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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