Lasting Effects

Last month my little warrior/artist painted himself and most of the basement floor red for the sake of art. BraveArt, I called it. As with all great art, it has had a lasting effect on the house....
It seems, I have discovered the "weapon" he used to do all that painting of himself and the basement. It was a toy dust-brush. Part of a toy dust-brush and dust-pan, which purchased for the kiddies so they too, could partake in the joy of cleaning.

Well, while he was down there wrapt in artistic fervor, he spied the dust-brush. And he thought to himself, "dust-brush, paint-brush. I can use this brush to create my art. My art. My art!!!!!"

And that is just what he did. He took this six-inch wide brush and dipped in the red paint and painted the town, or at least his little corner of it, red.

I did not realize he used this brush, until he emerged from the basement a week later with red once again all over his hand. And this time he wasn't down there doing "his Art," he was just playing with toys. Specifically, he was playing with that dust/paint brush, which had never been cleaned and, as such, was still full of drying red water-based paint.

Had it not been for many years of watching CSI, I might never have been able to decipher how his hand and as a result, the wall on the way up the stairs, became stained red. The wall has little read finger prints at two step intervals.

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Climbing and Cribless

Do anyone remember back in June, when I referred to Reagan as Sir Edmund Hilary reincarnated? At that time, I mentioned her lack of fear and proclivity for climbing. Well, she has managed to climb out of her crib....
Yup, she has mastered the ability to climb out of her crib, and as a result she's longer sleeping in a "crib." She now sleeps in a daybed, which is her crib with the outside rail removed. This is not something I wanted to do. If it were up to me, she'd be sleeping in a crib until the night before her wedding. She might be uncomfortable but I'd sleep better.

But alas, children grow up and make their own decisions. While she may not be aware that she's decided to no longer sleep in a crib, her ability and willingness to climb out of the crib forces our hand to remove the outside rail.

I knew this was coming. She has been working on getting out of that crib since June. She recently grew a half-an-inch and got enough muscle in her leg to get up over that rail. I found out one day, when I put her down for a nap, and she was fighting sleep, screaming and crying. Then she got quiet and I thought she was going to sleep. I went downstairs to the kitchen to unload the dishwasher and I heard a mild, but heavy "thud" from her room, which is directly over the kitchen.

"It's happened," I said to no one. And proceeded upstairs to check on her condition. She was fine. By the time I got halfway up the stairs, Reagan met me at the top. "Dada, don dars," and she proudly points down stairs. I don't know how she landed, but based one her mood and the speed with which she was able to get out of the room and to the stairs, she probably landed on both feet with a perfectly stuck 10-point gymnastics landing. But the Russian judge probably screwed her, with a 9.5.

That was the day the world changed ever-so-slightly for Reagan and I and the others here in Casa O'Rourke. There was no longer a jail-cell that could hold her. She reached a new level of freedom. If she didn't want to take a nap, she didn't have to, because her crib could no longer hold her.

So, now she sleeps in a day-bed. Three sides of her old crib, one side protected by the bed-rail to keep her from rolling out in her sleep, but with an area for her to safely climb down and up, because to Hilary Edmund, there is always a need to climb.

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Dragon and Butterfly

Last week saw the coming and going of Halloween.


It was a very busy day here at Casa O'Rourke. First, was Tiernan's big school Halloween shindig. He was all excited to go to school in his dragon costume. Reagan had her costume on when we dropped him off at school. She was a Butterfly....

After school it was on to Hockey Lessons. It was great because DirectorMom had taken the day off and was able to come see Tiernan skate. We drove over in our Dragon costume and only begrudgingly took if off in order to don the skating gear. It was also good because, Tiernan was one of only three kids to actually show up on Halloween, as a result he was able to get some personal attention from the coaches. There was also a good-sized temper tantrum, associated with skating without the skating-assistant, or "pusher," but everything was sorted out soon enough and skating was fun again.

After skating it was time for Trick or Treating. On went the Dragon and Butterfly costumes again, to bring them to the masses in the neighborhood.


The Dragon in full, regalia.


A beautiful, but somewhat perplexed Butterfly.


The Dragon and the Butterfly at play.

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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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