A confession

I haven't posted much about poker here lately. Mostly that's because I don't have much to add to the field that hasn't already been written. I save my best hands for Pokerworks, I'm still learning Omaha and with the World Series of Poker going on, it's a little insignificant for me to write about $50 NLHE.

But I do need to write what I'm about to say. It's time.

Hi, my name is Pokerpeaker. And I'm a losing player for 2009.

I'm on an extended, painful and frustrating losing streak, the first one of my four-year career in poker. I've had three winning months, but the take was small, and the losses in the bad months, like this one, have been much larger.

I'm hardly in danger of losing my bankroll, but it's taken a significant dent.

What's worse - or maybe better, depending on how you look at it - is it's almost killed my love of poker. I have no desire to play it right now. Losing, I suppose, will do that to you. 

I feel like a big wuss about that. I've approached many other challenges in life with fortitude and determination, but in this case, taking a pretty significant break seems like the right thing to do, and I can't muster up the urge to fight. I've been fighting. It's not working.

I'll spare many bad beats before this post turns really whiny, but I will tell you a story about last Friday, and you might see why my passion for the game has dwindled. It's a bit of a tale so be patient.

All right, we all know how I play, and that's tight. Really tight, in fact. In the past, it's always won me money, as so many others just could not resist making stupid plays against me, plays that I easily picked off or called down. 

Poker's tougher now, as so many know how to play NLHE with at least some competency, and whether that's because the fish aren't online any longer or the game's just been too popular for too long I'm not sure. Live games are looser but aren't what they once were either. Maybe this economy's killing the action. 

Whatever it is, I realized this year I needed to change things up a bit. Tight was not always right any longer. And as I did that, I began to feel like a golf pro who suddenly changes his swing and can't find his old groove.

Playing tight was not an incredibly effective style, but it WAS a style. It was a game plan. And switching that up meant I had no game plan any longer. I would play tight, then suddenly make a stupid move that cost me half my chips.

I was, in a sense, one of the donks.

So Friday I decided to take what I've learned about playing aggressively and use it but only very sparingly. For the most part, I would play like I always have and see if it's effective at all anymore.

And you know what, it was. For one night, it was incredibly effective. I got all-in at least seven times as a huge favorite, at least 70/30. Three times I had my opponent down to a two-outer - twice it was my Aces versus my opponent's Kings.

And I dropped six buy-ins.

That's an all-time record.

I didn't win one of those hands. 

In fact, the only pot of any significance I actually won was when I sucked out against a short stack with my Queens versus his Kings. I chuckled darkly at his chat box rant.

So I played well, with my old style, and lost a shit ton of money.

That will dampen your enthusiasm for the game.

So when I could think again, that night I came up with a three-part game plan.

I withdrew a huge chunk of my money off online. That leaves me with a small amount to play cash games with at my comfort zone, .25/.50 NL. That will force me to play carefully, within my game, and if I just can't win anymore, then it's gone and that's it.

I broke out my Nintendo 64. Yep. That's right. I'm going Old School baby. It still works beautifully, and it's been a trip to play games I hadn't touched in eight years. My life was just a tad different back then. Right now I'm tackling "Perfect Dark." Remember that one? Sure you do. I gotta tell you, it's still hard.

Finally, I will continue to play The Mookie, but I may not join many other games right now. I took a break from The Mookie for the BBT and also dropped Mondays and Tuesdays, and to be honest I enjoyed the break. My Netflix queue is now whittled. I've also written more and read a few books. Poker's no longer a major chunk of my life. It's merely a pastime.

More and more, I'm thinking that's where it belongs.

Deep breath before you tackle the next hill

I'm starting to really feel that we're over the hump and that the first few, hellish years of parenting are melting away.

I will miss the cooing, the discovery of all that's new to them (keychains, the moon, toilet paper) and the overall cuteness, but I call it hell because I haven't heard any other parent of twins say it any differently. That first year is, indeed, fun, rewarding and enjoyable. It's also hell.

Jayden's got a lot of milestones this summer even though it's a month before his 4th birthday. Today we took him to get a look at his pre-school. He should be writing his name by this fall, his teacher reassured us.

Yesterday I coached my first practice of his very first T-ball team. There's definitely a blog post in there, but honestly it wasn't as comical as I thought it would be. Most of the kids could hit the ball off the tee. Many didn't really know what to do after they smacked the ball, of course, despite me running the bases with them before hitting practice. Almost all, in fact, stood there and admired their hit, something they probably picked up by watching baseball on TV. I explained to them that they were asking for a brushback the next time they were up, but they didn't seem to listen.

A few could even pick it up and throw to first.

And, most importantly, they all listened to me and were good to each other. The kids were great too.

Jayden, though, is the youngest - he barely hit the cutoff date - and while his body can certainly do all the things I'm asking him to do, his active little brain isn't quite grasping it. He liked to run back to me every time someone hit the ball rather than run to second or third. 

We'll get there.

The girls are an even bigger breakthrough, as they can talk quite well. That's reduced the tantrums by tenfold, as they're no longer so frustrated that diving on the ground and screaming loud enough to disrupt a robin's flight pattern seems like the best option. 

"Hi, Daddy," they say when I walk in the house, and they know most of the important words, such as "juice," "cracker," "I want some," "milk" and, perhaps most importantly, "I pooped."

Toilet training and pacifier rehabilitation will start before July, leaving us the (albeit small) chance that they will be out of diapers by the end of the summer. The day they are officially out of diapers, I go on a 24-hour bender of poker, queso and beer.

It's more than just the milestones. They are people now. They tell us what they want - I want to swing is something I hear every afternoon - rather than cry and force us to guess. They're picking the things they like. Dora The Explorer is popular with the girls (something, by the way, I'm all for, given that she hikes, spends her days outside and knows how to use a map) and Jayden continues to support the Pixar franchise practically by himself. They even pick their own outfits now, meaning they're choosing how they present themselves to the world (and Andie, every day, wakes up and says "Dress, dress," meaning she's more of a girly girl than I originally thought). It won't be long before they start to form their own identities rather than ride the ones we've selected for them.

The days can continue to be long, challenging and, at times, utterly exhausting. But not every day.

I've run three races this year so far. Two of them were hilly courses, with steep, sapping climbs. Usually, when I'd reach the top, I'd be out of breath, not knowing if I could go on.

I felt that way many times these last four years (especially during the last two).

But I always managed to catch my breath, and find my strength to go on, on the way down.

From Start to Finish

My running career - the serious one, anyway - started at the Bolder/Boulder.

The first time, Jayden wasn't born yet, and the twins were a dark joke, an unimaginable situation.

The Bolder/Boulder is one of the largest 10Ks in the country, if not the biggest. I can't imagine one being much bigger. There are more than 50,000 runners, as there were this year.

I was one of them for the fifth time today.

In many ways, the race has gotten easier, even as I've managed to knock almost four minutes off my time since I began running it seriously four years ago. This year was by far my best race. I ran 47:37, a PR on the course by a minute over last year. Not only that, but I rarely really suffered for the first time. I finished 3,000th or so out of the 50,000.

I've never felt good on the course. It's a tough, hilly, at times nasty course, with three miles uphill, and it's hard to say what's harder, the steady climbs or the steep, short humps. And the wave I qualified for started at 7:05 a.m., so we'd have to blow out of Greeley by 5 a.m, making it almost impossible to get a good night's sleep.

Yet this year my breathing was controlled and I was relaxed. These races are hard for me. Most of my life I've been an endurance athlete, someone who could go all day on the peaks for several days in a row. I'm still adjusting to the intensity of races, the edgy breathing, the occasional pains in my side, the ever-present slight sick feeling in my gut, the sweat in my eyes. Yet I am adjusting, and this year's race proves it. I have to say, I practically enjoyed it. I definitely see room for improvement - I should have pushed it much harder the last two miles - but I'm pleased with my performance.

If only I could say the same thing for my kids.

Days like today continue to challenge me as a parent, and sometimes I honestly wonder if these races are a good thing for me. Sometimes I honestly wonder why I feel the need to constantly push myself, why I need that ego boost that comes from the feeling of crossing the line after you've given it everything you had. Because it takes a lot out of me to do that, and weariness gnawed at me all day, and when I am that tired, my patience isn't what it needs to be for three young, incredibly active children.

My kids are intelligent and need a lot of attention and are, it seems to me, abnormally active. They push us all the time. Sometimes it's too much, as Jayden has started hitting his sisters, and us. But I prefer this in my children. I can already tell they won't be passive personalities. I want my kids to be a lot of things, but passive isn't one of them. It's no way to live your life.

Still, when I don't have the patience for it, I'm not nearly as good a father as I should be. I try to spend time with them, but I also zone out for scraps of energy or do jobs around the house, like mow the lawn, clean out the toy box or get them juice and fix dinner. All those chores take energy, too, but not patience, and it's my patience that's always in short supply. After a race the tank is nearly always empty.

Sure enough, I yelled at Jayden around 7:15 p.m., when it was gone and I could see the end. The end of a race is always the hardest because at that point, it's impossible for me not to wish it was over. It's a great feeling to be done with a race, but it's an awful feeling five minutes before. I fell into that trap today despite the good race.

Bedtime is the same way for me. I yelled a little too long and a little too loud after he hit his sister yet again.

He's 3, not 4 yet, though he's close, and I wish I could sit him down and explain how angry it makes me. I tried. I'm not sure it sunk in. I doubt it, actually. We left on good terms, but I don't like him looking at me afraid and sad.

There was a lot of joy today too. I hadn't seen the kids in a couple days, and the girls and Jayden both wanted my attention as soon as I got home. I was exhausted, but that felt good. Honestly my biggest frustration is they don't want it enough. I lay on the couch after helping Kate get them lunch, and Andie left the table, came over and started jumping on my belly. I'm pretty sure that's not how to recover from a tough 10K. But it was really fun. Allie did the same a few moments later.

I need to continue to remind myself that there is joy in my kids, just like there is joy in a race. The hard moments are hard, but the feeling you get from it when you cross the finish line and go to bed that night make it all worth it.

Defenders of the Faith

I was sitting at a traffic light blasting "Living on a Prayer," singing a bit, playing guitar on my steering wheel, oblivious to 92 degrees outside, when I looked to my left.

A dude in his 20, his back window thumping bass, gave me a sardonic grin, shook his head and hit the gas.

I gave him the devil horns.

I find myself in these situations more than I'd like these days. Lately, I find myself defending 80s metal.

Fans of A Flock of Seagulls, Asia or the Alan Parsons Project - if they're still out there - probably go through the same thing. But let's be honest. Most of that music sucked, and most everyone realizes it today. 

But the strange thing is 80s metal, especially hair metal, in some ways is more popular than ever. It's in regular rotation on classic rock stations, including those JACK-FM stations that also play the occasional song from Bread. This makes me feel incredibly old, but it's also gratifying and ironic at the same time, given that popular radio at the time wouldn't touch even the more popular groups like Motley Crue. You'd hear Def Leppard, Bon Jovi and "The Final Countdown," but that's about it.

Still, I find myself having to defend the wonders of "Living on a Prayer" to the younger generation, or explain that, yes, Twisted Sister looked pretty stupid, but Dee Snider not only wrote some pretty catchy songs, he could sing, too. 

Even a couple friends of mine who prefer today's demon growlers - music I listen to and enjoy as well - sneer at all 80s metal, save for Metallica and maybe Iron Maiden.

I realize that a lot of 80s metal, most of it hair metal, screams to be parodied. Just look at the pants, the hair and the lyrics. And the sappy ballads. Yeah, those sucked. And, yeah, some of bands sucked as well. Maybe more than some. For every Ratt, Crue and Cinderella, there was a Britney Fox, Bang Tango and Danger Danger. 

But a band like Steel Panther makes fun of hair metal and gets it so right because the guys appreciate the music. That's why I loved their show. They played and sang the songs so well - nailed them, actually - that only a fool would say they were ripping it. True parody, the best kind, comes from a love of the source.

I wouldn't want to bring it back, I don't think. I mean, I did buy Motley Crue's new album this year, and it was great, really great, but I can't see me buying anyone else's. I think Twisted Sister's new one, if there was a new one, would stay on the shelf. 

But that music has its place, just like Men at Work, or many of those 80s bands that were actually pretty good but would probably be horrible today. It has its time. And it influenced more bands than you might think. The music's better than many think.

Though I'm worried. The other day I was playing Whitesnake in the car, and Andie looked at me and said, "ewww."

She also does that when she has a poopy diaper. I'm pretty sure that's what it was. 

 

Two years and counting

Despite the cliche, life doesn't always change in an instant. We heard the news 21 weeks into Kate's second pregnancy. We were expecting a baby much like the last one. We expected diapers. Late night feedings. Occasional bursts of screaming.

We just didn't expect twice the amount.

Life did not change the moment we heard the news. It took time. We redid the nursery - Jayden got booted to the smaller room, something I'm sure we'll hear about when he's 14. We redid our lives - I became more of a runner and less of a mountain climber. We redid our expectations. We knew it

 would be hard. We didn't know how hard, but we tried, anyway.

Life changed every day, before, during and after they were born.

Two down and a lifetime of changes to go.

It's been a crazy, hectic, trying, sometimes impossibly difficult but unique, special and kinda wonderful two years.

Happy Birthday Andie and Allie. I love you:

Why am I getting two more cards?

I'm about two-thirds of the way through "Pot-Limit Omaha" by Jeff Hwang. I'm probably also two-thirds of the way through my Omaha experiment.

Both, I think, are going well.

The experiment is playing Omaha almost exclusively for a few months. I know Hold 'Em. You know Hold 'Em. Everyone knows Hold 'Em.

I think I overheard the twins the other day discussing the merits of raising with a small pocket pair in EP.

But not many people know Omaha. I mean, they think they do. But they don't. I'm trying to take advantage of that before they learn.

I see Omaha as Hold 'Em, circa 2004. At the limits I'm playing - $25 if you care - all you have to do is play tight and make lots of "huge" laydowns (which aren't all that huge really) and push with serious draws and you're good.

It reminds me of the old days: Play smart and wait for the mistakes. Football teams win titles playing that way. 

But that doesn't appear to be enough now. It's enough if you don't mind breaking even or making $1.50 a month. But the fish have mostly disappeared, and I'm not sure Barney Frank getting his sensible law approved (gay legislators rock) will bring them back. It seems to me that Hold 'Em's time has passed. I won't give up on it, but I also can't devote the time needed to the game to get a whole lot better than solid, and solid's marginally profitable these days.

Omaha? Well, that's different. Lots of money to be made there if you can stand swings, suckouts and folding flopped straights. And so far I'm right. I obviously need to improve at the game - a lot, actually - but so far solid's working well in Omaha.

I also noticed a nice side effect. When I played Hold 'Em the other day, I was much more aggressive. No, really. Because I do bluff in Omaha - checking is weak and needs to be attacked - and if I can bluff in Omaha, bluffing in Hold 'Em is easy, sort of like running a 5K after completing a half marathon a month ago.

The best thing I like about Hwang's book so far, other than giving me clear, easy-to-follow rules that will help me play a solid, tight game, is it's teaching me how to be aggressive in Omaha. Omaha can be a passive game - it's a fine play to call with a flopped straight with four players left to act behind you on a board with flush potential, for instance - and it's easy to slip into just calling when you have it and checking when you don't rather than taking advantage of position.

Position is just as important in Omaha as in Hold 'Em.

I have a lot to learn, but poker's a lot of fun again, and the best part is I'm learning something new. That's something I never take for granted.

Nothing surprises any longer

I'm really having a hard time understanding why there's so much outrage over Manny Ramirez getting nailed for steroids. 

I mean, really, steroids just don't get me outraged any longer. Or even angry. Or, to be honest, even into a minor tiff.

Because to be any of those things, I think, you have to be at least a little surprised. And I'm well past surprise. I don't think I'll be surprised at the news of any professional athlete taking a banned substance.

Mostly what I do these days is shake my head. If it's another baseball player, I shake my head and wonder if there will be anyone left to vote into the Hall of Fame, and I also wonder how much credibility that place is going to have in 20 years when none of the game's greatest players of this era will be there except for Ken Griffey Jr.

Honestly there's only two athletes that would really let me down if they ever tested positive for a banned substance, and that's Michael Phelps and Lance Armstrong. And I guess Phelps, technically, already's been caught for taking a banned substance, but I'm OK with that substance because he won't have to give his gold medals back. 

Maybe I'm merely hoping that Lance is clean because he's tested clean and I admire him so much.

As we've already seen, however, none of that is enough.

Three annoying things this week

Lord, since I was born a ramblin' man, I had three annoying things happen to me in the last couple of days that I'd like to post about here. Consider it a walkabout.

1. So I'm driving down a tight street with cars parked on both sides in downtown Greeley. Yes, Greeley is large enough to have a downtown. It's not New York but it's still a downtown. Anyway, I had just pulled out of a parking space and was on my way when a lawyer pulled out of his space right dead in front of me, causing me to slam on the brakes.

I know he's a lawyer cause the courthouse is right there. And he has a Porsche.

He then proceeded to continue to pull out, only, as you've guessed by now, he had zero room to do that. So he inched out and then, rather than pulling back in his spot and waiting for me to pass, inched out again and came within an atom's space of tapping my front fender.

OK. Look, I realize he has a Porsche. I know it's a much, much cooler car than my CRV. I love my CRV as it rides like butter over rough mountain roads, but yeah, I'd probably choose a Porsche too. And if we were pulling out at the same time, I'd defer to him just because of the pure awesomeness of the car, in the same way that I'd defer to a guy who could bench twice as much as me if we were walking down a street in opposite directions.

I get the natural order of things. I really do. 

But we weren't pulling out the same time. I was on my way and he expected me to not only slam on my brakes but then BACK UP so he could pull his precious princess out of the spot. 

Nope. I was havin' none of it. I stayed right there and blared my horn. When he gave me a warning glance out his back seat, I gave one right back. He finally threw up his hands and drove into the spot and let me pass. If he decides to sue me later, I'll just write a story about it and make him look like an asshat.

2. I got a haircut today. Sure, I had a disturbing number of gray hairs that peppered my cover cloth, but that's not what was annoying. No, my scalp's been a tad itchy today after the cut, and every time I scratch it, about 10,375 little hairs coat my computer and desk. 

Now, I understand there are always a few hairs after a cut, but where do all these hairs come from? Seriously, there's like a billion now, and a few, inevitably, are now stuck in my keyboard, so it looks like a black cat sat on it for three days.

3. Kate had a rough day yesterday at work, so I suggested we go out to eat to "relax." This is, of course, almost impossible with twins not quite 2 and a toddler not quite 4, but it is what it is. Anyway, we went to Red Robin. Every parent usually eats at Red Robin about 457 times a year. I'm not a huge fan but we do go there a lot because you get a balloon when you walk in, and when you're almost 2 and 4, you think that's pretty fucking cool.

So the girls sat in their high chairs for about .0078 seconds before deciding that they wanted out. So they were rather vocal about their decision that they no longer wanted to sit in the chair. So we took them out. Kate had one, I had the other. This worked for most of the night, even if it was like trying to eat with a small badger on your lap. They occasionally shrieked but for the most part were OK.

Only when I looked over at a table with older folks in it, the grandfather was staring at me and continually shaking his head. He did this for a good 10 minutes. I didn't tell Kate about it because she gets fired up about stuff like that and I wanted her to just forget her bad day.

But. Really? I mean, seriously? Let's review.

1. We are at a RED ROBIN. This is not a place with candles, linen tablecloths and a wine list. They bring you bottomless fries with ranch sauce to start (which rocks, by the way). You get a fucking balloon when you walk in. 

If you can't handle kids at a restaurant, you probably shouldn't go to a place that gives you a balloon when you walk in.

2. The kids were a little noisy but nothing too bad. I understand that I'm used to screams with decibel levels that exceed jet engines, but we are careful about our kids causing too much of a ruckuss, which is also why I was eating with one of the squirmy ones on my lap.

3. It was 5 p.m. or prime dinner time for young children. Go at 7:30 p.m.

I let him stare, however, until we left. I didn't really care. I'd fought my battle for the day.

Colorado Half Marathon

Saturday morning, the day before the Colorado Half, I was a cranky shit.

I whined about my kids sapping so much energy from us over something small like breakfast and told Jayden that "we didn't need that behavior from him" because he's, you know, he's almost a whopping 4 and therefore mature enough to act like a little gentleman 24 hours a day. Kate looked at me after all this and said, "You're cranky."

The real reason, of course, was I felt like crap, the weather was crap and I was wondering if my leg was going to hurt like crap, as it did all last week. And I had a half marathon to run the next day.

What else could go wrong, I thought to myself. 

Now, I realize I posted about a half marathon a couple weeks ago, and it was a great time, but there are races, and there are "A" races, and the Colorado Half was an A race. I ran well in the Horsetooth Half, but I held back a bit just for this race. I had, in a sense, been training for this since November.

So of course I had an injury that forced me to take the whole week off, the weather looked rainy and cold for the sixth weekend in a row (not kidding) and Thursday my nose started to run, thanks to the petri dishes that reside in my abode. 

One thing I've learned to accept after the birth of the twins is that I can't always be in control of my life. It was a tough lesson, but I have accepted it for the most part. Still, I was angry, I admit, that six months of hard training could almost be ruined because of some stupid weather, a stupid cold and a stupid calf strain. I mean, I ran through blizzards occasionally. Doesn't that count for some kind of karma?

Apparently it does.

When I started driving to the race, about 35 minutes away, I was shocked to see broken clouds and then black sky and finally starts. It reminded me of a time I drove eight hours to climb a 14er and wound up sleeping in my car instead of camping the night before because a gnarly thunderstorm that was so fierce it rattled my windows went on for HOURS. By the time I finally fell asleep, at 10:30 p.m., the storm was still pounding away, and I figured the eight-hour drive was a waste of time. I woke up at 3:45 a.m. to pee, and as I got out of the car, the sky was full of a billion stars, and the moon shone silver light across the landscape. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

So I looked up at the sky Sunday morning, and in a moment of pure giddiness, shouted, "YES!" I could have ran in the rain, sure, but folks, half marathons are hard enough, at least for me, and I don't need to battle the elements just to prove something.

Also, when I woke up, it's almost as if my body and the cold worked out a deal. The body would continue to let it ravage me, but only if it took a couple hours off that morning. I felt much, much better than I should have, in other words.

Finally, the calf injury, which sounds insignificant but was so painful right after the Horsetooth Half Marathon that I could barely walk, was gone, and I felt really great. Not only was the calf fine, but all those aches and pains you gather over a half year of training were gone too. Note to self: Taking a week completely off before a hard race is probably a good idea.

When the race started, down the Poudre Canyon, I started banging it, determined to take advantage of the first six miles downhill, and I was a little stunned to see that I could keep running at a 7:40-per-mile clip mile after mile. In fact, many times I had to slow myself DOWN, knowing that I had 13 to complete.

By the time the race was near its end, I knew I was going to PR, meaning I was going to break my best-ever time set last fall, 1:46:45. That is, if I could just hold my pace.

I have climbed more than 175 peaks, but I don't really know if there's anything harder for me than finishing those last two miles of a half marathon. You're just exhausted, yet you have to keep running hard and, essentially, punishing your body when it's begging you for a rest. I tried to focus on my music - I even put "Rocky" at the very end - but that only does so much. 

But I also knew I was going to set a personal record, that the training was going to pay off and that, despite all the adversity, I was going to be proud of my time not just minutes but days later. 

There are few feelings in the world better than that one.

 

Edit: Stats from the race. I ran 1:45:33. The pace was 8:02-per-mile. I finished 15th in my age group, 103/391 males and 157/1,276 overall. 

A star is born

New Strain: OK, here's what I want to do.

Marketing Guy: Mmmm Hmmm.

New Strain: See, my kind just isn't popping these days. We've been overshadowed by West Nile Virus and other sicknesses. I'm tired of being overlooked. I need something hot!

Marketing Guy: Hmmm.

New Strain: I mean, I want to be on CNN 24 hours a day. I want the media to jump all over me like I was, I dunno, AIDS or something back in the 80s.

Marketing Guy: Mmmm Hmmm. Yeah. You know what you need?

New Strain: No, what?

Marketing Guy: You need a name!

New Strain: Whadda mean? I'm the flu. Isn't that enough?

Marketing Guy: Nah. Not these days. Remember, we're living in a tough world. New, flashy, superficial names get all the attention. Dramatic music accompanies news events. Even 30-second stories on TV are cut and pasted together just like MTV videos. You need something eye-grabbing.

This is a cynical society. People are losing their jobs. Whole companies are crashing. Newspapers are dying. There isn't much that will shake people up these days. 

New Strain: Mmmm Hmmm.

Marketing Guy: I gotta be honest with ya. Sure, you're very contagious, and you could be pretty serious, and no one should take you lightly. But you really don't seem that bad. I mean, most people who get you just get flu-like symptoms, right? And they're OK after a couple days? Just like the other strains of flu?

New Strain: (Sighs). Yeah. I was working on that. I've been working out, trying to mutate and all, but....

Marketing Guy: Hey, kid, don't worry (pats him on shoulder). The thing is, the flu kills thousands every year. I'm sure you'll get your share. The thing is, there's really nothing that separates you from the regular flu other than the fact that you seem to be able to spread really quickly.

Marketing Guy: So you know what all these new illnesses had? A name! AIDS. West Nile Virus. SARS. Even your kind got a great endorsement deal because of a catchy name. What was that, um...(snaps fingers several times).

New Strain: Bird Flu?

Marketing Guy: THAT'S IT! BIRD Flu! Catchy. Scary. People were already afraid of things in they sky coming to get them after 9/11. Bird Flu. Genius. It was perfect.

New Strain: So....um....

Marketing Guy: Wait a minute. WAIT A MINUTE! Think of an animal! How about....a cow?

New Strain: Um....

Marketing Guy: No, not a cow. We've already had Mad Cow Disease. How about...a snake?

New Strain: Hmmm....

Marketing Guy: No, everyone hates snakes. Too risky. They might try to wipe you out in no time. You don't want to be a supervillian, kid, just scary.

New Strain: I dunno.

Marketing Guy: Wait. WAIT. I got it! I GOT IT! What's dirty and produces really tasty meats that are bad for you? What rolls around in its own feces? SWINE! SWINE FLU! Ha haaaaaa. It's PERFECT!

New Strain: Swine Flu? I dunno.

Marketing Guy: Trust me, kid, it's perfect. You'll be all over CNN in no time. I wonder if we could get Yo-Yo-Ma to play a haunting Philip Glass theme by tomorrow?

New Strain: Swine? What about "Babe" or Wilbur from "Charlotte's Web?"

Marketing Guy: Those were movies, kid. This is real life. Swine it is.

Career change

Well, I've thought long and hard about this, and I think I need to make a career change.

That's right. I'm going to become the first pick in the 2010 NFL Draft.

Maybe 2011. It might take me a little while to get into football shape.

I thought about the NBA, but those guys get set amounts based on where they're picked, and I gotta tell you, to me that makes NO sense at all. Why on earth would I take my skills to the NBA when I can make, what is it exactly that Matthew Stafford will earn? $41.7 million guaranteed? 

That's the ticket.

I would like to stay in newspapers, but as we all know, they're dying, apparently, and the taking economy isn't leaving me many other options as a writer. I did think about being a professional blogger, but the couple grand a year I made in ad money just won't quite cut it for raising three young kids, and that money's probably not coming back this year, thanks to said economy and the fact that Google has reduced my page ranking to somewhere below Michael Jackson's Q rating with parents of young boys because I took those ads in the first place.

But number-one draft pick? Man. Where else can I make so much coin for doing NOTHING? I mean, other than Rush Limbaugh, no one has a job that sweet.

Rock Star? No, they go on the road a lot, and I don't want my twins to write a tell-all in 20 years about how they slept with the Jonas Brothers because Daddy wasn't around. Plus they have to write music, practice and raise money for Africa.

Movie Star? They mostly live in trailers on movie sets. That's not glamorous enough for me.

Porn Star? It's tempting. But I don't look good in tube socks.

Nah, I think NFL draft pick is it for me.

Oh, sure, I'll have to study a playbook, learn some formations and such and maybe work out a little more than I already do (probably only a little more actually), but lately I'm trying to memorize good starting hands in Omaha and it can't be any more complicated than that.

I mean, look at Stafford. The Lions are paying him that kind of money in this recession, when Detroit just might be the hardest-hit area in a country taking some teeth-rattlers lately. He might be able to buy up all the houses in the city when he cashes his first paycheck. Pretty sweet.

I realize some of you naysayers out there might think the odds are against me. Hey, you might have a point. I realize the only time I ever spent on the football field was in marching band. But I was co-section leader both in high school and in college, so clearly, I know how to lead a group of me (and women) into battle. 

Besides, we all know I can run. Like, a lot. I'll just run if things get bad out there. That's what all those pricey running backs and wide receivers do. I don't know why everyone thinks Larry Fitzgerald is so tough. All he does is run away from those skinny cornerbacks and safeties.

Anyway, I have hope, as I should, because Stafford set the NFL record for most guaranteed money ever. And he hasn't even thrown a pass in a game. Well, neither have I, so we're pretty much even in talent, then.

So, yeah, I just need to run this half marathon this weekend, and then I need to get over this apparent calf injury that's nagging at me *.

Then I'm hitting the gym for good. After all, 2010 is only a year away.

*In all seriousness, it really does hurt, and I'm planning on taking the week off in the hopes that I can heal it in time for the biggest race of the year. Maybe running two half marathons in three weeks wasn't a good idea after all.

Alone, for a bit

I'm sitting here on the couch. It's 8:30 a.m. And it's quiet. It's oh, so quiet. It's oh, so still. The ticking clock sounds like Metallica. The dog's tail sounds like a drum solo. My breathing sounds like a hard wind.

I'm off today, meaning I'm home without kids, without wife and without anything to do (actually, not true, lots of errands to run, but still, it sure FEELS that way).

I used to have days like these every weekend, even after I got married. They're long gone. I don't think I've had a day like this in months. For an introverted, introspective soul like myself, it's heaven, in a Bryan Adams sort of way.

I wish I had more of them. 

I'll pay for this day later, when I have to work all weekend covering the annual jazz festival (tough work, but someone's gotta do it), and tomorrow will be a long, busy day, and not all of it will be filled with great music. 

But for now, I'll enjoy days like this. I'm grateful for it.

I'm also grateful that I don't have them every weekend any longer.

The Horsetooth Half Marathon

"His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy

There's vomit on his sweater already, Mom's spaghetti

He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready"

- Eminem, "Lose Yourself"

I am standing in a crowd of almost 1,000, and I AM nervous as the first song of the race, the song I've quoted above, pumps through my head. 

The air has a bite to it, but it's a welcome chill, as I know what's coming. 

Well, sorta. I'm about to run Sunday's Horsetooth Half Marathon, perhaps the toughest in Colorado. I had many offers to run the course before today's race, and I turned them all down. I wanted to experience it for the first time on my own. I am running this race for the challenge, yes, but also the scenery - the course runs over a huge, sparking reservoir surrounded by mountains - and I want to see it all with virgin eyes. It, like many first times, is more special that way.

Still, man. Really? I look up and up and up and my eyes still can't see the top. I knew this race was steep, but, man, really? I've climbed a few 14ers that weren't as steep as this.

I wasn't planning on running a great time. I was hoping for under two hours. I've got another half marathon in two weeks, the Colorado Half, a huge yearly event, and I didn't want to blow it all on this one.

That goes out the window as Eminem pumps through my head. A race, any race, should not be taken for granted. They're special, almost magical rewards for months of running through the pain and drudgery and bad weather of the grind of training. You finally get to see if it's all paid off.

The song's working. I'm focused for what's ahead. The gun sounds and I'm off.

I'm panting almost right away. Jesus, this road's steep. Sweat runs down my forehead, even with the ballcap I've got on, and at one point, I walk, wondering if I'll go just as fast as running. Running is faster, I discover, but not by much.

By the time the two miles is over, my shin tightens up, a recurring problem, and my thighs are burning and my calves are yelping. But we've crested the "mountain," and the worst part's over. Only 11 miles - and three long hills - to go.

I keep running faster than I want to. Running requires more willpower than just pushing through the pain. You've also got to hold back no matter how good you feel, and on race day, usually you feel wonderful. You're pumped, you're rested and all those lingering aches are gone or at least buried under adrenaline and joy and the time off you take before the day of reckoning. 

On the last hill, around mile 6, I pass many people. I love passing people on hills because it's such a pick-me-up.

In every race, there comes a time when the exhaustion takes over, and then it's just all guts. Sure enough, around mile 10, the weariness elbows me in the ribs, then kicks me in the butt, and finally tackles me, and I've got three miles to go. A 5K. At this point, the course winds through a concrete trail. Concrete, quite frankly, sucks. There's no give, and after a while, it feels like someone is pounding on me with a hammer. I run on the soft trail occasionally, but there's no "spring" on that one, and so I'm constantly switching back and forth.

Really, what I'm trying to do is get comfortable, but I feel like a prisoner trying to sleep on a stone bed. There's just no more comfort to be had.

At mile 12, my calves start to cramp. We're just not used to running up and down all those steep, punishing hills. I yell, out loud, "No, you've still got one more mile to go!" and a few runners look my way, startled, before smiling. We're all in the same boat now. We all hurt. Many stop to walk a bit before trotting on again. I can't stop. If I do, I don't know if I can start up again.

At mile 13, a crowd cheers my plodding, and I see the finish line. I start to sprint and suddenly I'm there. 

The finish line is not my favorite part of the day. It offers the most relief, to be sure, but it's not the best part of the day.

The best part, instead, comes at the beginning, when I'm just about to lose myself in the music, in the moment, in a futile attempt to block out the pain.

This is a tough half marathon, and so most of the people who surround me as I slip on my headphones are real athletes, cut, determined, talented athletes. I overhear them talking about "redshirting" or "track meets" or "scholarships." These exact same people, in other words, who picked me last for just about every game at recess. 

I might be a little nervous before these races, and I might need music to get me through the hard parts, and I may not be as talented as them. But I've also got a message for them as well: The guy who they really didn't want on their kickball team is storming up the same hills they are and is, in fact, right on your tail.

Edit: I finished in 1:53, an 8:42-per-mile pace. I finished 300/952.

 

Growing up by example

This column ran today in the Greeley Tribune:

My wife pretty much always dreamed of being a mother. I think she had other dreams - something along the lines of living in a romantic chick flick, preferably one staring Matthew McConaughey - but being a mother ranked pretty close to the top of her life list.

On my list, being a parent was somewhere ranked between “hike to Everest base camp” and “get to Level 34 at Dig-Dug.”

Needless to say, I didn’t want to grow up. I didn’t get married until I was 30 and when I did get married, I gave up exactly nothing. I started my goal - started, not wrapped up - of climbing all the 14ers in Colorado. I bought an X-Box and played it enough for Kate to occasionally refer to it as “The Mistress.” I read books and watched lots of movies and kept up with every new rock band. 

I was 30, but my mind still pretended I was a teenager.

And then Kate got pregnant. Now I make it sound like it was not planned. Oh, it was planned. We were trying for six months. But let’s be honest. Trying to get pregnant is really fun. It’s easy to forget about the ultimate goal behind the trying when you’re trying as often as we were, especially when you’re brain is still 17.

But all that trying eventually worked, darn it, and Kate was pregnant. When she told me, I acted happy. I was happy in a sort of, “Well, this will be cool, let’s try this out.” I went along for the ride. I helped pick out furniture for the nursery, argued with Kate about my son’s name (she won, of course) and went to birthing class. I even drummed up some nerves, as if my brain realized that it was going to have to accept some responsibility for this baby, nerves that were not calmed until I took Boot Camp for New Dads at North Colorado Medical Center.

Then Jayden arrived, and things, of course, changed. But they didn’t change as much as you might think. Kate got up most of the time. I still played video games - I remember him taking a nap on me once while I blasted aliens  - and I finished the 14ers that year.

When the twins arrived, playtime was over, and I really struggled. I got up with Kate every two hours, for months and months and months, because we both had to feed a baby. I learned how to do things with one arm because the other was always nestling a baby in its crook. I did not climb much at all that year, ran only a few races (and nearly quit one 5K because I was so tired) and focused all my creative energy on making an iMovie of the twins’ first year.

The thing was, I didn’t want to give up fun time. I still went to bed around midnight. I spent a lot of time with my kids but, at times, slightly resented it. I was always looking forward to the next Kansas basketball game or the next movie or, yes, the next level of whatever video game I was playing.

I loved my kids dearly. I just didn’t want them taking over my life.

As a result, I ignored the subtle hints. Kate would throw a huge pile of laundry on the floor and sigh about how hard it was to get it done and cook dinner and vacuum with the kids everywhere. I would nod in agreeable sympathy and talk about how yard work was the same way. 

Finally, one day, Kate broke down and, through tears, said she was overwhelmed. I’m not sure if it was the tears or the words, but a small part of my brain kicked the rest of it in the shin. 

The problem with twins and a toddler is you can put in a lot of work and not really make much of a dent in what needs to be done. You can, for instance, play with one child and have Mom chase the other two around and still believe you’re doing your part. I thought I was being a good husband and father, and I was, by some fairly weak standards. It wasn’t nearly enough.

So - insert the “Rocky” music here - I volunteered to do the laundry. I started cooking dinner at least one night a week. Most of all, at night, after dinner, I was getting wet during the kids’ baths and playing with them until it was time for bed. 

I also shoved Kate out the door so she could spend time with her friends, even if it meant I had all three kids alone. It turns out that Kate, like me, needed her freedom as well. I even recently watched all three for four days when Kate took her first trip away from the kids (to Las Vegas, appropriately). 

The girls turn two in May. People ask me if it’s easier. It’s easier in some ways. Jayden’s settled down, listens to us a lot more and is turning out to be a smart little guy. The girls sleep through the night (usually), can entertain themselves at times and can talk to tell us what they want.

Jayden also still needs more attention than we realize, asks us “why” about a billion times a day and insists on doing everything himself, even if it creates a big mess. The girls still scream loud enough to break the sound barrier and do it way more frequently than I would like.

All of them, however, say “Daddy!” when I get home. So in many ways it’s not getting easier. It’s just a lot more fun. Even those four days with the kids, alone, was fun. No, really, it was.

I am now taking a perverse satisfaction in the fact that I’ve washed more clothes to cover all of the 14ers I once climbed. I am coming up with new recipes to delight and confuse my wife at the same time (she’s still not sold on citrus carrots). I am loving the times when Andie climbs on the couch to roughhouse and am amazed at the punishment she can take (and dole out).

I’ve also given up video games, go to bed by 10:30 p.m., and I’m such a veteran, I teach that Boot Camp class a few Saturdays a year. 

The cool thing about all this is not that my kids are growing up. It’s that we’re growing up together.

Easter Egg Scramble

I really think they should call what you'll see below the "Easter Egg Scramble." Not only is it funny - get it, scramble, heh - but it's way more accurate.
Calling what we did today an "Easter egg hunt" would be like tying a bunch of old tires to the back of a few turtles and calling it a chase or hog-tying some deer, throwing them in a cage and shooting them and calling that a hunt. Our city's staff threw a bunch of eggs on a softball field, a bunch of tiny kids gathered and we all dashed for the eggs.
It was over faster than it takes to cook a bacon and cheese omelet.

Still, it was fun:

High stakes poker and a couple other thoughts

This season of High Stakes Poker is by far the best so far. Adding Dwan to the mix was brilliant, as he had three or maybe more of the most memorable hands of every season.
And just to prove that, last show's $900,000 (!) pot between Dwan and Greenstein was the least interesting of the three, since it was just a coin flip after the flop (overpair versus pair and flush draw) and it practically played itself. The only reason I list it here is because, holy shit, it WAS a $900,000 pot.
Plus anyone who's had a nightmare session playing poker (yep, that's me, raising my hand) had to be comforted watching Daniel Negreanu's meltdown. It can happen to the best of us.
They're adding a new mix of players this week, and I have a feeling it will be a bit of a letdown. Still, why the hell did GSN ever hesitate to renew the show? It is, no doubt, the best poker on television. I usually watch the World Poker Tour after I watch HSP, and I almost fall asleep watching all-in after all-in showdowns.


On another front, April is Omaha-only month in the Pokerpeaker household. I'm writing about this for Pokerworks and will let you know when the story runs. So far, so good. There are too many bad players at the lower limits for me to keep scratching out birdseed in Hold 'Em when I can be eating three-egg omelets with cheese, ham and bacon in Omaha.


The Horsetooth Half Marathon is next weekend. It's been a long, hard winter of training but I know I'm ready. The racing season is underway and I can't wait.

Finally, I'm happy for UNC and Roy Williams, but what a boring game. I found myself rooting for Michigan State just to give me a good game. Still, it's nice to see Roy win his second. I root for him again after we got even by handing out the beatdown we did against them last year.

Mr. Mom's photo blog. The Sunday edition.

Rather than whine about how hard my day was again, I thought I'd post a few photos from today's trip to the Bounce place. This, after all, is why I do it.






















Besides, Kate is coming home very soon and I'll be out the door for a 12-mile run.

Mr. Mom's live blog. The Saturday edition.

6:30 a.m. - The day starts at 6:30 a.m. when a single cry - Daddy! - followed by the sounds of a crib's springs in duress jerks me from a peaceful slumber.
I stumble into their room. Pacey, Andie demands. Out! Out! Out!
Rats. I was hoping they might hang out in their crib a bit and read or, God forbid, sleep.
This is one of the harder parts of the day for me. I am not a morning peson. Few people are, I realize, but while Kate sees rainbows and sunshine when she gets up in the morning, I see dark, stormy clouds and a need for a slow wake up call. It never happens these days. I take them out, they both run into the room, hop on my bed, where Jayden, with the stealth of a ninja, deposited himself a couple hours before, and climb up. Jayden, who is 4 and not a morning person either, protests by climbing on one of them and holding her down. Screams. The day begins.
6:50 a.m. - Mom? Allie asks, as if to really see if she could give me a break and seek out Mom's arms for comfort. I say she'll be back tomorrow. Allie considers this for a moment and then demands to be picked up. I'm the man, apparently.
7 a.m. - Crack eggs. Put in cheese. Get out pan. Not in that order. Oops. I'm still tired.
7:05 a.m. - Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow. I am informed 758 times in this minute that snow has fallen. Hmmm. It doesn't look terrible. Looks like a trip to the Mall playground is in order.
7:07 a.m. - Demands for milk and juice fall on my ears. They are fulfilled.
7:45 a.m. - A new law is enacted. No more screaming. It is broken .0003 seconds later and three more times in the next three seconds. I consider the death penalty but instead retract the law. It can't be enforced without screaming yourself, and that's breaking the spirit of the law.
8:07 a.m. - Allie is trying to scramble up on my lap as I type this, and "I wanna know what love is" calls out on the kitchen radio. I think I know. Time to dress the kids.
8:55 a.m. - Taking care of yourself is almost impossible with three little ones to watch. I somehow manage a two-minute shower. Allie senses that I need help and tries to do my hair.
8:57 a.m. - I start to dress Andie and Allie. I call for them three times and they ignore me, lost in their toys. Normally this would piss me off, but today I've decided to leave my anal personality at, um, home. If they're having fun, it's all good with me.
Regardless, eventually one of them comes by, and I snare her in my trap. Andie screams and rolls over at every second I don't have both arms pinning her down. I realize most 2-year-old toddlers don't hold still, but my kids not only don't like it, they seem to have a serious aversion to it. Not only does that mean I'm constantly chasing them down, but things like dressing and changing a diaper is a workout, not just an activity.
9:30 a.m. - Jayden isn't dressed yet. I'm doing the best I can. Sigh.
9:33 a.m. - We're headed to the mall. The snow is definitely falling but the roads look clear, and I really need to get out. So do they. The mall has some quarter-operated rides and a play area. It has saved my life more than once.
10:25 a.m.- Diapers, six juice bottles, coats, three pacifiers, one bad snowstorm (clear roads), snacks, a huge-ass stroller and three bibs later, we're at the mall play area. We spent an hour there before heading to the food court. I get Chinese, they get overpriced hot dogs at Dairy Queen. Most of the other parents sit and watch their kids play. I don't even come close to sitting in the hour they play (and no, I don't hover), so it feels good to sit a bit. When we leave, there's a mess under the table three feet deep.
11:55 a.m. - Time to go home. I pack the kids back up in a raging snowstorm (streets still clear) and we manage to make it home. Diaper changes, Madagascar (what can I say, the boy likes it), a DQ blizzard and Omaha. Ah. It's probably the best part of the day until the kids go to bed.
When is the Final Four?
The girls are totally attached to me now at least. I'm finally A No. 1 parent! Who-hoo!
2:30 p.m. - They're still asleep. Sweet. Naps rock.
4 p.m. - I chop up the ingredients for our homemade pizza. Thanks OhCaptain for the suggestion. Summer sausage, Italian sausage, pineapple, ham and turkey pepperoni. We all gathered around it and put the ingredients on there. It was fun.
4:30 p.m. - We chomp up the pizza. Jayden is kinda driving me nuts right now, begging to go to the jumping place and not taking no. Plus he keeps hitting the girls. He gets a few time outs, attempting to set the record for time outs taken in an hour.
4:40 p.m. - The Final Four's on. Sweet.
5:25 p.m. - Allie pushes the kitchen set far out into the middle of the floor. Where did she get that strength?
5:26 p.m. - Jayden colors. It's much more peaceful now.
5:28 p.m. - Andie says "off" and wants a plastic ball stuffed down a cup taken out. I can't do it. It won't be the first time I disappoint her.
5:35 p.m. - Andie and Allie are having a drag-out, scream fight right now. Wow. I haven't seen that EVER. Then Andie seems to understand what's going on and tries to talk to Allie about "her shirt." Their communication is really funny. I do think twins can communicate more than other siblings.
5:36 - Andie keeps hounding me. I am neglecting my kids. Time to get a bath. Andie confirms this by getting right in my face and saying "No more Daddy."
5:45 p.m. - One of the tougher parts of the day. Bathtime. I corral Andie and Allie in our room so I can watch the MSU/UConn game. I gather their diapers, towels and PJs to the bathroom and corral them in our room again. Allie keeps taking Kate's summer clothes and trying them on and saying "Cute." I tell Jayden he's after the girls. He takes his clothes off and throws a shit fit when I tell him he's second. Whatever. I let him go first. Maybe he'll be a spoiled brat when he's older, but for now, I've seen enough fits over nothing. Allie's diaper is dirty, so I clean her up. When it's Andie's turn, she fights me once again. These girls cannot sit still for a second.
Wash hair, clean off, watch game, prevent drownings, dress, put diapers on. It's an intense 45 minutes.
6:30 p.m. - Andie blows my theory. She is sitting here with me, guzzling grape juice, while I type, and imitating everything on "Word World." These cuddle moments are few and far between, so I'm enjoying it. If it lasts more than a couple minutes I'll be stunned.
6:31 p.m. - Allie climbs on the chair and is close to toppling off. Moment's over.
6:32 p.m. - Oops. I mistook Allie for Andie, I actually had Allie with me there. Yes, that still happens.
7:07 p.m. - I have my first meltdown. Jayden sits by me, Andie crawls up and Allie, who I've held for the last half hour, starts to cry right by me after I have to tell her to stop crawling up. They all start whining, and I'm trying to update my music list, the first thing I've really done for myself all day. I freak out momentarily and even yell a bit.
Imagine being in a marathon, thinking you're only a mile or two away, then realizing that you've got a dozen left to run. 7 p.m is like that for me. So close and yet I've still got more than an hour to go before the kids go to bed.
7:20 p.m. - The girls go to bed. Andie calls for her blankie and I have to run down to get it, but I'm willing to do that at this point if it means she goes to sleep.
She does.
7:35 p.m. - Jayden and I watch the last few minutes of a movie I put together of his first year when he was a baby. He asks me 874 questions in that 10 minutes. Poor guy. He doesn't get the one-on-one attention he deserves after a day like these.
Regardless, I put him to bed, and he falls asleep in two minutes.
He seems as tired as I am.
One down, one to go. But today, I did it.

Mr. Mom's live blog

I decided to live blog the weekend all alone with the kids. Read for proof that all survived (I'm pretty sure, we haven't done a final count yet).


Thursday/Friday


The dress rehearsal before Saturday and Sunday, when I have them every second of the day. Thursday was only a couple hours after work. Not bad.
I took Jayden swimming for an hour and a half and then picked up the twins at 3:30 p.m. from day care. Thus endeth the dress rehearsal.
I'm not sure how evolution decided to give toddlers who are almost 2 a full, intelligent and determined mind. I really wish at times like these their brains were still wiring up, so they would just sit on the floor and wait for me to dress them, bring them food and give them juice.
Instead, I have tiny people running around who believe with all their tiny hearts that they are fully capable of doing anything they want, when, in fact, they're capable of crapping their pants and that's about it. This means the percentage of time I spend taking them down from counters, chairs, tables is much higher than the percentage of things I actually accomplished. My kids also do not believe in playing with their toys. They'd rather get into everything in the house they're not supposed to get into, meaning I'm constantly picking up little piles of messes everywhere they go, or worse, removing, say, a pair of scissors from one of their hands.
I play Omaha for an hour today while Jayden watches "Madagascar." I finally get to relax for an hour. I lose $50 to three two-outers. Awesome.

Conversation with Jayden, 4: "Can I go swimming Daddy?"
Me: "We went swimming today."
Jayden: "Can I go to Ruthies? (His day care provider).
Me: "No, tomorrow we're spending the day with Daddy and the girls."
Jayden: "Why?"

Weather report: Blizzard warning after midnight. That's the best fucking news I've ever heard. Sweet. That means I'll be trapped in the house with all three kids.

It's not the best start? But the scary thing? It really could be a lot worse.

Help, I need someone

A couple hours after this time Thursday, the wife (not The Wife, Kate) will be leaving on a Jet Plane to head to Vegas with her parents and a friend.
Fortunately I do know when she'll be back again.
Unfortunately it will not be until Sunday.
Now before you pipe up about my two trips out there without her, yeah, I KNOW. That's why she's going.
Still, it leaves me with twins under 2 and a toddler under 4 from Thursday until Sunday.
It won't be terrible since I work Thursday and will only have Jayden for a while Friday. But Friday night the fun begins.
I have run or worked out every day for two weeks, pretended that my soft, soft pillow is really a club with spikes and am mentally preparing for the fact that I may not see much of the Final Four.
Kate's stated goal for me this weekend: "Just keep all three kids alive."
That's probably not a goal where 66 percent would be considered good. So let's crank up the comments, folks. I have a few questions:

1. What fun kid stuff can I make and serve for dinner? I can cook, don't you worry, but I'd like something other than Hamburger Helper (which will be served one night, Cheeseburger Mac is pretty damn good).
2. What fun kid stuff can we do together, besides go to the Mall play area (which we will hit up Saturday, don't you worry)?
Inevitably the thing I hate most about taking care of all three of them is I put out more fires and prevent them from killing themselves more than really spend quality time and have fun. So I'm trying to do a little prevention.
3. What should I tell them when they ask for Mommy? That she left to join a radical movement bent on saving the Polar Bear? That she needed a break because you all were driving her nuts? That she went to go play with her friends? What will a child that young understand?
4. What prescription drugs would you recommend so I can survive the weekend?