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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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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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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Tale of Two Kiddies

Here is a news flash: People -- even children are their own persons. It is human nature to compare your own children to each other, i.e. Reagan is a lot more vocal than Tiernan was at this age. You just can't help yourself. It's like forcing your tongue not to fiddle with a loose tooth. It just does it and you say to yourself, "I have to stop doing this" and three minutes later, your catch your tongue playing games with the loose tooth.

Human's can't help themselves. I am human. Thus, I play with my teeth and I compare my kids to each other. Here are some observations.

Reagan eats like a horse. Tiernan nibbles around the edges when it comes to meals. Which works out pretty good since Reagan will often finish Tiernan's meals. This works well at lunch. Tiernan will not eat the crusts of a sandwich. Reagan likes the crust. It is a symbiotic relationship, very natural.

Reagan eats, and eats and eats, but is more adverse to trying new stuff.
Tiernan eats a wider variety of food, but less of it. Reagan likes what she likes and has little desire to like more things.

Reagan is fearless, throwing caution to the wind. I call her Hillary Edmund, a play on Sir Edmund Hillary, the first man to climb Mt. Everest. Tiernan isn't a coward but he is more cautious. Perhaps it just experience and wisdom which makes him rethink actions that Reagan, might jump headfirst into.

When Reagan is hungry, she wants to be fed, no matter what she's doing. Tiernan is often too wrapped up in what he's doing to take time to eat.

When Reagan is tired, she wants to go to bed. She welcomes bedtime with a smile. Tiernan has never been tired. He would never admit that he needs to sleep. He would rather pass out on his feet than go to bed and miss something life can offer him.

Tiernan is going to run for mayor. He wants to be everybody's friend and know who everybody is. Reagan is happy with Mommy, Daddy, and the folks she knows. She is friendly, waving to people on the street but she is just being polite.

Tiernan is very sensitive little boy. Reagan is a harder person. She's not cold, but while Tiernan loves to cuddle and is very affectionate and has been so since he was an infant, Reagan wasn't a baby to be held and cuddled. As such, she is much more independent than Tiernan.

These are all broad stoke observations and all may change as the they grow up, but these are my kids, and my observations.

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Fork U

It is going to be a good day. We, myself and my brood, (Can a man have a brood, or is a brood specific to females?) had a wonderful breakfast. Reagan didn't get all super messy because she used her fork almost exclusively. This is a major break-through. As I have mentioned in the past, she has two hands and she uses both of them to shove the food into her gullet. She's shown me glimpses of this in the last few weeks, using her fork once or twice, but I just figured she's teasing me.

But this morning, this wonderful morning, she used her fork like a big girl stabbing her french toast and putting it in her mouth. Only once or twice did she do the stab and transfer to the hand and then into the mouth. Even big brother was impressed. He noticed first - the attentive little bugger that he is. "Hey Dad, look! Reagan is using her fork all by herself." We both clapped and cheered for her and told her what big girl she getting to be. And she just smiled and smiled all proud of herself. It was one of those, "Its great to be a Dad moments."

Now, if I can just get her to stop flipping her plate over on to the floor.

Patience grasshopper.

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Here's Sand In Your Eye... or Mouth or Nose or Ear

Folks keep asking me what is wrong with Reagan's eye. She has some redish/pinkish discoration on her lower eyelid, just under her eye. She's had it for a couple weeks now. It looks like a shiner. It is not. But two mothers at Little Gym asked me about it. It's always a little unnerving when anybody asks about the welfare of your kids, but as man, there is an unsaid, maybe even unthought, hint of an implication that my daughter got that shinner looking thing from her father's fist.

She didn't.

It is some kind of reaction to something. I called the doctor the other day and since it doesn't seem to bother Reagan and since she's going for her checkup in a week or two, they told me to keep an eye on it, no pun intended.

It may have something to do with the patch of dry skin she gets just to the right of her nose, which also mysteriously appeared one day.

I am pretty sure that it also has something to do with her actions in the backyard sandbox. She doesn't play in the sand she dwells in the sand. She'll dive headfirst into the sand like some Arrakis Sandworm. (I am trying to gauge the geekiness of my audience. If you got that reference please leave a comment. Hell, if you didn't get that reference and you'd rather I didn't make cultish, supergeek Sci-Fi references, leave a comment. I am here to please, as far as you know.) But Reagan loves the sand. She must enjoy eating it because when she does her sandworm thing, which she does repeatedly, she comes up with a big mouthful, the sand is all stuck all over her mouth and chin and nose... and her eyes.

To quote Shakespeare, "Ah, there's the rub." (We are geeking out today.) Literally, I think that is what is causing the discoloration around her eye, the act of rubbing sand in it. An act that is gererally self-discouraging, meaning after the first time you do it most folks don't want to do it again. But not my little Bene Gesserit, she knows that "Fear and Pain is the Mind Killer." (Just totally geeking out now.) She loves it.

I have a real good feeling that it is the sand causing the eye thingy. Now, I am not a doctor but I did sleep in a really confortable bed for the last week, and I haven't done that in few years, and since upgrading I have been thinking clearer and mentally alert at all times. It is better than staying at a Holiday Inn. The only drawback are, no "Do Not Distub" signs and I have to make my own continental breakfast.

Reagan goes for her checkup next week. We'll get her eye checked out and fix her up good.

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