Last night I had a dream that I had four kids at same time. Quartuplets? Is that right?
Why is it you hear about triplets and quintuplets, but never the quartuplets? Or is that because it’s quadruplets? Either way, they don’t seem to get the coverage they deserve. Having been the mother of quadruplets – albeit in a dream and not in any way, shape, or form that could be considered ‘real” – let me tell you, it’s not something I would wish on an enemy.
There were two boys and two girls, and I was not doing a very good job at keeping up. Worse, I greatly favored one over the other three. In my defense, he was by far the cutest.
Possibly worst of all? I had only vague memories of even diapering them, let alone feeding time, bathing them, or showering any kind of attention necessary for proper development and/or to prevent them from growing up to write hateful memoirs about me and my sh*tty parenting skills.
Once I ‘came to’, as it were, I set up a diaper, bath, and clothing assembly line. And that pretty much took all day. Midway through this, I started wondering how the hell this happened without any kind of medical intervention and why there didn’t seem to be a father (i.e. equally guilty party and fellow baby slave) involved to give me a hand with the chaos.
What kind of chaos? Well, let me tell you: While I was out walking on the sidewalk with all four of them (happily, as dreams sometimes go, there was a random time jump such they had all aged enough that they could walk on their own. I have to presume if I’d stayed asleep they’d have outgrown diapers and maybe gone on to become concert pianists or physicists or somehow or other done me proud. Or at least not wound up in jail.) and one of the girls bolted toward the curb and into the street. I ran and grabbed her right before a speeding car got there, but obviously leaving the other three behind me to get into god knows what kind of trouble, and the apparent stress was enough to wake me up.
That stated, I feel extra bad for the John and Kate + Eight people, especially now that the headlines show that John is stepping out on Kate.
John and Kate + 8 = 10
John and Kate + 8 – John = Nine and one life-crushing child support payment.
In other news, it’s May the Fourth, which (apparently) makes it Star Wars Day in a ‘may the fourth be with you’ sense. I didn’t get it at first, but now that I do, I’m none too pleased. I hate puns. They’re always stupid. My ears get angry whenever I have to listen to them.
Nonetheless, let me offer up some suggestions as to how you might go about celebrating Star Wars Day:
- Use a Taunton (ton-ton? Tauntaun?) as a sleeping bag
- Get a Tattooine
- Freeze one of your friends in carbonite
- Howl like a Wookie
- Grovel like Jar Jar Binks
- Talk all obscure like Yoda
(Any of the above three are guaranteed to massively annoy everyone in a ten-foot radius)
- Make your own Death Star plans
- Put on a hoodie and pretend to be the Emporer
- Worry like C3PO
- Become a senator
- Find a trash compactor, get in, and hope for the best