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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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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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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Adrenaline Junkie

We were all on vacation again. Our yearly trek to the beautiful and wonderful world that is Duck, N.C. While in Duck we did some swimming and guess who likes to jump into the pool ....Reagan. She is an adrenaline junkie. I have video proof.

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