Eight Is Waaay More Than Enough

What are you doing Dec. 8, 1999?

Just three weeks before the turn of the century.

Got any plans?

Want to go to a birthday party?

Want to see a child turn 1 year old?

Then come on, come fly with me.

I’m going to Houston.

I’m throwing the party.

I’m bringing the games.

I’m bringing the cakes.

You can help me carry the gifts.

I think we ought to be there for Iyke Udobi and Nkem Chukwu.

The most tired couple in Texas.

Iyke and Nkem . . .

. . . and their octuplets.

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Eight babies. These people had eight babies. This woman had eight babies. Not twins. Not triplets. Eight. Twins multiplied times four. One short of a baseball team. One short of a supreme court. An octet. The woman delivered eight kids. The first one was born Dec. 8. I think the last one came out, oh, last Thursday. I’m not sure. Maybe the woman’s not even done yet. Maybe she’s just taking a break.

Eight. Eight children, all at once. Born. Slapped on butt. Next. Born. Slapped on butt. Next. Born. Slapped on butt. Next. Et cetera, et cetera. Incredible. Impossible. What a miracle. If this were Bethlehem, they’d need a bigger manger.

Eight. A lady had eight infants inside her. A litter. The woman is multiparous. She’s the reigning international multiparous heavyweight champion. She belongs on the cover of Time. No, Life. No, People. No, Popular Mechanics.

Eight. An octonary event the likes of which we’ve never seen. It’s the biggest launching Houston’s ever seen. Eight births. Six girls, two boys. Good thing George Foreman’s not the father. He’d name them all George.

Eight. The Udobi octuplets. Why, it makes those Dionnes up in Canada seem like a family of underachievers. What’d they have--five? That all? A measly five? Quints, big deal. Try having octs.

Eight. Sixteen booties. Sixteen socks. A stroller with eight seats. If Mr. and Mrs. Udobi take their babies for a walk, he’ll be on the left side of the street, she’ll be on the right.

Eight. And meanwhile, back at the house: Eight cribs. Eight rattles. Eight bottles. Eight diapers. No, 16. No, 32. Eight voices, wailing. (Eight mouths, nursing?) Eight rug rats, crawling.

Eight. Poor Mom Udobi. Up to hold a baby at 2, 2:30, 3, 3:30, 4. . . .

Eight. Poor Pop Udobi. A nap from 4 to 4:05. Then “waaaah.” Another nap from 5 to 5:05. Then “waaaah.” Listening to the intercom. Covering his head with a pillow. Cursing the hated words: “Fisher-Price.”

Eight. And wait’ll a few years later. Eight tykes, eight trikes, eight bikes, eight of everything. Six dolls for the girls. The Barbie variety pak. Two toys for the boys. A pitcher’s mitt and a catcher’s mitt. Oh, and tickets to an Astros’ baseball game--10 tickets.

Eight. The Udobi Bunch. What were they thinking? Did they set out to have an instant brood? Had they watched “Eight Is Enough” on TV once too often? Were they looking for a shortcut so they wouldn’t need to wait till 2006 to have eight kids? Did they find an International House of Pancakes that offers 10% off to any family of 10 or more?

Eight. What kind of fertility drugs did this woman take? The industrial-strength kind? Did she swallow the whole bottle?

Eight. I still can’t believe it. I guess Iyke Udobi can’t either. “I’m stunned beyond belief,” the proud pop said Thursday. Yeah, that’s what happens when a doctor comes up to you and says: “It’s a boy. It’s a girl. It’s a girl. It’s a girl. It’s a girl. It’s a girl. It’s a girl. It’s a boy.”

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So, let’s go. Big birthday bash, next Dec. 8. Maybe I’ll rent out the Astrodome. Are you with me? Come on, let’s go watch “Sesame Street” with those Udobi moppets.

Hope they’re OK; they’re hanging on for dear life. The hospital says Mom Udobi is doing OK. Or I guess as OK as a woman can be after producing eight human beings.

Eight. If I got married and my wife had eight babies, I’d make her have four more husbands.

Eight. I’m exhausted, and they aren’t even mine.

Eight. Maternity and paternity for eternity.

I think the Udobi family is going to need a lot of our help at that first birthday party.

I’ll bring the cake and toys for the kids. You bring the Valium and straitjackets for the parents.

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Mike Downey’s column appears Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Write to him at Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles 90053. E-mail: mike.downey@latimes.com