Drowning at Swimming Lessons

Summer has come and gone and Tiernan is back at school. The kids and I had a good summer at The Club. This year it was harder to navigate the dangerous waters of the Social Swim Club.
We have more friends in town, now that Tiernan is in school all of his buddies from school were there. Which is great. Our social circles are expanding. Also Tiernan is getting to be a big boy and big boys take simming lessons. Swimming lessons were at 10 and 10:30 every morning for a couple of weeks.
The Tuesday after July 4th, we had a birthday party to attend at 11 a.m. at the Memorial Pool in Fair Lawn, for one of his school buddies. We were up early to get ready for pool and day began with a 45 minute fight with Tiernan about going to Swim Lessons. He didn't want to go. "I already know how to swim," according to him. It was a full-on tear filled, foot-stomping, screaming meanie of a tantrum. One that would only be quelled by speaking to Mom via phone from work. We finally get him to agree to allow himself to be taught to swim. I get both kids in bathing suits and change Reagan's swimmie diaper for the second time, and lube them up with sunblock and we are on our way.
We get to the pool for the 10 a.m. class and I am informed that Tiernan cannot attend that class. There was a communcations mix up. Ok..no prob..we'll just head up to the party. As we are walking out the door, Tiernan's buddy Sal is walking in. Which results in another 15 min. fight about leaving the pool. I drag Tiernan out and we are on our way to the birthday party at Memorial Pool in Fair Lawn, with enough time to spare to stop at a Dunkin Donuts for morning coffee along the way. However, I don't have any money with me. My cash is in my pants. I try not to keep important things like wallets or money in my bathing suits. It always ends badly when I do.
So I pull into our driveway to run into the house to get my cash. "Ok, guys I will be right back. You guys hang out in your car seats for a minute." I am in the house for a few minutes longer than expected. It seems someone has hidden my pants. With pants and cash located I start out the front door to the car only to find both children out of their car seats and out of the car. The boy can free himself and took the liberty to free the girl from the bonds of car seat safety. And they are both running around the front yard. A quick assessment of the situation tell me that the children are older, wiser and more cunning than I give then credit for and I may no longer have time to get my coffee. Both conclusions displease me.
I scream at the children, extolling the dangers of getting out of the car without me or another trusted adult around, I may have also mentioned the heartbreak of a father who is in danger of missing his morning coffee.
With everyone strapped in the car, extra snug. We are off to the pool party. You may hear a rumor that I may have gotten a bit lost on the way, but I cannot confirm or deny such unsubstaniated rumors.
We find the Memorial Pool in Fair Lawn. It isn't so much a pool, as a man made lake complete with extra sandy beach. I hate sand. Let me clarify, I hate the beach. I love the ocean. I could go to the ocean and play in the waves all day. I could not spend more than a few hours on the beach. I don't see the attraction of getting sand in places that don't see Sunshine. Speaking of Sunshine, I don't tan. I turn red. I hurt, bad. I peel. I turn white again. I am not a good beach person. I don't want to lay on the beach. I don't want to sleep on the beach. I don't want to read on the beach. I have poor beach ettiquette. I get sand on everyone's towels, and blanets. I kick sand unintentionally. It is hot. It ends up in my car. It has things living in it. It is wet. It is full of cigarette butts. Crabs live in sand. Enough said.
While I don't think there were crabs living in the Fair Lawn Memorial "Pool" beach, the prospect of changing a sandy diaper displeased me greatly. As I have mentioned before, Reagan has a penchant for eating sand.
Speaking of changing diapers. The Ford Freestyle began to fill with a telltale ordor. Yes, Reagan pooped again. Once again in a swimmie diaper. Now, permit me to elaborate, not so much on the poop but on the swimmie diaper. Earlier in this passage I glossed over the fact that Reagan pooped in her swimmie diaper, during the "I Already Know How To Swim"-Tantrum. Scroll up if you don't believe me. The swimmie diaper is very different from a regular diaper and a training diaper or Pull-up. It wasn't really designed to handle poop. It was designed to keep the pool water out and the urine in. So that one does not become the the other. The jury is still out, when it comes the efficacy of the swimmie diapier's ability do this, but just as we are expected to make our beds everyday for no reason other than social norms, a toddler must wear a swimmie diaper. And I am the kind of father that wants my children to be accepted in polite society, I use swimmie diapers. Call me a conformist.
So...the swimmie diapers are very much like pull-ups but they are smaller. The collection area is a bit smaller. They fit a bit snugger. They go on like pants, they are not strapped on, like regular diapers. Another problem with swimmie diapers is they are usually worn with bathing suits. And in the case of little girls those bathing suits are often once piece suits, which creates even more of a problem when it comes to changing a dirty diaper. It becomes necessary for the child to be completely naked to make the change.
I must change Reagan's swimmie diaper in the parking lot of the Fair Lawn Memorial "Pool", and guess what kind of bathing suit she's wearing. A one piece. Another social norm I wish to instill in my children is not being naked in public places. Call me a conformist. So I am on the back of the Freestyle changing Reagan's poopy swimmie diaper, with Tiernan acting as a lookout. "Dad, here comes a car. I think it's a policeman, you better hurry up." It is not the optimum conditions for diaper changing. The only saving grace here is that it is that the swimmie diaper has not been swum in. It is dry, except for the brown stuff, and there is a good amount of brown stuff.
With Reagan clean and fresh, we head to the party. Which is fun, but uneventful. It was a very nice gathering of children and sand. The children made new friends and much of the sand went home in the children's pants. A good time was had by all.
The O'Rourke children both fall asleep on the ride home. But that is not the only thing that happened. Reagan did it again. She pooped in a swimmmie diaper for the third time in five hours. And this was the piece de resistance. Did I mention that this was the Tuesday after Fourth of July? Which means that Reagan spend the entire weekend eating nothing but corn on the cob. She is the corn queen and cashews. And this was the diaper that contained the waste from this weekend's fare, now this is a wet swimmie. I know I can think of nothing more ewww/ooggiee inspiring that having to go poop while I am swimming. It is one of the most uncomfortable feelings in the world. It makes my skin crawl.
I am faced with a child who is passed out but with a diaper full of cashew-corn-sand clusters. This is the perfect storm of disgusting diapers. All of the case scenerios have converged. Swimmie diaper, corn, cashews and sand. And don't underestimate the power of a few grains of sand to turn a run of the mill diaper into a diaper disaster. It clings to skin. It is immune to the baby wipe. I just doesn't want to come off. It also adds a certain something to the stench that would make a sewage worker vomit. And this had a stench, and world-class one at that. I gag my way through getting her cleaned up which included the need to put her in the tub and wake her up. Never a good thing. Eventually, I got her clean and both kids took long naps.
It was 1:30 in the afternoon, I was ready to jump in front of a bus. This had been my worst day as a stay-at-home parent. Until...
The next morning was another early wake up for Swimming Lessons. Lessons were at 10 a.m. and The O'Rourke clan was at the pool by 9:30. I had my radio, my sunglasses, and I was sitting at the baby pool watching Tiernan and Reagan frolic in the pool under a cloudless July sky. We were the only people at the kiddie pool at that hour. Dad is on his game today, after the debacle that was the day before. He's had his coffee and on top of things.
Tiernan is asking me a question about swimming lessons and suddenly stops mid-sentence and says, "What stinks?" he looks around and says, "Reagan stinks. She pooped and its running along the baby pool deck."
He called it exactly right. She did poop. It did stink. And it was running along the poop deck. She didn't poop in the pool, but on the concrete deck surrounding the pool. I knew I had a problem. My brain went into access the situation mode. And I knew my priorities. Clean the girl and alert the lifeguards of the Haz-Mat situation at the baby-pool.
I scoop up Reagan and order Tiernan to follow me and make haste. On the way to the men's room, I inform the pool manager and gathered lifeguards of the crisis. "Get the rubber gloves and bleach," one teenage guard yells. The manager turns to me with a small and says with a smile. "OK we'll handle it. And thank you very much for telling us." Which puts two very different thoughts into my head simultainiously: We are the only people in the baby pool, you would have figured it out... and... People don't tell you?!?!?! EWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!! I kiss my kids after the swim.
I shake that off and head to men's room to clean up the girl. It turns out that we are still working out the weekend's culinary delights. But now it is mixed with whatever may have been living in the lake water, from the party the day before.
I am not a novice when it comes to diapers. I don't need rubber gloves and mask to change a diaper. I have a strong stomach. I consider myself a pro when it comes to the diapering arts. I vomited in the mens room, after I go the diaper open. I am not proud of it but, I do consider it a benchmark by which all other odors will be compared to. And as far as I am concerned that smell ranks up there with Cal Ripken's consecutive games played record or the ratings for the final episode of M*A*S*H as records that will never be broken.
I get myself and Reagan cleaned up and we head home full of shame for closing the kiddie pool for a few hours. And depriving all the other toddlers of fun in the pool. I skulk home like a beaten man. Once home I throw Reagan in the tub and disinfect her as best I can. And I have to head back to the pool, because it is only ten minutes to 10:00 a.m. and Tiernan has swimming lessons, remember swimming lessons?
Reagan and I return to the scene of the crime, and by this time all the morning regulars are at the pool all lamenting the fact that the kiddie pool will be closed, not for a few hours as I thought but for 24 hours. They are all asking me, if I know what happened. "It was Reagan."
Now...I am faced with what to do with Reagan while Tiernan get swimming lessons. It turns out I had to chase her around the swim club, while she screamed and cried about not being able to swim. She woke the neighbors, and there are no homes nearby. She gave me more attitude that cornered rattlesnake. She screamed at me and did her best to get past me so she could jump in the big pool. It made no matter to her that she was in street clothes and not in a bathing suit.
I get her settled down a bit. I am still a shell of shame, despite the politeness of my pool moms, "It could happen to any of us" and the pool staff telling me that it happens all the time. My internal parental reputation has a black eye, and all can see that I am unfit to be around children, as is evident by my screaming, kicking daughter who will not stop crying and wailing, no mater how mean or nice I am to her. I am standing there in this pit of disparity and self-doubt, one of my neighbors from up the street, who I wave to but don't really talk to, ambles over. "This is a disgrace what happened with this kiddie pool."
"What do you mean?" I said, as I balled my fist to punch her in the mouth and thinking, "Where are you going with this conversation, lady?" I had a vision of her being taken from the Club on a stretcher, I also had vision of my being removed from the Club in handcuffs. The former was more pleasant then the later.
"They should clean this pool after hours at night, not during hours when people want to let their kids swim. You should write a letter," says, avoiding a hospital stay.
I inform her of the need to clean the pool and my delightful daughter's part in shutting down the fun for dozens of toddlers. She looks at me and says, "Oh." and rumbles back to her pool side chair completely unaware of how close she came to having her spleen eaten by an irate father, down on his luck.

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Take Me Out to the Airport

A couple of weeks ago, Mom came home with great news, one of her co-workers was offering her 2 tickets the Mets vs. Braves game on Saturday afternoon, her co-worker thought the Tiernan and I would enjoy going to the game. The co-worker was right.....
Now, I will readily admit that baseball is not my thing. I am not anti-baseball, I am just baseball-agnostic. I don't worship one team or another. My interest in baseball does not get aroused until at least late August. However, I enjoy attending an occasional game and respect what the game means on a larger cultural level.
I am a football and hockey, kind of guy.
My baseball loyalties are based in New York, but tend to blow with the type of "team" being fielded by the Yanks or Mets. I am a big team guy, it goes back to the love of hockey, the ultimate team sport.
Tiernan has been to a an NBA. Uncle Steve took us all to a Nets v. Celtics game. It was terrible. How that sport is as popular as it is I can not understand? It is a terrible product. Tiernan has been to a number of Devils games. Of course, Tiernan's trip to the Giants vs. Jets game has been well documented.
It may sound strange, since I am admittedly baseball-agnostic but, taking Tiernan to his first baseball game was something that I have been looking forward to. It is such a father-son cultural thing. I can be heavy stuff. The stuff that paternal relationships are built upon. And I have been reluctant to take Tiernan to a ballgame because the pace of the game is not conducive to enjoyment by four-year-olds. I didn't want his first game to be a bad experience. How many times have you fallen asleep on lazy Saturday with the game on the TV? It can be a bit boring.
So, Mom came home and announced that she had a surprise for Tiernan and I -- two tickets to the Mets game. "Tiernan to you want to go the baseball game with Daddy on Saturday?"
"No," he said, "I want Mommy to take me." I could feel the knife in my heart twisting and what little affinity I had for baseball started slipping away.
Finally, he came around and the boy and I went to Mets vs. Braves game. It was a chilly but sunny day. We got the Shea Stadium pretty early. Early enough to get a good look at the new Citi Field stadium being build right next to the old Shea. Tiernan was decked out in the newly acquired David Wright jersey. Mom had bought it for him a few days before, without prior knowledge that tickets would be forthcoming -- good call on Mom's part.
Inside old Shea, Tiernan and I set about exploring the place. We went down to the field level seats and watched the tail end of batting practice. We went to the men's room -- twice. We stopped by every vendor we saw. It seems that Tiernan was bent on getting himself a foam-finger. "We're Number 1." I have never seen the attraction of such things, but the boy wanted one. I am a Dad, this is the boy's first baseball game, the sky's the limit. However, much to his dismay none of the vendors seemed have any. And we went to at least five on different levels. His disappointment increased with each brace of bad news.
On the upside, Tiernan did take full advantage of the Shea's location directly to the east of LaGaurdia Airport's runway. The place is famous for the sound of low flying jets taking off. Every jet that thundered over seem to elevate his spirits after the deflation over the scarcity of foam-fingers. "We're still No. 1"
Eventually, we found our seats and the game started. I was a good game, the Mets and their hated rivals the Atlanta Braves. Tiernan, like everyone else in the building showed a passing interest in the actual game, but he seem to enjoy himself. I did the Dad thing and pointed out Right, Center, Left Field, the pitcher's mound, batters box, on-deck circle, the Mets dugout, the Braves dugout, the bat boy, the bat girl, the umpire, the scoreboard, the bleachers, the Big Apple in the Top Hat, the first base coach, and the third base coach.
Eventually, one of the roaming vendors came by with Foam-Fingers, "We're No. 1". So for $10 the boy got his wish. He got to shove is big finger in the face of faceless Braves fans everywhere.
Every two innings or so we'd get up and go for a walk. On one of these walks, Tiernan discovered that he could see the airport from the stadium. Not just the airport, he could watch planes come down the runway and take off and fly right at us. This was the highlight of the day. Not the triple by Ryan Church or the two-run double by Carlos Beltran, or the fact that John Maine got his second win, or even that the Mets beat the Braves 4-3, the highlight was watching the airplanes.
For me the highlight came during the 7th Inning Stretch, when the entire place is singing "Take Me Out the Ballgame," Tiernan looks up at me with a face full of excitement and says, "We sing this song at school!" and continued to belt out the song as he ate his Peanuts and CrackerJacks. "This is soo cool, Dad." he said waving his foam finger. I start thinking baseball is such a wonderful thing, this is what fatherhood is all about, enjoying a game with your son, the home team winning, and the sun shining. "Take Me Out to the Ballgame, Take me out to the Crowd."
In a cruel, twist of fate, I found out that the following day was Foam-Finger Day at Shea and they were giving those $10 foam-fingers away. I hate baseball.

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Its Been A While

Hello again, gentle reader. (I know who you are.) Let me reintroduce myself. I am Dad and I've been away from my cyberposting post. It has been a pretty lousy 2008. I stopped just before the holidays and with all the holiday hype, followed shortly by a Birthday bacchanal, followed quickly by a heart attack (not me), followed by a little thing the doctors call cardiac difib, and a Dick Cheney Pacemaker, and a touch of blood in the brain and months of physical therapy, and a serious addiction to online gaming. (The geek kind, not the degenerate gambler kind.) The Poop Truck was put in the garage for a while.

Excuses, excuses... I just haven't been writing.

What brings me back...It is time. (And I've been goaded into doing it.)

Easter was fast upon us, SuperMom and I had to get some Easter goodies for the kids. Reagan, my two-year-old daughter (for those who forgot), has been way into Toy Story. She has a big-girl crush on Buzz Lightyear. The whole fam damily is at the mall the Friday before Easter and we are forced into the Disney Store. And SuperMom and I decide that Toy Story play figurines are the perfect thing for the Easter Bunny to bring. However, the Boy (my four-year-old son) eyes me buying said Toy Story figurines.

And the lying begins... "These are not for you guys. These are for....Keelan. her birthday is in a few weeks." Which is true.Keelan's birthday was just last Saturday. But back to Easter morning. Lo-and-behold.. the Easter Bunny brought the kids Toy Story figurines. They are a big hit. All is great in the kid world.

Fast forward to this last Wednesday, before Keelan's birthday. We are once again at the mall. And Tiernan asks, "What do we need?" And I say, we need to get a birthday present for Keelan. And Tiernan responds, "But Dad...but...but...But Dad.. We already got a present for Keelan." Mom and I look at each other like, "what is he talking about?" Tiernan continues, "We got Keelan a present. We got her the Toy Story toys, you know like the ones Reagan and I got from the Easter Bunny."

SuperMom and I are dumbfounded. Awestruck! We look at each other in wild amazement. And realize that we are in a bit of trouble and must think fast on our feet. "I sent that down to her in the mail," SuperMom says. That is why they pay her the big bucks.

"Oh, good. Maybe we can play with them when we see her on Saturday," Tiernan says.

We are in trouble.

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