Reports of Death, Greatly Exagerated

To borrow a quote from last week's episode of the only must see show currently on TV, John From Cincinnati "He is much improved. He's recovered from his injuries. It is a miracle." After a day-and-half of floating (not swimming, floating) and hiding behind the filter and looking like the icy finger of death was teasing him by playing the "I'm not touching you" Game, Nemo the Goldfish has bounced back.

He is happily swimming and looking for food among the decorative rocks. Unfortunately news for his partner Dori remains bleak. She is still dead, and flushed down the toilet. All things considered Tiernan has handled the death of Dori very well. As I have mentioned before, he is a pretty sensitive kid. Dori is gone and he's OK with it. "Dad, maybe would could get another Dori," he asked me yesterday.

He is ver happy to have Nemo back in full fish frolic. He gives him kisses everyday. He will lean over and kiss the bowl where Nemo is. "Dad, I just gave Nemo a kiss."

My son the fishkisser.

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Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is what I wanted to name the goldfish that we "won" at Meadowfest three weeks ago. I wanted to be able to name them that because I wanted to be able to say, "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead" and seem sophisticated and witty.... when the fish died.

In Hamlet, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are used by the king in an attempt to discover Hamlet's motives and to plot against him. Hamlet, however, mocks them and outwits them, so that they, rather than he, are killed in the end. They are minor characters in an epic story of Hamlet. Nobody mourns their loss and nobody cares that they are dead. Just like goldfish.

I was overruled, and fish were named Nemo and Dori, from everybody's favorite fish movie (excluding Jaws) Finding Nemo. Guess what Dori, is dead. I just secreted her out of the bowl and flushed her down the toilet before anyone could notice. I am responsible for her death. I killed her with kindness.

After surviving and thriving the two weeks, here in Casa O'Rourke, I thought that it might be nice if I did some reseach on how to care for these creatures, that my children, and I, have enjoyed watching frolic in the bowl. So, I did a little research online and found that, 1) these fish need 1.5 gallons of water each to be healthy. I have two fish in 1 gallon. So that is strike one against them. 2) While a filter system can help, the water should be changed every two to three weeks.

It has been three weeks. The water was getting quite cloudy. So, I followed the advice of the the online fish care folks and changed the water. I did everything right, but when Dori and Nemo were put back into the bowl with the clean water they didn't adapt too well. They became very sluggish. And Dori died.

As I am writing this, Tiernan just walked into the kitchen looking for his other goldfish. At first, I told him that I didn't know where Dori was, she must have just disappeared. But of course, he wanted to look for her. Very quickly, I realized that this was a bad strategy and owned up to Dori's death. I did not, however, tell him that I flushed her down the toilet.

I explained that I tried to make their bowl healthier for them and I must have done something wrong and she died and Nemo (the bigger of the two fish) wasn't feeling too good either. As of 10 minutes ago, Nemo is also listless, but is swimming more and looking better than Dori did an hour ago.

"Where is Dori?" came the question. I told Tiernan that Dori died and went to the big fish bowl in the sky. I really did say "big fish bowl in the sky", as I said it I couldn't believe what I was hearing myself say. I tried to explain that Dori went to a better place, with a huge pond and lots of other fish to play with.

"Can we got there and see her?" he said.

I thought, death is "the undiscover'd country from whose bourn, no traveller returns" but I Just said "no, we can't."

So... we started talking about death and heaven. I told him that was sorry that Dori died and we should pray for her and ask God to help Nemo get better. "Dad, I miss Dori," and he buried he face in his hands. Coming from anyone else, I'd say that missing a goldfish was silly, but it broke my heart.

"I am really sorry, buddy," is all I could manage. If I would have just let them continue swimming around in their filth, I would not be having this conversation with my son. Damn you, online fish site!! You shamed me into caring for these creatures, beyond feeding them and look what happened, I killed on fish and the other one's life is hanging by a thread. How did I managed to keep two human children alive this long? I can't even care for fish. I certainly don't feel sophisticated and witty.

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Mickey and Minnie

We had a gender related meltdown the other day. Reagan recently got some new PJs. Cool pjs from the Disney Store. (Which I have recently discovered is not owned by Disney, but rather The Children's Place. That nugget of information actually increases my opinion of the clothing, I like The Children's Place stuff.) Reagan's new pjs feature Minnie Mouse, and they are really cute.

The problem began as the family was getting ready for bed, and Tiernan saw Reagan's cool new Minnie Mouse pjs. He wanted cool new Minnie Mouse pjs of his own. We don't have Minnie Mouse pjs for him and this was a problem for him. He was rather insulted that Reagan had something that he didn't. We do, however, have Mickey Mouse pjs for him. That was little consolation. As a result a 20 minute full-blown, naked, crying, screaming, kicking, running, hitting, stomping Tiernan meltdown ensued. He's running around the house naked, crying and yelling, "I want Minnie pjs."

Being the astute parent that I am, I quickly recognized that this meltdown was more the result of being very overtired than the desire to wear girls clothes. I hoped. I really hoped. Look, I like Minnie. She's hot, as far as girl mice go. And the "new Minnie" from Disney's Mickey Mouse Clubhouse show, has cranked up Minnie's hotness. She has nice little figure. She's cute and funny. She wears that bow in her hair. She looks great in high heels. She is a strong independent female. She can put Mickey, a worldwide cultural icon in his place. She is no bimbo. If you can get past the massive round ears and rodent smell, she's a babe. I can understand Tiernan's attraction, but I don't think the boys has picked up on all the above outlined qualities, I have a feeling he just wants them because Reagan has them.

Which creates the parenting conundrum, can he not have the pjs because they are girls pjs? Are only girls pjs because they are pinkish and have Minnie Mouse on them? He has very similar pjs with Mickey on them, but his are orange. No he can not have Minnie pjs, not because he's boy and Minnie is a girl, but because he already has four pairs of pjs. He is at full pj capacity, and... Minnie pjs are for girls.

As a result, the following conversation took place:
Dad: You can't have Minnie pjs. They are girls pjs.
Tiernan (through tears): But I want them.
Dad: They are for girls.
Tiernan: But Reagan has them.
Dad: Reagan is girl. You are a boy.
Tiernan: But I want them.
Dad: Minnie is for girls. Look she has a bow in her hair and high heels. She is a girl. That is why she is on Reagan's pjs. You have Mickey on your pjs.
Tiernan: But I want them.

Mickey and Minnie are icons of the male and female gender. Mickey is masculine. Minnie is feminine. There are serious connotations that go along with Mickey being a boy and Minnie being a girl. For crying out loud, Mickey and Minnie are slang terms for genitalia. These are powerful mice.

Twenty minutes of crying and screaming and another two hours of analysis, all this because he didn't have an afternoon nap.

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The Club

Summer is here. Summer starts today. And to gear up for the summer, the kids and I have been going to "the Club," the club is our local town pool, which has nothing to do with the town per-se, it is officially, the Swim Club. And this year the O'Rourke Clan are full members of the Swim Club, with all the rights and privileges that go along with being full-members. Which means we had to pony up a boat-load more cash so we can swim any day of the week. Going to "the club" sounds a lot cooler than it really is. "The Club" carries connotations of cabana boys and fine dinning or exclusive oak paneled pubs where martinis, stock tips and locker-room jocularity fill the air with a sense of "clubishness."

Our "Club" is two holes in the ground -- one really big and deep and the other only about 1- to 1 1/2 feet deep-- surrounded by a nicely kept lawn and a bunch of tables and chairs. Amenities include, a basketball court, a swing set, three vending machines -- Ice Cream, soda, and snacks -- and a dinning area with picnic tables. The only servant is the pizza guy, who will delivery your pizza to the pool instead of your house.

It is what it is. It is a swim club. And when someone asks about my whereabouts, I respond, "The kids and I were at the club." I know it is pretentious and a bit of lie, but aren't all clubs? And for the last nine months I've been home watching a bald retarded whinny Canadian four-year old or Oooh and Ahh the gay monkeys with banana fixation on Disney. So, I want to project a fantasy of "clubiness" to friends and acquaintances deal with it.

Plus, this year, I am full member of that Club, which is an upgrade from previous years, when we were only partial members, allowed to sully the club waters only on weekdays. Now I feel like I am slumming when I go to the club on a Tuesday, with the riff-raff "partlies." I am kidding of course, it is just a bit of locker-room jocularity to fill the air with a sense of "clubishness."

Going to the Club this year is very different from last year, and it has nothing to do with my membership status. It is because Reagan is mobile this year. Last year she was still in the bucket, or car seat carrier. Tiernan would frolic in the water. Daddy would watch Tiernan and get sunburned, and Reagan would sleep in the bucket, strapped in unable to escape. It was relaxing. Those days are over.

Reagan will no longer be contained by the bucket, or the fence around the baby pool. Tiernan is great. He swims, he plays with the other kids, he is self-regulating to a certain degree. Reagan swims, but she is still only 16-months old, so when she loses her footing in the deepest part of the baby pool, she struggles to get back to the surface. There is the danger of the unthinkable happening, so there is a bit of danger. But the chances of that are slim, since I tend to hover over her in the deep part of the baby pool, and all the life guards know us and know they have to keep an extra eye on her because of her tender age.

If that was the only annoyance about going to the pool, it would be a great summer. But it isn't. Reagan likes the taste of chlorine and urine with a dead bug chaser. And will find one of the myriad cups/bucket toys strewn around the baby pool and chug pool water. I will take the cup away from her and put it on the back of the concrete and she will get out of the pool and go get it. As such I am forced to put the cup on top of the fence, out of her reach. Then she goes and finds one of the other various and sundry cups to continue her binge drinking of pool water. If they was a sandbox at the club, it would be Reagan's ideal surf and turf combo. To Reagan it isn't pool, it's a trough. It isn't a sandbox, it's a buffet.

When she's had her fill of pool water, or all the cups are impaled on fence surrounding the baby pool like the heads of my enemies, Reagan becomes a swinger. She wants to go to the swings, whether I am ready to take her or not. She will stand by the gate to baby pool, waiting for it to be opened by some other more mobile, less supervised toddler, and once it is open, she is gone like a Derby horse out of the starting gate at Churchill Downs.

Tiernan, one the other hand, just wants to swim and play in the pool. So, after I go collect Reagan and carry her back. I tell Tiernan to go up to the lifeguard and introduce himself. He does. I ask the lifeguard to keep an eye on him, and not to let him out of the baby pool area, while I go to the swings with Reagan. The lifeguard agrees, everyone is happy.

Reagan and I go to the swings and Tiernan hangs out with the lifeguard. After a few minutes, Reagan grows bored with swinging and we return to the baby pool. Or maybe she just gets thirsty.

So Reagan comes home from the club everyday, drunk on pool water. If they ever do put in an oak paneled pub, I am going to be in trouble.

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Father's Day Fun

I got a tie. Tiernan gave me a tie for Father's Day. I ask for Guitar Hero (with the guitar) I clearly stated that I wanted it and Tiernan knows that I want it because I keep going back to Best Buy to play on the one in the store. And Tiernan plays too. Plus The Record did an "Off beat Father's Day Gift" story and featured Guitar Hero and I actually circled it and displayed the circled article on the kitchen counter and everybody noticed it. But I got a tie.



A tie with Dinosaurs glue to it. Tiernan made it in preschool. It is really cute. It is the coolest tie I own. I love it. He was so excited to give it to me. He brought it home in his backpack on like Wednesday and wanted to give it to me then, but we told him to wait until Sunday. But Mommy, had to get it out of his backpack and hide it so I wouldn't got sneaking around looking for it, since I knew it was in his backpack and all. My gift had to be hidden, but he kept taunting me with it. "Daddy, I have a surprise for you, for Father's Day."

By the way, Reagan that ungrateful little worm didn't get me anything.

One of the reason I do this blog is to keep a history of the kids. It's kind of a masculine scrapbook -- a couple of photos here and there and thoughts on random events in the lives of the kids. I wish I had started it earlier, when Tiernan was an infant. It would make it easier to gauge Reagan's progress. Tiernan started using a fork on or about this date, Reagan should start soon or why hasn't she started. However, the only resources I have is my very unrelieable memory, which can conjur up the events as they happen, but doesn't come with a time/date stamp. Over the weekend, I realized that I did have a small help, I came across a letter that I started writing to Tiernan before he was born. In the months and years after he was born, I would add to it occasionally. It was kind of an earlier version of the Poop Truck.

This is an except approprate for the Father's Day post.

It is 1 a.m., Dec. 7, 2003. As I write this you are curled up in Mom’s womb and Mom is curled up in bed with Maggie the dog. I on the other hand am in my office/dressing room thinking about you. Your scheduled appearance here in the real world is still 24 days away.
The idea came to me about Week 21 of mom’s pregnancy with you—shortly after the first ultra-sound—when your Mother and I found out we were having a boy. I thought I should take some time to write down my thoughts about you.
I have been doing a lot of thinking about Fatherhood. More specifically, what kind of father I will be. Will I be a super-hard driving, never pleased task master or a soft-hearted goof-off of a Dad who believes that anything his son does is genuinely brilliant.
Luckily, I had a great model for fatherhood. My own father is a brilliant dad. When I was growing up he was the strongest man on the planet, because he could turn screws that I couldn’t, and he could open the tops on jars that were stuck. And he could lift heavy objects. For all the strength he had, he never scared me with it. He never used it to hurt anything. He didn’t really have a temper, at least he didn’t show it to me. But I was afraid of him. Later, as I grow older, I realized that I wasn’t afraid of upsetting him, as much as disappointing him. And I disappointed him on plenty of occasions, but he kept coming back and supporting me. He would discipline me but it was always in an effort to correct my behavior, never to embarrass or hurt my feelings.
I am thankful for that many things my father taught me. One is a love of music. Some of my favorite memories as young child were sitting on the floor—of the apartment in North Bergen—with my father listening and watching Arthur Fielder and the Boston Pops perform classical music, while we at LaChoy Chinese Noodles right out of the can. My father would point out different instruments to me and ask me if I could hear what each one sounded like. Then he would try to demonstrate what they sounded like. I think it, as a young kid, I feel in love with the idea of my big strong father making silly noises and sub-consciously the love of music seeped into my being. While I can’t play any instruments, I am amazed by those who can. And he also taught me to enjoy all types of music. He gave me an appreciation of classical music and country music and early rock n’roll and even showtunes. For that I thank him.
He helped shape my sense of humor by showing me that funny was many different things and that laughing at yourself is sometimes the funniest joke. And for that I thank him.
My father taught me about spirituality by sharing his thoughts on God and Heaven with me. He was an alter boy when he was young and it played a big part in his early life and because of that, it played big part in my life. He is a very spiritual man. I am sure that he is disappointed in me today that I don’t go to church as often as I should but, he should know that I too am a spiritual person. His faith in God is in me and sustains me. I share his faith for I know that God is within him and my father shows others his holiness all the time, whether they know it or not. And I thank him for that.
He showed me that a man was a lot more than just 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.
As I grew older I found out how strong my father is. The entire time I was growing up my father was sick. He had kidney disease and his kidney’s stopped functioning when I was a young boy. He spent many years on a kidney dialysis machine. In fact, we had one in the house. My dad would sit in the living room in a big Barca Lounger and my mother would roll in this big 5-foot high machine and stick needles connected to tubes in my father’s arm—in to take blood out of a vein and another to put it back into his vein. The blood would then go through the machine and be purified. Although, this had to be done three nights a week and it often made him feel terrible the following day because his blood chemistries often got all out of whack, my father was the most active father of all my friends’ fathers. He was a Cub Scout master. He was a football coach. And he never got just a little involved he was president of the football league and head master of the scout pack and he still had a his job which forced him to travel all over the Northeast. All that work and time dedicated to me and my happiness without working kidneys. Always, with pain and discomfort from the dialysis. And I never once heard him complain about.
Later, he changed the way he did the dialysis. No more machine now he would put a saline solution into his Peritemum, the area of the body where all the organ are. That solution would squish around in there for an hour or so, and purify the blood that way. After an 4 hours or so, he would drain out the fluid and put another bag in. He did this constantly for a number years, while remaining as active as ever in my life.
A number of years later, when I was 18, he finally had a kidney transplant. Which led to a bunch of good years of life with a kidney. Then, as a result of the medicine to help the new kidney, he was forced to have emergency quadruple heart bypass surgery. That was about ten years ago. And it has never slowed him down. It may have caused him to take an early retirement from work, but I as with everything, he never complained about it.
He faced all of these obstacles with courage, fortitude and grace which are the hallmarks of a great man. It took faith, love, and strength to overcome them and to keep overcoming them. It is his strength which makes him the strongest man I know today.
Even after after all those health problems, he is currently building the cradle you will sleep in, just as he built the toybox in you bedroom, for me 30 years ago. His craftsmanship is still very good. He can mold wood into furniture and young boys into men.
All of his lectures and punishments, — and there were plenty — were given in an effort to lead his son to grow up to become a well-rounded, well-respected man. I hope I became the man my father wanted me to be and I hope that I can be a quarter of the father to you that he is to me.

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Tale of Two Kiddies

Here is a news flash: People -- even children are their own persons. It is human nature to compare your own children to each other, i.e. Reagan is a lot more vocal than Tiernan was at this age. You just can't help yourself. It's like forcing your tongue not to fiddle with a loose tooth. It just does it and you say to yourself, "I have to stop doing this" and three minutes later, your catch your tongue playing games with the loose tooth.

Human's can't help themselves. I am human. Thus, I play with my teeth and I compare my kids to each other. Here are some observations.

Reagan eats like a horse. Tiernan nibbles around the edges when it comes to meals. Which works out pretty good since Reagan will often finish Tiernan's meals. This works well at lunch. Tiernan will not eat the crusts of a sandwich. Reagan likes the crust. It is a symbiotic relationship, very natural.

Reagan eats, and eats and eats, but is more adverse to trying new stuff.
Tiernan eats a wider variety of food, but less of it. Reagan likes what she likes and has little desire to like more things.

Reagan is fearless, throwing caution to the wind. I call her Hillary Edmund, a play on Sir Edmund Hillary, the first man to climb Mt. Everest. Tiernan isn't a coward but he is more cautious. Perhaps it just experience and wisdom which makes him rethink actions that Reagan, might jump headfirst into.

When Reagan is hungry, she wants to be fed, no matter what she's doing. Tiernan is often too wrapped up in what he's doing to take time to eat.

When Reagan is tired, she wants to go to bed. She welcomes bedtime with a smile. Tiernan has never been tired. He would never admit that he needs to sleep. He would rather pass out on his feet than go to bed and miss something life can offer him.

Tiernan is going to run for mayor. He wants to be everybody's friend and know who everybody is. Reagan is happy with Mommy, Daddy, and the folks she knows. She is friendly, waving to people on the street but she is just being polite.

Tiernan is very sensitive little boy. Reagan is a harder person. She's not cold, but while Tiernan loves to cuddle and is very affectionate and has been so since he was an infant, Reagan wasn't a baby to be held and cuddled. As such, she is much more independent than Tiernan.

These are all broad stoke observations and all may change as the they grow up, but these are my kids, and my observations.

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Bubble Popping

Our little family is expanding. More mouths to feed. More lives to be responsible for, more blog fodder.

Yes, Clan O'Rourke has grown over the weekend, we've adopted two goldfish, Dori and Nemo.

We attended MeadowFest on Saturday. It was held down in Secaucus. (pronounced See-Kaw-Kus, not Sic-cukus, as some non-North Jerseyites contend. Other often mispronounced town names are Garfield: pronounced Ga-feeld and Moonachie: pronounced Moon-A-Kee. Also, Statten Island is actually pronounced as one word, i.e. Stateneyelund.)

But back to Meadowfest, a celebration of the Meadowlands. It was great for the kids, pony rides, a petting zoo, bouncy houses, pontoon boat rides with tours of the meadowlands, live music, live animals, pig races, birds of prey, and general carnival fare, as well as a cadre of environmental groups all spread out among the mosquitoes in the beautiful county park at the base of Snake Hill or Laurel Hill, as is officially known. Yes, that Snake Hill. The one that the eastern spur of the NJ Turnpike cuts through. A quick and interesting history of Snake Hill can be found here. We try to entertain and inform here at The Poop Truck.

The day was a lot of fun. While we didn't get to take the eco-poontoon boat tour, Tiernan did get to engage in hot petting zoo action and a play around of mini-golf. The golf and the petting zoo were the highlights for Tiernan. I don't think Reagan had a highlight. For her, the day consisted mainly of trying to wiggle free and run around and crying and waiting in line and watching Tiernan do things that she was just too young to understand. She was cranky. But she liked being outside and got a laugh watching the pig races.

It was just as we were about to leave when our lives were changed forever. Tiernan spotted the goldfish game. The traditional carny game of tossing a ball in a small fish bowl and win a goldfish. Well, I forked over the $3 and my boy and I earned, I say earned because, the fishwrangler kept feeding me more and more balls until we each won a fish in a jar.

Great. I love fish. However, we have a minor complication. It is literally a three-mile walk back to where the car is parked. (In the interest of full-disclosure, a free shuttle bus was provided, but dramatic license is sometimes needed to keep the reader interested.)It could have been a long walk. I actually think we parked closer to the house than to the MeadowFest. It was very well attended, considering it was a party in a swamp. There were a lot of people there. Many, many with goldfish, which leads me to believe that rather than "win" the fish with my outstanding fishbowl pitching skills, I bought the fish and was allow to toss some balls for a while just to look cool in font of my son. It is kind of an empty moral victory, but I will take it.

So we've got the fish and it is a long walk (potentially). We have no stroller. We have two tired kids and two fish in jars. That is four precious lives, (some way, way more precious than others) in four tired arms, plus the ubiquitous bag-o-baby crap. Fear not, our friendly Fishwrangler has a solution. For a further investment of $7 dollars, I can upgrade from fish jar to a fish tank capable of holding multiple fish. A fish tank with a handy handle for carrying, plus a handful of colored rocks to make my new aquarium more appealing to the fish, and a small container of fish food. Sold. Thank you, friendly fishwrangler.

I just paid $10 for $1.50 worth of plastic and two fish that will probably be dead by the time we get to the car.

To make a long walk short, all six of us survived the walk to the car (and the bus ride) and ride home. Two of us fell asleep on the way home. Hint: The fish were very excited at the prospect of someday seeing our toilet bowl, they remained awake.

The kids slept. The fish swam. The parents talked -- mostly about what the hell we were going to do with the fish when we got home.

Once we got home we transferred Nemo and Dori, from new tank to a larger more stable fish bowl and a small filter that we've had stored in the basement for just such an occasion. It is a relic from my pre-parenthood life, when I went through a lets get an aquarium phase. I settled for a Siamese Fighting Fish, AKA a beta. A fish that is virtually impossible to kill, but I managed for find a way to kill it and the two others that followed him down the toilet.

The beta's died, but their home lived on in the basement, waiting for my future son to want a fish. At last, we've come to the true milestone of this story. (Its been a long journey hasn't it) Tiernan has his first pets. (Maggie does not count. She is BK, Before Kids.) It is the first in what I predict will be a long line of various assorted creatures that will be offered shelter by Clan O'Rourke.

Once the fish were transferred to their new home, the question became "Where do we put the fish bowl?" I didn't want it in the kitchen or living room. I don't want to put it too low, so the little hands can try to cuddle Dori and Nemo, but on the other hand I don't want them up too high that Tiernan and Reagan can not see them either. The fish now reside in the den on top of the toy storage unit - out of reach but in viewing distance. All have been sternly and strenuously warned not to touch the fish bowl.

Well, maybe not that far out of reach. Tiernan woke up Sunday morning and immediately wanted to check out his fish. So he went down stairs to wake up Dori and Nemo. A few moments later he is at the bottom of the stairs screaming. "Dad, there is a problem with the fish! Dad! Dad!"

My first reaction is the one or both fish are dead. I come down and check it out. I am happy to report that both fish were alive and well, but there was a problem with the filter. The hose shook itself loose and fell out of the bowl. Not a big deal, but you will agree that the boy has keen eye.

Later that day the hose come out again, but this time there was quite a bit of water. "Tiernan, were you playing with the fish bowl?"

"No. I was just trying to pop the bubbles from the filter and the hose came out." A quick clean up and another stern warning were needed.

I think I am going to start a pool. The pool will have to prizes, one for the correctly predicting the life expectancy of these fish and another predicting the first time (and last time) the bowl is spilled. It is a good chance that both events will happen at the same time.

Anybody that wants in let me know.

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The Nightmare is Over

It has finally come to this. After two years of grumbling and waffling, I am free. I have freed myself from the costant whinning and petulant meltdowns of a child. I have finally killed him. I came to a world changing epiphany and snapped. After debating whether I should and if I could really go through with it. I did it. He is dead. I could not take one more morning filled with crying and self-centered narcisisim. Something had to be done. I've killed him and his sister and his mother. The entire family of whinny Canadians are dead.

I have vanquished my foe. Caillou is dead. He no longer darkens my beautiful new LCD flatscreen TV. I have taken him off the autorecord on Tivo and his vomit inducing giggle will be heard from no more.

As I have documented here before, I hate this show. It teaches kids to whine and complain when they don't get their way or something doesn't come easy enough for them. Tiernan, my three-year old loves this show. It is about a kid that is his age and his little sister and Mommy and Daddy. It is Tiernan's life and he does learn some good things by watching the show. It helps his imagination. So I would let Tiernan watch the WLB (whinny little bastard) in moderation. However, he's been watching WLB it too much lately, and as a result, I've noticed that Tiernan is whinning more and more, and what's worse is I've heard him say on numberous occasions. "It's too hard! I can't do it!" when attempting do perform simple tasks such as pull up his underwear and button his pants. WLB has taught him that he can quit. Hell, I'd rather he watched more CSI, (deemed by a parents watchdog group to be the worst show on television for families due it its subject matter, the grissly recreations, sexual depictions and adult situations) and learn science and law & order, and some anatomy -- than watch WLB and learn to whine and quit.


I just wish WLB parents would do some parenting instead of always giving into what he wants. They never say no to this WLB.I just want to punch WLB's mother in the mouth and say wake up and parent. Your kid is messing up my kid, with his aire of entitlement and socialist view of the world. And why hasn't he been to a doctor about his lack of hair. He's four and Homer Simpson has more hair.


The other thing I hate about WLB is he is treated special everywhere he goes. If he goes to a farm he gets to ride a horse, if he goes on a airline, he gets to go in the cockpit, if he goes on a bus he gets to steer.

Tierna is like a WLB junkie. He keeps asking to watch WLB "just one show", but I tell him that it isn't on TV anymore. It has been hard, but hopefully, I can detox Tiernan from the long reaching effects of such a harmful addiction and he will go on to live a normal whine-free life. I know going cold-turkey can be tough, but if WLB is the drug of choice, I've found PBS' methodone, which I can use to keep Tiernan clean of the more harmful WLB. I have offered Tiernan, Clifford the Big Red Dog to get him over this tough adjustmet period to being WLB free. He seems to be responding to this treatment. He asked to watch Clifford today.

Tiernan is still whinning, I don't know if we'll ever get free of that side-effect. But in a few weeks, who knows he could be a changed boy and a productive member of society again. Instead of a WLB.

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Artist's Eye

We gave the camera to Tiernan one day last week and showed him how to use it. He took some surprisingly good photos and some expected bad ones.


Daddy the painter.



Mother and sister.



This one looks like a crime scene photo. "All that was left was her shoes."



I actually like this one. I call it "Paws and Posts"

There are some new photos of the kids on the old Poop Truck photo sites.
Click here for Tiernan's Photos or here for Reagan's Photos
You can always use the links on the side of this page as well.

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