The Legend of One Shoe Rea

One Shoe Rea is a simple person. A person who likes to wear only one shoe. Two shoes are... excessive for Rea.
Rea likes cookies, especially Oreos that have been on the floor. Rea likes things simple. Rea is a simple person, who doesn't like mind dirt on food, but takes issue with more food being on her food. For instance, BBQ sauce on chicken nugget will not fly for Rea. Too much excess.
Rea likes things complicated. Rea likes things a little off kilter, just a bit askew. With two shoes on the world is too easy to negotiate. It is much more of a challenge, when you never know where one foot will land, maybe it lands on rug, or slips on hard-wood floor. It turns a simple trip up or down the stairs into a mini adventure, often requiring a base camp or two during ascent, and always in need of a buddy system.
One Shoe Rea is simple. One Shoe Rea is complicated. One Shoe Rea is a typical girl. A typical girl who likes things the way she likes them, and for the last week-and-a-half she likes them on one shoe, and only one shoe.

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Science of Lunch

Lunchtime around here is usually a good time. Everybody here likes to eat, and eating is a good thing. An inter-generational favorite is peanut butter and jelly. The mighty PB&J. Lord knows it sustained me for most of my kidhood...

The PB&J gets no respect. It isn't a healthy meal but it is beloved. It is like pizza. Everybody craves it but nobody admits that living on a diet of purely pizza would make them very happy. PB&J is like an old friend or a comfortable couch, it just envelopes you in good feelings.

Here at Casa O'Rourke, we are big fans of PB&J. Tiernan loves it and it was very upset to learn that because of the risk of peanut allergies, he can't have PB&J in school. I too, was upset to learn this, because it forces me to have a "lunch strategy" on school days, which requires forethought and planning.

But I digress. When PB&J is served here at Casa O'Rourke it is an pure example of a symbiotic relationship. You see I have been hesitant to serve The Girl an full PB&J because of the "mess factor." The mess factor is something that must always be brought into the equation when feeding a child under two-and-a-half. You must ask yourself, "How much mess will this generate?" Note: The question is not, "will this make a mess?" but How much of a mess?" A mess is a given. You are just gauging how much mess you are willing to tolerate at that meal.

So in an effort to keep the messes manageable, Tiernan will have PB&J and Reagan will have chicken nuggets or ham rollups. Now this is where the science comes in. Reagan will eat all of her meal, but Tiernan will not eat the crusts of his PB&J. However, Reagan is happy to eat the crusts of Tiernan's PB&J.

It is a wonderful example of a symbiotic relationship. Just like the oxpecker and the zebra. One cleans up for the other, and they are both fed.

So the other day, Dad had a problem. Plenty of PB&J for Tiernan, but no ham or nuggets for Reagan. I didn't think it was that big of a problem, since Reagan eats PB&J crusts, it would make sense that she should enjoy an entire sandwich. And on that day, I determined that a mess was inevitable. I planned on a longer clean up time.

So, for the first time, both children were served PB&J's. Tiernan devoured his crusts and all. Reagan.... dissected hers. She completed opened the sandwich up, revealing all the creamy peanut butter and gooey jelly. She proceeds to remove all the jelly from the sandwich. She was not going to eat the jelly. She was going to adorn her hair with the jelly. So she sitting there with peanut butter and breadcrumbs on her cheeks and her head bejewelled with a jelly tiara. This was not the mess I was willing to tolerate. I had not planned on a bath inducing mess. I had planned on a table scrubbing, (possible wall scrubbing) mess. Not one requiring massive amounts de-tangling shampoo.

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BraveArt

While Reagan was napping yesterday, Tienan felt the call of the muse. He wanted to do "Art." He was walking around saying, "Dad, I want to do my art. My art. I must do my art." So I set him up at the easel, his grandfather made for him and let the creativity flow unrestricted....

When Tiernan the artist, feels the call of the muse he prefers to work in mulitiple mediums, so there was makers, and crayons, and roll-on paints, splashed and scrawled across the paper. The spirit had really grabbed him, he was in the art zone.

In an effort to keep his clothes the color they were when he put them on, I thought it might be a good idea if he took his shirt off. He thought that he should take his shorts but, but I talked him out of it. He is now shirtless and wearning his art schmock and shorts. He looks like a miniature blacksmith. I left him in the basement to pursue his art. While he created, I folded laundry.

Fifteen minutes later, he his screaming for me to open the basement door. I do. He strides out of the basement, looking like an extra in Braveheart, who read the directions wrong. His face, his chest, his stomach, his neck are all red or brown or yellow. His knees are red. His hands are read. His socks are red. The back of his legs are red.

"What were you doing?" I ask.

"My art." There are these roll-on paints that he was rolling on himself and then finger-painting or chest-painting forearm-painting.

"OK, buddy. You look good. Let's go upstairs and jump in the tub to get cleaned up." I throw him in the tub and the red washes right off. He's getting dressed and as I am putting his old "BraveHeart" clothes in the hamper I notice that the bottom of his socks are also red. And I ask, "Is the floor in the basement red, too?"

He says, "Yeah."

"Is there anything else painted down stairs?"

"The Thomas table is a little red. But it was an accident," he says.

"OK, you finish getting dressed. I am going downstairs to check out what you did to the basement."

"NOOOOO!!!! No, no. Daddy don't go down there. No. I was an accident."

So I go down there and the Thomas table half-covered in red paint. There is a big puddle of red paint on the floor. Luckily, I was just able to clean it up with just a damp rag.

The things a boy will do for his "Art."

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Can't Stand Up for Falling Down

Here is some video evidence of Tiernan's skating ability. This is last week's lesson. He did much better last week than the week before.
Hopefully, he'll be even better this week, especially since he'll have a hockey helmet and not that goofy red bike helmet. That little Ranger fan he's skating with is our neighbor.

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Dance Party USA

I have the iPod playing in the kitchen throughout the day. All day long, I subject my kids to whatever musical whim, may come over me....
Sometimes it is the old school heavy metal of Judas Priest and Kiss, or the alt-country stying of Charlie Robinson and Robert Earl Keen, or the classic rock tones of Billy Joel and Bruce Springsteen, or maybe the indie-goodness of Death Cab for Cutie and The Decemberists. This morning it was set of music inspired by thoughts of sitting on the deck knocking back beers on a long Sunday. It included the likes of Guster, Jack Johnson, The Grateful Dead, and Little Feat.
I am always dancing. I dance when I am making breakfast, I dance as I a bring the kids their plates. I am moving and grooving all through the kitchen. Hey, I can move.
The kids don't always dance. Reagan will dance more readily than Tiernan will. He is usually more of a stand on the wall and watch kinda dude. I like to think he's picking his moment. But the fact is, he hasn't found his groove yet. When he does occasionally dance, he looks like a goofy White guy at wedding who's had too many Wild Turkey shots. At this point in his life, the boy can't dance, he's got no rhythm. He's three, he'll grow into it.
However, on this morning it was like Dance Party USA here in the kitchen. Little Feat's "Dixie Chicken" got the little feet moving. He was doing the Dixie Chicken all throughout the kitchen. Shakin' his booty and shimming himself over to his sister and imploring her to dance with him. Soon both kids are bopping and stepping along with me.
I think watching Dancing with the Stars is once again having some affect on him. Tiernan is trying to Fox Trot with Reagan, by grabbing her about the head and neck and swinging her around the room. She screaming. I am telling him to stop grabbing her head and he's protesting that, "Dad, I am just dancing with Reagan." At this point Reagan break free and does a 640-degree twirl into the cabinets and hits her head on the way down. At this point Tiernan just sticks out his butt and shakes it in time to, "If you'll be my Dixie Chicken, I'll be your Tennessee lamb." And he turns and does an Elaine Bennis style kick and head nod.
I am glad he's starting to dance. I encourage him to dance. I think it is important to instill the idea that dancing is fun and not something to be afraid of. I think the ability to dance, and not make a fool of yourself becomes a valuable asset during the teen and post-teen years. However, at the moment, I am not sure if I should be encouraged that he's dancing or horrified.

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