The kid with the hearing aids

First things first, I lied.

Now that I got that out of the way, I have felt like I want to write more…again. Last time I felt that way I managed one extra post after the original post admitting I should write more.

Sometimes I sit and open the laptop and go to the blog and intend on typing. Then I get lost in any number of things including, but not limited to, wrestling my dog, watching TV, drinking beer, playing video games, and on and on.

This particular time I opened up the laptop because I could hear my son Eric upstairs in his room. Eric was born profoundly hard of hearing. He has hearing aids. He doesn’t speak as well as his twin sister Nora. He lives his life at 3 and a half years old at 100 mph. From the moment he wakes up he is ready for the day.

It’s unbelievable.

Going back to when we found out, it was hard to deal with. I can’t speak to the level at which my wife felt it, but it hit me like a ton of bricks.

When the audiologist sat us down and laid everything out (hearing aids ASAP and for the rest of his life barring a breakthrough in medicine or technology) I held it together while in the office. Once my wife and I got to the car, I broke down.

All I could think about was how he was going to be behind everyone else and how much harder life was going to be for him. And the kids? I know it’s not their fault, but kids are assholes. They can be unrelentingly cruel. They were to me and I didn’t have anything as glaring as hearing aids or delayed speech. Kids are going to make fun of him.

It upset me. It still does, though not to the extent it did then. Mostly because it was so raw and new, and somewhat because I see him as he is now. He’s a spitfire, a raging inferno of energy and love and kindness.

Now I try not to think about how the assholes are going to try and break him, to break his spirit, to keep him from trying and being the kind, loving kid he is now.

I try to be ‘a man’ about it and act like it doesn’t bother me, but it does. Sometimes it eats at me when I see him playing with his friends. Kids now are asking “what is that in his ears?” with a quizzical face. It’s okay. There is no malice in it, but there will be.

There will be.



Just call me ‘step dad’

familyNot really. It’s just a joke. I am actually their biological father.

The issue is, none of them look like me. Sometimes I get a kind, “Oh I saw this one picture of *enter one of their names here* and with the sun hitting their face and their face all scrunched up they look just like you!”

Thanks, but you’re a liar. A big…fat…liar.

It’s okay.

I admit, when my first born was a baby until the time he was about three it was a definite sore spot to know your child doesn’t resemble you.

Maybe it’s a father thing. Maybe it’s just me (probably).

Going to my in-laws house when he was young was a trip. Nothing like hearing from every one of my wife’s family and their friends, “OH MY GOD HE LOOKS JUST LIKE TOM!”

Tom is my wife’s father. Always been good to me, but I just didn’t want to keep hearing how much my son didn’t look like me. It started out as an annoyance and ended up in me just leaving the room whenever it came up.

It wasn’t their fault and I wasn’t mad at any of them for thinking it, it was the truth.

Don’t worry, I am over it.

I don’t know why it bothered me so much. It just…did.

Was it wrong of me to feel that way? I don’t know, probably yes. It was just a selfish feeling of wanting my kid (now kids) to look like me.

Maybe I just remember growing up and hearing how much I looked like my father and how I felt pride in that. I did look like him. So does my brother. A lot of people to this day think my brother and I are twins (we’re not, I’m fifteen months older thank you very much).

I’ve been stopped on the street by someone that hadn’t seen my father since they were just out of high school and he asked me, “Do you know someone named Kelly King?”

“Yeah, he’s my father.”

“No shit, you look just like him!”

Really I’m just being dramatic. The little monsters are only 7 and (almost) 3. There’s so much more growing and changing for them to go through.

Maybe they will all end up looking like me, but I’ll just settle for one!

I should write more

I keep putting off writing.

I keep giving reason’s why, excuses really. I had a teacher in high school that when presented with a poor excuse from a student he would say, “You have a hundred excuses, but not one good reason.”

Therein lies my truth. I want to play video games, or watch a tv show, or the kids or the wife or….

One hundred good excuses, not one good reason.

So here I am writing a blog post about why I have been whining about not being able to write a blog post.

Or something like that.

I have wanted to write about things in my life that have passed, like my dog Prince having cancer and dying, or the infertility that is now my twins, or my love of Fudge Rounds (never mind, I did this one, kinda), or how my wife just bought a new lamp for the living room! No really, it’s great.

The reason is writing about what I would like to write about it mentally draining. I think so intensely while I am typing about what I want to say that by the time I am finished I legitimately feel fatigued.

But writing is cathartic. It is for me. So to the four or five people that will read this, I will be putting forth an effort to fight the fatigue and write more. I have missed it.

So I turned 35

No really. I did.

Last week.

I work with a bunch of (mostly) older, near retirement people who asked my age, “I’m 35…”

To this I would get the standard, “Oh you’re just a baby!” or “I wish I was 35!”

No. No I am not. I have three kids, a wife, in my second house and I have a partially torn rotator cuff (just thought I’d mention it).

I mean I understand their point of view, they are almost all in their 50’s and so 35 is, for a lot of them, 20 years ago.

My response to their standard comment was, “You didn’t want to be 35 when you were 35.” It’s all about perspective.

This is the first year that I thought about my age and went, “well…fuck…”

I don’t feel particularly old, but something just seems bigger about being 35. When I was 25 someone that was 35 was, well, old. I knew that they weren’t, not really. It’s just that I am in the middle of my middle 30’s. I can remember my father yelling at me to not swing under the railing going out our back door when we lived in Schenectady. That was twenty years ago.

It’s going to get worse, I know.

As an example – my parents came over to my house to sing “happy birthday” and have some cake (the real reason they came, don’t let them fool you…) and I had this exchange with my father;

Father: “Wait, so how old are you again?”

Me (incredulous): “35…”

Father (puts hand on his face): “Holy shit…you’re getting up there.”

I’m gonna go finish off several adult beverages now. Bye.

Adulting with kids

Almost every adult you know is adulting.


Not all, but most. If it’s not most you need to find a way around some new people.

Adulting, in general, isn’t hard. It’s really not. Adulting just means your decisions carry more weight.

Like, when you were ten years old the question may have been, “Should I, or should I not, eat this entire box of Fudge Rounds?”

Now, as an adult, you know the answer to that question (clearly yes, you eat ALL the Fudge Rounds because they are insanely fucking delicious), in addition to asking new, harder, questions like, “Should I spend my last five bucks to buy this box of Fudge Rounds? Or use these last few dollars to get gas since I’m on E?”

You already know the answer.

Fudge Rounds.

Now, adulting with kids? That’s the hard one.

When you enter this phase of adulting the gravity of your decisions is critical.

For instance, “Should I give some of these Fudge Rounds to my children? It will make them happy and they enjoy them as much as I do, or…do I hide them and gradually eat them one at a time in a separate room or after they have all gone to sleep?”

I consider myself a good father.

That being said, option two all day.

I mean, they’re FUDGE ROUNDS. Come on.

I shake my head every day

Every day I shake my head.

I shake my head in disbelief. Three kids? Uh..what?

I remember when my wife was pregnant with our first, Will. It was a sobering experience to say the least. You go from really just doing whatever you want, in that you aren’t responsible for another human person. Just that thought was weird. I could barely pay a bill on time, now I had this whole other person that I had to take care of.

Not that I didn’t want it, I did, but it was…unexpected. When I was informed by my wife I said she was lying. I laughed and went back to playing a video game. She them politely informed me that, no, she was not lying and was very upset she wouldn’t be able to partake in the booze cruise for my brother’s birthday.

Times have changed. After years of trying and failing to have another, singular, child we finally got what we worked so hard for. Except it was, also, unexpected. There is always a (very, very) small chance of multiples with IVF, but we never imagined that would be us. Obviously we would accept two (or more) if such a thing happened…beggars can’t be choosers.

Thank the good Lord we felt that way because on the first ultrasound, of what we have decided would be our last try for a while (as we were both mentally drained from the process and loss), the tech nonchalantly says, “…and you do know there’s two in there, right?”

No. No we did not.

And now here we are. I’m a father of three.

I can’t help but to think sometimes about how imperfect I am and now I’m tasked with helping three other tiny humans with becoming all that they can. It’s exciting, unbelievable and frightening. It makes me shake my head. I’m literally shaking my head right now. Makes it hard to type.

Now this is what I’m stuck with –

Three of them…Jesus…


An eerie silence

Every morning I wait for my alarm to go off, but I don’t actually need an alarm.

I have three alarms that go off, consistently, before the official alarm.

Those alarms are Will, Nora, and Eric.

I can hear Will usually as soon as he opens the door to his bedroom. He’ll mosey on over to our room, snapping his fingers (it’s his new trick) as he walks in. He asks, “Is it morning time?”

Usually, though, before he even makes it up and out of his bed I’ve already gotten up two or three times to put a binky back in one or the other’s mouth. Sometimes both.

Most of the time I grumble as I roll out of bed, little crusty’s caked on my eyes, a bit of drool down the side of my chin. I do my duty, but sweet Lord it leaves me tired.

My kids are all out-of-town at the in-laws for a week.

“A whole week without kids?!”, you say? “WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?!”, you say?

Sleep. Lots of sleep.

I’m caught though between being a bit relived to get a bit of extra sleep and the, albeit it ever short-lived, feeling of not having to really do anything and missing the hell out of them.

How is it that you can miss something that makes you feel so tired and out of sorts?

I miss being woken up at the ass crack of dawn by my son finger snapping himself into our room. I miss the smiles I get from the twins when I walk into their room to get their binky or pull a baby blanket up.

The only truly good part about my kids not being home has been the alone time I’ve had with my wife (get your mind out of the gutter…). Being able to sit and watch a TV show without getting up every few minutes (an exaggeration) or to just pick up and go to the ice cream spot for a sundae or to go to the gym together has been incredible. We haven’t been able to do these things so simply in a long time.

It feels good.

All the same though? I miss my damn kids.

All the mumbling under my breath, all the things I let bore their way into my head, the lack of sleep (which isn’t terrible honestly, just an extra hour would be fucking outstanding), the toys everywhere (ever stepped on a Lego? HAVE YOU?!)…I gladly accept it all.

I actually talked a lot of shit about how great it was to have no children for a week. Turns out I was all talk. Just flapping my stupid lips. I miss my kids. I have since about the moment we got home after dropping them off and we walked into the house and realized how…quiet it was.

Too quiet.

So I’ll be happy my kids are home so I can go back to mumbling under my breath, taking a poop that lasts about fifteen minutes longer than it should, and feeling like all I want is just one more damn hour of sleep.