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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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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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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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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Midnight Gremlins

Tiernan's bedtime/overnight issues discussed in an earlier post persist. He's still having a hard time letting go of the day and embracing sleep. We have nightly tantrums and tears when its time to hit the sheets. But the bedtime bedlam is the least of the problems...
Back in July when I first reported Tiernan's sleep issues, I took SuperNanny's advice and did a chart with a great reward. The deal was, if Tiernan when to sleep without fuss and stayed in bed all night for seven straight days, we would take him to play mini-golf.

Previous trips to the mini-golf course were disasterous. Three-year-old just don't grasp the subtle nuances of golf. He wouldn't wait to hit the ball. He would hit the ball and just run after it and keep hitting it until he got it in the hole. He would strike the ball so hard it would fly two or three holes away. (It reminded me of myself on a real course.) He was so excited he would just run after the ball whereever it was. Luckily, we were the only people on the course at the time. Additional issues of Reagan running after Tiernan made it our first trip to the mini-golf course a virtual hacker-hell for parental-players. I was way off my game.
But Tiernan loved it. He keeps asking to go back. We told him that he can't go back until he learns to play by the rules. Which brought on a lengthy, troubling and enlightening conversation about rules and the need to follow them. Tiernan, being three, didn't understand the need for rules. And by the end of the conversation, I wasn't so sure I did either. The boy can be persausive.

But back to the sleep chart and the reward. My thinking was that, if Tiernan can follow the rules by going to sleep at the bedtime and staying in bed, he would show us that he's learned to follow the rules, earning a trip to play mini-golf.

And it seemed to work, for six nights. On the seventh night, Tiernan decided that he was missing too much by going to bed at the appointed time and no longer wished to follow the rules. We urged him to go to bed, and that if he did we would go play mini-golf. But he said, "I don't want to play mini-golf, anymore." He would forfit mini-golf to stay up and have a temper tantrum. So much for SuperNanny.

So the boy keeps fighting us at bedtime, which is bad, but he keeps getting out of his bed and climbing into bed with Mom and Dad, which is worse. I've moved him back to his bed seven times in the last two nights.

Last night, I was laying in bed in that strange world when dreams start but the subconcious is still aware of the waking world. There I am with one foot in dreamland and the other in my bedroom and I heard the pitter-patter of feet. In dreamland the sound like gremlin feet. Pitter, pitter, pitter, pitter. And I form a picture of the gremlin from the old Bugs Bunny cartoons.


The gremlin enters the room, stops on my wive's side of the bed, looks for an area to cause trouble, but moves on, pitter-pitter-pitter, around the bottom of the bed, pitter-pitter-pitter, to my side of the bed. The gremlin then reaches out and pushes my over so he can climb up into the bed. Since I am now well asleep, just roll over instead of directing the gremlin back to his own bed. An hour or two later when I need to roll over or move. I find I am constricted in my movements by something or somebody. It is the little gremlin. An now that I am awake I can bring him back to his own bed.

But the funniest part of this whole episode, is that every time in gets out of bed and leaves his room, he closes the door behind him. As if he's not going back. First he opens the door to get out and then he takes the time to close it again. This kid doesn't close the bathroom door most of the time.

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School Daze

Today was Tiernan's first day of pre-school. It was his third-first day of pre-school. Technically, it isn't his first day of school, because it is pre-school - not school. Technically, it isn't his first day of pre-school at Corpus Christi School, because we went to orientation yesterday, so yesterday his first day of pre-school, but not really...
This isn't the first time he's attending school. He went to preschool at the Kathy Dunn School from January to June, last year. The first day he went to Kathy Dunn was his first day. But not offically, because this year he's actually starting school with kids his own age. Since he's born in January, he wasn't three by Oct. 1 so he wasn't able attended. Now he is three and so are all the other kids in his class. This is the class he will be with through high school. (As long as he isn't a complete dult and gets left back or kicked out.) This year he is with his classmates.

It is his first day of school at Corpus Christi. He's been looking forward to going back to school. He really enjoyed Kathy Dunn. I am sure he's going to enjoy his new school. I sent him off today in the school yard with his Lightning McQueen backpack. I said, "See ya later, dude." He waved and said "Later, Dad." and marched with his classmates and teacher into school.

The other parents, were taking pictures and treating this as an occasion. I didn't bring a camera. It never even crossed my mind to bring a camera. He's not going to Kindergarten. He's going to Pre-K 3. I don't know. I just don't see a need to document this with a photo. I just don't think it is that momentus an occasion. I didn't take any pictures in January either, at his first, first day of school.

Maybe I am just a scrooge.

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Six Years, More Tears

It is once again Sept. 11. Six years later, and it still hurts. This year, I watched the reading of the names. And it seems to be getting easier. I was able to watch names being read, something I could not do last year...
It is painful. You can't help but getting choked up. Again this year, I spent the morning choking back tears and mumbling curses to myself. The idea of 9/11 fatigue is abhorrent to me. Maybe I am a masochist, but that feeling of anger and outrage and sorrow is something that I never want to forget.

I was in NYC that morning. Working in the Village, before becoming a Dad. I will never forget it. I was walking on 9th Street, between 5th Ave. and University Place, when I heard a plane roar overhead too low. It was gone by the time I turned around and looked up. I remember joking to a stranger walking past me who also heard the roar, "That's not good. That is going to be a problem for somebody."

I kept walking to my office on Broadway. I got to my desk and the phone rang it was my wife. Telling me a plane had hit the World Trade Center. At first I thought it was a small plane and an accident. A terrible shame but the FDNY will take care if it shortly. But, she told me it was a jumbo jet. I hung up and walked over to University Place and joined a small group of people looking at the WTC, which was about 2 miles south. I saw the gaping hole and smoke pouring out of the north tower.

While I was standing there. The second plane hit the South Tower, creating a huge fireball. I could not see the plane, but the fireball was enormous. I knew that it couldn't have been caused by the first plane or the ensuing fire. I knew it was a separate incident. And I knew it was an attack. I knew the world was going to change. After standing there for few minutes, I went back to my office and tried to call my wife. Who worked a few blocks away from the World Trade Center, and would walk through the ground level mall at WTC from the PATH train. She told me that she wasn't sure what to do, but it seemed like they were getting ready to evacuate the building.

A few minutes later, my office told us to go home. And as we were gathered for the announcement the news came over the radio that the first tower had collapsed. After that I could not get my wife on the phone. Shortly, thereafter the second tower collapsed.

I hung around the office, not knowing what to do. Listening to the radio. Learning about the attack on the Pentagon and the plane going down in Shanksville, PA. I kept trying to get in touch with my wife, with no luck.

About 1 p.m. I decided it was time try to go home. I had to walk up to 34th street to get a ferry. It was the most surreal things walking through New York City. There were no cars allowed on the streets, so no cabs or buses, no trucks. The only thing on the streets were people walking. Many covered with a white dust, who had walked up from the Trade Center. The subways weren't running. Everybody was walking. I remember walking up the middle of 7th Ave. On any other day, it would be hard enough to just get across 7th Ave., never mind walk up the middle of the street. Very strange indeed.

In a city surrounded by three major airports, you can look up and see as many as five planes in the air, without turning your head. But on that afternoon, the only thing in the air was the F-18s flying air-cover over New York City. There were fighter jets flying air-cover over New York City. That was more unsettling than comforting.

Eventually, I got on one of the ships, which usually takes tourists one for dinner-cruises around New York. These ships had been pressed into service to ferry people off the island of Manhattan. I remember standing on the bow of the ship and looking north at one of the jet fighters, outlined by a beautiful blue early Autumn sky. Then I looked south to the tip of Manhattan and it was engulfed in a huge billowing cloud of smoke and dust, rising 70 to 100 stories into the sky and obscuring skyscrapers. It looked like the world was on fire. I remember thinking, "This happened in America."

I was reunited with my wife, who had the good luck to get on an early ferry from the South Street Seaport to Hoboken, and was safe in New Jersey, all the while I was walking up to 34th Street. I remember getting back to our house and both of us crying until well into the night.

I knew only one person, lost on 9/11 and only as an remote acquaintance. Leonard Hatton, 45, of Ridgefield Park. We were both firemen in the town I grew up in. I knew him but we weren't friends.

Every year, I try to watch at least one name being read. I feel I need to honor one victim. That name is FDNY Firefighter Kevin O'Rourke. I didn't know him, we never met. We only shared a name. He lived in Hewlett, NY. He was 44. I lived in New Jersey. But, I am connected to him. He was a FDNY firefighter. I was volunteer firefighter for five years. I remember getting phone calls from friends and acquaintances asking if the Kevin O'Rourke that died in 9/11 was me. As a result, I reconnected with a bunch of people that I lost touch with over the years.

I feel compelled to somehow honor this Kevin O'Rourke, by taking the time to hear his name read at the 9/11 anniversary ceremony. I feel I owe it to him. I guess, I feel I owe it to all of the victims, and Kevin O'Rourke from the FDNY is my conduit, my connection to all of these poor folks.

Once again this year, Tiernan caught me choking back a sob with tears on my cheek and asked why I was crying. I told him it was a sad day, and just as I did last year, I told him that on this day six years ago, very bad men did very bad things. But this year, Tiernan asked me, "Did we go beat them up?"

And I stumbled, I thought, "Well, no they all died in the attacks. They were cowards. But we bombed the hell out of their friends. And we are at war with other people who supported them." But I couldn't get into any of that with a three-year old. I just said, "Yeah, we did." And he gave me a big hug.

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The Train I Almost Missed

Tiernan was heavily into Thomas for a while. He spent two-years under the spell of the "Really Useful Blue Engine." For his second Christmas, (making him just shy of two-years old at the time, for those of you scoring at home) I, er uh, Santa got him Fisher-Price's GeoTrax trains. Santa was hoping that the trains would act as a sort of methadone for his Thomas addiction and ween him off. Santa was wrong..
The GeoTrax, for those of you without children or boys, is collection of toys, trains, cars, boats, fire trucks, etc. that run on battery power over tracks, which are easily connected. It is an ingenious design. The Fisher-Price folks also sell buildings, bridges, factories, fire houses, everything a little mayor-in-training needs to create a city. To a Dad, that has taken his desire to play with trains and converted it to many many nights playing Sim City until 4 a.m., the GeoTrax stuff is just about the coolest thing ever to buy his future city planner/architect/mayor.

I was naive to the seedy underworld of toys, being a Dad of only eighteen-months I didn't want to believe that toys could have a downside. Toys were toys. Now I know better. Now, I am a veteran dad of many battles and two tours of duty I see that not everything is as it seems.

Geotrax are cool. However, like all railroads, they are not without their problems. Tiernan likes to run his trains much like Sir Topham Hatt or Benito Mussolini, "The people may complain about their civil liberties, but the train run on time" and some of the GeoTrax engines don't perform up to his his standards. Some are slower than others.

But the major drawback to GeoTrax is they are sort of bulky, they aren't big, but big enough for little hands to manipulate them; put them on the track, connect the tracks. The size it what makes them effective toys for toddlers. That size, is its biggest draw back. (Especially, when an over-excited father, er, Santa can't help himself and goes overboard and buys two trains, the track pack, the fire truck set, the helicopter set, the construction set, well you get the picture.) The GeoTrax tend to be all over the place. When it is up and running and everything is together, it can fill a room. Now, add a little sister into the equation. A little sister who, can't help but take tracks apart, because she's six- or ten-months old. Resulting in GeoTrax everywhere and repeated anguished cries of "Dad, Reagan keeps touch my trains!"

When they are strewn across the landscape, the Geotrax become GeoTraps, waiting for adults to misstep. Like living room land mines, bidding time to twist an ankle. These GeoTraps are designed to take out the unfortunate bastard carrying a laundry basket, causing clean laundry to fly around the room like cloth shrapnel, leaving him writhing in pain, cursing, and covered in panties and boxer shorts. Or worse yet, contributing to the national heartache that is a missing sock.

There is nothing sadder than a sock without a mate. When one goes missing, another feels the pain. It is the sock that stayed true which suffers the most. It is shunned by the other socks in the drawer, because it can't keep its mate. It just sits in the drawer, being pushed around because it is always in the way. It is just waiting, hoping that its mate will come back. But, deep down it knows it is just a day or two away from becoming a rag, or worse going to the landfill.

After many months of sister-interference related time outs and twisted ankles and missing sock, the it was decided that the GeoTrax would be banished to the bedroom. It was the perfect plan. They became bedroom toys. Tiernan would get up early and put together the tracks around his bed. Nobody would be tripping over them. Reagan would leave them alone. And once every two weeks or so, I'd order Tiernan to put them away. A brilliantly conceived plan, executed to perfection. The GeoTraps stayed in hi room for six months.

Until one day last week. One morning, Tiernan woke up and decided he wanted to take his GeoTrax downstairs and play with them all day. I was against this. It was contrary to my aforementioned brilliant, perfect plan. As Sir Topham Hatt would say, "It could cause confusion and delay." I told Tiernan that the GeoTraps would have to stay in his room.

Cue the meltdown. He totally spazed out. He was crying, screaming, kicking, pulling out all the stops, relentless in his tear filled pleas. I tried to stay strong. I tried to explain to him why the trains had to stay in his room. However, my reasoning left, even me, unconvinced. And I began to ask myself, "Why won't you let your son play with his toys?" My answer came back, "Because I might trip over them." And it sounded comical and selfish. I looked down at my son's sobbing face red, lower lip quivering, tears filling his eyes ready to follow the tracks of the their bother tears down his cheeks. It wasn't a power struggle. It wasn't life and death. He just wanted to play with his toys. The toys that I bought for my boy. That I was excited to get him. I felt like a selfish, childish, dictator. Not a father, certainly not a Dad. I hugged him tight and told him that I would bring his GeoTrax downstairs and we could set the up and play together.

And we did. We had a blast. He loved it. We had trains running all through the house. The gods smiled on us. Reagan was napping. She took a longer nap than usual, allowing a boy and his dad to play trains. It was one of the better days, Tiernan and I have had. And we've had some great days. But, my own pigheadedness almost caused me to miss that train. Thank God, I rechecked the schedule.

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Island Hopping or Solving for N

Two weeks ago while visiting in Cville. We, Clan O'Rourke and AT&UC, took advantage of the local natural spendor to go swimmin' in a swimmin' hole. Ok, swimmin' hole may be a bit simplistic. Pristine lake in a Nationl Park is a better way to discribe it...
To get to Sherando Lake from Cville, according to the directions, we had to go back through Rockfish Gap and to the Blue Ridge Parkway (BRP) south for 16 miles. The BRP goes south from the gap for over 412 miles to the Great Smoky Mountains. It is a beautiful and majestic, sometimes harrowing, ride atop the mountains filled with breathtaking views and nerve-rattling turns, with steep inclines and roller-coasteresque drops. And very, very, very small mile markers.

One of the many things I learned on my honeymoon in Ireland, is the 1 mile of straight road is a lot shorter than 1 mile of country road, because country roads go up and down and left and right and curve and bend and undulate. This was a country road. It was fun driving. I am told the it wasn't as much fun as a passenger because, at times the edge of the road and the edge of the cliff, are sometimes the same thing. The children missed all of this. They were blissed out in the car seats "dreaming dreams unknown," to quote one of Reagan's favorite books, Dinosaur's Binkit by Sandra Boyton.

We finally get to the "exit" for Sherando Lake, which is a gravel road which recently got a promotion to paved road. Once we left the BRP, we started seeing houses. I thought it was strange, we saw two houses and three graveyards in the two miles from the BRP to the lake. I would have sworn that I saw an blind albino child sitting on the front porch picking a banjo, but I was driving so I could have been mistaken. Dededu, dudu dududu.

Once we got the Lake Sherando, which is part of Shenandoah National Park. We stopped at the ranger station to pay the $8 per car-load fee. And we drove another three or four miles to the lake. The lake is beautiful -- surrounded by mountains with an small island in the middle. Unspoiled by powerboat oil or development -- the lake sparkled. The park was pretty crowded, by rural Virginia standards. It was empty by Metro New York standards. Upon arriving we has a little picnic. Folks were swimming and kayaking around the lake.

Once we filled our bellies we moved to the swimming area. The lake was perfect, cool and refreshing. The swimming area was man-made, meaning that sand had been imported to create a beach and swimming area that was nice to stand on. That area was roped off with bouyed ropes. Beyond that area -- about 100 to 120 yards out was the island.


Tiernan and I, and AT&UC were in the lake in seconds. It was great. Tiernan with his life-vest on kicking and swimming and doing a great job in the water. After froliking for a while, AT&UC decided they wanted to swim out to the island. This was not an origninal idea, there were a bunch of folks out there already. I thought, "isn't that nice, they are young and still newly-weds, let them go have some romantic time alone on the island."

Tiernan has other ideas. After seeing AT&UC out on the island, he unilaterally decides to swim to the island. Before I know it he's under the ropes and swimming to the island. "Come on, Dad. Let's go."

I did a quick calculation in my head. My age plus the time it took AT&UC to swim out, plus Tiernan's age and weight, minus the fact that he was wearing a life saving floatation device, divided by the estimated distance to the island and I entered in the estimated depth of the lake based on the fact that the fact that if there is an island, the lake must not bee that deep. Basic Earth science and years of playing Sim City taught me that: A deeper lake would not have an island in the middle. I concluded that we could make the swim out to the island. (Math was never my forte)

Shortly into our journey, we passed another father and his son coming back from the island. I asked him if the water was shallow enough to stand all the way out. He confirmed what my inborn geological instincts told me. A person over five-foot could walk out the island. And I knew that I wouldn't drown, if I miscalculated the distance, as I am apt to do. So, Tiernan and I were on our way to meet AT&UC on the island.

The boy impressed me. He swam like a champ. Kicking and pulling himself throught the water with his arms. I helped, pushing and pulling him along. But, he has turned out to be a strong swimmer. Once he gets some swimming lessons, next year, there will be on stopping him.

Do you know what the great part of a pristine lake is? The fact that most of it is untouched by man's meddling. Do you know what is not so great about a pristine lake? It is untouched by man's meddling. Just beyond the ropes, and just beyond where my fellow father confirmed my suspisions bout the depth of the lake, the sand ended and the muck began. I put my foot in the muck and.... eeeeewwwwwwwwwwohhhh! ewwwww! eeeeeewwww! Nature, gross!!. It's on my foot. Ewwwww!!! Suddenly, I couldn't walk out to the island.

And that is why I've never been good at math. There is always some variable that I forget to work into the equation. I forgot to solve for N. Nature.

We reach the island but once again, I didn't solve for N. Nature didn't provide a ladder to get out of her pristine little pool. She did provide a bunch of jagged, slippery wet rocks to climb, which would have been a minor concern were it not for the three-year old I had to get safely up the rocks.

Only now did the worst-case scenario, begin to flash across my mind. It goes something like this. Tiernan slips on the rocks and cracks his head open. I am tired almost exhausted from swimming to the island, which is in the middle of the lake, in the middle of the mountains, in the middle of nowhere. Do you know what didn't see the who ride down the BRP to the lake, an ambulance or fire truck or police car. We did pass through the ranger station, four miles back. But it wouldn't matter, we are beyond shouting distance to the folks on the beach anyway. There are no lifeguards at the pristine lake. Had there been lifeguards, they would have told an idiot like me, not to swim out to the island. Damn pristine lakes. Damn your enticing islands! Damn your untouched beauty! Damn you nature!

I think my fedral tax dollars should be spent on installing a ladder out of the lake, and a bathroom out on the island, and a little snack shop that would sell sodas and candy and nuts. It is a long swim. Visitors could throw nuts and soda cans at the wildlife living in the lake. And the entire lake bottom should cleaned and filled with something that is not gross to step on, like concrete. And the water should be free of algee. Don't they make chemicals to combat that. What are my taxes being spent on. I shall write my congressman.

Once Tiernan and I get are safely up the rocks and out of the lake, my worst-case scenerio panic attack subsides. I take a deep breath and look around. And the view is astounding. The mountains are regal as the slope up to the clear blue sky, the lake shimmers in the sunlight, disturbed only by the splashing of bathers and the ripples from kayak paddles. Nature at its finest. God does truely love man, to give us such a place of beauty. I am pointing all of this out to Tiernan and I am so happy to share it with him. And he's going, "Yeah, this is really cool. Right Dad?" I am thinking, that I could stay here all day and just take in all the beauty.

And I look back at the swimming area and I see DirectorMom, and I remember her asking me to help her put sunblock on her back just before Tiernan took off for the island. She looks angry and sunburned as she tries to keep Reagan from drowning. We gotta go back. We gotta go back, now.

The swim back took longer. Tiernan wasn't as focused or fresh. He didn't swim as much, he floated more. He lost focus and started going in different directions. I wasn't as fresh either. I think the distance was further going back. And the lake bottom was muckier, and I was forced to stand on the bottom more. (Gross) We finally made it back. Tiernan was all pumped to tell his Mom about the island. I, on the other hand, was looking for a lifeguard to give me oxygen. There was none.

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Rockfish Gap

Our recent trip to visit AT&UC in Cville, VA (home of UVA) was not without exciting discoveries and moments of controlled peril...

The very last stop for Clan O'Rourke on the trip down was at a scenic overlook at Rockfish Gap, where Rt. 64 cuts through the Blue Ridge Mountains to Charlottesville and points east. The Rockfish Gap is where the Skyline Drive starts north and the Blue Ridge Parkway starts south. When we pulled in about 6:30 p.m. the small parking lot was vacant. We to got out and looked at the valley below. Tiernan said, "That's cool Dad. I gotta go pee."

The truth was I too had to answer the call. However, this was just a place to stop and look. The stop with the facilities was still five miles further down the mountain. (That stop also contains a very noble tribute to DOT workers in VA who have given all so we could traverse the beautiful countryside at 90 mph.) Clan O'Rourke could not stop at both. Reagan would not have it. The second stop would have been a bad scene at a scenic overlook. By this time in the trip she was ready to get out of the car seat and never get back in.

So, Dad is left with a decision. I thought about getting in the car and driving five miles down mountain, but then I had a revelation. Tiernan is a boy. Boys can pee outside. Quick scan of the area showed a large large rock, large enough to conceal a boy and his father peeing in the woods from fellow travellers.

Tiernan, of course, thought that it was the coolest thing he's ever done. "We can just pee anywhere, Dad?"

"No. You really should use a bathroom. But in an emergency, like this, boys like us, can easily pee outside," I say trying to be stern and playful at the sametime. Because, it is one of the joys of being a boy. The knowledge that relief is just a tree away.

I must admit that for a split second the thought of getting caught by the Virginia State Police entered my mind and getting a summons for urinating in public was less of a concern than being arrested for indecent exposure in front of a minor. Now picture this, a police officer pulls into a roadside parking lot and finds a man and child behind a rock and both of them have their privates out. The timing could have been really bad and we could both be done and the officer notices me zipping up, or I am helping the boy button his snap. At which point I am either bending and kneeling, behind a rock, with my hands in or near a minor's privates. No kidding. The possibility was that I could have been charged with a sex crime. I could have explained the situation to the state cop and he could have been a parent and understood, but he could have been bucking for a promotion, or had an affinity for Rockfish Gap and take it personally when Northerners piss all over it. Or he could just be dilligent. And would have to report that I was a sex offender if I moved and my name would be on the sex offender Web sites, as exposing himself to a child. It would be huge news. The headlines would read "Yankee Creep Arrested for Exposing Himself at Rest Stop." AT&UC would have to move. My neighbors would be camped on my front door with picket signs, all because I didn't want to hear my daughter scream for last half-hour of a 7-hour trip. Do you think the judge would have taken pity on me? I don't.

Luckily, Tiernan and I finish watering the weeds and get back in the car without incident, dodging another bullet.

"We really can go pee outside anytime we want?"

"No, honey. We only go pee outside when there is no bathroom close by."

"Oh. I gotcha," he says. "Can we go poop outside?"

"No."

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Tiernan and Reagan's Ehhhxcellent Adventure

The lack of new posts, would seem to indicate that I haven't been around. And this is true, I haven't been around. We packed up the kiddies and took off to see the wilds of America. And, no, we didn't give the children any sort of chemical sedative despite the suggestion from James McMurtry's great song Choctaw Bingo which begins with the line, "Strap them kids in. Give 'em a little bit of Benadryl and some cherry cola." Although, we did consider it at some point...
It was consider as we drove through the Western Maryland, about four-and-a-half hours into a 7-hour trip. It was reconsidered an hour later as we cruised through the rolling hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. The idea was ultimately dismissed as we pulled into the driveway of AT&UC (Aunt Tara & Uncle Chad). AT&UC live just outside of Charlotesville, Va., the home of UVA. (Not an uncle or relative, but the University of Virginia.) It is a 7-hour trip from NJ through, PA, MD, WV to AT&UC at the home of UVA just outside of Cville, VA.

The plan was to break up the 7-hours in the car with a stop at ZooAmerica in Hershey, Pa. My thinking was a zoo is a controlled environment. We don't need to see all the animals but we can have the kids walk/run around for an hour and tire themselves out looking at animals. It would be cheaper than Hershey Park, it would tire them out, it would be educational and we could regulate the time spent.

So we strapped the kids in and loaded the car and left New Jersey on a sunny Thursday morning. The first film of the trip was Barnyard. A fan favorite. We were hoping to be able grab a bite to eat and burn off energy in Hershey. However, when we got to the "Sweetest Place on Earth" it was more like the Wettest Place on Earth. Our arrival coincided with the arrival of a nasty thunder storm. Instead the zoo, we went to see the animals at the local McDonalds. The kids were happy, but they were neither tired nor educated by this experience.

Back in the car for the last four-a-half hours of drive time. After repeated attempts to get Cars to work on the in-flight DVD player, Finding Nemo soothed the savage beasts in the back seat.

One minor accomplishment, I can cross West Virginia off my "States I have not visited list." It looked remarkable similar to Maryland and Virginia from Rt. 81 at 85 mph. Does driving through a state at greater than 80 mph count as visiting? And what the hell is Maryland doing that far west?

We had to stop at a Burger King in Maryland for a potty break. So,we took the opportunity to load up on crap to bribe the kids into keeping quiet with while visiting his Highness. Burger Kind is cooler than McDonalds because they have Simpson's toys. Tiernan got a toy Monty Burns, "Ehhhhhxcellent" And for the rest of the trip any moment of otherwise peace and quiet was quickly filled by Mr. Burns' ubiquitous,"Ehhhhhxcellent" eminating from the Happy Meal toy. "Ehhhhhxcellent."
"Ehhhhhxcellent.""Ehhhhhxcellent.""Ehhhhhxcellent.""Ehhhhhxcellent.""Ehhhhhxcellent."

"Tiernan!!! Give Mr. Burns a rest!!!"

We has to stop for gas in Edinbugh, Va. Which is small town in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains. I pulled into the only pump, at the only gas station/grocery store/post office/pharmacy/Subway deli/municipal court/mechanic garage in town, I got out to pump my own gas. Sitting on the porch is a twenty-something girl in an orange halter top and cut offs. She is tattooed above her breasts. She smokes and looks angry. And from out of the adjoining apartment come two twentysomething guys, they are shirtless and also tattooed. They are carrying a couch, which they put into the back of the ubiquitous rusty pick-up truck, and go back into the apartment. I continue pumping my gas, which is something with which I am not accustomed.

As I am walking into the store to pay for my gas, the young woman says in an accent which is right of out a Simpsons episode featuring Cletus, The Slack-Jawed Yokel, "Hey Toney, If you put ma mattress inta storage, where 're we gonna sleep?"

"Ehhhhhxcellent" local color.

The final leg of the trip was spent watching/listening (the kids watched, we listened) to Shrek 2. Another fan favorite. We finally got down to AT&UC without violence or a breakdown, nervous or mechanical. We had a great three days with AT&UC filled with lakes, thrilling car trips up and down perilous hills and exciting swims to distant islands, and we found out the Tiernan is prodigy when it comes to virtual bowling and that Reagan can stink up an entire highway. But more on these and other subjects in later posts. Stay Tuned.

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A Nod is as Good as a Wink

The boys from Monty Python said, "A nod is as Good as wink to a bind bat. Nudge. Nudge. Say no more!" However, a nod is really good and I will tell you why... It is a behavior that my 17-month-old little girl has just mastered. Yes, Reagan can nod her head to signal that, "Yes, she wants more chicken nuggets." Or "Yes, she has pooped." Or "Hell yeah, she wants to go the pool."

This is relatively new development. And that isn't a cliche, this is something that she has developed. Prior to just three days ago, the only affirmative acknowledgement that you'd get from Reagan was a huge shit-eating grin accompanied by an understated giggle.

She's has been using the head-shake "No" for some time. It is a gesture ingrain in human DNA. Shaking the head back and forth to avoid being fed some gross, "delicious," disgusting, "good for you," strange smelling, "mmmm...really good" applesauce that "You really liked when you were an infant," but want nothing to do with as a toddler.

The no signal is easy. The Yes nod, on the other hand, take time to cultivate. It takes a thought process that goes something like: The large being that calls himself "Daddy" is asking me a question. What is it? He is once again asking me if I want to go to the pool. I thought I left standing orders that, I always want to go to the pool. I thought that since I took the time to learn to say "puuullll" it would be obvious. I mean golly gee, I can only hand 50 or so words at this age, so for me to want to incorporate "puuulll" into the mix, you have to know that I want to go. OK, wait, he's asking me again. How can I let this oaf know that I definitely want to go. Wait, he's moving his head up and down and saying "yes." I can't really do the "sssss" sound yet to say yes. Let me see what happens if I move my head up and down like Genius over there. Hey!!! He got the message that I want to go the pool. I must remember to use this up and down head motion.

An you really have to see her do the head nod, it like Spanky from The Little Rascals, real slow and deliberate. Up first, slowly and down all the way until her chin is on her chest and then slowly all the way up again. It is so cute to see.

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Things I Can Count On

As the kids get older, predicting their behavior and reactions to events can get harder. For instance, Reagan is no longer willing to try any food that she doesn't eat every day. She won't eat apple slices or applesauce. But apple juice is great. There are however, some things that I can count on...
I can be assured that after spending an hour preparing/cooking and fending off the children while cooking, and setting the table, that when I finish filling my plate and am about to dig in, the words, "I gotta go poopie. Dad, I need help." will echo through the room. The meal I'd been looking forward to will get cold while I tend to the poop.

I know everytime I take both kids to the supermarket for a "quick trip" and leave the diaper bag home, Reagan will contaminate her diaper with a highly toxic brew as we walk from the car to the store.

I know the easiest way to get child to want play with his or her toys is to attempt to clean them up. They can be sitting, untouched, in the middle of the room for two days, but once the child sees you put in away, it will be played with five minutes and left, untouched, in the middle of the room for another two days.

I know that Reagan or Tiernan will begin screaming at the pivotal point in the news report, usually when they tell you where the storm will hit or what town the serial killer is terrorizing.

I know that I will run out of either diapers or wipes when Reagan has yet again abused her diaper poolwater and sand filled load. I also know that she will refuse to lay still and get cleaned up after making said mess.

I can count on the phone ringing during as soon as I get Reagan on the changing table.

I can count on a afternoon summer rain shower while I am trying to grill dinner.

I can count on the dog barking as Reagan is going down for her morning nap.

I can count on a clean floor not being clean for long.

I can count on Tiernan falling asleep during the car ride home when we are one minute from pulling in the driveway.

I can count on a big hug from Tiernan after a time out.

I can count on a smile from Reagan when I turn around to look at her when we're driving.

I can count on getting jumped on if I lay on the floor.

I can count on Reagan laughing and giggling as we dance around the kitchen.

I can count on at least one fart joke a-day from Tiernan.

I can count on Reagan screaming, "DaDa!" and running over to hug me, when I come home from work on those days when I must go to the office.

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