August 12, 2015

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If you’re reading this blog post it may already be too late.  I’m probably dead.  And I want everyone to know, it wasn’t natural causes nor was it an accident.  It was murder, plain and simple.  And it was my wife who committed the crime.

I’m writing this post because my wife is clever and is sure to cover her tracks.  If she smothers me with a pillow, she’ll make it look like I had a sleep apnea issue.  If she strikes me over the head with a blunt object, she’ll make it look like I tripped over the dog and went head first into the double stroller.  Why not, I’ve already done that a couple of times so it’s very plausible.  The CSI Team will be no match for her devious skill set. The only evidence I’ll have to prove it was foul play will be this post, so I’m counting on the 13 people who sporadically read this blog.

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(There are a lot of CSI Teams they could send over but I hope I get the Danson/Shue Team to dig around my case)

I’m not saying I don’t have it coming.  In fact, I’m impressed with the patience she’s shown in letting me live to this point.  I should have been a lot smarter.  After all she spends every waking, and non waking moment looking after two 11 weeks old kids. A person can only take so much, and I am constantly pushing my luck.

When I come home at the end of the day and find two sweet little angels blissfully swinging back and forth in their swing seats, I usually throw out a comment like, “It must be so nice to spend the whole day with these little nuggets of joy.”  I don’t even realize I’m giving her “motive” until I look up and see the woman who just spent countless hours calming them down to get them in that state, with her hair styled like Doc Brown in Back to The Future, with breast pump apparatus strapped to her chest painfully sucking out nourishment for the kids.

But in my defense, can I be blamed for my wife not realizing she was marrying and starting a family with an idiot?  I mean only a true idiot would look a sleep deprived, sore boobed woman with constant back pain, square in the eyes and complain that they bit down too far on their cuticle and was dealing with serious pain issues, right?

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(It seems so slight but an injury to this area can be crippling)

And only a true moron, when called upon to relieve his wife and change both the babies’ diapers two nights in a row, would utter the statement, “So my changing both babies when I get home from work is a thing now”?

Looking at a crying baby and then looking at my wife and saying, “The baby’s crying” without getting up from my seat?  Idiot.  Asking someone to get up and get you a burp cloth when they’re also feeding a baby?  Idiot.  Dumping out leftover breast milk down the drain rather than saving it?  Idiot.

If I had to bet on when I’ll be murdered, I’m guessing it will happen in the early morning hours.  It’s during the hours of of 5am to 6:30am when I’m reveling in the juiciest hours of sleep and I’m incapable of being any help at all.  If one of the kids needs to eat and it’s my turn, I’ll get up and do a haphazard 3 minute feed, put the baby back down, and when it starts crying again 5 minutes later, I’ll simply turn to my wife and groggily tell her, “Your turn.” That’s grounds for justifiable homicide right there.  I’m so addicted to sleeping during these peak hours, I’ll do it at the cost of my children’s basic food needs.  I really should be in a support group for selfish sleepers.

Meeting Of Support Group

(“You’re not a selfish sleep addict, Steve.  It’s a disease!)

It occurs to me that if I’m most likely to be murdered in my sleep I should wear something nicer to bed at night.  I don’t want my body carried out of my house wearing ripped boxer briefs and a t-shirt riddled with spit up stains.  The neighbors are going to think a hobo died in my house.  I’ll have to go and buy some sporty silk jammies tonight and maybe a smoking jacket.  That way when when my corpse comes out the front door people will at least say, “Damn, I had no idea Steve was so worldly!”

I think the perfect way to wrap up this tidy one hour mystery, will be when the detective investigating the case finds this blog post and then promptly deletes is understanding that true justice has been served.

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While I want everyone to know it was foul play, my Boys will still need their Mom.  And as I’ve mentioned before, no one who is the parent of twin babies can ever be convicted of murder.  They have a free pass.  My meeting my demise at the hands of my wife is justified and if nothing else, will serve to keep Arthur and Charles on their toes.  You tend to test your Mom’s boundaries a lot less when you know she’s capable of…murder!

Least Favorite Child Results

August 10 – Least Favorite is Arthur.  My wife has started putting the Boys in front of her iPad for some early baby educational videos, and Charles is completely buying in.  He’s got laser focus on what’s going on and I’m convinced he’ll be smart enough to get some type of college scholarship and save me a half a million dollars.  Sorry, Arthur.  The best you’ve done for me, is finding a dollar in the washing machine when I did a load of your onesies.

August 11 – Least Favorite is Charles.  They were both very well behaved little boys throughout the day and night but I’m still thinking about how much of a genius Charles is with his laser focus and am resigned to the fact that Arthur is going to have to learn a trade or resign himself to hard labor.  The thought of a grown Arthur hanging out by the Home Depot hoping for odd jobs makes my heart go out to him.

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(Arthur’s future office)

Total Days as Least Favorite Child

Arthur – 31 Days

Charles – 27 Days

Days Since Neil Patrick Harris Received My Post and Hasn’t Responded – 29

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Neil!  We’re coming up on our month anniversary!!

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