WHAT'LL I DO?

Some people at work are on vacation so they’ve tweaked the schedule a bit and I have to work some pretty long days this weekend. It’s usually not that big of a deal, but with twins, it requires some creative scheduling.

So last night, I stay up until about 2 feeding babies and whatnot, then sleep until about 10 before heading off to work until about midnight. But when I wake up this morning, I’m bit forlorn. Partly because I’ve got this bit of a very sad Irving Berlin song stuck in my head. But also, I’ve done the math and realize that I won’t see much of my sons until Monday night or even Tuesday morning. Basically, they’ll be asleep when I get home at night, and might not be up when I leave again.

To be honest, this prospect usually wouldn’t upset me too much. My time at work is pretty much a vacation compared to taking care of the twins. And who doesn’t like an extended vacation?

But this morning, I don’t want an extended vacation. They’ve been very cute lately. Just look at them.

I take a quick shower and come out to the front room to spend what little time I have with them before I have to leave for work.

They’re asleep. That’s it. My last chance to see them for a while, and they’re asleep.

My heart sinks, and that Irving Berlin lyric keeps on running through my head…

“What’ll I do when you are far away
and I am blue, what’ll I do.”

I know the song isn’t really about not seeing your babies, but it still seems like a pitch perfect expression of the sorrow brought on by seperation from a loved one.

I glumly walk out to my car and call up that Irving Berlin song on my iPod. (God bless iTunes) I repeat it a couple of times, and by the time I pull out onto the freeway, I’m a mess. I’m crying, but not in that dignified tear-slowly-rolls-down-the-cheek-while-man-sucks-it-up-and-shows-his-steely-reserve way. I’m bawling like a widow at a Mafia funeral. It’s not pretty, and I can’t stop. The rational side of me knows I’m being ridiculous. But I can’t stop.

I’m well known as a spazz, but I’m actually not all that emotional. I like to say my family practices a very exuberant form of stoicism. We get all worked up about things and wave our arms wildly when we tell breathless stories about being late for an appointment or bumping into an old friend at the mall. But we don’t get... emotional. We don’t cry in movies. We don’t cry in public. We don’t cry.

But here I am, blubbering behind the wheel of a ’96 Toyota Camry. I get to work, but I have to keep driving around the block until I can pull myself together. I walk into the newsroom looking sorta red and puffy. With any luck, my co-workers will think I’m an alcoholic or something other than a crying little wussy.

I sit at my desk and try to pull together an evening’s worth of news. Occasionally, I’ll call up some of the pictures of Nate and Will I had thoughtfully posted online earlier this week. (Thanks, me!)

I anchor the 6:00 newscast, and make a mad dash for home. I’ve still got an 11:00 newscast to produce, but perhaps I can sneak in a little time with Nate or Will before they go to bed.

I walk in the front door and am handed a watery-eyed Nate. “He’s been having some problems,” says Julie.

I sit Nate on my lap and he looks up at me with his big blue eyes and lets out a little smile and one of those little “ah” sounds. It melts me. Now before you get the idea that I’m some sort of Baby Whisperer, you should know that Nate starts crying about two minutes later and I have my hands full trying to calm him down. But tonight, it doesn’t feel like a hassle. It almost feels like a privilege.

After about 30 minutes, I race back to work. As I’m driving, I’m emotional again, and I can’t understand why. Perhaps it’s just the effects of prolonged and severe sleep deprivation. Perhaps it’s a hormonal imbalance. Perhaps it’s just that Irving Berlin can write one hell of a sad song.

But maybe it’s something else. Maybe I’m actually a parent. Maybe, while they were busy filling our home with all manner of foul odors, while they were puking on me in the middle of the night, while they were screaming in my ears until they rang… maybe somehow these two little guys snuck into my soul and lodged themselves into a deep crevice.

Maybe, while I was busy being annoyed with them and thinking up pithy little observations about them… maybe I fell in love with them in a way so deep and so profound that I just can’t understand it.

Maybe. I don’t know. But as I sit in my living room tonight, waiting for one (or both) of our little boys to wake up and demand food from their beleaguered parents, I know that something inside of me has changed. And I know that when I walk out that front door again in the morning, I’ll leave a large portion of myself back here. And I won’t be complete until I can return.