Things I Can Count On

As the kids get older, predicting their behavior and reactions to events can get harder. For instance, Reagan is no longer willing to try any food that she doesn't eat every day. She won't eat apple slices or applesauce. But apple juice is great. There are however, some things that I can count on...
I can be assured that after spending an hour preparing/cooking and fending off the children while cooking, and setting the table, that when I finish filling my plate and am about to dig in, the words, "I gotta go poopie. Dad, I need help." will echo through the room. The meal I'd been looking forward to will get cold while I tend to the poop.

I know everytime I take both kids to the supermarket for a "quick trip" and leave the diaper bag home, Reagan will contaminate her diaper with a highly toxic brew as we walk from the car to the store.

I know the easiest way to get child to want play with his or her toys is to attempt to clean them up. They can be sitting, untouched, in the middle of the room for two days, but once the child sees you put in away, it will be played with five minutes and left, untouched, in the middle of the room for another two days.

I know that Reagan or Tiernan will begin screaming at the pivotal point in the news report, usually when they tell you where the storm will hit or what town the serial killer is terrorizing.

I know that I will run out of either diapers or wipes when Reagan has yet again abused her diaper poolwater and sand filled load. I also know that she will refuse to lay still and get cleaned up after making said mess.

I can count on the phone ringing during as soon as I get Reagan on the changing table.

I can count on a afternoon summer rain shower while I am trying to grill dinner.

I can count on the dog barking as Reagan is going down for her morning nap.

I can count on a clean floor not being clean for long.

I can count on Tiernan falling asleep during the car ride home when we are one minute from pulling in the driveway.

I can count on a big hug from Tiernan after a time out.

I can count on a smile from Reagan when I turn around to look at her when we're driving.

I can count on getting jumped on if I lay on the floor.

I can count on Reagan laughing and giggling as we dance around the kitchen.

I can count on at least one fart joke a-day from Tiernan.

I can count on Reagan screaming, "DaDa!" and running over to hug me, when I come home from work on those days when I must go to the office.

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The "What if" Game

As I was scrubbing the pots from dinner last night, I was dancing around and singing along with the Dead as Shakedown Street played from the iPod. Jean was upstairs giving the kids a bath, while I cleaned up dinner. Suddenly, I thought that I should turn the music off and listen ... I thought it, but didn't do it. I stopped singing and kept doing the dishes. I thought, "Did I hear a scream? Did Jean call me? Is there a problem up there? Did one of the kids fall and hit their heads and is drowning and I am needed. Maybe I should turn off the music? No. There is no need. But what if one of your kids is up there dying and you are too selfish to turn off the music to check." And I turned off the music. There was no screaming, just splashing and laughter from upstairs.

And that it when it occurred to me. That the whole thought process that I just recounted, is one that someone without children does not have. People who don't live with children, don't have to deal with that kind of self-imposed, what if guilt.

I must have the conversation with myself twice a day. Sometimes its while I am trying to get dinner ready and the vent fan, facet, and burner is too loud, and sometimes is when I down the basement changing the laundry. I am relatively certain the kids are OK, but I am in the basement with the dryer making a racket, I am separating whites from colors. Suddenly, I have to stop and go through this thought process: "Is someone screaming? Should I go check. They are fine, just finish putting the dirty underwear in the washing machine. It will take you three seconds. Was that another scream? Yeah, remember the last time you stopped what you were doing and ran upstairs, to find out they both kids were screaming in Spanish back at Dora the Explorer. 'I need your help. Say Abra! Louder, say Abra!' How much trouble could they be in? But what if someone is unconscious?" And so it goes, until I either finish the task or abandon it to check on the kids and find them sitting comfortably yelling Abra!Abra! at Dora.

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Sleep, Perchance to Dream...

For all the problems, (minor toddler related not listening, stubborn girl related issues) Reagan causes during the day, she is awesome at night. She requires little or no "night time parenting." When she is ready to sleep, she sleeps. Her bedtime routine works like a charm: three books, goodnight, give her a book in her crib, leave a light on, and 3 scream-free minutes later -- blissful slumber. Her brother on the other hand ...
requires quite a bit of energy and commitment to get to sleep. And ever more throughout the night. Since he is in bed and not crib, he has the ability to get out of bed.

He uses that ability -- often, to climb into Mommy and Daddy's bed. So there is four of us in our bed, Mommy, Daddy, Maggie (the dog) and Tiernan. I wouldn't mind, as much if he didn't take over the bed. And he always seems to claim my space for his own. There have been many mornings, when I wake up in his bed and he's blissed out in my space on the bed.

There are some nights when I put him back in his own bed four or five times. I wouldn't mind if that didn't require that I woke up four or five times in night.

I hope this is a phase, but it is getting worse. He fights us at bedtime. The child has never been tired. NEVER. He's fallen sleep watching TV and will wake up as I am carrying him upstairs to bed, and he insists that he's not tired.

The very mention of bed time will bring on a trip to "the whinery" -- you know where "the whine" comes from. "I don't want (sniff, sniff) to go to bed. (sigh) I not tired! Please...(sniff, sniff) please... (eyes welling, tears streaming)I wanna go back down (sniff)stairs." The whine is bitter and not pleasing, with not so subtle hints of obnoxiousness, anger, and brat. It is the brat that really leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. Too much whine and I become an angry-sleep deprived drunk.

I think we're going to have to try to rectify this situation using the same reward system we used for potty training. One week of fight-free bedtimes and no nocturnal visits and he can get new toy. I like this approach, but I don't want everything to be about getting new toys.

Because, the other day he unilaterally decided that he no longer needed to use his Bob The Builder potty seat any more and he was a big boy and could go on the regular seat. And he did and hasn't used the potty seat since, but twice he's asked if he gets a new toys for going on the big potty. Maybe we'll try a visit to Chuck E Cheeze instead.

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Father, Son Moment

The other night, the family went for dinner at IHOP. Fine dinning at its finest. We had a nice meal and since the weather was picture perfect, we decided to give the kids a treat and stop by Teterboro Airport and watch the planes take off and land...This was a huge treat for Tiernan. Reagan seemed to enjoy herself. But I sat Tiernan on the hood of the car and we watched and waited and watched and waited for the planes to take off. When they did take off, each time Tiernan would wonder aloud, "Where is that plane going?" And I'd say, "I don't know." And he'd say, "I bet its going to Newark." It was a very nice night. DirectorMom took this picture from inside the car, with my cellphone. I may be my favorite picture ever.

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No Toys or Ghosts at the Table

Everybody knows that toys are not allowed at the dinner table. This is a steadfast rule in every house in the world (at least those that respect the sanctity of the family breaking bread together.) The TV may be on, but the toys stay in the den. Tiernan is well aware of this rule, and rarely attempts to bring a toy to the table at dinner, lunch and breakfast however...

These are less formal meals and he thinks he can sneak a train or car to the table during these meals. Perhaps, it is less the reverence for the importance of the meal and it is more of a real estate issue. During breakfast and lunch there is only three of us eating, and no pots or pans -- serving dishes to occupy the table space. Thus allowing space for Thomas and the gang from Sodor or Lightning and Mater. I think perhaps, it has more to do with space to play, than a sense of solemnity.

This morning I surprised Tiernan with two new NASCAR die cast cars, which I had ordered from Ebay. (Insert redneck joke here.) I know --- I am redneck, but the kid loves the racecars and I can spoil my only son. He was happy. Enthralled with the new cars and would not let them out of his hands, let alone his sight.

As Tiernan, Reagan and I were at lunch he had the cars with him at the table, but he was being good about not playing with them. He was eating and singing. I didn't notice the toy cars on the table. He was pretty much ignoring them.

As I am eating my lunch, Reagan said something it what to me was gibberish. All of a sudden Tiernan says to Reagan, "Don't say that anymore. Don't say that!"

"What did she say?" I asked bewildered.

"She said, 'No toys at the table.'" responded Tiernan.

WHAT!!! "Reagan said 'No toys at the table.' Really?"

"Yes," he said. "She shouldn't say that. I know toys aren't allowed at the table. I am not playing with them. I just looking."

"Reagan, Did you say that?," I asked bothered that I didn't hear her.

She just smiles the grin that she has that means, "Yes." It involves bared teeth and devilish giggle.

If she did say that -- WOW. I don't know if she really did. I have some doubts, but she has been talking a whole lot more of late. It is possible, that Tiernan pick up the words through the gibberish. Arguable, he is closer to speaking gibberish then I am, perhaps he has a better ear for these things.

Now, lets assume that she did say that phrase. She does hear me when I speak. And she was informing on her brother. The fact that he had his toys on the table upset her, and she said something. Perhaps she was upset that he got new toys and she didn't. Perhaps she was upset that she could not get down to get her own toys and bring them to the table.

Perhaps she didn't say it at all.

Let's take the position that she is just 17-months old (Holy crap! She is 17-months old. I have been telling people that she is 15-months old.) and just getting a handle on the whole speaking thing and still doesn't have the understanding to follow the rules. (Which was my position, prior to Tiernan's outburst.) So, she didn't say it. Tiernan just heard it. Should I be concerned about Tiernan's psyche? Is he that worried about being a bad boy that he's hearing his little sister rat him out to me? Is there some sort of brother/sister psychic connection what allows him to understand her? Like twins. I don't know, I am an only child. Such things could exist? Right. Maybe, Tiernan has the shinning and this house is haunted and someone else spoke it into Tiernan's ear.

Perhaps she did say it. I think she said it. The upside of having a smart well adjusted 17-month old is higher than the upside of having a psychic 3-year old and haunted house. She said it.

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Because Its There

Reagan is growing and developing by leaps and bounds. Over the last couple of weeks she is speaking more and more clearly. She has always been a talker. But is was gibberish. Her favorite gibberish phrase has been "ded gieeesh" or as Aunt Tara heard over her visit....
"Dead geese. Dead geese."

She is really working on saying other words. She's almost got Tiernan down. She's been saying "Ma ma" and "Da da" but for a while we were both Dada. After a few corrections she's calling DirectorMom, Mama. She is also got Lala down, for Aunt Eileen. And our dog Maggie is about to added to her vocabulary. She is working on it, it currently sounds like, "Madgiesh" but she is nothing if not persistent.

Which brings me to another aspect in her development. Climbing. I've taken to calling her Hillary Edmund, (After Sir Edmund Hillary, the first man to climb Mt. Everest.) She climbs everything, without fear. It is like an obession with her. Even at the Club, she spends 80 percent of her time climbing out of the pool, she she can get back in and climb out again.

She climbs on the couches. She has alwasy been fasinated by the stairs. We have bar-stool height chairs in the kitchen at the island, somehow she managed to climb up into those chairs one day. There is nothing more jarring to a parent, then seeing your little baby sitting in a chair at a height that you thought was unattainable. "Hey, how'd you get up there?" There's your little girl sitting with a self-satisfied grin, banging on the table. She climbs on the chairs at the kitchen table. She likes to stand on them and look out the windows.

It is the ability to get into and out of the kitchen chairs with has brought her to a new level in epicurial seating. She is not longer in the high-chair. She has moved to the booster seat. She must still be strapped in because.... she climbs out. But she not longer eats on her own little island. She eats at the table with the rest of the family.

The rest of the family has not decided if this is a good thing or not.

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It's a Long Story

The other morning, Tiernan was on the toilet. Reagan, DirectorMom and I were in the den. Lala (Aunt Eileen) was in the kitchen and she came into the den and said, "Tiernan is having some difficulties in the toilet..."

She informed us that the boy somehow had gotten poop on his socks and all over his hands. I jumped up, walked into the bathroom and began to access the damage. It was not a haz-mat situation. But he had poop on his hands and socks. I asked him, "What happened? How'd you get poop on your socks?"

And he said, "It's a loooooong story, Dad." And that cracked me up. I said through the laughter. "Well, I got all day. Tell me what happened." He said, "Ohhhh, its a long story." I am not sure where he heard this phrase, but it is not part of his verbal bag of tricks. I never really did get the full story as to how the poop got on his socks, but I can speculate that it has something to do with his wanting to experiment as to the absorbency and cleaning characteristics of different textures and textiles on his bum.

Or maybe he shoved his foot up his ass, its a long story.

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Mental Thunder

Here in the New York metro area, a line of strong thunder storms blew through early in the evening. Lots of rain and some boom booms. Thunder scares little children. Thunder scares Tiernan. But not yesterday...

Yesterday, Tiernan wanted to watch the storm. Reagan was blissfully sleeping off a couple of hours at The Club. So, Tiernan, Aunt Eileen (Lala, to her neice and nephew) and I stood under the relative shelter of the eaves and watched the storm. This was a change in policy for Tiernan. His previous policy was to be afraid of thunder and therefore, avoid the direct brunt of the storm by staying inside and doing anything to take his mind off the storm.

I love watching a thunderstorm. There is something beautiful and dangerous about it. It gives you an appreciation for the power and fury of nature. It is a force to be admired and respected. I would really like to pass on this respect and admiration to Tiernan. It's not that I wish for bad weather, but if I must endure a storm make it worth my attention.

Yesterday's storm wasn't a bad storm. There were a few thunder rumbles but no real close, loud bone-jarring claps. Nothing that made us jump out of our shoes. There was some cloud to cloud lightning but nothing that would make me take cover. It dumped a lot of water and there was plenty of rain, but there wasn't much wind, lightning or thunder. It was summer thunderstorm.

To his credit, the boy weathered the storm like trooper. He kept saying, "I am not afraid, anymore." But, he was so cute in the way he would say it. He break it up like, "I'm not afraid.... aaaannny.....more" and he'd make the "safe" signal with his arms. It is just a gesture but it was as if to say, "Dad, I know I am safe. I am not afraid any more." I think he lied, a bit. He is very attuned to thunderstorms. He may not hear anything else that is said on the news, but when the weather babe says, "possible thunderstorms," Tiernan perks up and says, "Thunderstorms? When?"

The front blew through and the skies cleared, the humidity dried up and the weather improved. By 8 p.m. it was pleasant night. Any severe weather was gone. At 9 p.m. it was bedtime for Bonzo. Time to put the kiddies to sleep. Reagan was her usual easygoing self. (It is her best thing. When she's ready to sleep, so goes to sleep. Some nights she may protest for a few minutes but she will eventually surrender to call of dreamland.) Tiernan on the other hand, was suddenly deathly afraid to go to sleep, because "the thunder was outside." At first I thought he was just using this as an excuse to stay up. But the fear on his face confirmed that he was genuinely afraid.

It has been a tough couple of weeks for Tiernan come bed time. He is still afraid of fireworks. And coming off the July Fourth festivities, when fireworks could be heard from neighboring towns almost every night beginning the weekend before the Fourth and the ending the weekend after the holiday. The only night there wasn't any explosions filling the night air was last Wednesday, July Fourth, because a line of thunderstorms cancelled most towns fireworks displays, with rain dates of the following weekend.

So for almost a week-and-half Tiernan has been going to bed anxious, if not afraid. But last night he was really afraid. We got him settled down and he eventually feel asleep. At 1:30 a.m. he was climbing into our bed, afraid of the thunder he just heard. There was no thunder. Skies were clear. I got him back into his own bed. At 3:36 a.m. he was back in our bed. He heard more mental thunder. I told him to go back to bed. He did, reluctantly. At 5:10, more mental thunder chased him into our bed and my overtired verbal thunder chased him back to his bed.

This morning as we were eating our waffles, he said, "Dad, I am sorry I kept you awake all night." And I got struck by a lightning bolt of guilt. I felt like a ogre for chasing a scared little boy away last night. Now that is mental thunder.

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The power of the mouse

Since Monday, June 25 the traffic to this site has increased by 30 percent. I am getting ten more people per day viewing the Poop Truck, than I did prior to the momentus post of Monday, June 25. Do you want to know why...
The reason for the increase in traffic is, Minnie Mouse.

At first I thought, "Wow, maybe word about my strong, witty, and enlightening comentaries on bring up children is getting around" and I stared having visions of a book deal and making the rounds of Oprah and Dr. Phil. At the very least Ellen would see the humor and book me. Then I realized it was just one post getting all the attention. The post about Micky and Minnie. More specifically, the photo of Minnie Mouse that I linked from Google images to accompany the post about gender issues. Everybody around the world loves Minnie. I don't fool myself by thinking that folks are clicking in for the content, as strong, witty, and enlightening as it may be. No, people just want to look at a female mouse named Minnie.

The post that generates the second greatest amount of hits is the one entitled Desperate Housewife because of the number of sickos out there that Google the words (and there have been hundreds) "Women desperate to poop." Boy I bet those guys experience a let down when they realize it is a family site about a father and his kids and not poop fetish site.

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The Thing I Don't Know

I had, what is basically a child-free weekend. My wife took the kids to her father's on Friday night and left me to my own devices until late Saturday evening. That means I got to do something I, haven't done in like three-and-half years -- sleep late. I stayed in bed until 9:15 a.m. That is at least an hour-and-a-quarter longer than any morning of the last 1,277ish mornings.

What did I do with my time? I did what every married American male between 35 and 50-years old, with kids would do...

I spent most of the day at Lowes and Home Depot. The time not spent at a home-improvement center was spent home improving, i.e. converting the basement to a playroom for my kids. Now, you may say that this is a wonderfully selfless act, a father working to make the lives of his kids better. But.. that is not entirely true. The real reason, for working to make the playroom a reality is, I want the vast array of various sundry toys banished from my TV room. So... what may seem altruistic is truly self-serving.

However, the time away from the kids did make me realize two things. 1.) I would be much more productive member of society without kids. 2.) I missed them desperately. Every trip to Lowes had me missing Tiernan, my usual wingman at Lowes. He likes to go and ride in the Jimmie Johnson #48 Lowes Car Shopping Cart. And every time I'd see another Dad with his little NASCAR driver I'd miss my little buddy.

Which is not to say that the weekend wasn't productive. I was able to run a new electrical circuit and install new lighting in the basement. (Without electrocuting myself, for which I give myself a pat on the back.) I was also able to repair and reinforce the wall leading down the steps in preparation for the new handrail. All while avoiding the emergency room.

The rest of the family returned Saturday night and spent most of the day at the Club leaving me, yet again, with another opportunity to send myself to the emergency room. But, good triumphed over evil again and through the grace of God I remained free of major injury.

Upon returning, from the Club, I was informed that Tiernan has reached another milestone in his cognitive awareness of himself and the world around him. The story, which was relayed to me by DirectorMom, (that is what I am going to call my wife from now on, since her recent appointment to director position at work), goes that Tiernan was playing ping pong with one of the female lifeguards for a while at the club and, after the lifeguard left, the boy somehow broke or messed up the net of the ping pong table. DirectorMom noticed this and tried, unsuccessfully, to fix it. She told Tiernan that they would have to report the problem to the club staff in the office.

Now the story goes, that the boy became very upset at this, but allowed the incident to be reported, on the condition that DirectorMom not tell Dad, Aunt Eileen, or his lifeguard friend about this incident. Neither, I or DirectorMom understand why it is so important that this incident be kept a secret, but the important thing is, Tiernan is now keeping secrets. Up until now, the concept of keeping a secret has been foreign to him. Or, if he has understood the concept, it was only in reference to gifts and keeping a surprise a secret. Not, as in this case, keeping a secret to conceal something he had done to avoid shame or punishment. That shows a higher understanding of the concept. And this is news.

I am not saying that keeping secrets is inherently bad. Everybody has secrets. This just marks another milestone in Tiernan's development as a person. He has secret, or so he thinks.

And so, this ping pong incident is the thing I don't know -- as far as Tiernan knows.

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