"You've Got Your Hands Full."

When I go out with the three kids and no adult help, I have a set system for coping. The boys are in the double-stroller so I can easily transport them without worry of them doing anything more aggravating than uttering the occasional complaint. Abbie is more problematic since she must walk and has the mobility to cause plenty of aggravation. I usually encourage her to push the stroller with me, or I’ll let her walk at my side at her pace if there’s room for her meanderings. If she wanders in front of too many people or seems more interested in counting the tiles under her feet than walking, I’ll grab her hand or even pick her up and walk with her.

Without fail, if we’re in a public place, someone upon seeing our menagerie will say to me, “you’ve got your hands full.” Sometimes they’ll add “looks like” to the beginning, or change “your hands full” to “a handful,” but the theme remains the same. My hands are full, and strangers feel the need to comment on it.

I don’t understand this near universal reaction. It’s like there’s a nationwide memo that I missed regarding the proper response to seeing a father single-handedly toting about his three young children. Maybe the e-mail landed in my spam folder.

Before the twins came, I’d heard enough stories to know that strangers love talking to people with twins. I expected questions about how old they are, if they’re identical, and which one is the good one. I didn’t expect to hear the same quip about my hands being full more than any other question combined.

I wish I had a snappier retort than, “yeah, I do.” I’d think that somewhere around the 189th time I heard someone say that, something original would pop in my head. It should be something memorable, something that leaves the impression “there’s a father who knows what he’s doing and would never let his children eat dog food.” Instead strangers get a stock response to a stock comment.

Sometimes I wonder if there’s a deeper meaning to their observation. If I were simply pushing a stroller full of children without Abbie running about as my wingman ready to intercept any puppies or Goldfish crackers that enter our perimeter, would people still comment? Do people want to offer some modicum of support to my Sisyphean task, and a light-hearted quip seems the easiest way to do it? Is the sight of a father running errands with three small children combined with the novelty of twins so exhilarating, so rare that people have to interact with me to verify that I’m real and not some magic gnome playing tricks with their mind?

Whatever their reason, I always say, “yeah, I do,” and hurry on my way. With three young children I’m always in a hurry. I have my hands full, you know.