Barenaked Jews in Suburbia
Such is a night in our house these days:
As soon as R comes home I hand him one screaming child. I feed the other and try to spend quality time (actually, guilt time) with O, posting items into other items and pretending to delight in repeating this action. Oh joy! This plastic bit fits in this plastic thing! Then we put O to sleep while juggling twins. The twins then usually have what the baby books refer to as a “fussy period”. If my period was that long I’d be suing my gynaecologist. The fussy period goes on and on as R and I slowly start to go batty. Eating dinner now requires tremendous dexterity and usually involves heating up a ‘mystery brown’ – something that’s been sitting in our fridge so long it is a generic colour and texture. Like space food, which is apt because my brain is definitely on another planet, having tea.
At a certain point we give in to all the screaming and feed the twins again. This is usually before the recommended 3-4 hour gap. We’re weak. Our parents were baby boomers. Blame them. Then I usually take all my clothes off in the hope that this will mean I get to shower soon. In an attempt to mark his place in the shower queue R then disrobes while burping a twin on each arm.
We usually remain naked for some time before we actually progress to the bathroom. I am always half way there when O wakes up / the twins vomit on the floor / a domestic banality strikes me as suddenly important and urgent. It was at this moment last night that I spotted a basket of washing that needed folding. I put the basket on my head, South African style, and proceeded to carry it towards the bedroom. At the front door, which we’d left open due to the heat, I bumped into R trying to settle a twin. Our naked bodies squished past each other. The piercing scream that followed was my own. A face was staring at us through the fly screen. Silence and then an embarrassed cough followed by a high pitched voice “Chag Sameach”. R and I stared out. “Chag Sameach” said R, his naked googlies dangling for all to see. I couldn’t imagine why some pervert was giving us the traditional greeting for a Jewish holiday. A scampering followed. I grabbed a towel, R covered his essentials with a baby or two and we opened the door. The owner of the voice ran away, leaving behind a parcel of cookies and a note wishing us Happy Purim from Bnei Akiva !, a youth movement that I never belonged to because they didn’t condone dope smoking and sex before marriage. Also, they used too many exclamation marks in their pamphlets. Join us on Sunday nights for Shmoozing! Eating! Same Sex Dancing in Denim Skirts!
What are random Jews doing late at night delivering Purim parcels? Why do Bnei Akiva want us to eat their candied treats? And more importantly, after seeing R and I naked with baskets of washing on our heads and babies in our arms, will this poor Bnei Akiva girl ever want to have sex, before or after marriage?
Must run. I’m topless but R already has his boxers off and is heading towards the shower with a look of ruthless determination.
As soon as R comes home I hand him one screaming child. I feed the other and try to spend quality time (actually, guilt time) with O, posting items into other items and pretending to delight in repeating this action. Oh joy! This plastic bit fits in this plastic thing! Then we put O to sleep while juggling twins. The twins then usually have what the baby books refer to as a “fussy period”. If my period was that long I’d be suing my gynaecologist. The fussy period goes on and on as R and I slowly start to go batty. Eating dinner now requires tremendous dexterity and usually involves heating up a ‘mystery brown’ – something that’s been sitting in our fridge so long it is a generic colour and texture. Like space food, which is apt because my brain is definitely on another planet, having tea.
At a certain point we give in to all the screaming and feed the twins again. This is usually before the recommended 3-4 hour gap. We’re weak. Our parents were baby boomers. Blame them. Then I usually take all my clothes off in the hope that this will mean I get to shower soon. In an attempt to mark his place in the shower queue R then disrobes while burping a twin on each arm.
We usually remain naked for some time before we actually progress to the bathroom. I am always half way there when O wakes up / the twins vomit on the floor / a domestic banality strikes me as suddenly important and urgent. It was at this moment last night that I spotted a basket of washing that needed folding. I put the basket on my head, South African style, and proceeded to carry it towards the bedroom. At the front door, which we’d left open due to the heat, I bumped into R trying to settle a twin. Our naked bodies squished past each other. The piercing scream that followed was my own. A face was staring at us through the fly screen. Silence and then an embarrassed cough followed by a high pitched voice “Chag Sameach”. R and I stared out. “Chag Sameach” said R, his naked googlies dangling for all to see. I couldn’t imagine why some pervert was giving us the traditional greeting for a Jewish holiday. A scampering followed. I grabbed a towel, R covered his essentials with a baby or two and we opened the door. The owner of the voice ran away, leaving behind a parcel of cookies and a note wishing us Happy Purim from Bnei Akiva !, a youth movement that I never belonged to because they didn’t condone dope smoking and sex before marriage. Also, they used too many exclamation marks in their pamphlets. Join us on Sunday nights for Shmoozing! Eating! Same Sex Dancing in Denim Skirts!
What are random Jews doing late at night delivering Purim parcels? Why do Bnei Akiva want us to eat their candied treats? And more importantly, after seeing R and I naked with baskets of washing on our heads and babies in our arms, will this poor Bnei Akiva girl ever want to have sex, before or after marriage?
Must run. I’m topless but R already has his boxers off and is heading towards the shower with a look of ruthless determination.
posted by Yidchick at 10:44 pm
8 Comments:
Oh my god, you had me roaring with laughter here. Iknow it hard with the babies and all but your description is fantastic.
Hang in there :-)
Laura
Sometimes it's good to be upfront with various groups...let them see you at your most natural...let 'em know they don't want to come a'knocking anytime soon. I try never to answer the door to Mormons without a cigarette (even though I quit years ago) in one hand and a stiff drink in the other.
Sounds like you're muddling through these first months with your humor intact. Most impressive and Brava! I can only imagine how tough it really is.
it's fate!
fate that this young jewish girl saw both of your bedoobies!
as you figure, it'll put her off sex FOR LIFE!
result!
(but ooh, ooh! people with a predilection for exclamation marks! kindred spirits!)
I just found your blog and I love it. Well done for not succumbing to the "new-mums-have-no-sense-of-humour-just-domestic-bliss" falacy.
(Is that even how you spell fallacy? looks ridiculous now I write it...)
Also it's f***ing fantastic to see another blogger from Sydney. I am a sydney-sider myself, currently living in China, but a little piece of my heart remains in Australia at all times.
to reitterate: WELL DONE!
Hoo ha. Funny stuff!! As rare as they are, these posts are so worth waiting for!
Hilarity, my friend!!!!! You are my hero. xoxo
Excellent plan to discourage unannounced visits from Interest Groups You Are Not Interested In, I say!
Let me know what you come up with for unsolicited phone calls, will you?
(And don't recommend three babies. It just isn't possible for everyone.)
Battling for the shower in the nip armed only with a relatively newborn baby.
I like your style.
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