauseating taste from her mouth. The anesthesiologist and nurse behind me chatted about their weekend plans, while on the other side of the curtain the surgeons who had their fingers caressing my wife’s spleen and idly poking the water balloon holding my soon to be born child discussed Oprah’s imminent retirement. Me? I was trying to keep myself from live tweeting the whole thing.

The magical moment arrived, and I stood up and watched the birth of my second child as I did the first – through the unforgiving lens of a camera. It was like watching TV! Except of course that the blood was real, the guts my wife’s and the child a very real financial burden. Regardless, I intrepidly fired away, the shutter of my rather expensive DSLR capturing frame by frame our DAUGHTER emerging from the womb, trying to dodge the spatter.

Yes, another daughter, which officially tips the gender ratio of my life firmly estrogenous, with now a wife, two daughters, two female dogs, a female cat and a female rabbit. Even our receptacles are all female.

Our anesthesiologist completely blew it by the way – he practically guaranteed a boy, apparently overstating his ‘really good track record’. Stick to the knockout juice, buddy.

After my daughter was whisked away to the baby station to get weighed, eye gooped and made TV show birth presentable, my wife breathed a sigh of relief, and resumed her requests for water. After ensuring that Kim was handling the aftermath of her scalpel induced infant wrenching ok, I headed over to view my latest addition to the gene pool.

Unlike my first daughter, this one was not licking her knees against her will, but rather lay rather mucous covered and gross under the heat lamp. I spent most of my first moments with her shoving a 2 inch diameter piece of glass up to her and terrifying her with loud clicking noises and the occasional bright flash. She was small, smaller than the watermelon What to Expect When You’re Expecting suggested she was at this point in out pregnancy. I estimated a casaba melon, or perhaps a blue ribbon eggplant – however the nurse would not play this game with me, instead sticking to the facts, which was 5 pounds 14 ounces.

By far the most distinguishing feature of my newborn child was the size of her feet. I’ve long been told that the final size of puppy can be determined by the size of their paws. Judging by the clown sized clompers of our newborn, I’m reasonably sure we have jus birthed a future starting center for the UConn Huskies.

She was rather unhappy, possibly because she was forcibly pulled from a dark water filled sac unexpectedly, had to learn to breathe, got a shot, goop rubbed in her eye, weighed, dressed, passed her first test (a 9.9!), and was forced already to spend time with Dad when all she wanted was her Mommy. And this all in the span of five minutes – just imagine what the rest of her life will be like.

Eventually the nurse swaddled her into the only baby blanket style legally permitted, and walked her and me back over to my wife, who was busy attempting to trade our CRV for a thimble full of water. I showed what we had made, pointing out that our daughter was up to human standards. We took the requisite pictures, and then we were given the news that our daughter was to go spend the next few hours in the nursery so that she could be monitored as she continued mastering the rather important skill of breathing.

After a tear-filled goodbye (I was a little surprised at the anesthesiologists emotions), I left my wife and followed in tow with the nurse and my newborn daughter out of the operating room and into the maze of hallways and locked doors that led to the nursery.

Did I mention that we didn’t have a name yet?

I sat, impatiently, in the loneliest seat in the world, staring at the clock on the wall. Waiting. Watching. Wondering.

Waiting while my wife was prepped for a surgery neither of us woke up expecting to handle today. Watching while a steady trickle of specialists wandered by me into the operating theatre, their knowing eyes peering from behind their surgical masks at me fidgeting in the only chair in this massive hallway. Wondering how life could change so dramatically in only 6 hours.

This was not in the plans today – no, today was yet another ‘routine’ ultrasound, the last of a ridiculous number of sonic intrusions on our high-risk, unborn fetal tax write-off. We had already suffered through the inevitable consequences of such intense examination of pregnancy, through scares of placenta accreta, Bieber fever, and more recently low fluid levels that had turned my extremely active wife into a modified-bedrest ridden turtle, afraid to leave the house lest she fall into the finality of permanent bedrest and/or snapper soup. But we’d muscled through it, and through relaxation and consumption of river-like quantities of water we returned to a sense of normality and turned a wary eye toward ‘regular’ labor.

I was nearly late to the ultrasound, after dropping our daughter off at my parents a bit late led to a frantic drive across town to arrive at the office moments before my wife was taken back. The plan was a final ultrasound in which we’d glimpse a last vision of our newborn before he/she slid down ‘chute o’ life’. Then on to work for me, a day to be filled with meetings and status updates, a long lunch and a quiet night at home watching John Quinones drop another bombshell on some unsuspecting diners.

Instead, our unruly technician, who seemed to have little patience for performing what I can only assume is all that she does all day, declared my wife’s fluid levels to be low. Dangerously so. My wife, after dozens of ultrasounds over the preceding months, verbally sparred with her, trying to eke out a higher value, lest we end up in the hospital.  For my part, I stared at the static on the monitor and wondered if the machine had Internet access. After the doctor’s confirmation of the levels, and a less than cryptic ‘congratulations,’ we were directed to Labor and Delivery.

We were shepherded into a triage room so that everyone’s vitals could be monitored. The baby was fine, Kim had elevated blood pressure and I was diagnosed as ‘piss drunk’. Our OB arrived from what I can only imagine is the ‘Huxtable Lounge’ and gave us the rundown. Baby – today. We considered this and then tentatively countered with baby – later? Thus ensued a delicate dance wherein the hospital staff performed ‘tests’ and ‘supplemental ultrasounds’ and ‘tarot card readings’ to convince us that yes, the fluid levels were pretty darn low. I saw the dipstick myself – it was undeniable.

But we had a few reservations – first and foremost it was Friday the 13th. While it seems ridiculous that this could be a factor in our thinking, consider this – there is ZERO evidence that Friday the 13th is a bad day to have a child. Wait – what? Secondly, Kim’s fluid levels seemed to wax and wane at Bay of Fundy proportions – who’s to say they wouldn’t be back up to normal tomorrow? Finally, we, being second time parents, were pretty much completely unprepared for a new child. To illustrate, as we sat in triage I downloaded a baby name app ‘just in case.’

Our decision really boiled down to this – today or tomorrow. The doctor was willing to admit us and monitor my wife overnight and reevaluate in the morning. They also agreed to give us the AAA discount on the room despite my card having lapsed. We considered this, and had essentially decided on it. Then, for lack of a better explanation, we decided instead to just ‘screw it – rip the thing out now’. I was surprised at the rapid change of direction, but have learned over the years that when one of my several personalities makes a decision, it’s best to go along with it.

I left immediately to pick up a few things we thought we might need, notably a camera to capture the event, a change of clothes, and my daughter’s veterinary set, in case the doctors needed additional equipment. I also ran our new puppies, who had been spayed two days earlier to our vet to board for the weekend.

Oh, the puppies? Yeah we got two new puppies when my wife was 6 months pregnant. Yes, we are insane.

I frantically drove back to the hospital, encountering heavy traffic along the way and spouting copious epithets at the construction workers who were tying up the main thoroughfare back to the hospital. Meanwhile, my wife was being prepped for surgery and being asked questions like ‘where is your husband?’ and ‘why is your husband not here’ and ‘two puppies? Are you insane?’. I pulled in to the garage five minutes before the surgery, abandoned my car across 3 handicapped spots and pushed an old lady with a walker down the stairs in a mad dash back up to Labor and Delivery. A scowling nurse threw scrubs at me, and the next thing I knew I was in that chair.

Waiting. Watching the clock. It was 3 o’clock.

But last weekend, we traveled a ways up north to attend a rather unique event with a few friends, the annual Enchanted Beaver Lake, a festival of lights the likes we had never seen before.  Beaver Lake is a county park in central New York, based not surprisingly around a lake, possibly filled with beavers.  As such it features a rather sizable nature center, and several trails that wind through the woods, ostensibly for “city-folk” like myself to “get me some nature.”

But this particular night, the park was transformed instead into a maze of Jack o’ Lanterns, hundreds in fact, that lined the two trails that wound through the dark forest.  It was actually a spectacular experience, for we were pretty deep in the pitch black woods, guided only by the glowing remains of these hacked gourds, featuring carved visages of every conceivably variety.  Pop culture icons, cartoon characters, ghoulish figures, gap toothed faces, even NFL and MLB logos graced these orange orbs, each providing a small beacon of light in an impenetratable forest.

Justine, for her part, was not particularly a fan of this whole affair.  This was partially our fault, because it was well after her bedtime before we even hit the first trail, and partly her fault for normally heading to bed so early.  It also became apparent that dragging your 18 month old toddler into the dark, dank woods with only ghostly images as a source of light was not a particularly good idea.  But we muddled through, enjoying it despite her protests.  And we were able to get her to sit next to a few of them, the rather intricate dragon pictured below my favorite of the bunch.

Happy Halloween!

Rain drizzled silently around him as he crouched outside the compound, weighing his options. He reached inside his DadGear Diaper Vest and pulled his smart phone out of the built-in cell pocket and studied the floor plans again.  His mission was to get in, get the package,  and get out without being noticed. This would be another dangerous adventure, and one vital to the freedom loving citizens he was out here to protect. Unfortunately it was also his night with the twins who were sitting quietly in the double stroller next to him.

“Damn last minute canasta,” he muttered, sliding his phone back into the pocket.

The secret agent identified dozens of potential entry points, but only one was wide enough to accommodate a double stroller, and it was currently guarded.  He opened the DadGear Messenger Bag that hung easily on the stroller using the built-in stroller hangers and carefully pulled one of the chloroform infused wipes from the convenient wipes access window.  Defying local laws, he left the twins unattended for just a moment, snuck up behind the guard and held the wipe over his nose until he fell unconscious.  He stuffed the guard in a nearby bush, retrieved the twins and snuck into the compound, making his way to Mendoza’s office and the package that awaited him.

He was jiggling his keys in front of one of the fussy twins when another guard turned the corner. He tried to dart behind a secret agent shaped Norfolk pine but it was too late – the guard had spotted the stylish green retro stripe on his messenger bag.  The uniformed man locked eyes with him, and then started to reach for a large alarm switch on a nearby wall.  Thinking quickly, the secret agent yanked a BPA free glass baby bottle out of one of his bottle pockets and with a quick underhanded motion whipped it at the guard.  The bottle slammed into his temple, and he crumpled to the floor.

“Cow moo you,” he said, as he walked over, retrieved the bottle, and handed it to one of the twins, who happily took it and began draining it’s contents.  He then pulled out an abnormally large nylon rope that fit surprisingly well in the spacious messenger bag interior pocket and began tying up the unconscious guard.  Grabbing a set of lockpicks from one of the smaller zippered pockets on his vest, he deftly unlocked the office door and then tossed the set to one of the twins who happily shoved them into his mouth.  He muscled the stroller through the door, and spotted the package sitting on a nearby desk.  As he silently pulled the door shut behind him, he heard the rather ominous click of a gun being cocked.

“I’ve been expecting you,” said a voice from the dark.  Mendoza emerged from the shadows, waving a pistol at him.  Both men steeled for the inevitable back and forth of quips that would generally highlight this situation – until suddenly Mendoza wrinkled his nose.

“Chloroform?  Cyanide gas?” he said, raising his gun. The secret agent looked equally as confused. Then they both looked over at the twins, both of whose pallor had darkened by several shades of red.  With a knowing glance, Mendoza holstered his gun.  “I have three evil triplets at home – I’ll help.  Really though, you shouldn’t bring kids to these things.”

The secret agent nodded and unzipped his vest and pulled two diapers from the large concealed diaper pockets on either side of the vest.  He handed one to a visibly impressed Mendoza and then reached behind his back, unzipping another hidden pocket and pulling out a changing pad.  He unfolded it and both men started changing the twins.  Mendoza looked around for wipes – the secret agent quickly unzipped the wipes access on his vest and handed him a few.

The two men finished their chores, and strapped the twins back into the stroller.  Then they reset to their original positions, the secret agent once again staring down the barrel of Mendoza’s Glock facing another seemingly inescapable situation.  Then he noticed they had left the soiled diapers on the floor and his face bent into the standard secret agent smirk.

“Could you throw those in the messenger bag, and then we can get back to this,” he said, gesturing to them.  Mendoza sighed, holstered his gun, grabbed the diapers and walked over to the stroller. Opening the flap, he dropped them inside.

“Feel free to grab a wipe while you’re in there,” the secret agent said.  Mendoza nodded – the especially pungent diapers had left a foul smell on his hands. He pulled a wipe and quickly washed his hands with it.  The secret agent made a face and then gestured to his nose, making the universal sign of “the booger.”  Mendoza, embarrassed, quickly turned and began blowing his nose with the wipe, and then suddenly collapsed, a faint look of recognition and horror in his face as he realized his mistake.

The secret agent stepped over his fallen foe, grabbed the package and dropped it into the messenger bag, removing the soiled diapers and dropping them next to Mendoza.  As he pushed the stroller out the door he thought for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders.  Not the best one-liner, but it would do.  He turned and said with classic secret agent nonchalance…

“Keep the change.”

At least that’s how I like to recount the tale.  In actuality, it played out a bit more like this.

After a third round of nagging, my wife threw a rake in my general direction and pointed at the backyard.  After about 10 minutes of chain-gang-esque manual labor, I had gathered a small group of leaves and came upon a fantastic idea –  I could use my daughter and some decent fall weather to get out of finishing the rest of the yard.  I went and found her, called for my wife to get the camera, and returned to my miniscule pile of mostly rotting leaves.  Justine stood, contemplated bathing in odorous yard detritus, and instead made a beeline for her playhouse instead.  Under the assumption that “she didn’t know what she was missing,” I coerced her back to me, picked her up and placed her into the leaf pile while my wife snapped “candids.”

Justine pulled herself up and ran as far away from this “fun fall activity” as she could.

Smart kid.