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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Night (Morning) Terror

One of the many blessings that make up Reagan, which include her burgening sense of humor and unstoppable cuteness, is her sleeping habits...
She sleeps. At night when it is time for bed she goes to be. No fight, no fuss. And she sleeps all night 98 percent of the time. Earlier this Fall she was released from the confinement of a crib, and now sleeps free-range. She is still her crib but one of the walls have been removed.
As I said she sleeps. Sometimes she sleeps in. When everbody else is up at 7:30 a.m. Reagan has been known to sleep until 8:30 a.m., giving dear old Dad a chance to drink some hot coffee for a change.
One morning about two weeks ago. Everbody is up and moving. I am getting Tiernan dressed and dealing with the minutia of why Tiernan needs to where a long sleeve sweater over his Cars themed short-sleeve shirt in December or calmly explaining, for the fourth time, why the shoe on his left foot should really be on his right foot. And I was able to focus on getting Tiernan dressed and take the time to get into a serious discussion about why it is necesary to comb ones hair. (Which by the way, brought some serious social and philosophical quesions, about free expression and society's need to put labels on people.)
I was able to question why humans need to cut, style, comb, dye, blow dry, streak, perm, braid, and generally manipulate their quaffs because Reagan was still asleep. I thought, "Boy she must be going through a growth spurt. It is best to let her sleep."
I finally got the boy dressed and combed and it was time to descend the stairs and begin breakfast ritual. Prior to going down stairs, I thought it'd be very fatherly if I just popped in to check on Reagan. Imagine my surprise when her bed is devoid of Reagan. There is no Reagan in the bed. I grab her blankets and shake them, check under her bed, check her closet. No Reagan in the room. It is Reaganless. "Reagan!" I yell. At this point, I am in a bit of panic. I bound down the strairs searching for my daughter. She's not in the kitchen, not in the basement playroom, not in the nook, not in the den. The front door is still locked. The back door is shut, but can be opened from the inside, even while locked. I run out to back yard, "Reagan!!!" The gate is closed. If she got out, she'd be trapped in the yard. She's not in the yard.
I stop in the living room, and listen. I hear the faint breathing of a child. I hone in on it and discover, my little girl sleeping peacefully on the chair-and-half in the living room. She is nestled comfily in to the pillows like a puppy. She is snoring ever so cutely.
But the quesiton, quickly becomes, how long has she been down here? She could have come down here ten minutes ago, she could have come down at 3 a.m. My wife walked right past her on her way to work. I walked passed her twice while I was looking for her. I think we're gonna have to make sure that gate at the top of the stair is closed every night.

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Cars: The Second Lap

It seems, I can't get rid of Lightning McQueen and the gang. They are coming around for a second lap.
Recently, Reagan is trying to talk more and more. She's always talked, alright babbled a lot. Mostly, just incoherent baby blather. Like a Democrat. I have conditioned myself to stop trying to decipher this baby blather. But now she is trying to tell me something. Early last week, she was trying to tell me that she wanted to watch Cars, she kept saying "Dtaanrs." I had no idea what she was trying to say. Finally, I said, "Do you want to watch Cars?" And she said, "Yessssssss."
And she hasn't stopped asking to watch "Dtaanrs" ever since. In the words of Michael Corleone, "Just when I thought I was out. They pull me back in."

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No Sex for the Slow Eater

The other night the whole gaggle of O'Rourke's were sitting at the dinner table for our nightly repast. There is one among us who is a Slow Eater...
To the Slow Eater other things seem to take higher priority for the Slow Eater. The Slow Eater feels compelled to do anything while at the dinner table as long as it isn't eat his meal. He will dance. He will make faces. He will spontaniously get up and take a lap around the house - living room, hallway, dinning room, kitchen. He will go to the bathroom. Three, no four times. He is the Slow Eater. Can you guess who the Slow Eater is? Hint: He ain't me.
Long after the rest of the gaggle is done eating and most of the dinner dishes are clean, the Slow Eater will still be at the table wondering why his food is cold. It is a long standing company policy here at O'Rourke Industries, that you may not leave the table until you've eaten all the food on your plate. Enforcement of the rule is left to the discrecen of the supervisor on duty, but the spirit of the rule is derived the from the tried and true axiom, "Take all you want. Eat all you take." Which is a version of "Waste not. Want not." (To be honest, this one always kinda baffled me, but I get the point.)
From the Slow Eater's point of view, there is one important aspect of the rule, and it is subsection A, paragraph 1, which reads: "If you don't eat all of your meal, you can't have any sweets." Which we essentially stole from Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall, which goes "If ya don't eat yer meat, how can ya have any pudding? How can ya have any pudding if ya don't eat yer meat?"
So, the Slow Eater rarely gets any pudding and if often left sitting at the table while the rest of us have retired to the den to watch Jeopardy! We have told the Slow Eater repeatedly, "If you don't eat everything on your plate, you can't have any snacks later." He is used to hearing this. He hears it every night.
The other night the Slow Eater wasn't. He gobbled everything down like an stray dog, in a flash the food was gone. And for a change, Reagan was lagging behind. And I said to Reagan, "Come on honey, eat up."
And I heard Tiernan say, "No sex for Reagan tonight."
All the adults in unison said, "What?!?!?!"
"If Reagan doesn't eat her meal, she can't have snacks."

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Growth Chart

It is been a weird and busy and sick couple of weeks here at Casa O'Rourke. The boys (Tiernan and I) have been sick all week. The coughing, the oozing mucus, the fever, the general discomfort. We seem to be improving. Always a good thing. So, Reagan has gone from being a baby girl to a little girl in like two weeks....
I had chance to measure her on her wall-based growth chart. She is 2-feet, 10 3/8 inches, which is almost a full inch taller than Tiernan was at roughly the same age. She is really working to try to talk more and more. She's sleeping in her bed at night and has a new bedtime routine down. She is still getting into to trouble left and right and not listening when I try to try to get her stop, but her growth and development has really quickened in the last three weeks.
It has really taken me aback. She is speaking more coherently and trying to really understand what we are telling her.

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First Snow

The first snow allowed the kids to get and get their shovel on.
 
 
 
 

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Tattle-Tale

Earlier today, the kids and I were driving to the Stop N' Shop for groceries. On the way we passed a house that had already decked its halls for Christmas. And Tiernan said, "Daddy, we have to put up our Christmas Decorations." I said....

"Not yet." It is just too soon for anyone to be putting up Christmas decorations. I am not a Scrooge, but I haven't finished eating my kids' Halloween candy yet.

"Daddy, I want lots of presents for Christmas this year, so we have to put up good decorations," says the boy. I think he's caught on to the whole Christmas/Santa thing.

"You don't get presents based on your decorations. You get presents based on how good a boy you are," I respond sounding very parental.

"Then I am going to be good boy, until Christmas," says Tiernan.

"You can't just be good for a few weeks before Christmas. You have to be good all the time. All year long," I said, sounding more and more like a parent.

"Yeah. Well, Reagan was throwing my trains in the basement yesterday," said the good boy.

"What did you say?" I was unsettled by his sudden shift in approach. He lost me. I thought he was changing the subject.

"Reagan was bad yesterday. She was being bad. She was throwing my trains around in the basement yesterday. I told Santa she was bad," said my little angel.

"You told Santa that Reagan was bad?" I asked.

"Yeah, She was throwing my trains. I told him that," said Snitchy McSnitch. Reagan didn't seem to care that Tiernan had sold her up the river to the Big Man. She didn't protest. She didn't whimper. She fell asleep in the car seat. She is not even two and has not completely grasped the Santa/presents concept yet. She was not aware of the irreparable damage such an allegation to the Christmas present authority could have on her young reputation.

"Tiernan, You shouldn't tattle on you sister like that. Nobody likes a Tattle-Tale," I said.

"What's Tattle-Tale?"

Oh boy. "A tattle-tale is when you tell... somebody, that... someone else did.... something that... they shouldn't have," I said, struggling to figure out a way to explain this, while avoiding more complicated subjects like, There is No Honor Among Thieves or the Federal Witness Protection Program.

"Why shouldn't I do that?," asked the three-year old.

That was the big question. Why don't I want him to tell me? I do kinda want to know when Reagan is doing something she shouldn't do. Sure, it isn't fair to Reagan, because at this point she's unable to tattle on Tiernan. But she does, kind of. Let's face it. If they two of them are alone in a room, and Reagan starts crying. 80 percent of the time, Tiernan is the one who gets in trouble. But, I don't want to Tiernan to be telling on Reagan, or anyone else, just to get attention.

I try to subscribe to the If I Didn't See It, It Didn't Happen rule when it comes to how the kids interact with each other. I try to live by what I call, the NHL Ref Rule, "She may have hit you first, but I saw you hit her. You either need to be quicker when you hit her or not hit her at all. If I had seen her hit you, she would be punished too."

Now, As I am driving, I am trying to figure out a way to tell him not to be a tattle-tale, but still instill the desire to tell me everything. Right now, I don't want Tiernan to come running to tell me everything little thing that Reagan does that he doesn't like. But, on the other hand, I don't want to have him not tell me 13 years from now when Reagan is planning to get her boyfriend's name tattooed on her breast. Do you see my dilemma?

All this because because some attention needing-ninny has to have his freaking Christmas decorations up before Thanksgiving. Cristmas is being way to over-commercialized. Damn you Wal-Mart!!!

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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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Budding Fandom

Way back in August. Tiernan hit a tremendous milestone for a young boy. He went to his first NFL game. I have New York Giants season tickets with my father, thanks to his brilliant forethough 30-some years ago. In 1975, my father put his name on the New York Football Giants season ticket list, 27 years later, we were asked to join one of the most exclusive clubs in the country. The Giants asked him if wanted two season tickets...
For the last four years, my father and I have been going to Giants games. When Grandpa comes over to pick me up, he is resplendant in his blue Giants jersey and Tiernan sees Grandpa and his Daddy all decked out in our Giants Jersey and he knows that we are going to the game. And he has a five minute mini-meltdown that he too wants to go to the game. I explain to him that he can't, since there are only two tickets. This does not quell his disapointment.
But this year, he got his chance. I took him to the Giants/Jets pre-season game. He too looked resplendent in his No. 10 Eli Manning jersey. It was a night game, and Tiernan was excited. He was going to be able to stay up past his bed time. I didn't think he was going to make it past the end of the first quarter. I had visions of carrying him back to the car. It would have been a long walk.
He was even more excited when we got to the staduim and had a take a bus from the parking lot to the stadium He loves bus rides.
It was the third pre-season game, which means that almost no starters were playing. So we could leave whenever it got to be too much for Tiernan. He was excited to see the Giants and the Jets. He doesn't really understand football. He's three. Hockey keeps his interest much better, because there are no stoppages. In football there are a lot of times when nothing is happening on the field. Unlike hockey, where there is constant action.
On the first play from scrimage the Jets scored on a long pass and run. An inauspicious start for my sons budding Giants fandom. But the game didn't really matter to Tiernan. There was a helicopter. A NJ State Police helicopter circling the stadium all night. This is something that happens every game, since 9/11. The helicoprter just flies around the stadium almost all game. And Tiernan pointed out every time he saw it. "Look Dad, a helicopter." "What is that helicopter doin', Dad?"
I explained that it was the police looking for bad guys.
"They are looking for bad guys? At a Giants game? That's cool," he says.
"Dad, look a helicopter."
We left at halftime. It was getting late and the boy started to show signs of falling asleep. "What was your favorite part of the football game, Tiernan?"
"There was a helicopter. That flew around and around looking for bad guys, and the Jets scored a touchdown."

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Sk8rBoi/Hockey Monkey

We are a Devils House. No not the dark angel, belezabub, satanesque devils. The New Jersey Devils Hockey team. We live in New Jersey we are Devils fans. Before the children came, DirectorMom and I would go to games quite often. I've taken the kids to see the Devils practice in West Orange. And Tiernan has even been to two games already in his short life. We are hockey people...
We have neighbors, Officer Gary and family. Officer Gary is a local constable, and good guy. He, too has kids, four of them -- two sets of twins under the age of three. (Anytime I think I got troubles. I think of Gary and his wife.) He too, is a hockey person. But, he is a Rangers fan. There is no accounting for taste. The Rangers and the Devils are rivals. Rangers fans hate the Devils, Devils fans hate the Rangers.
Gary's boy Luke is Tiernan's age. And he mentioned to me that Luke was going to start ice skating lessons, and the local ice rink. I've been saying that I want Tiernan to learn to skate, but didn't think he could start until he was four. I was wrong. So, I asked Tiernan if he wanted to take Hockey lessons, and he got very excited. He wanted to go that minute. He's been playing hockey outside since he could walk. He's pretty good with a stick. See the video from a year ago.

So now Tiernan and Luke are learning to skate at hockey lessons. Tiernan had his first lesson last week. All day he kept saying, are we going to hockey yet. And I had to tell him soon. When it was time to go, we're getting in the car and he starts freaking out. "Daddy, I need my stick. I can't play hocey without a stick. I need my stick. My stick." I explained to him that he wouldn't need his stick. He didn't understand, all he truly understands is hockey is played with a stick and puck.
We get to the rink, of course I have Reagan in tow. I have to get him signed up for lessons and get the skates on him and get him ready to skate. All the while Reagan is running around the place like a banshee. Thank God Officer Gary and his wife, Kerry, were there. Kerry was able to corrall Reagan while I got Tiernan set to do battle with the icey forces of gravity and physics.
The lesson is 30 minutes, he spent 28 minutes on his ass.
The lessons are for kids who have never seen ice. So he wasn't the only one with a cold keister. They give the kids pushers, which are basically walkers for skaters. The coach showed Tiernan how to get up. One leg at time, while holding on to the pusher. And after a while he caught on.
I was outside the rink watching him and thinking, "Oh my God! I have scarred my son for life. He'll never want to watch hockey again. He's going to come off the ice crying, humilated, beaten, defeated." But he hung in there and learned to get up. And fall without hurting himself.
Tiernan and Luke were two great examples of approaches to life. Luke, who is a couple of months younger than Tiernan, is all thought. He stood on his skates, holding on to his pusher, thinking....thinking......thinking and slowly moving his feet to skate, slowly.
Tiernan on the other hand, was all moving and no thought. He looked like a Keystone Cop. Both feet flying in seven directions at once. Woop, woop, woop, woop, plop on his butt. He'd get up and woop, woop, wooop, splat. This went of for the entire class.
About three-quarters throught the class, Luke in his Rangers jersey, and Tiernan in his Devils Jersey, had fallen/skated close to each other. And Tiernan being the consumpate Devils fan promptly, dumps Ranger fan Luke on his can.
After a thirty minutes, its is time to come off. I am preparing myself for Tiernan being traumatized, and crying and never wanting to come back. But he's fine. As I am taking his skates off, the crying starts. "Dad, I don't want to stop. I want to keep skating. I want to go back. I don't want to go home." I explain to him that he can't go back on the ice, that the big kids are practicing now. He wants to go back and play with the big kids. He continues crying.
As we leaving and Tiernan is in tears, I tell him, "There's no crying in Hockey." He can't wait to go back next week.

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Pete's Sake

Oh For Pete's Sake. A harlmess oath which is a safe replacement for "For Christ Sake," and one I use around the house quite a bit, i.e. "Would you please clean up that pile of cars for Pete's Sake!," or "For Pete's sake, please stop screaming" or "For Pete's sake would you get your hands out of your pants" or "For Pete's sake, please please please, stop jumping on my chest."
We do a lot of things around here for the sake of Pete. I hope he appreciates it. However, the use of that phrase has created a problem. Tiernan has begun to use it. But use it wrong. He's begun using "For Pete's Sake" as an insult. He comes up to me and says, "Daddy, you are a pete sake" or "Hey, you Pete sake, stop it."
On one hand I am happy that he's not using more, er, colorful language. It is a harmless phrase. One the other hand, I am a bit concerned that he's calling people names, kind of. In his mind he's name calling. But to anybody else he's not.
It reminds me of the old Monty Python's skit about the guy that wrote the Hungarian-to-English phrase book, using all the wrong phrases. For instance, the Hungarian phrase for "I don't understand" was to be translated as "My nipples explode with delight."
So Tiernan's been running around the house calling everyone a "Pete Sake" and we've been just brushing it off. Until the other day, when I tried to explain to him that he was using the phrase wrong. I pulled him over and tried to have talk with him and I said, "Tiernan, you are using that phrase wrong. 'For Pete's Sake' is a cliche. It is mild oath that people swear to St. Peter, who was Jesus's best friend and right hand man. When people say, 'Do something, for Pete's sake.' What they are really saying is 'Do something for to stay in the good graces of St. Peter and God and the chruch as a whole.'"
And Tiernan's looking at me like, "Huh? Dad, I am three. I don't know what you're talking about. So I stop me in-depth grad-school explaination of the origin of the phrase and lexocological foundations of mild-oaths and ask, "Why do you say that?"
And he responds, "Because it is fun to say. It is funny." To which I said, "Good. We will have another talk about Peter and what we should do for his sake another time."
By the way, he's currently running around the house calling his sister a "Cheesy Noddle" and laughing his head off. Now that is funny and fun to say.
For Pete's Sake, stop being such a cheesy noddle!

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