Tired Dad of Five

Hello, I’m a tired dad of five.

Let it be known, as I write this story, I have one of my 12-week-old twins sleeping on my chest. Which at this point in my life, seems like icing on the cake.

*Allow me to vamp for a second.

I’m 30, yes I said 30. Most people who see a photo of me assume I am 17, maybe 19 if I haven’t shaved in a few weeks. A friend of mine claims he has a baby face... but he doesn’t get carded anymore. I could have all five of my kids with me screaming “DAAAAAAAD” in my face and I’ll still be asked to show my ID.

Why do I mention this? Well that’s easy. I’m 30 and have five kids. Maybe that fact has eluded you in reading to this point, so allow that to sink in for a second. 30, five kids. Five human children, only 30 years old.

*History

A few years ago, 11.5 to be precise, I got married to the most beautiful young woman this world has ever seen. We were high school sweethearts, and although my GPA was a mere 2.5, I was smart enough to lock that shit down. Sure I was 18, she was 20, but when you know you know, you know?

Three years later I’m being woken up with a semi-wet stick being thrown on my chest and a less than enthusiastic wife telling me to read it. “Oh shit,” I say as I start to figure this out in my dazed state (we were pregnant).

It wasn’t part of our plan, but our plan was jacked up anyway. That little lady has turned out to be one of the best things that has ever happened to us.

It’s funny, I can remember how many months elapsed between that 4AM wake-up call and the next wet stick experience (19 months if you are curious), but as I sit here, for the life of me, I cannot tell you any particular detail from last week.

For those keeping track at this point in the story, we are now up to two. Baby girl two was born just 21 months after her sister. We were not trying, again. I think a theme is developing.

*Tragedy

The summer after our ball of energy was born we found out we were expecting, again... we still haven’t quite figured out how this happens, if anyone could fill me in on the details that would be great.

July 3rd, 2014. My wife and I miscarried; this was our first. Numbers two and three would come in 2017 and 2018.

There are no words to describe this experience. If you have been through it, then you know it sucks. People try to give comfort; it fails.

Side note: if you have been through this type of experience, I would love to hear your story. To tell mine in this sitting would make for a novel, so I will leave it here, for now.

December 15, 2015, our first boy! As soon as we found out it was a boy, we started using the hashtag BabyDienerHasAWiener. Which is really funny when you think about it.

So at this point in my life, I was 27 and had three kids. CRAZY.

Fast forward to last July. My wife and I had recently made the decision that we were going to wait another year before we had the conversation of more kiddos or not.

What was interesting about that is the fact that unbeknownst to us, we were already pregnant. Seriously, what the hell is with this?

At nine weeks we went in for an ultrasound.

*Shock

After having two miscarriages in a row, we went in as soon as we could to see the baby and make sure all was well. We weren’t planning on having more yet, but holy shit were we excited!

Having been to a baker’s dozen worth of ultrasounds in our time, we had a fairly strong grasp on what we were looking at as the tech smooshed the paddle around my wife’s belly. There it was. A beautiful bean with a fluttery thing in the middle, our baby. We breathed a short-lived sigh of relief as the tech continued with her exam. There it was again, the bean, the heartbeat. Something was different though... “Why are there two beans with fluttery things in the middle on that screen!?!”

As has been typical in our marriage thus far, my wife’s reaction was crying (she is the practical one in the relationship). This means we need two of everything: two car seats, two cribs, twice as much diaper; this means we will never sleep again; how are we going to survive with five kids; we might need a new car... you can hear her thoughts roaring on.

My response was much more, well, simple. I laughed. Twins. Oh man, twins.

*Normal is no longer a word

We are now 12 weeks into the twin experience and the term “zone defense” has taken on a whole new meaning to us. We now have more kids than hands. To illustrate, my three-year-old son came up to me with food all over his face. He was holding a napkin and asking for help, poor guy. I however, had both babies in my arms.

Dilemma.

He is almost in tears.

My hands are full.

In almost a panic, I lean back in the rocking chair, grab the napkin with my toes and wipe his face. It wasn’t pretty, but hey, he was happy.

What is normal? To my seven-year-old, normal is dad coming out of the bedroom at seven thirty in the morning looking like a loon and handing her a baby, a bottle, and a diaper.

She changed, fed, and put that baby back to sleep, by the way. Dad still looks like a loon.

Normal, eww, I hate that word.

*Blessed

I am sore from sleeping on a rocking chair the majority of nights, my brain is fried from working two jobs and being home for most meals of the day; my wife has endured difficult pregnancies, suffers from postpartum depression, has pushed five kids out of her body; we are heartbroken from losing three babies, there is no end in sight from cleaning up the same toys three times a day, having a constant pile of laundry that needs cleaning and/or folding; we are exhausted from keeping all these little humans alive, and all this is happening in our two-bedroom, 1200 sq. ft. basement apartment.

BUT, in spite of all of this, I could not be more in love and thankful for each of those little bastards. So, I will continue to be sore, fried, enduring, grieving, cleaning, washing, and exhausted.

In fact I will not just survive. We are going to thrive. We are going to live each moment thankful for all five of these children we are blessed to call ours.