My three sons
The doctor calmly announced we were having triplets. My husband fainted, falling to the ground and hitting his head on the edge of the filing cabinet. He required five stitches, a glass of water and oxygen.
I sat in a state of shock and awe while Paul’s pandemonium circus played out.
My brain was swirling with “Triplets? Me? Three babies all at once? Me carry three babies in my body for nine months? Three triplets?”
I wanted to call them Able, Baker, Charles for obvious reasons.
Their father wanted to call them Terence, Lawrence, and Gerald. Like you, I know, Terry, Larry and Gerry would be nightmare names.
We had animated discussions about the naming of the babies.
We didn’t know the pediatrician in our small rural town admired Timothy Leary. Shrooms, LSD were his recreational drugs. Daily.
He told us to let the baby’s name themselves it would evolve. He babbled about Revelations. We changed doctors.
My three sons, Timmy, Danny, and Mark have appeared in 14 TV commercials 22 fashion shows in more Mervyns, Macy’s, and Kohl’s ads than any other siblings.
College is paid for.
The more people have studied different methods of bringing up children the more they have come to the conclusion that what good mothers and fathers instinctively feel like doing for their babies is the best after all.