Tuesday was Date Day as usual, but Lynnette had no intention of spending time with me. Her desire to roam the aisles of Costco had nothing to do with quality time and everything to do with maybe the walking will force these children out of her womb.
Truth be told, we did actually get some shopping done. Lynnette alerted me that Madison’s chip stores were getting low. A few weeks ago we bought a huge thing of Pirate’s Booty and apparently Madison has been steadily working her way through it. We looked through the impressive selection of chips adjacent to the aloha shirts. The thing about Costco – and maybe this is just me because I am picky about what I like and what I don’t – is that just about every single bulk variety pack contains at least one version or flavor of something that I have absolutely no interest in eating or drinking. This is true of all the Gatorade packs. I only want XXX Vitamin Water, so I’ve never bought that pack. The potato chips come with barbecue and Fritos, and so Lynnette and I were wary about committing to a 54-pack of chips knowing we wouldn’t eat 20% of them. “But just include some in the snack packs for Madison’s soccer team,” I said. “You right, you right,” Lynnette said. Damien has ruined me and my marriage. Thanks, Damien! When we came across this huge bag of shrimp chips, I suggested Lynnette pose with it so I could make a joke in this blog entry (see caption), then to no one’s surprise, she took a look at the bag, rotated it a few times in her hands, then placed it gently into our wagon.
Maybe two weeks ago I started making this noise after I proved Lynnette or Madison wrong with superior logic. It’s basically an elongated “O” sound. It’s the noise my students make when someone fires a hot comeback that the target has no reply to. Predictably, Madison has picked up on it – but she doesn’t always use it in the correct context. “Mad, you can’t have soda on a school night,” I’ll say. “But you’re drinking soda, dad. OOOOHHH,” she’ll say. She kind of right, but not really because I’m the adult in this scenario. Well, not-so-predictably, Lynnette’s picked up on it, too. We played along with Jeopardy yesterday afternoon and whenever I would get a question correct, I would appropriately use the “OOOOOHHHH” to accentuate my knowledge. When I got one wrong, Lynnette would utter the sound sarcastcally (as much as a single vowel sound can be uttered sarcastically) and it destroyed Madison. I think Madison knows that I am the resident clown. Whenever she and I fool around, it is Lynnette who tells us to calm down or knock it off. But, when Lynnette plays with us Madison is filled with a kind of glee that is evident in her giggling. When I pointed out this Nerf gun, Lynnette quickly said “You’re going to lose all the bullets.” “That’s why you buy the replacement packs,” I said. “OOOOOHHHHHHHHHH!” “You’re an idiot,” she said. She right, she right.
I know Lynnette is desperate to get the twins out because she did something she never does. She threw a ball around with me in the middle of a store. She is vehemently opposed to such behavior. Whenever Mad and I started tossing around a ball in Old Navy or some toy store, Lynnette gets all Karen Higa-y. “Put it away!” she’ll whisper-yell. But not yesterday. I picked up the football and motioned to throw it to her. Instead of scold me like a child, she lifted both her hands. “You’re really going to catch it?” I asked. “Yeah,” she said. “Wow,” I said. “Anything to get these babies out,” she said. So we threw the old pigskin back and forth a few times, but no water or other liquid gushed forth from Lynnette’s body. Maybe I should have had her run a few patterns. Maybe I should have told her to use the lines in the floor as an imaginary sideline near which she had to stop her feet on a dime and extend her upper body beyond to make a catch. But that probably would have wound up killing her rather than inducing birth. I don’t think she could do any of those things while not pregnant. The Higa/Pascua athletic bloodlines are not strong.
We were nearing the end of our time at Costco when I found the massage chair tucked away under one of the shelves. It was plugged in and provided me 15 minutes of bliss while Lynnette wandered off to get paper plates. “Why don’t you take a seat?” I asked when she returned. “A massage might encourage those two clowns to make themselves known.” “Yeah, but what if my water breaks? Then we have to buy the chair,” she said. She rightfully could have dropped an “OOOOHHHH!” right there, but she didn’t. Maybe it was because he spirits were low. We had failed in her primary mission of pushing the twins into the real world. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she spends all day Googling “pregnancy urban legends” in an attempt to find some kind of superstition that will kick off labor. In fact, if she texted me a picture of herself wearing a goat mask and nothing else doing the robot to “Wake Me Up (Before You Go-Go)” with the caption “I read on Pinterest that this works” I wouldn’t even bat an eye.