Sick Puppy

The other night as we were preparing to attend Tiernan’s first Big Time college basketball game, the St. Peter’s College Peacocks vs. the Seton Hall Pirates. (FYI: My wife and I are SPC alumni.) We about to walk out the door, all decked out in our SPC gear, including Tiernan when the boy begins to vomit all over his new Saint Peter’s College t-shirt and, perhaps more importantly, the living room rug.
As my wife makes a mad dash for the cleaning products, I shepherd Tiernan into the bathroom, for another round of reverse yawning. I instruct him using gentle, soothing tones to aim the stream of yuckiness into the toilet. Because he is the quick study, that he is, he soon figures out how to aim his vomit and further mess is avoided.
After he finishes, after a few dry heaves and a thorough face washing, he looks up at me and says, “Daddy, What was that? What’d I do? What happened?” And then it dawned on me that this was the first time that he’s vomited as a conscious thinking sentient being. He’s only 2 and half, and this is the first time anything has forced itself out of his throat since he was an infant. Its the first time that he knows he’s getting sick.
I thought to myself, what a weird feeling that has to be. The poor little guy must be feeling like his body just played a trick on him. He was so sincere, “Daddy What happened? What did I do?” He wanted to understand what just happened and, thankfully, he wanted to know how to make it not happen again. All he knew was something weird just happened and it was not fun-weird.
I explained to him that he didn’t do anything wrong, and sometimes our bodies just get sick. Something goes wrong in our bellies and the only way to make it right is to shoot it out through our mouth. I told him that everybody gets sick. “Even Mommy and Daddy?” he asked. I said everybody gets sick, even Maggie our puppy gets sick.
After that little episode he seemed to feel much better. However, we never made to the basketball game, though. Just as well, St. Peter’s got beat pretty bad.

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The Police and the Halloweenie

It is Halloween, and its going much as I suspected it would. Tiernan doesn’t want to put on his costume, and he is being a real brat about it. Carrying on, throwing fits and tantrums. And my wife, who took the day off from work for the festivities finally, pulls out one of the old tricks in the Parent Trick Bag. She says, “If you are not a good boy, the police are going to come and arrest you!!”
Have I mentioned somewhere in this blogsphere, that Tiernan loves “COPS”, not necessary actual police officers, but the show COPS. From the time Tiernan was 24 months old, we let him watch COPS. Now, some might call it a lapse of judgement, but we prefer to call an early Actions-Have-Consequences and Bad People Go to Jail/ Lesson. For more on the COPS thing, check out an earlier blog on the subject.
The policeman’s coming threat works every time. Every parent has used “the Police will come and get you” line. And if you haven’t you should consider it, because A.) it works and B.) it instills a healthy respect for the boys in blue and C.) it works every time. I have seen Moms at the mall use it and all the other parents look around and give each other a knowing grin. Some even join in the lie, “Say, do I hear sirens?”
So, we’ve finally, got everybody’s Halloween costume on. Tiernan, a handsome and brave Sir Knight complete with helmet and sword and Reagan, a green and purple Dragon complete with wings. Nobody ever mentioned to Tiernan that knights slay dragons. And if they did, we never told him what slaying means.
Everybody is dressed and everybody looks cute. As we walk out the door, one of the town’s police cars is driving by the house. The officer sees the two kids in costume and backs up and pulls in front of the house. Tiernan sees the cop car stopping and the policeman getting out and coming toward the house. The boy freaks out in a total full-on state of toddler hysteria, tears, read face, shaking, stomping of feet. “No, Mommy, No, I’ll be good.” My wife and I, start reassuring Tiernan that its OK and he’s a good boy. The poor cop, who is the local DARE, anti-drug officer just wants to do some community relations and give the cute kids some candy on Halloween doesn’t know what to do. He’s thinking, “What the heck did I do? Do I keep going or get back in the car and drive away?”
Eventually, everything is settled down and the brave sir knight and the dragon made their rounds and collected a whole bunch of candy which was then passed up the line to me in tribute for my benevolent Kingship. When it comes to Halloween candy, we all must tithe to the boss. It is good to be the king, even if it makes me a Halloweenie.

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Share and Share Alike

The hardest part about having two kids, is not the juggling act – not attempting to provide the same level of attention or care to both kids, that is easy. Not the sleepless nights associated with a eight month-old’s teething. Not the juggling the different dietary needs of the little ones. Not the extra laundry. The hardest part of having two kids is getting the older one to share. And not just his own toys, but his sister’s toys.
  Anything that Reagan picks up to explore is soon swatted out of her hands to a chorus of, “Hey, that’s mine.” Anything. No matter if it’s a Thomas train or a plush dolly or an Matchbox car or a building block, or Pooh or Pigglet. Everything is his. He can be totally engrossed in whatever he’s doing and not even realize that his sister is in the room. But if he looks up from the train that he’s been meticulously constructing and sees that Reagan has something in her hand and a smile on her face -- Tiernan feels that it is his duty to remove both of them.
  I am tired of telling him to share. “You have to share your toys.” “You have to share your stuff.” “Reagan, can play with that you are playing with your trains.” “Give that back to her and say you’re sorry.” “Say you’re sorry.” “Give it back.” “Don’t take that from her.” “If you touch a toy that Reagan is playing with again, I will throw away one of your toys.” “You have to share.” “You have to share.” “You have to share.” “You have to share.” “You must share.” “You must share!” “YOU MUST SHARE!!!!!”
  It is baffling to me, because Tiernan is really good at sharing when it comes to other people. He understands that if we’re on the playground and he has two toys and another child comes over and wants to play, he should give one toy to his new friend. And he does. He is willing to share on the playground with strangers, but with his sister, he refuses to share his stuff.
  In his defense, most of the stuff was at one point his and only his. Most of the “baby toys” were toys that he played with at Reagan’s age. Now, he has moved on to bigger and better toys, but any time the girls touches a toy, there he is asserting his ownership rights.
  This must be the beginnings of a sibling rivalry. One of my biggest fears about having two kids was handling sibling stuff. As an only child it is hard for me to grasp how Tiernan feels about his sister and vice-versa when it comes to things like parental attention, playing favorites, and sharing space and the world with a rival. Now, I am trying to find a way to bring peace to the chaos, and allow Reagan to same opportunity to explore and learn that Tiernan, when it came to toys and experiences.
  I was always both amazed and very proud of the way Tiernan developed. And to pat myself on the back, I was proud of job that myself and my wife did in guiding him on his journey as he developed to skills to make advanced development possible. I want Reagan to have the same skill set.  Sometimes I think that I worry too much about whether Reagan is getting the right experiences and doing all the things that are necessary to develop the skills she needs to take the next steps.
  Is my need to keep Tiernan happy, active, healthy and safe, and the attention that is required to keep him from hurting himself detracting from the attention that Reagan needs to develop the skills she needs for the next three months? Or does the presence of an older sibling and the things that can be learned from watching her brother, compensate for the parental attention diverted by a need to be responsible for two children? In other words, will she learn more from her brother than from me? And if that is the case, should I spend more time worrying about raising Tiernan, since he will be a big factor in developing her future skills? Which brings me back to how to I get Tiernan to share, his toys and his knowledge with Reagan?
 

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Tripping Over Milestones

It has been awhile since I’ve had the time gather my thoughts and put them in blog form. Here are some of the things you, gentle reader, have missed.
Reagan, the daughter, is no longer a pagan. She became a member of the Roman Catholic Church Aug. 20, in a lovely baptismal ceremony that she completely slept through, including the water being poured on her head. And like many Catholics, she hasn’t been back to church since. In fairness to her, we were away on vacation for two Sundays, away visiting her grandfather another and she was sick last Sunday.
In other developments, Reagan is also no longer stationary. She crawls!!!! And she’s fast and getting faster. She crawls, she sits up, she pulls herself up on tables, she crawls up and down the step to the den, she tries to crawl off the changing table, and this development is perhaps the biggest reason why I have not had the chance to write a blog entry. As ESPN’s Dan Patrick says, “You can’t stop her. You can only hope to contain her.”
In another de-velop-ing sit-ua-tion, to paraphrase Bill Pidto another ESPNer. Reagan has sprouted teeth, two teeth in her bottom gum, and she is currently cutting a few more, which means she is both mobile and unhappy, and wet. The arrival of teeth is heralded by the opening of the drool floodgates. The poor little girl’s chin and neck are always damp.
While the fact that she is crawling and pulling herself up on tables and couches is great, however, she still has not figured out how to fall, or that certain actions will result in falling. So, she falls and hits her head on the rug quite a bit which means there is a crying factor involved. Kids fall and hit their heads, until they acquire the skills to break their fall, or get used to the feeling of falling. I don’t think the crying is from the contact as much from the shock and the feeling of helplessness that come with a fall. As adults falling can be unsettling, for an infant, falling must feeling like skydiving.
I suspect the thought progression is something like this, “Look at me, hanging on the couch with one hand. This is cool. Whoa! Whoa! I am falling, I am falling. BANG. Hey, that wasn’t cool. I’m hurt. My head, I am hurt. I must let out an audible cry so the big creature that feeds and cleans me will know that I may be badly hurt and in need of serious medical attention. WHAAAA!!!! WHAAAA!!! Hey, wait a minute. If I open my eyes and look around, I am only inches from where I was prior to the fall. And the cry seems to have a clearing affect on my head and I no longer feel that pain I felt a second ago. That didn’t hurt that much at all. Oh wait, here comes that large male caregiver. I better make it look as though I am really hurt, otherwise he’ll ignore my cries in the future. Whaaaa!!! Lungs: breath harder, short breaths. Eyes: make with the tears. Not too many just enough to show him that we mean business. OK, he’s picked me up, and is consoling me. Yes, the soft pats on my back make me feel much better. Resume normal breathing. Stop crying and end the tear production. OK he’s putting us back on the rug. Excellent. All functions operating normally, now where is that couch I was climbing on?”
Now, the den is stocked with at least 15,000 various in sundry toys that, you think would appeal to a creature with a developing — if not already keen interest in all things bright and shiny. Objects created to stimulate just such a mind. But these toddler jewels, go unnoticed by little Reagan. What is she attracted to? The step up to the living room. And developing her own ability to navigate up and down said step. As an experienced parent, I know that a 7 month old spending her day playing on a step will eventually end with a trip to the emergency room. Maybe not the first day but, if you allow this behavior to continue, and you throw in an overactive older brother by the end of the week you get a baby with a permanent scar. And nobody wants that, especially on a little girl. You might be able to get away with it on a little boy, because chicks dig scars, but not a beautiful little princess.
So to avoid the permanent scar, I adopted the Ottoman Doctrine. Which means that we place a small ottoman, which fills up half the doorway and fill the other half with large throw pillows, thus creating an padded obstacle for the infant, and path for the rest of the family. The Ottman Doctrine is only a temporary fix, because by this time next week, Reagan will have the ability and will to climb the pillow hill and gain unabated access to the rest of the house. However, the Ottoman Doctrine prevents a trip to the emergency room and possible visit from Child Services.
Speaking of the emergency room, I had my first trip to the ER as a parent. The week before vacation, Tiernan developed Pink Eye. It started with a green ooze from his left eye and a trip to the pediatrician proved useless as it was misdiagnosed as a the body’s natural cleansing of a piece of sand in the eye. However, when the other eye started oozing ectoplasm I knew we had larger problem. After a nap, Tiernan could not get his eyes open as a result of being caked closed. And then after they were pried open, he said he could not see. So, we went up the ER at HUMC.
There is such a thing as a pediatric ER. A whole ER with separate waiting rooms, patient rooms, and procedure rooms just for the little ones. Complete with TVs in each room. It was I dare say a pleasure. No dealing with scary old people with old people sounds, fluids and smells. No stabbing victims, no gunshot wounds, it was very nice. Toys and books for the kids to keep them occupied while they wait. If you have kids and they need medical attention and you are in the HUMC area stop in. You won’t be disappointed.
The folks at HUMC prescribed some drops and the Pink Eye was banished in a matter of days, with out further infection to other family members. Another victory in the war on germs.
There are three basic rules of parenting. I mean the bare bones of being a parent are made up of these three tenets:
1.) Avoid Death. Keep your kids alive. It doesn’t get more basic than that.
2.) Avoid The ER. This is closely linked to no. 1., but can be harder to follow. But, it is your duty to do your best to keep your child out of the emergency room. I am not saying that a trip to the emergency room equals bad parenting, but if this is your third trip because you child keeps playing with fire and burning himself, you might want to rethink your approach to parental supervision.
3.) Avoid The Permanent Scar. Again closely related to Nos. 1 & 2, but harder to avoid. Everybody has permanent scarring somewhere, at some time in life well lived the body becomes deformed somehow, either through an act of God or an act of foolishness. It is you duty as a parent, to ensure that the later does not happen to your child while in your care. If stepping over a throw pillow 20 times a-day, can help stop your little girl from breaking her nose before she’s a year old, throw the pillow down and step around.

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"What's That, Dad?"

Yeah, its Sept. 11. I spent most of the morning fighting back tears. I woke up and looked out the window at 7:10 a.m. saw that it was a beautiful crystal blue sky and said, “The weather is just like five years ago.”
I watched the beginning of the reading of the names ceremony and quickly had to flip to something else. The kids were great. Tiernan was in the den playing with his toys and occasionally watching Noggin. He’s just trying to figure out why Daddy is walking around the house wiping his eyes and mumbling “fucking bastards” under his breath.
Reagan was with me in the nook just hanging out, literally hanging from the Baby Bjorn, the handsfree device that allows the child to hang from you chest and keeps parental hands free. The American Indians called it a papoose.
As I flipped through the channels, MSNBC was replaying the coverage from Sept. 11 as it happened, in real time in 2006. And, since I had never seen it, because I was working that day, I could not tear away from it. I watched the first tower fall and as the second tower collapsed. I was full of sorrow and anger and pain, with tears streaming down my face. As I watch the smoke and dust fill lower Manhattan, Tiernan walks in, looks that the TV and says, “What’s that, Dad?” Then he looks at me and says, “Are you OK?”
For a moment I had to try to figure out what to say to him. Finally, I said, “I am fine. It is just a very sad day,” then between choking back sobs I said, “five years ago, before you were born, a bunch of bad men did a very bad thing and a lot of people were hurt.”
The tragedy that is 9-11 continues to find new ways to infuriate me. First and foremost is all those lives cut short and all the victims families that have to carry on.
Next, is the loss of innocence. As I said earlier, it was a beautiful day. And I can never wake to a beautiful morning without thinking, “This is the type of day in was Sept. 11, 2001.” These fucking bastards have tainted one of Gods most precious gifts, a beautiful day.
Next, is the emptiness in the New York skyline. I loved to look at the World Trade Center. It was a testament of mans genius, an engineering marvel. They were beautiful buildings. Another gift from God taken from us.
Now, for the first time, I had to explain this barbarism, this senseless slaughter of innocents and innocence to my 2 year old son. That is something I should not have to do. Thankfully, he is still too young to understand any of this, beyond, bad men did bad things. But, eventually, I will have to tell him and my precious daughter what happened five years ago.
How do you explain it to a preteen child? A bunch of men hijacked a plane. “Daddy, what does hijack mean?” Well, it means that they took control of the plane. They bullied everybody into letting them fly where they wanted the plane to fly. And then they flew the planes so that they would crash into buildings. “These men forced the pilots to crash into buildings? What about the other passengers, Daddy?” Well, pumpkin, the hijackers killed the pilots and flew the planes themselves.
The act that I have just described is almost too much for the brain the process. Men took control of planes full of people, killed the pilots, and crashed the planes on purpose. Try to forget for a moment that almost 3,000 people died in the buildings. Just getting your head around the first part of this terrible event is difficult. “Why, daddy?” Because they don’t like Americans. “Why not, daddy?”
You see where this is going, right. I am not sure I have answers to the questions that my kids will eventually ask me. And the very idea that I have answer these questions pisses me off and steels my resolve and feeds my hatred of these bastards.
For now, bad men did bad things. And I picked up my 2 year old son and hugged him and told him that I loved him. And he hugged his 7 month old sister and looked at me and said, “Dad, lets go to the park.” And we went to the park and moved on. Soon the only person crying was Dylan, the redhead that cries when he doesn’t get his way and doesn’t know how to share.

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Carry-On Baggage

For a half-hour last Wednesday night the weather and the mosquitoes cooperated and allowed my two year old, Tiernan, and I to sit out on the deck and watch the airplanes.  Tiernan is going through an airplane phase. He’s very interested in planes. And he’s lucky, because we live almost directly under the landing path of two major airports. We are a stone’s throw from Teterboro and about 10 miles from Newark Liberty International. For a kid who loves airplanes, we live in a target rich environment.
  It was kind of magical. We were having a great time. I was having fun, looking at the planes and telling Tiernan what planes were going where. “Planes going East or that way,” I would point toward the front of the house, “are going to Teterboro. They fly that way and turn in the sky then fly over Grandma and Grandpa’s house and come around and land at Teterboro Airport.” And Tiernan would get all excited. Then a big jet would fly south on approach to Newark. “That one is going to land at Newark,” I’d say and then I would quiz Tiernan, “Where is that plane going?” and he would answer either Newark or Teterboro.
  Then I started to teach him about directions, North, South, East, and West. He was very interested, he didn’t quite get it, which is understandable since it was the first time he was learning about directions.
  Then Tiernan would spy a plane that was way up in the stratosphere and ask me where that plane was going. And I would say, “Oh, that one way up there is going North and may be going to maybe Boston or Montreal in Canada.” He would point to other planes flying too high to be landing anywhere nearby. “That one might be flying to Europe, probably London’s Heathrow Airport or Dublin Airport or Shannon Airport in Ireland,” I’d say.
  It was a Father/Son moment. Guy stuff. Talking about flying machines and directions. I remember thinking that I have always had a great sense of direction, and I wonder if he is going to be blessed in the same way. It was just another daddy fantasy, playing “The I Wonder If Game.”
  And more than just guy stuff. It was a special moment in time. Tiernan was enthralled and listening to every word and paying attention. I wasn’t being discipline daddy, I was just hanging out being Dad. I was able to look at airplanes in a different way, to see them through his eyes, as these great cool machines that fly through the air. I was able to get into his head and try to ask the questions that he had but couldn’t speak just yet. It allowed to view planes as an innocent child again. To see them as magical machines that make cool noise and can soar like birds.
  It was the first time that I looked at an airliner as a just a plane and not a weapon that may kill me since 9/11. On that faithful Tuesday in 2001, I was walking across Fifth Ave to my office in Greenwich Village, a block north of Washington Square, when I heard an airline flying very, very low behind me. By the time I turned around it was behind the buildings and I couldn’t see it. But, I remember saying to the stranger that was passing me, “That is not good. That guy is flying too low.”  And I continued walking to me office, and as I sat down at my desk, my phone rang and my wife called to tell me that a plane had just slammed into the World Trade Center. After that, I went back downstairs and walked back to Fifth Ave, where I could get a great view of the Towers. And while I was watching the North Tower burn, the second airline hit. I couldn’t see the plane, I just saw the huge fireball. And I knew that none of this was an accident and my world was about to change. And the feeling of security and innocence in America was gone.
  After the attacks, every time I looked up at a jet liner, I thought is that the next one to kill thousands? Every time the big jets on approach to Newark would alter their flaps or reduce engine power creating a strange noise, I would get a jolt of adrenaline. Look up and prepare to run. In the years since the attacks, the thoughts of airliners as death machines had diminished, but if I stared at a plane flying across the sky for too long. It would stir up all those 9/11 feelings, the anger, the fear, the heartache. And I would stop looking at the plane and concentrate on something else and go about my business.
  So last Wednesday, Tiernan and I watching the planes fly by and I am enjoying the father/son moment, and I didn’t have a single feeling of dread or fear. The evening was so nice and cool, the sky was so clear, and the excitement that Tiernan was exhibiting was so innocent, the combination chased the ghosts of 9/11 from my psyche. Eventually, it got too dark and late and it was time for Tiernan to go to bed.
  As I drifted off to sleep, I remember thinking that it was pretty cool night. My son and I shared a moment. That is the payoff for being a parent and since the weather was supposed to stay cool and clear, maybe we’d be able to do it again the next night.
  I woke up to the television telling me that the British authorities had disrupted a planned terrorist attack involving the blowing apart of 10 airliners from  London’s Heathrow Airport bound for America. I thought, this is a joke right. These Bastards have managed to taint a memory of my spending time with my son, as he marveled at the magic of flight. Now, I will never be able to look back on our night of plane watching without thinking about the thwarted plot. Thank God, that they weren’t able to pull of the attacks. However, the plot had its victims, just as my innocence was beginning to get off the canvas after being knocked down on 9/11, just as it was being helped up to one knee by the purity of a child, these bastards, came along again and punched it in the back of the head. And once again, in my psyche, planes are not magical vehicles, but vehicles of murder.
  Thankfully, Tiernan is too young to comprehend terrorism and the dangers of air travel. To a two-year-old every plane is cool. It is only the adults that carry the extra baggage that can never be checked. Unfortunately, it is a carry-on that I may never be able to put down.

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No Autographs, Please

Your humble Poop Truck driver is a minor, very minor celebrity in the small world of stay-at-home moms and dads. Back in May, I was interviewed for an article about stay-at-home dads in Bergen County to appear in Bergen Health & Life magazine. It was nice interview and there was even a photo shoot with me and the kids. They sent a team of photographer type people to snap some shots of Daddio and Tiernan and Reagan.
  It was all very exciting, but I’d all but forgotten about it. Until, I walked into Gymobree on Tuesday with Reagan, and the Diane, the Gymobree site manager, calls to, “Kevin! Kevin! Look!!!” and she points to the bulletin board and there is the article with a full page picture of me and the kids as the opening to the story.
  I read the story, which was very well done by writer Jeff Iorio and even I am impressed with how smart I sound when quoted. For those of you that don’t subscribe to Bergen Life & Health, (of which I am one, in fact I’d never even heard of the magazine before the being asked to do the interview) I am told that you can probably pick it up at Barns & Noble, provided that I didn’t come in and buy up all their copies myself.
  In other news: Tiernan has crossed what is, in my opinion, a major threshold in his development and just in time for foot ball season.
  He has gained enough strength in his arms or learned to leverage his weight in such a way that he can open the refrigerator door. I noticed him do this earlier this week and Wednesday, while I was feeding Reagan her rice/gruel and applesauce Tiernan wanted some cheese. So, I told him to open the refrigerator and get the cheese and bring it to me and I would open the package for him. He did so, without making a mess or doing anything else that would earn him a Time Out.
   Now, he will be able to get me a beer while the game is on. Life is getting better.
 

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Gateway to Another Universe

Tuesday was a pretty big day milestone-wise.
    Reagan began to crawl. She didn’t actually crawl and she won’t win any races, in fact, she won’t even get far from the gate, but she began to put all the movements together to begin crawling. We were at Gymboree and she really wanted to get to the small orange ball. She worked so hard, concentrated so intently to get her body to obey her will, it was an honor to watch. She only moved an inch to an inch-and-a-half at most, but she did it by herself. She was drooling so much that the mat around her was all wet with saliva, which all part of her brilliant plan to make the mat nice and slippery so that she would move easier, just kind of greasing the wheels of progress. She was so intense, holding her head up so high and trying to get her hands and feet to propel her forward for about seven long minutes and then she dropped her head and let out a cry, that said, “Damnit! I just can’t do this anymore!” She struggled so valiantly that it made me so proud.
  Which brings us to a small victory in another valiant struggle, a small battle was won, Tuesday night, in the struggle to get Tiernan to use the potty. Tiernan went pee on the potty last night, for the first time in six months. He did it once night back in January, (It was an anomaly in the universe) but has since steadfastly resisted using the potty insisting on soiling himself and being perfect content to wallow in it all day if allowed.
   However, Mom and Dad have new ammunition and Tiernan has a new incentive to rethink his position on the potty, the Swim Club. The boy loves going to the pool, and as a result, we have been going to the pool almost everyday. We go in the afternoon after naptime and when the Sun has lost some power. For those of you who don’t know, he’s a white boy and if he’s anything like his Dad, he will fry like an egg in the mid-day Sun.
   In this town full of Italians, his white skin and blonde hair make him look like an albino in the pool. All the other kids have this nice dark toned olive skin as they frolic in the pool, and there is Tiernan with his shirt on and a big ol’ wide brimmed hat, with his sun block coated alabaster arms and legs hanging out. All the other kids are like 10 shades darker.
   For all the Sun protection, he loves going to the pool. Dad on the other hand, can take it or leave it. As a kid, I loved going swimming just like Tiernan. However, the pool has lost its siren song for me. However, for some reason, Tiernan believes that the gate to the pool is the gateway to another universe. It’s like once we walk through that portal, hand our membership badge to the attendant and all the rules in his universe that are in place just three feet on the other side of the gate no longer apply, because he does not listen to me. He just goes crazy.
  A quick backstory, the vacation house we rented last year, had a foosball table. You know foosball, men with poles through the midsection playing soccer, except foosball is twice as much fun to watch as soccer, and ten times more fun to play. Well, on vacation Tiernan would spend much time “playing” foosball. He would just play with the table, turn the handles, move the men, kick the ball. He didn’t play foosball, he just kinda messed around with it, which is what 18 month-olds do.
  Guess, what his second favorite thing to do at the swim club is? You got it, mess around with the foosball table, which is four steps inside the gate. So, he messes around with it as soon as we arrive and on the way out. He doesn’t care how many kids or adults are there playing, he goes up and messes with it. And will not listen to me, when I tell him not too.  I hate it because I have to drag him away from it, while carrying Reagan in the car seat, (which by the way continues to gain weight) and the “pool bag,” which is equipped with towels, sun block, play buckets and that ilk. Plus, it is right there at the entrance, so there is always folks milling about to watch to show. I hate it. The whole place knows the kid’s name because Daddy is saying over and over again and my volume gets louder every time I say it. It’s like I herald our arrival and departure by calling “Tiernan, Tiernan, Tiernan, TIERNAN!!!” 
   He is generally a well-behaved child. Even one of his girlfriends/lifeguards said, “He is so good. He shares the toys so well and is always happy.” All of which is true. He listens, is polite and generally does not have to be dragged kicking and screaming from situations, except in the swim club. The rules of his universe outside that portico do not apply. It is a gateway to another universe.
  However, the universe that is the swim club has its own set of rules and one of these new rules have forced him to reconsider the potty thing. He loves the baby pool, but he really wants to get into the big pool. And that is the new wrinkle in the potty battle, for to swim in the big pool all swimmers must be diaper free.
  He wants to get into the big pool so badly, he has tried to talk one of the older girls, the four or five year-olds that can go in the big pool but still like to play in the baby pool. He has a bevy of babes that dote on him when he’s in the pool. He tried to talk this one little girl, Madison, into taking him into the big pool. He would take her by the hand and pull her towards the gate while pointing and saying, “big pool.”  His thought process was, “If she can play in the baby pool and the big pool, why can’t I?” For a day or two he thought that Madison was his ticket to the big pool.
  Another time, someone left the gate to the baby pool open and he seized the opportunity to take off like a bat out of hell toward the big pool. There is the little blonde flash running like mercury, and here comes Daddio sprinting after him making the ground shake with each step, yelling, “Stop” at the top of my lungs. I was able to corral him about three feet from the edge of the pool, to a smattering of applause from the folks at poolside. Had I been closer to them, I feel I would have garnered more than one pat on the back and even a few “Ataboys.”
   I swear if I didn’t get him he was going to jump right in the pool. That little episode earned him big ol’ time out. And the rest of the swim club membership got a glimpse of my world-class speed. Needless to say, nobody has challenged me to any footraces. They know talent when it shakes the Earth.
In a sense, the Swim Club, specifically the big pool is going to be a gateway to another universe for Tiernan. If getting into the big pool is his motivation for getting potty trained more of the world will open up to him. Once potty trained he can be enrolled in pre-school, which will certainly open things up for a soon-to-be three-year-old. So, while Tiernan may perceive the pool as a lawless place where anything goes. He understands that there is one big law, no diapers in the big pool. And while he doesn’t know it yet, by trying to comply with law it will ultimately give him more freedom and opportunity down the road.
I for one am all for that. Do you know what preschool means? Three to four hours without him three times a week. Party time for Daddio. I might even be able to go swimming.
 

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Milestones and Meltdowns

I love being a Dad. I know that sometimes I can come off sounding like it is one big pain in the butt, which it can be, but for the most part being a Dad is the greatest job in the world and here’s a few reasons why:
1. Milestones: I get to see all of them and they are cool. Reagan has been able to turn over for like three weeks now. She is going to be crawling by August. Reagan has also joined the rest of the family and is eating cereal now. I started giving her some cereal mixed with formula last week and she has really taken to it. The girl likes to eat.
2. Being Protector: We just had a big thunderstorm blow through here, complete with lots of lighting and loud thunder claps and windblown rain. Tiernan is afraid of thunder. It gives you a great feeling when you toddler comes running to you when he or she is afraid. Reagan slept right through the storm by the way.
3. Being Missed: There was a rare occurrence this week, when three of my grade school buddies and I were able to get together for a few drinks at the hometown watering hole. It was great to get together with guys I’ve known since I was 10 for a few hours. After about an hour of sitting at the bar BSing with the boys, my cell phone rings. Its Tiernan obviously crying, “Da-di. Where …you?” Jean informs me that he has been in meltdown mode since I left. I assure him that I am fine and I will be home shortly. Then 35 minutes later, the phone rings again. Tiernan is crying more violently this time, “Da-(sniff)di, where (sob, sniff) you?”
  I turn to my buddies, “Guys, I gotta go. My son misses me.” So, I race home to comfort the little tyke, full of pride that the little guy misses me. Of course, once I get home, I discover that he fell asleep right after I got off the phone with him. I could have stayed at the bar and he’d never known the difference. The sacrifices we make for our kids.
4. Greetings: Once you are a parent, you are almost assured of getting a great greeting when you walk in the door after being away for awhile. I love the greetings Tiernan gives my wife when she gets home from work. “I’m home,” says Jean as she walks in the door and Tiernan looks at me in delight and surprise and says, “Mommy’s home” and goes running to give her a hug.
   I especially love those greetings when it has been a day like today, when both kids were one nerve away from being placed in the playpen and forced to fight each other to the death for my amusement.
Reagan was inconsolable for most of the afternoon. She would not eat, she would not sleep, she would not shut up. Tiernan wanted to do nothing but eat and drink. Every 5 seconds. “Daddy, cheese, Daddy” or “Daddy, juice. Juice Daddy, Daddy, juice. Ap-bul juice” or “Daddy carrots.” And when the demands were not for snacks or juice it was for a new television show. “Daddy, Caillou. Daddy, Mickey over. Daddy, Bob, no Thomas. No Bob. Daddy, Bob over.”
Plus, he’s doing headstands on the couch and jumping and practicing gymnastics moves, by flinging his legs around dangerously close to his little sister. The afternoon was just a constant barrage of requests for service and admonitions to “sit still for 5 minutes, please!” all the while Reagan is screaming in my ear and I am trying to get dinner ready. At one point, I actually yelled, “Calgon, Take me away!” but it didn’t work. I was ready for my own meltdown.
  Jean walked in and Tiernan ran up and gave her a hug, and she walked over to me sitting on the couch holding Reagan who is yelling and crying and pushing the pacifier away and causing general upheaval, and Jean knew with one look that it had been a long afternoon. I love being a Dad. No really, I love being a Dad.

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A Lie Agreed Upon (I Hope)

Is it morally reprehensible to lie to your child? I don’t mean fun lies like the Great Santa Scam, I mean the little lies that make a parent’s life easier. I am talking about the lies that grease the wheels of progress and move the day along. Is that good parenting or is it hijacking your moral compass in the name of selfishness?
  Last week, the gang and I went to the mall in search of a plush Mickey Mouse, (See previous post for more on Tiernan’s obsession with the Mouse.)and I pulled off a minor miracle and told a bold faced lie to my son. It was an absolute fabrication and I repeated it two or three times.
  I will elaborate on the lie in moment, but first some background. Prior to discovering America’s 78-year-old icon of rodent wholesomeness, Tiernan was obsessing on England’s 62-year-old icon of utility, everybody’s favorite “really useful engine” Thomas the Tank Engine.
  Mickey, being almost 20 years older, is a little savvier and has had a store devoted exclusively to all things mousey for a number of years. Thomas just recently marketing and promotion superhighway with the opening of Thomas World, almost directly across the mall from the Disney Store. Prior to succumbing to the charms of the world’s best known rodent, the boy only cared about visiting the Thomas store.
  Oh, the Thomas store, a.k.a. Thomas World, it is the shell of an old Motherhood Maternity store that has been stocked with all things Thomas, from maps of the Island of Sodor to toy trains, from both the die-cast and wooden (more expensive) sets, to clothing and other various and sundry items, like stickers, toothbrushes, watches, pens, night lights, beds, bedding, etc. You get the picture, if it has a Thomas the Tank Engine license it can be found in this store.
   The peseta résistance is the Official Thomas the Tank Engine Playtable, which is stocked with just enough loose wooden trains to create an environment ripe for various displays of toddler jealousy, including; the “mine” syndrome, the “you play over there with the broken tanker car, you are too young to play with Thomas” syndrome, and my personal favorite; the “Sir Topham Hat syndrome,” in which one child decides that he or she is in charge of who can play at the table and what child can touch what train. All of which is just layers in the crescendo that builds to an “I don’t want to go” tantrum, which can lead to the bribing technique in which is child is bribed with a purchase of some sort of Thomas propaganda, i.e. a new train, a bed etc. (Never in my case however, but I’ve heard tale of such occurrences.)
  Since Thomas World is like a black hole in space, sucking in unsuspected parents and their toddlers often not releasing them until a cash sacrifice has been offered. I call that the Sodor Sacrifice.  That sort of meltdown inducing, parent manipulating experience has a way of embedding in the memory of every toddler who visits and, as such, avoiding Thomas World is something deeply desired by parents. It is the kind of place not spoken of, as in “Let’s try to avoid the T-H-O-M-A-S store if possible,” because like Saruon, the mere invocation of the name can change a toddler from a happy, proud and content kid, to screaming, begging, whining lump of tears and snots.
  The lie.
  We were walking through the mall and Tiernan’s Thomas train sense must have been dulled by an overdose of Mouse poison because I saw Thomas World before he did and I was able to distract his attention away from the fact that the store was to our right and break free of the gravitational pull and spirit him into the Disney Store. We made our Disney purchase and were about to leave and I once again managed to stay free of the Thomas World tractor beam and scurry past the store. As we got two feet past the Thomas store Tiernan said, “Go to Thomas store.”
 And I said, “Do you see it?”
 And he said, “no.”
 And I lied. “I don’t see it either.” And I told another lie, “Maybe it closed down.”
 Tiernan said, “Thomas store closed down”
 I said, “I haven’t seen it.” I had. I lied again and I kept lying, but I enjoyed my trip to the mall. I avoided the Thomas store tantrum and I avoid making the Sodor Sacrifice.
  But at what cost? Have I also sacrificed my morals? Has the Satan of Sodor managed to erode the bedrock of my principals just a little and won a significant battle? Please gentle reader, (And I know there is only one of you) please help me through my crisis of conscience. For I can not go back to the mall until I resolve this, I like the mall.

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Love the Sinner, Hate the Sin

I consider myself a good Catholic, most of the time. I am not the poster boy for Catholicism, but, I am a good person, most of the time. I hold to the Ten Commandments and do my best allow Jesus’ light to shine through me. Perhaps my biggest transgression is not keeping holy the Lord’s Day.
I have never been a big fan of going to church. Maybe it it is the perceived hypocrisy of the congregation that has put me off. The idea of loving thy neighbor while judging and condemning them for their attire or the behavior of their kids. A sin I will easily admit to being guilty of as much as any Holy Roller Church Pillar type. Judging people in church can be a kind of sport for me. However, I feel that I am just doing what everybody else in the building is doing, making assumptions and judgments.
Or maybe it is the conditioned state of fear of misbehaving and being judged by God while under his roof, which makes me rather spend the hour reading the Sunday paper. The Mass has always left me feeling further away from God than prior to going. I always felt closer to God while walking through the woods, looking at beautifully designed and constructed building, listening to music that truly stirred me, or in the healing touch of a loved one.
  And now that I am a father of two little ones, the experience of going to Mass on Sunday has become gut-wrenchingly comical. Obviously, an infant like Reagan, my five-month old, gets a pass in the behavior department – to her, hunger and discomfort are reasons to cry regardless of the location. It is what babies do. As I have said before, God may love napping babies, but He also has a soft spot for babies that cry during Mass and parents with the smarts to know when to say enough is enough, and remove the crying baby from the congregation.
  Reagan the Pagan has not been Christened yet, and this Sunday the priest asked everyone that had been baptized to raise their hands. I raised my hand, Jean raised her hand and instructed Tiernan to do likewise. I pointed at Reagan and in a low silly Daddy voice said, “Don’t you raise your hand. You’re not baptized yet.”
That comment was greeted by a giggling belly laugh from my five-the month old pagan. My wife gives me a look that says, “What the heck are you doing to her?” I shrug my shoulders and mouth, “Nothing.” I look back to Reagan and she starts laughing like crazy again. By now, everyone for five rows is investigating the laughing infant. So, I put my finger to my mouth and say, “Shhhhh.” This only fuels the fire and the laughter erupts louder. At this point, she just has to work herself through the giggles, so I stop looking at her. All is quiet.
  Tiernan, however is another story. He is old enough to understand that he must act a certain way. He isn’t old enough to understand why, but he can understand that different rules apply when we are in church. And for the most part he is well behaved in church. He acts up and gets a bit out hand, and at point we just leave, but 80 percent of the time is a good boy. He just wants to go back to a place where he fully understands the rules and one day, he told us as much. As the priest was consecrating the host, Tiernan says clear as a bell for all to hear, “All done,” indicating that he is all done with church and wishes to go home a play with his trains.
  He spends much of his time in Mass flirting. He flirts with old ladies. He flirts with teenage girls. He flirts with toddler girls. He flirts with awkward girls in their Tweens, (that ages 8-12 for those of you not up on your demographic lingo. Girls not quite teenagers but sophisticated enough to be willing to pay big bucks for in-style jeans, tees and other merchandise that marketers are jamming down their throats.)
He flirts with everyone. He’s charmed many an octogenarian during Mass. He smiles and lets a little twinkle fly from his eyes and women that can barely walk, are pushing their walkers aside to bend down and crawl under the pews to retrieve the toy he just “dropped” in their direction. You can’t teach that kind of talent and I don’t think he got it from his father.
    In an effort to get a better look at one of his girlfriends, he put down the kneeler, on my foot. At first I thought it was just him standing on my foot and then he stepped up on the kneeler and drove the base of the kneeler deeper into my foot, at which point I let out a muffled but audible, “Ouch!!!!” in a stage whisper loud enough to be heard up on the altar. My pain is met by smiles and laughter from the boy.
    He spends the remainder of Mass time, playing with his toys or flipping through the missal books, and crawling on the pew behind me in an effort to get his sister to start to giggling again.
   In recent weeks, he’s taken a keen interest in Communion. At first, as we would go up for communion, Tiernan would just say, “Me too,” as my wife and I would receive. However, this week, he became more aggressive in pursuit of the Host. Jean was carrying him and as the priest reached out to place the wafer on her tongue, Tiernan says, “Me too,” and attempts to grab it out of the priest’s hand. Mom and Dad are mortified. The priest, God bless him, is cracking up laughing. The women standing behind the priest offering Sacramental Wine is doing her best, and failing, to suppress a belly laugh and look dignified. Of course, the boy sees all of these reactions and smiles like a thief that has gotten away with robbery and endeared himself to the people he was robbing at the same time.
  Once Mass is over and we’re walking out, Tiernan is met by his girlfriends of all ages. They wave and tell us, “He is so cute” or “He is such a darling” or “What a handsome boy.” He looks back at me like, “See Dad, I’ve got it all under control. Why do you keep cramping my style, with the ‘Stop that’ and ‘Sit up straight’ and ‘Be quiet.’ See, my public loves me. The chicks dig me. God loves boys who nap. Why do you think I’ve been sleeping so much?”
 

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Mouse of the House

My down-with-Caillou campaign has gotten an unexpected shot in the arm from Mickey Mouse. Now, instead of repeatedly asking to watch Caillou, Tiernan repeatedly asks to watch Mickey Mouse.
The folks at Disney can pat themselves on the back. They have another devoted follower of the Disney Doctrine, my son is a full-fledged Mouse-Ear believer in the Disney way.
They can pat themselves on the back, for coming up with an ingenious way to indoctrinate a new generation of Mousekateers, namely the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Which introduces Mickey, Donald, Goofy, Minnie, Daisy and Pluto to the under-five set by essentially stealing all the best aspects of tried-and-true shows such as Dora the Explorer.
The all-animated show is on Saturday and Sunday mornings and it is worth checking out. I was never much of Mickey devotee myself, but the show is actually pretty good. Each show puts Mickey and the gang on some sort of quest, there is the “will you help us?” plea to the viewer, there is a Disneyed version of Dora’s Backpack, which contains items that will help Mickey along the way, there is a celebratory song. It is very formulated. A formula that apparently works.
Oh an important side-point here; the theme song and the celebratory song are both performed by the one-time darlings of the high school//college nerd-set, the band They Might Be Giants. TMBG, as they are known to fans/geeks like myself, are getting a lot of work from the folks at Disney. They also do the theme to Higgleytown Heros, also on the Disney Channel. I am a fan of the band, my brilliant wife is a fan. I have many of their CDs, including the two that were released to be children’s music, “No” and “The ABCs.” In college I used to ....ehm... watch other people get high while listening to TMBG. I’ve seen the band live on numerous occasions. I am a fan. I always said the band had a certain cartoonish quality to their music. I was right. By the way. TMBG are also doing the music for the new Dunkin Donuts “American Runs on Dunkin” commercials.
Ok, back to Mickey Mouse and the clubhouse. I can tolerate this show because, it is not Caillou, and it still has some of the classic Mickey Mouse Club schtick, like roll call and “See ya real soon.” And I feel as though, I have some sort of cosmic connection to the Mouse. I grew up watching Annette in reruns of the original Mickey Mouse Club. I was too old for the next incarnation of the club which featured Brittney Spears, Justin Timberlake and Christina Aguilera and we never had the Disney Channel until I got married - never watched it until I had kids.
Tiernan is now completely under the spell of the mouse. My wife took him for walk last night, and they came across a plastic Mickey Mouse bank on a trash heap. He flips out and has to have it. So, they bring it home, wash it up and he sleeps with it. He would not let it out of his hands. Not his sight, his hands.
He woke up with it this morning and would not put it down to put a shirt on. I thought I’d be the benevolent dictator/dad that I am I, and take a field trip to the Disney Store and get the boy a plush Mickey to sleep with.
Now, we have a 15 inch plush Mickey and a 15 inch plush Goofy, as well as a 7 inch Mickey and of course the bank which is still in the bed. The first person that tells Tiernan that Mickey lives in Disney World and he can visit Mickey will get blackballed from the O’Rourke Clubhouse.
“See ya real soon.”

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Reduced Power: Final Ride

As the VUE comes to a stop on the incline, and begins to roll backward, I apply the brakes, which happily work. Now, I am once again forced to assess my situation. I am trapped on a two-lane hill, with two kids in the car and I can only go backwards, down the hill, and that is only through the miracle known as gravity. Going forwards seems unlikely. “Now we are in trouble,” I say to my two-year old, who was roused from his sleep by an annoyed motorist leaning on his horn. He responds by saying, “Stopped, Da.”
The boy is a genius. He woke up, looked around, and instantly analyzed the situation and pinpointed the problem -- we were stopped.
In an attempt to change our fortune, I did what every red-blooded, clear-thinking American would do – I started the truck up again. And it sputtered to life. I put it in D and we began to crawl up the hill and 15-inches per hour. But, there was a sense of elation in the VUE, we were moving forward.
At the top of hill, was a traffic light. And the road split into two lanes, one for turning right and one for straight and left turns. I wanted to go straight. The right-turn lane was empty, the straight/left lane had 6 cars lined up at the light. I knew that if I had to stop on the hill, I may not be able to get going again, so I calculated that going to top of the hill in the right-turn lane and going straight was my best move. So, we inched up the hill to the cross road and stopped at the light.
At this point, I looked over at the driver in the straight/left-turn lane to get his attention, to let him know that I am driving a partially disabled car and was going to go straight. I looked and I looked. I stared and I stared. I banged on my window. The man would not look at me. If it was a freak with purple hair and a dagger through is nose or good looking woman, or any other person that I didn’t want to see me staring they would have looked at me immediately. But because, I am trying to get his person’s attention its like I am invisible. So, I blow my horn, which gets me a dirty look, but a look. I mime to him that I want to go straight and my vehicle is impotent. He nods his head and gives me another dirty look as the light changes, but he got the message. He graciously lets me go in front of him.
  The downhill portion of Century Road is not as steep a grade, but it’s a longer hill. The VUE reached almost 30 miles per hour. I felt potent again. The bottom of the hill has another light, but a right-turn split which doesn’t require a stop. The timing gods were with us as we careened around the turn and through the light at 20 mph.  
  Soon, we were back to crawling at 10 mph but, the hard part of the journey was over. And the Saturn dealership was looming just around on more perilous turn on to Route 4. As we approached the entrance to Route 4, I felt a moment of panic as I tried to remember if I would need to merge into 60 mph traffic or if there was a dedicated lane for those entering the highway. Once again the traffic planners who designed the road had folks like me in mind and I chugged onto Route 4 and found a dedicated lane. Now, all I had to do was turn into the dealership and get this bucket fixed. I would call my parents to come get the kids and I would spend the day watching Fox News on the television in the dealership, while the worked on the VUE.
  Upon pulling into the dealership, I forego pulling into a parking space and turn right into the road leading back to the service bays. I put the machine in park and as I am about to get out. I am stopped by the logistics of getting two kids (who are now both sleeping again) out of the car and into the dealership without waking them, because God loves napping children and napping children, generally, do not run around car dealerships screaming and scratching the paint on the new 2007 models.
  I admit that the logistics of trying to get both kids out of the truck and into a place that is not designed to accommodate sleeping toddlers overwhelmed me and I gave up and woke Tiernan up. He took it well but was puzzled as to why we were leaving the truck running outside and going into a building with other cars. I walked into the dealership, holding Tiernan’s hand and carrying the still sleeping Reagan in her bucket and went right to the courtesy phone.
  I called my parents and after listening to the phone ring for, what felt like three days, my mother picked up wondering why Saturn of Paramus was calling her. Wasn’t she surprised when she heard her son’s voice? I told her the short story of where I was and why I was calling and she assured me that grandma and grandpa would be right out to take the kids home. I told her to put on some speed; Reagan would be waking up soon looking for food -- food, which I did not have, because I was terrible parent. She once again assured me that they would be there ASAP.
  I hung up the phone and went back to the service area and informed the gentleman that I need service and that the patient was running in the middle of approach to the service bays. “We’ll take a look at it and let you know. Have a seat,” said the man.
  As we approached the waiting area, Tiernan took one look at the television and said, “Dada. Caillou?” (See previous post) And, I said I would try to find Caillou. I actually hoped the little Canadian runt was on. I wanted Tiernan to watch the whinny little jerk. As much as I hated all three hairs on his bald little head, I hoped beyond hope that he would be on and Tiernan would be able to hang on his every high-pitched word instead of hanging on me. Alas, he was nowhere to be found and Tiernan had to settle for watching Blues Clues. I found myself once again thanking God for giving the world Tivo.
  Before things got too out of hand or Reagan woke up screaming, the cavalry showed up, in the form of Grandma and Grandpa, and took the kids home to be fed and changed.
  Just as I was beginning to relax, knowing that the kids were in good hands and safe from starving, the man from the service area came out. “Mr. O’Rourke, I have good news and bad news.”
  Oh, boy! Here we go.
  “The good news is that we will be able to repair the car by the end of the day,” and he hands me a piece of paper with about 6 different part numbers on it. “We need to get these parts from other dealership around the state, but we should be able to get it done today.”
  Parts from other dealerships – that ain’t ever good.
  “It seems that you need a whole new throttle body. The bad news its that its gonna cost about $900 to $1,000,” he says.
  “$900,” I says. My first thought is that for $900.00, I’d rather trade it in for a new Relay, which is bigger and better suits the needs of our growing family. But, I know that my brilliant wife would never agree to anything so hasty and reckless. I tell the nice man to start fixing the problem.
  At this point, I call my wife for the first time. I give her the short version of the my how my morning is going and assure her that all the kids are fine and everything is peaceful, except that we are going to be out a grand to repair the car, to which she says, “Geez, for $1,000 we should really just look into trading it in, while we still have value for it and get a new Saturn Relay, which is bigger would better suit our needs as the kids get older.” Didn’t I tell you she was brilliant?
  And five hours later, I drove out of the Saturn dealership in a brand new Saturn Relay, with two sliding doors, and a built in DVD system. But it is not a minivan. It is an FUV – a Family Utility Vehicle. Now, everybody is happy. Tiernan is happy, now he can watch Bob the Builder in the car. Daddy is happy, we don’t have any Caillou DVDs, and Reagan is content and a content four-month old is a happy four-month old.
  Just a quick epilogue: A couple days later I had to go back out to the dealership to pick up the registration. And we pull into the parking lot and Tiernan says, “No Da. No new car. No new car. No. no. no.”
 

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Reduced Power: Part Two

Sitting there in the service station parking lot with the two kids in the Saturn SUV running on only “Reduced Power,” meaning the vehicle won’t go over 10 mph (see previous post), I begin formulating a defense to tell the good folks at the Division of Child Services when they come to take me away for; at best being an unfit parent for not having extra formula and diapers or an emergency cell phone; or at worst, endangering the lives of my children -- it came to me.
I had moment of clarity. It came to me as a vision or it could have been a billboard. I billboard reading “Saturn of Paramus, Route 4 West in Paramus.” Ding!!! This is what Sir Isaac Newton must have felt like under that apple tree. In my darkest moments, I experienced a moment of enlightenment. This… this is what brilliance feels like.
“Damn good idea,” I say aloud to myself.
“Damn good idea,” parrots my two-and-half year old son. Thankfully, my daughter Reagan has been asleep for some time now.
The Saturn dealership/repair shop is in Paramus. I am in Paramus. They nice folks on Saturn have always been helpful in the past. Surely, they will let me borrow a phone to call someone to come take my crying, screaming, foul mouthed kids out of their showroom. No self respecting business wants to be known as a haven for potty mouths, they’d have to let me borrow a phone, I am, after all, a paying customer. How hard could it be to get the Saturn dealership? Just a few tenths of a mile down Route 17 to Century Road and I can take back roads to the dealership. This…this is a good plan.
With a revived feeling that I am good under pressure, much like the fabled Jean-Luc Picard, Captain of the USS Enterprise NCC 1701-E, I started up the once mighty V6 engine of my Saturn VUE. It purred to life and immediately lost interest in continuing to run at full strength. My old nemesis, the “Reduced Power” light, was back to its old tricks sapping energy from my once proud machine. But, I had a plan. I was going to deal with “Reduced Power” and any other heretofore unknown idiot light that might choose to make visitation upon my vessel.
My plan was to go slow. If 10 mph. was as fast as I could go, then, by God, I would go 10 mph. And that is what I did. I eased out on to Route 17 again, with my Hazard Lights flashing to alert all the other drivers that I was indeed a hazard. “Here we go,” I said.
“No. No. No Da. No Da. No no no,” said my first officer from the child seat behind me.
With my hands and 10 and 2 on the wheel I slogged along on impulse power down Route 17 South, occasionally attempting to cajole the vehicle to go faster by standing on the gas pedal, but alas no response.
I never really stopped to think about how slow 10 mph. really is. It is quite slow and everybody else on the highway was painfully aware of my lack of gittyup. There was horns and hard stares from other drivers, but I was moving.
Just when things were starting to look up, I looked up and ahead of me I saw the Century Road overpass over Route 17 and realized that there was a flaw in my flawless plan. My vehicle would have to limp up the two-lane overpass and then I looked at the in-dash clock. It read 12:40 p.m. I was limping through the lunch rush. Thousands of cubical-dwelling workers would be on the road in search of sustenance and me and my crippled machine would be holding them back from their Pizza Hut Personal Pan Pizza’s and Hooters . . . whatever it is that Hooters sells besides sex.
As I began to leave the highway at the Century Road exit, I chickened out. I would never tell my first officer this, but his father chickened out, I continued going right on Century instead of attempting the left up and over the overpass. I was formulating a new plan, which involved pulling into the New Jersey State DMV Inspection Station, which was just ahead on the left. This plan too, was fatally flawed. First, it would require making a left, which would mean crossing the ever increasing throng of secretaries and file clerks in the oncoming traffic lane; a feat not to be attempted on impulse power alone. Second, and perhaps most damaging the Inspection Station was closed for lunch. So, into another nearly empty parking lot I pulled the miserable piece of crap under my command.
I regrouped and re-gathered my thoughts. I would attempt the assault on the overpass. Seeing an opening in the traffic I put-putted my way onto the road and headed for the overpass. Put-put. The truck was responding as if it was powered by a single, Asthmatic, elderly chipmunk on a rusty exercise wheel.  As we approached the incline I could feel the cold stares from the full-powered folks behind me. We were moving so slow, that the speedometer indicated that we were not moving at all. Once again there were horns, this time accompanied by crude gestures. Luckily, by this point, the nice leisurely pace had proved to be too much for my first officer and he was asleep at his post, thus he didn’t learn any of the crude gestures. You see, the original plan was a good plan, now; at least, I would be able to curse with impunity. Genius.
Put-put, we chugged up the overpass like a carnival roller-coaster car making its last run of the day. And then we reached the plateau and the VUE began to pick up speed. And just as things were looking up, once again I looked up and saw the very large, very seep hill with a traffic light at the top of it. I forgot about that hill. Genius.
As we descend and picked up speed, it seems plausible that the truck might be able to make up the hill. However, the incline soon began to take its toll on whatever extra umph gravity had generously provided and the put-putting becomes woefully unable to propel the SUV, the two kids and fat ass behind the wheel up the steep grade. And we roll to a stop one-third from the bottom of the hill. “This is where it ends,” I say. The Reduced Power light has prevailed.
Or has it? More to this story to come, plus an huge twist.
To be continued...

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Reduced Power

It has been a busy couple of days. Thursday was Tiernan’s last Gymboree class of the Spring session. It is an hour long and does a great job of wearing the boy out so he takes a nice long nap. (God blesses little boys and girls who take long naps.) Because the class is only an hour and we’re only out of the house for an hour and half, I generally do not take a diaper bag with me. If there is any kind of diaper related issue, it will have to be dealt with once we get home, which is at most an hour away. The diaper soiling child will have to stew it his or her own juices until we get home. It may be gross, but it is just easier than lugging a huge diaper bag, which may or may not be needed, all over the place. Call me a terrible father, but there are degrees of gross. And my gross tolerance was high before I became a parent.
So, we go to Gymboree, Dad, Tiernan and Reagan. At Gymboree, Tiernan does he running, climbing, falling, getting tired thing, Dad watches with the knowing smile of man sure he will enjoy a few hours of peace while the boy naps, Reagan sits in her bucket and watches the big kids, coos and sucks her fingers and occasionally falls asleep. Everybody has a great time. Gymboree is great.
After Gymboree we all get buckled in the truck, (a Saturn VUE) and we are headed for home and a relaxing afternoon of napping and laundry.
As we are about to pull out of the parking lot onto Route 17, the VUE stalls and stops responding and all the “idiot lights” come on including “Service Engine Soon” and a new light that says “Reduced Power.”
So we all sit in the truck, 10 feet from the parking lot exit. I curse, “What the F@*k?” Tiernan repeats it. I shut everything down and try to restart. (It works with the computer, right.) It works the truck starts right up and we have full power. “Let’s roll,” I say and we ease out into traffic on Route 17, once on the highway, the truck stalls again and “Reduced Power” rears its ugly head and I can go no faster than 10 mph. “What is this shit?!” I yell. From the back I hear “Shit.”  That is two new words Tiernan has learned today.
So I am coasting along at 10 mph. traffic is whizzing past us, the folks behind us are blowing their horns. Tiernan is in the back saying, “Da, no. No Da. No No.”
Up ahead is a service station. I pull in, crack open the glove box and consult the Saturn VUE owner’s manual in hopes of finding out exactly what, “Reduced Power” means and how I can increase power. According to the manual, “Reduced Power” means that “The vehicle is experiencing reduce power due to some mechanical malfunction. If the malfunction is repair, power should return. If full power does not return, please see a certified Saturn repair technician.”
According to the book, “Reduced Power” means power is reduced. So, just as I had always suspected, the owner’s manual is only really good twice a year. It tells me how to set the clock one hour ahead in the Spring and one hour back in the Fall. Car companies could save a bundle of money if they just printed those instructions in four languages, instead of the 130 pages of uselessness.
Do I really need a light to tell me that power is reduced, I figured that out when I put the gas pedal to the floor and didn’t move. Perhaps… maybe if the machine wasn’t using all power to light up lights that say “Reduced Power,” I might be able to get home.
Now, I sit in the truck shutting it off and restarting and restarting without shutting down and hearing that great high pitched “eckfftpgttptptpt!!!!!” sound that auto engines make when you try to start them, when they are already started. Every time I do this, Tiernan says, “No Dad. No.”
I look at the clock and it is 12:40 p.m. Reagan is going to have to eat in about 10 minutes. No problem, I’ll just feed her from the formula that I put in the diaper bag and….decided…not…to…bring. I don’t have the diaper bag!!!!! A shot of panic flows through me.
No, problem I will just call Gramma and Grampa on my cell phone -- my cell phone, which is currently in my wife’s work bag, under her desk in Manhattan. I DON’T HAVE MY CELL PHONE!!!!!!!! But, I always have me cell phone. I don’t leave the house without my cell phone. I wear special pants, -- Cargo Shorts, see previous post -- which have a specific pocket for the cell phone. How does the car break down on the day that I don’t have the cell phone? “Un-God-Damn-believable!,” I say pretty loud.
“Un-Gon-Damn-bevable,” says my son. That’s three, possibly four new words.
Ok, I am stuck in Paramus, with two kids, under the age of 3 with no diaper bag, and no cell phone. My God what kind of parent I am? Then I think, “This could be worse at least I had the sense to pull into a service station.” I get out and walk over to the attended, I am a little apprehensive about leaving the kids in the car, but what choice do I have? I explain to the nice gentleman about the car stalling, the two kids in the car, and what the owner’s manual says about the “Reduced Power” light and ask him if he can help? And he says, “We only do oil changes.” Naturally. Great. Thanks.
I get back in the car. “Son of a Bitch!!!”
“On nova Bixkch!” Tiernan has learned five new words in like three minutes. It’s a freaking record. Can I get him to say, “Mommy, I love you” to my wife while she’s on the phone? Noooooo. Every day I tell him to say “Mommy, I love you” and I am met with stone silence. I say “Son of a Bitch” once and it’s like he was born to say it.
So, I am stuck in a Paramus gas station, no cell phone, no diaper bag and with one potty mouthed kid and one infant who is about to begin screaming for some formula in vehicle that is, at best, unfit for highway travel.
Tune in later in the week for the conclusion to this story, I assure you that has a twist that is un-f*#cking-believable.
“Un-bubking-beveble.” That’s six new words.

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The Pants Off, Dance Off

Dear Dr. Spock, (the famous children’s doctor not the pointy-eared logic-focused Vulcan of Star Trek fame),

I am concerned about my four-month old daughter. She can be crying as if her flesh is being gnawed on by fire ants, a bottle won’t stop it, but if I put her on the changing table and take her diaper off, she smiles and gets all giddy. She loves doing the pants off, dance off. The girl is happiest when she gets to funk out with her junk out. When she is naked from the waist down she smiles like a supermodel.
THAT IS NOT COOL!!!
Is it only a phase? Will this stop?
Please Dr. Spock help me keep my daughter off the pole and out of clear high-heels.
Sincerely,
No-Pimp Daddy

Dear No-Pimp Daddy,
It is just a phase. She will grow out of it. Stop fretting moron. She is too young to understand anything beyond. “I am hungry. I am tired. I know that face/voice. My diaper needs changing.”
Dr. Spock
“Live Long and Prosper”

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Cave Paintings

Some of you, and you know who you are, are saying to yourselves, “how come he never says much about sweet little Reagan. It must be because, being a man, he focuses on the boy.” Don’t deny it, it has crossed your mind. Or maybe it’s just the voices in my head.
To which I respond, its not that I don’t pay attention to Reagan, it’s just that I have to focus so much more attention on Tiernan. Not by choice, but by need.
Reagan is stationary (for now). Reagan only needs tending to when she tells me she needs something, and my little princess has no compunction to keep such things to herself. The girl has a good set of lungs. When she demands attention, she can get the neighborhood’s attention.
However, she can’t walk or even crawl, and the chances of her turning on the stove are low. Tiernan, on the other hand, has a knob fetish.
Tiernan needs overseeing. Case in point, yesterday, Reagan and I were sharing a moment or two out in the kitchen. She was in her bouncy chair and I was singing some old time Ray Charles to her. She was smiling and happy and laughing at the crazy man dancing and singing in front of her. Reagan was happy. Daddy was happy. Tiernan was watching Thomas or Bob or Mickey Mouse or worse yet that whiny little runt Caillou.
Caillou is the worst of the bunch. Not a fan of the Caillou. Again, for the uninitiated, he is a whinny little four year-old boy who teaches other kids to be whinny little four year-olds. As if a toddler needs help in that department. You can argue the good points of the show, but he just a retarded Charlie Brown, without the outstanding supporting characters like Snoopy, Woodstock, Lucy and Linus, Pigpen, Peppermint Patty and her butch lover.
But, once again I digress.
So while Reagan and Dad are sharing a father-daughter moment or two in the kitchen – all smiles and belly laughs. Tiernan is watching TV, or so I thought. Just as the dancing and happiness in the kitchen was reaching its zenith, as Ray was singing, “ I got a girl way ‘cross town, that’s is good to me. She gives me money when I’m in need. She’s the kind of love I need. Ohhhh yeahhh!!” -- in walks the boy with some sort of unidentified brown stuff on his face, “Hey Da.”
My first thought is feces (he’s recently discovered that he can put his hands in diaper. Some kids make this discovery sooner than others, I was hoping he’d never have such a revelation.) but feces is quickly dismissed and replaced with chocolate. “Where’d you get the chocolate from?”  Thus, begins the investigation into what is on the boy’s face.
Into the den, I go, find that it is not chocolate, or feces -- thank God -- but the remains of a brown crayon. A brown crayon which has been used to makes toddler marks all over the couch, the window sill, and upon further inspection Tiernan’s legs.
As such, Reagan’s daddy-moment was interrupted by the need to discipline her brother and scrub the crayon marks off the furniture. By the time I got back, Reagan and Ray Charles are singing, “Here we go again.” And she was less happy with the silly man singing and dancing. In fact she was downright dour.
I guess this sort of disappointment, has been the bane of being the second child since humans have been procreating and the first born crawled out of the cave to pet the Sabertooth or started drawing on the walls of the cave in berry juice -- which is probably how cave painting started in the first place.
I don’t care what the text books say, cave painting was the result of distracted parenting. I fact, I would go as far as to assert, that the development of art as a whole, was the result of a frustrated parent trying to find something to keep a toddler busy, while they attended to the emotional, spiritual, and hygienic needs of a newborn.
After the two or three attempts to stop the cave painting behavior, primitive parent’s tune changed from, “Tagok, Stop drawing on my walls,” to “Tagok, would you leave your sister alone and go paint a picture on the cave wall for mommy.”
And to this day, parents still display their children’s artwork on the wall.

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Doctor Wong: Everybody's Alwight

Day Two of being solo overseer of my two kids brought the first truly big challenge. We all had to go to the see Doctor Wong, our pediatrician. This is the first time, Daddio is bringing both kids for check ups at the same time without backup, Tiernan for his 2.5 year look-see and Reagan for her four-month. The kids seem to like Doc. Wong . He’s nice doctor who has been really nice to us and doesn’t have any sort of Asian accent. He is more American than most of the mommies at the park, but his name makes for a funny headline.
As much as I was anticipating, big problems, such as Tiernan peeing all over the walls of the office while he’s in his birthday suit or running around the doctor’s office with syringes, while Reagan screamed her head off, alas none of this happened.
I did have to change Tiernan’s poopie diaper which materialized on the car ride over in the office, the visit was pretty non-eventful, which is the desired outcome from every doctor’s visit.
We continue to feed Tiernan, and as such he continues to grow. He is 28.5 lbs. and 36.25 inches tall. Doc Wong checked him from bow to stern and declared him shipshape.
Reagan is also taken to life in a good way. She is now 12 lbs, 8 ounces, and 23.25 inches long. We did, however, have some uncontrollable screaming and crying from my little princess. After Doc Wong declared her happy and healthy, she got four vaccinations. Two in each thigh. She screamed and screamed. At first it didn’t bother me. I understand a little pain now prevents much more pain and heartache in the future. I tried to explain this to Reagan, but she wanted no part of it. She failed to grasp the simple Machiavellian philosophy of ends justifying the means. She just went on and screamed and yelled and cried like baby. And then it started to bother me. She was in pain and I couldn’t do anything about it. My little girl was hurting, I held her and she cried more. It bothered me. She calmed down eventually and took and nice nap. Tiernan barely even noticed when he got shots as baby. It just didn’t phase him. He’s a tough guy. Reagan, my little girl, was a big sissy. I am pretty happy about that.

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Da, The Juicebringer

Day one, soloing with the two kids. All is well. We all had a great time today. A little park, a little lunch, and nice nap and all is right with the world.
I love being a Dad. Why? because to the children of my tribe (my kids) I am not just a mere man, I am Da, The Juicebringer.
I am summoned by a repetitive chant. Often the chant sounds much like, “Da App-bul Ju-se!, Da App-bul Ju-se!, Da App-bul Ju-se!, Da App-bul Juuuuu-seeeeee!!!!!!” As the crescendo builds, there may even be a short liturgical dance and banging of drums. If the chanting continues for too long, gnashing of teeth and rendering of garments will often follow. However, long before ceremony spins out of control I appear providing the gift of apple juice to the children of the tribe, bringing with me joy and happiness to quench the thirst those in my tribe.
Even the youngest of the tribe, understands the ancient power of chant. Very often the youngest will, begin to speak in tongues, in crude hymns calling for Ba Ba. She is wailing at the forces around her, tearing the quiet with her prayers for sustenance. Just when the wailing and wrenching can get no louder, Da will produce Ba Ba and Ba Ba will quiet the maelstrom. Da, the keeper of Ba Ba.
Like many pagan gods, I have many names and often serve many different needs of my tribe. I am also sometimes, knows as Da, the bug slayer. Da, the arbiter of nourishment. Da, the remote controller.

It has only been one day and I am already cracking up.
The horror, the horror. (And today was a good day.)

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The Potato Head Incident

NOTE: Today, was the last weekday that my wife will be home to assist me with the kids. She goes back to work on Monday. Leaving me to solo with the two kids. Now, we will separate the wheat from the chaff.

On to the Potato Head Incident.
Tiernan has a Mr. Potato head, he has pretty much ignored for most of the four or five months that he’s had it. Earlier this week, he dug it out of the toy box in his bedroom and brought downstairs to be placed in heavy rotation. He’s played with it off and on all week.
A quick primer on Mr. Potato Head. Most of you know what this is, a piece of plastic with holes in it that you spear with body parts, i.e., eyes, ears, nose, arms, etc. These are connected to the potato with long, thin plastic shafts measuring about an inch and half, that are inserted into Mr. Potato Head’s holes.
Today while Tiernan was entertaining himself with some independent play and all of a sudden, he starts screaming and crying. He’s was just sitting at the play table in the living room and suddenly he’s screaming and bleeding from his nose.
“Tiernan what happened?,” says I.
He picks up Mr. Potato Head’s eyes and shows me how he was trying to put them into his head by inserting the long plastic shaft up his nose. After a few moments of crying and nose blowing he calmed down. We got a flashlight and checked out his nose and didn’t see anything dire. Upon seeing the flashlight he quickly forgot that he had a foreign object in his nostril and wanted to play with the light. We determined that, while he did hurt himself, he scared himself more than anything. 
I felt so proud. My son has crossed another threshold in his development. He learned two valuable lessons (I hope).
“THE NOSE IS NOT A STORAGE AREA and I AM NOT A POTATO HEAD.”
And that is exactly what happened. He understands that Mr. Potato Head works by putting things into the holes his face. And then he thought, “I have holes in my face. And they don’t seem to be used for much, other than that green ooze that comes out. This must be the intended use, to put things in, just like Mr. Potato Head. This is a teaching toy.”
And so it is, it teaches little boys not to insert anything into their orifices, which is a very painful but very valuable lesson. Life’s best lessons result in some sort of pain.

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Outside Looking In at the Park

I love taking the kids to the park. There is a toddler park nearby that is great. It’s big, shady and fenced in, as a result it is well attended by other toddlers and their parents and grandparents. There are big playground apparatus to play on and swings and picnic tables and benches for the adults.
Tiernan (the 2 year-old) goes wild, Reagan (3.5 months) not so wild - she is still in the bucket. The bucket, for the uninitiated, is the car seat carrier -- another one of man’s greatest inventions.
As everyone knows, car rides put kids to sleep. But taking them out of car seats wakes them up. With the invention of the bucket, you can leave the child in the bucket, disconnect it from the base in the car and carry the sleeping child – carseat and all inside, put the bucket down in a safe spot and the child will remain comfortable, safe and asleep.
Bravo American ingenuity! Thank you for developing the removable carseat.
I digress, back to the park. While Tiernan rides the slides and Reagan sleeps in the bucket. I sit back and watch Tiernan do his thing, ever vigilant to reinforce the rules of the playground to him -- “Share the toy,” “Play nice,” “Don’t Push,” “Don’t throw” and general admonitions of that ilk.
Between gentle and not gentle reminders to be a good boy, I have the opportunity to interact with other Moms, sometimes other Dads, but mostly other Moms. While there are some acquaintances that I talk with, there are other Moms who exclude me from their conversation. Either on purpose or by the nature of the conversation. I often take these little offenses in stride. Not every woman is willing or able to discuss hockey or the NFL draft.
Well, the other day, I was excluded from a conversation and I was happy about it. Two moms had a 45 min. discussion about what terrible lives they had. They kvetched at each other, focusing all their thoughts on themselves, not really listening to the other -- and completely ignoring their children.
The conversation went something like this: (I may have taken some creative license here and there, but I assure you, gentle reader, the spirit of the conversation remains intact.)
Mom one: “I can’t believe my lousy brother-in-law expects me to throw a, ya know, birthday party at my house for his mother. I told my husband,” she stopped to take a bite of bagel, “ I said, (chewing) I only want to have birthday (swallow) parties for me, my husband and my daughter.”
Mom two: “I know, my house is like grand central station on weekends. Friday to Sunday the doorbell never stops ringing.”
Mom one: “Ya know, some people, not us, not people like us, ya know, would just have burgers and hot dogs, ya know, and that would be it. But we can’t do that, ya know, we have to serve five course meals, ya know. We have too, ya know.”
It went on like that for 45 mins, ya know. Non stop, ya know. Non stop.
Please, please stop!!!!
I couldn’t leave because it wasn’t yet time for Tiernan’s scheduled mid-morning meltdown. When you throw off a toddler’s meltdown schedule it really upsets them. And all the other meltdowns for the rest of the day seem . . . contrived and forced. It trivializes the whole reason for the tantrum, which was something very deep and meaningful like demanding for apple juice over and over again when their is none in the house. It is sad to see a toddler who isn’t into his tantrum. It’s like watching an actor just going through the motions, no feeling.
Soo, I had to stay.
Mom one: “Last year for Rita’s birthday party we had a jumpy house, ya know, the inflatable things for the kids, ya know, to jump around in. It costs us a fortune, ya know.
Mom two: “We got a petting zoo once for little Anthony’s 1st birthday. We had like 120 people and a llama, two ponies, a goat, three sheep and bunch a bunnies.”
Mom one: “And my lousy brother-in-law had to go in the jumpy house and jump around with his motorcycle boots on and pop wholes in the floor. It ruined he whole party for everybody. Then their was the fist fight and the cops came -- what a disaster. The food was good though.”
Mom two: “We still have the some of the bunnies, even though the petting zoo people insist they took all theirs. I think they were born at the party. The bunnies sleep in Anthony’s room. He loves them. He feels connect to them because they share a birthday. Oh, yeah, our food was great too.”
At this point, I scooped up Reagan’s bucket and told Tiernan it was time for a tantrum, but he didn’t feel like having a tantrum. Thank God for small blessings.

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Pee on the Bed, Cops at the Door

After a miserable weekend of telling Tiernan that he couldn’t go outside and play in the rain, today was the day that all the frustration of the weekend would vent.
There is a few moments during bath-time that everything is vulnerable. The time between getting the diaper off and getting the boy into the tub. HINT: Make that time as short as possible. Because during that time much is in danger. Your bed, your son’s bed, the dog and basically the rest of your evening.
This evening my little sprinkler decided to use that time, while Daddy tried to grab a towel, to play firehose and put out a blaze on his bed. He stood on the far side of his bed and peed, he peed on the pillow on the floor, he stood there grinning from ear to ear -- smiling like a politician peeing on his bed. Potty training is going sooooo well.
Well, I screamed at him. Not great parenting - but I yelled at him. I wanted to tie his pee-pee in a knot, but I was never that good at knots. I could have never been a sailor, I can’t even get my shoes, or my son’s to stay tied. But I yelled at him. He cried. I cried, too.
Because, now I have give both him and is bedding a bath.
Later, after I calmed down and he calmed down, after the bath and long talk about why urine and down pillows don’t mix and the dangers that any further attempts at pretending to be a beer tap would hold, we were watching the hockey game and Tiernan was puttering around being restless chasing the dog from couch to couch. Eventually, he grabs the telephone and starts pressing buttons and he puts the phone to ear and says, “Hiyo, Helyo” the way he does. Now, my wife and I don’t think he’s actually talking anybody because, although he was pressing buttons he wasn’t pressing enough buttons to make a call. Little did we know.
Ok, quick back story. One afternoon four months ago, my wife was watching old episodes of COPS on CourtTV one cold winter day, with Tiernan. I was upstairs doing Daddy things -- bills, or repairs or something. I come down stairs and Tiernan drops to ground in front of me and puts his hands behind his back. Just like the he saw the “Bad Boys” do on COPS. This is all voluntary. Nobody taught him or told him to do this. To this day, he will get on the ground with his hands behind his back when so ordered. Whenever we see an police car, he sings “Bad Boys, Bad Boys. Whatch gon do.”
Jump back to this evening. After we took the phone away from him he walked up to my wife and said “Cops. Bad Boys, Bad Boys.” We just looked at him and said no COPS isn’t on, we’re watching hockey. And he goes about his toddler business and we turn our attention to Stanley Cup hockey.
At 8:37 p.m. the doorbell rings. He pressed three buttons. He pressed 9-1-1. There is a policeman standing at the door. I am thinking that the neighbors heard me yelling at him for the pee incident and called the cops on me.
The officer says, “Did someone call 9-1-1?”
I said, “Nnnnoooo --- Yes. I think my son was playing with the phone before.” As I say this. Tiernan comes up and walks up the officer and says, “Hi. Hi. Hi.”
The officer says, “Ok, Yeah, dispatch said it sounded like a little kid. No problem. Everything’s OK?”
I said, “Yeah. I am going to have a talk with my little friend, but things are good.” And the nice officer leaves.

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Sci-Fi

So you wanna be a SAHD, OK here are a few things that I have noticed in my two years as a Dad.
IT IS A JOB. A great job with a cool boss but it is work. And now that I am going to be teaching two new humans how to properly grow, act, learn, operate and comport themselves as members of a family and a society it is seriously going to cut into my Sci-Fi watching time.
One can only take so much Thomas the Tank Engine and Bob the Builder, and besides kids shows, there is nothing to watch on daytime television if you are a normal guy. So, when Tiernan was napping I’d watch. Sci-Fi. Or as my wife calls it, “Soaps for Men.” I have seen all the Star Trek Next Generations, and got really hooked on Andromeda and Firefly. Currently, I am going through a Stargate SG-1 phase.
The key to all of this --HERE IS THE TIP FOR WANNABE SAHDS -- is Tivo. God Bless Tivo. Can I get an AMEN.
Since children can be unpredictable in their napping habits. You may not get a full hour and it may not be at the same time everyday. But, you can usually get 45 minutes, which is enough time to throw together a sandwich, change the laundry and watch a 1 hour television show, fast-forwarding through the credits and the Ditech/GIECO / Bowflex/Verizon DSL commercials. What is really cool is Sci-Fi network will run day long marathons of shows. A full day of Stargate Atlantis = 8 hours on the Tivo. I can’t watch them all at once, but I can watch them over a week or two. And just when I am getting finished watching all my saved shows, it’s time for another marathon. (Did you notice I said “my shows,” just like an old washer woman. You see Soaps for men. I told you she was brilliant.)
But, why is Sci-Fi so cagy with when they are going to run the marathons. Its not like every Monday is Andromeda day. Its Monday one week and then two weeks later its Friday. I don’t get it. There must be a pattern but damed if I can find it.
What else is a man going to watch. Jerry Springer? Oprah? That fraud Dr. Phil? I don’t think so.
Again the key is Tivo. God Bless Tivo. Amen.

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Cargo Shorts and Meltdowns

I have a confession to make. I haven’t worn long pants in over two years. I wear cargo shorts. The more pockets the better. Pockets that can hold sippy-cups, binkys, toy Thomas trains, board books, a baggie filled with Pepperidge Farm Goldfish. That way I can put my hand in my pocket, grab a fish, and pop it into my son’s mouth and say, “Good Boy.” I feel like a monkey trainer.
My son Tiernan has -- in the last two months or so -- figured out that he too can say No! It has quickly become his favorite word. It drives me crazy, as it does all parents. But, remember being young and single and stupid. When people would ask me if I wanted to have kids, I would say, “Yes, and I am going to be a great dad. Until, the little bugger says no! to me. Then the state will put me away for murder.”
Thankfully, I have been enlightened or perhaps, my son says No! in such a cute way that I don’t care. Or is it that I understand that he is becoming his own person. He is developing his sense of self and his current self is constantly conflicted between doing what he should do and what he wants to do. Right now, Tiernan wants to play with Playdough. Right now Tiernan, doesn’t want to go upstairs and take a much needed nap. “No, Da No. Da down. Down. Down.” And cue the 15 minute temper tantrum. Which is brought on by the fact that his body is telling him that he needs a nap. But, his mind and spirit want to further explore the many splendid ways of mixing Playdough colors to create one big gray piece of dough. However, when someone outside of his brain suggests that he should take nap, his body says Yes. And his brain feels betrayed and starts kicking and screaming and crying and crying. Until the worldwind of tears and sweat and snot is quelled by slipping into the Land of Nod.
However, one thing I can not gloss over is the statement “he is becoming his own person” which scares the crap out of me. Make no mistake, I love the fact that he’s developing, but the type of person he’s developing into is what frightens me. Which is not to say that he has shown me anything that I don’t like. He’s not kicking puppies or shoving firecrackers up the ass of kittens, nothing violent or abnormal. He is normal. In general, developing character in my children is one of the greatest tasks which lie before my wife and I.
I am talking about values and morals, and inner strength and creativity. I want to instill in them with a strong sense of appreciation. An appreciation of what it is like to be human, of music, of art, of style. Appreciation of money and the ability to find the joy in every day pleasures. To understand the importance of living a well rounded life.
In Tiernan’s case, as he gets older I fervently pray that I can teach him to understand that being a man, is not about being manly. A true man was gentle, and gracious and sensitive and emotional. A true man respects others and himself. Having self respect and holding yourself accountable for your actions is the mark of a true man.
Actions like making sure you’re wearing cargo shorts stocked with a sippy-cup full of apple juice and a welcoming smile ready when your son wakes up from a tantrum induced nap. Youth must be served and fluids must be replenished.

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