by Jim Gaffigan
When we found out we were having our third child, Katie, I felt we started losing the crowd. The congratulations were always preceded by a wow. “Wow … congratulations!” The one couple we knew with three kids gave us advice about dealing with three little ones. “Now you’re outnumbered!” Then came the fourth pregnancy, Michael, and everything changed. There was audible nervousness in our friends’ and families’ congratulations, which included multiple wows. “Wow … congratulations … wow, wow!” In certain parts of the country, having four kids is not strange at all. In New York City, it is equivalent to having a thousand. I felt like friends started treating us like we were Amish and voluntarily living without electricity. “Well, that’s one way to live your life. Hey, can you build me one of those wood fireplaces?” We were treated like pioneers. The couple we knew with three kids showed us a map of Utah. We were questioned as if we were curious oddities at a freak show. “What’s that like?” I explained what it was like having a fourth kid very simply: imagine you are drowning … and then someone hands you a baby.
In a strange way, four kids made us celebrities. At school pickups, I was no longer introduced as a comedian, I was “the father of four.” Strangely, there was some sympathy, too, as if something horrible just “happened” to me, like a tornado blowing the roof off of my house. I remember an unemployed father telling me to “hang in there.” Everyone knows that when someone shows you sympathy, you do the natural thing. You play into it for your own benefit. I started using the four kids as an excuse for everything. “Sorry I’m late … I have four kids.” “I know I’ve put on some weight, but I do have four kids.” “Sorry, I have four kids, I have four kids.”
While these births and subsequent reactions of friends and family were happening, we were living in a two-bedroom apartment roughly the size of an airplane bathroom. This was another source of entertainment for the peanut gallery. “Well, at least you thought it through.” We were constantly searching for another apartment in Manhattan that we could afford—and not just squeeze into for another year before we would have to start looking again. We were juggling schedules with kids at three different schools in three different parts of town. Jeannie was producing my third one-hour comedy special while nursing our eight-month-old Michael when we got a big positive on a pregnancy test. If having four kids is drowning and someone hands you a baby, then the fifth kid is the same scenario but with a shark fin coming at you. How would I tell my friends and family that we just found out we were expecting a fifth? We had left the realm of normalcy. After Jeannie and I went to the scary ultrasound place (always a relaxing experience) and saw our fifth child, Patrick, I decided to just announce it on Twitter. I didn’t even want to process the wows of friends and family in person. I knew that to them we had become that disappointing friend on yet another trip to rehab. They weren’t even rooting for us anymore. We were the soldier volunteering for his fifth tour of Afghanistan. We were on our own. In their eyes, we had “jumped the shark.” All of a sudden, four kids seemed a lot more normal. We immediately started getting compared to people with absurd numbers of children. “My great-great-aunt had sixteen kids.” Well, tell her I said hi. “Are you trying to catch up with the Duggars?” Yes, we are. We only need fourteen more children and we will win!
When Jeannie and I brought our fifth child, Patrick, to his first doctor’s visit, we waited for an elevator with a mother and her three young kids. The mother proudly corralled the energetic ten-, seven-, and five-year-olds onto the elevator. When her five-year-old asked if Jeannie’s sling was holding a baby, the mother warned her kids to be careful and not to touch the newborn. Jeannie pulled down the side of the sling to reveal one-day-old Patrick. The nice kids swooned at seeing the tiny baby. The mother confidently asked, “Is this your first?” When Jeannie replied that it was our fifth, the mother’s demeanor changed. “Are you kidding me? Five? Really? FIVE?” Then came the most popular reaction. The question that has become an integral part of our daily life: “Are you guys done yet?”
When Jeannie gave birth to Patrick, I was not surprised by the absence of congratulatory calls, flowers, and baby gifts. These steadily dropped off after the second child. We certainly didn’t need any more baby clothes at that point. Heck, after Jeannie gave birth to our fourth, Michael, I barely received an e-mail acknowledgment from most of my siblings. I get it. “Another baby from Jim and Jeannie.” It held the ceremony of renewing an annual health club membership. I understand. However, I was surprised how often so many people asked, “Are you guys done yet?” I’m always tempted to reply, “Why do you ask? Are you paying their college tuition?” I feel as if I’m under so much pressure to make the decision at that moment. “Are you done yet?” Like we are the last patrons in a restaurant at midnight, lingering over dessert, and the waiter has a train to catch. “Are you done yet? Anything else? Can I get those plates out of your way? Do you need the check? Can you get the hell out of here already?!”
I understand “Are you done yet?” seems like an innocent question. There is curiosity. If we have five children now, how far will we go? I’d be curious, too, but there is a lack of boundaries in the “Are you done yet?” line of questioning. Obviously this is a sensitive subject and not really anyone else’s business. People would never even ask a friend, let alone a stranger, when they plan to get their hair cut, for fear of offending, yet for some reason the “How many children are you going to have” question is fair game. This also goes for people without children. We are close with a couple who has struggled with infertility for years, and I have witnessed strangers asking how long they’d been married immediately followed by “Why don’t you have any children?” Total disregard for what they might be going through. Why is this? I don’t mean to get up on a diaper box, but individual liberties are all-important in this country … except when it comes to the number of kids you have or don’t have.
Often I suspect “Are you done yet?” may mask a thinly veiled judgment against my having five children. Maybe some people think that Jeannie and I are being greedy by having five children, that there is a limited supply of babies, and we are exceeding our fair share. Maybe they think that we are inhibiting a woman’s right to choose and single-handedly attacking access to birth control. We all have heard the arguments against having “too many children.” What about the overpopulation problem? What about the starving children in Africa? What about your carbon footprint? I have over a hundred comedian friends who are not having children by choice. Maybe I’m having their children. I care about starvation in Africa, but I doubt the probability of our having one less child will somehow feed people. As for the carbon footprint, the seven people in my family live in a two-bedroom five-story walk-up apartment. Normally, you can’t walk three steps without running into someone. We don’t own a car or a pet farting cow. I can safely assume our carbon footprint is smaller than a lot of people’s. I’m not saying it’s smaller than your footprint, but then again, you did buy this book. Do you realize how many trees you killed? I’ve heard that for really good books like this, they use at least one tree per page. Don’t worry—since it is this book, I forgive you. And so do the trees. You have used your carbon footprint wisely. If you were going to destroy the environment, at least you did it for me. If this is an e-book version, please feel guilty about something else.
So, no kids, one kid, five kids, or sixteen kids, I say we just live and let live. This is the land of the free and the home of the brave enough to have five kids. Judging other people says more about you than about the person you’re judging. Except of course when you’re judging people with too many cats. And by that, I mean more than one cat. Those people are completely bonkers and should be locked up. A good friend of ours has three cats in her studio apartment and asked me, “Can you tell that I have cats?” I replied, “No, but I can tell you have a box of turds in your living room.” She recently told me that she had just gotten a new kitten. Obviously I asked her, “Are you done yet?”
; Six Kids, Catholic
Big families are not new to me; I was one of six children. We were “Six kids, Catholic.” I remember saying that as a teenager to people when they asked how many children were in my family. There would always be a beat after I said “Six kids,” for the person to silently speculate about the size of our family; then I would give the explanation, “Catholic.” Strange how that seemed to be a satisfactory answer: “Six kids, Catholic.” I sometimes wondered if I didn’t follow the “Six kids” with “Catholic,” someone might have said, “Six kids? Wow, your mom must be a whore.”
Truth be told, my parents were Catholic but it wasn’t like the pope told my mom and dad how many children to have. They just liked kids. Well, my mom did, anyway. I suppose the Catholic explanation for the large family was my quick justification for the size of our family. Similar to how heavy drinkers seem to blame their drinking on their ethnic heritage. “I’m not an alcoholic, I’m Irish American.”
Growing up, this is how my family dressed all the time.
I loved growing up in a big family, but everyone from a big family always says they loved growing up in a big family. It seems a little suspicious. Like when people brag about growing up in the Bronx. Nobody questions their sincerity, but have you ever been to the Bronx?
Honestly, I have nothing to compare the big family experience to. I was the youngest of six children. The scrape of the pot. My parents tried their best, but they were exhausted. It was like the last half hour of a brunch buffet. It’s still a great meal, but let’s just say at that point, the guy working at the omelet station has lost some of his enthusiasm. Parents burn out in big families. You can even see it in the naming of children. The first kid: “You were named after your grandfather.” The sixth kid: “You were named after a sandwich I ate. I loved that sandwich. Now go get your brother, Reuben.” My parents had had five teenagers lie to them before I even asked to borrow the car. By the time they got to me, they were beyond suspicious. They were illogical. “Can I go roller skating?” “No! We won’t have you ending up pregnant like your sister.”
Nobody told me it was black tie.
Given that I come from “Six kids, Catholic,” I shouldn’t be surprised when people assume my large family is for religious reasons. I’m Catholic. Everyone knows Mormons, Catholics, and Orthodox Jews have large families. So it is for religious reasons, right? I’ve found that’s not how it works. If anything, you have four or five kids and THEN you become religious. Believe me, once you lose a kid in a New York City park, atheist or not, you start talking to God right away. “Hey, God, I know I haven’t talked to you in a while … probably since that last pregnancy test. I guess it’s kind of ironic, me reaching out, having lost that same kid. Anyway, if you can help me find my son, I promise I will never do anything bad again. I won’t even eat at Wendy’s— oh, wait. There he is. Never mind, God. Well, we’re off to Wendy’s. Talk to you when I get cancer.” Kids and disease are the true gateways to faith.
Then why so many? Friends often ask this question. Heck, I often wonder myself. While I can’t think of my life without any one of my children, why so many of them? I like to think people would understand when they see I’m married to a woman as beautiful and amazing as Jeannie. Then again, if the number of our children were based on how I felt about Jeannie, we would probably give the Duggars a run for their money.
Well, why not? I guess the reasons against having more children always seem uninspiring and superficial. What exactly am I missing out on? Money? A few more hours of sleep? A more peaceful meal? More hair? These are nothing compared to what I get from these five monsters who rule my life. I believe each of my five children has made me a better man. So I figure I only need another thirty-four kids to be a pretty decent guy. Each one of them has been a pump of light into my shriveled black heart. I would trade money, sleep, or hair for a smile from one of my children in a heartbeat. Well, it depends on how much hair.
There are hidden benefits of having five kids. Besides the unconditional love, the most obvious is the free pass. When you have five kids, you are invited to far fewer social events. I know this may seem like a negative to some, but let’s be serious, it’s a positive. People don’t invite you to stay at their houses anymore. Thank God. People are far more forgiving of social failures. “We never received a thank-you note from the Gaffigans.” “Honey, they have five kids. We are lucky they even showed up. Let’s not invite them next time.” Having five kids is like having a perpetual doctor’s excuse.
You actually are forced to clean up and simplify your life by what is called the TMK factor: Too Many Kids. Their wedding is in Alaska? How do we get out of that? TMK. Everyone has to volunteer for the school safety patrol? Not us. TMK. People go to the gym and work out? Not me. TMK.
I sometimes wonder what explanation my children will provide for our large family. “Five kids, Catholic” would be too easy. “Five kids, Dad Crazy” would be too on the nose. “Five kids, my parents had a healthy sex life” would be too much information. I can’t believe you even brought that one up! I guess I don’t care how they explain it as long as they don’t say, “Thirty-four kids, Catholic.”
The Great White Baby
As a parent, you always secretly hope other people will find your baby as adorable and as special as you do. When our first child, Marre, was a baby I did a couple of shows in China, and Jeannie and the baby came along. Let me be clear that I have a great respect for the Chinese, and I don’t just say that because we are all going to be working for them in a couple of years. During our visit, the Chinese people were very polite and warm. They seemed especially enamored with fifteen-month-old Marre, with whom we strolled all around Shanghai and Beijing. What can I say? She is that adorable. I remember thinking, “This baby is a star!” It seemed that most Chinese had never seen anything like her before. As we walked around Shanghai, people would smile and point at the superpale blue-eyed baby girl with the mop of blonde curls. It was very flattering until we got to the Great Wall.
The Great Wall of China is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and for good reason. The views are captivating, and, given the number of tourists from China visiting the wall, it is an obvious source of national pride. There were a handful of tourists from across the globe and large tourist groups from all over China in bright-colored windbreakers. As Jeannie and I approached the Great Wall, we were flattered when three fifty-year-old Chinese women in matching orange windbreakers wanted a picture of Marre. “You want a picture of my beautiful daughter? But of course.” When we reached the Great Wall, there was another request from two teenage Chinese girls in purple windbreakers. “Well, sure.” Suddenly the requests became more frequent. Eventually the Chinese tourists stopped asking and started taking pictures of Marre sitting in her stroller. At one point, my fifteen-month-old was completely encircled by a crowd of Chinese tourists in bright windbreakers, all taking pictures of her. Suddenly the crowd was huge. A wave of fear poured over me. We could no longer see our baby, and I had this image of the crowd dissipating to reveal that the baby was gone. I yelled, “Enough, enough!” Well, of course, the crowd didn’t know English and must have thought I was barking, “Free pictures of the giant pale baby” or something. More colored windbreakers came over. Finally I had to push people out of the way and grab my little Marre from the Chinese paparazzi.
Of course, she was safe, and I went home that day realizing I was the proud father of the Eighth Wonder of the World. Or at least of China.
The Mousetrap
Last summer I took my family on vacation. Well, I should clarify. We went to Disney World. I had some shows in Orlando and Clearwater, so I figured I would take Jeannie and the kids to Disney. I’ll be a hero. Slam-dunk.
What I forgot was that Orlando in August is roughly the same temperature as the surface of the sun, and I don’t like going outside. What I also didn’t realize is that going to Disney as an adult is like standing in line at the DMV. The only real difference is that at
the DMV at least you leave with a driver’s license.
Remember when you went on vacation as a kid and you’d think to yourself, “Why is Dad always in a bad mood?” Well, now I understand. It’s amazing how much money it costs to be uncomfortable all day and listen to your children whine and complain. Yes, Disney is the “happiest place on earth” to a little kid, but it’s just too much stimulation. The rides, the characters, the parade, the ice cream, and the candy every ten feet. They can’t handle it. They turn into monsters. “I want … everything!”
Disney is not a vacation. To me the term “Disney Vacation” is equivalent to the term “Chuck E. Cheese Fine Dining.” A vacation means lying poolside under a very large umbrella and people bringing you frozen drinks. I don’t know how we justify calling most family trips “vacations.” Where is the logic? “We’ve worked very hard to make our life here at home as comfortable and convenient as possible, so to reward ourselves, let’s travel to somewhere we’ve never been and try to survive for a week.” Most trips have that moment of waking up in a strange, uncomfortable bed and asking yourself, “Now how do I get coffee?” Rest assured, the coffee will be bad. And expensive. But I digress. Back to Disney.
