Paulie the Puppy

There is a reason I love being Dad. And for all the complaining and bellyaching I do about the kids in this blog, some might not realize how much I enjoy these kids. And every so often, even I need to be reminded.
I got one such reminder today. The Clan O'Rourke were out on the town taking care of some errands. The most important of which was dropping off the registration papers and obligitory accompanying check at Corpus Christi so that Tiernan is all registered for school come September. This will be his offical begining of school. Big stuff.
After the school we had to walk down to the post office for stamps and to mail some bills. Luckily for me I ran out of stamps a few days before the postal rate hike to 41 cents goes into effect. I usually end up with a bunch of stamps that need addition postage to be worth anything.
So, we are walking up the Boulevard, and what is walking the other way, but the cutest little Boxer puppy and his owner. Once Reagan sees the puppy she gets so excited she starts beeping like a car alarm. "Pup-eeeeeeee! Pup-eeee! Pup-eeeeee! EEEEEEE!" She is smiling that 10,000 watt grin and screaming "Pup-eeee!
The dog takes note of this and his ears shoot straight up, dog's owner takes note of this, the old lady with the walker and hearing aid three blocks away takes note of this, everyone hears the little girl with the grin.
So the puppy walks over to the kids and starts licking Reagan's face and she is just loving this all giggles and belly laughs. Tiernan asks what the dog's name is and we found out his name is Paulie. Tiernan says, "Hi Paulie." and the dog moves over and gives him a big ole kiss on the face. More laughter and happiness.
After a few moments of bliss, its is time to move on. Paulie leaves and we go to the post office. But for a few minutes everybody was happy. The kids were happy, Paulie was happy, I was happy, Paulie's owner was happy, all because a puppy played nice with some kids.
I love this job.

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The Mall Turns Ugly

The mall turns ugly when the baby cries.
The mall turns ugly when the baby cries.
There'll be no Nathan's Fries or good buys.
The mall turns ugly when the baby cries.

When the baby cries, the shops seem closed.
When the baby cries, the puppies dozed.
Noone wants to be in Old Navy, with a crying baby.
When the baby cries, the shops seem closed.

The mall turns ugly when the baby screams.
When the baby screams and carries on,
the mall turns ugly, the fun is gone.

When the baby screams and will not settle,
strangers there will want to mettle.
"I think she may be tired," offers a helpful old bat.
As if, her father didn't already know that.

When the baby cries, the brother whines,
trust me, this happens every time.
The baby cries, I can take no more.
"But what about the Thomas store?"

"Next time, I promise, next time we'll go"
"No, not next time, NOW. Let's go."
"Your sister's crying will not cease,
staying here will make it increase."

The mall turns ugly when the baby screams.
The mall turns ugly when the baby screams.
There'll be no pretzels or new blue jeans.
The mall turns ugly when the baby screams.

When the baby screams and will not settle,
strangers there will want to mettle.
"She's just sleepy, Dad. I bet that's it."
"You think she's sleepy, no shit."

The mall turns ugly when the tears are flowing
When her face is moist and cheeks are red,
You know she just want her bed.

She will cry and scream and yell,
And turn this place into a Hell.
We can't stay here when she's in this mood.
We will go to Thomas World next time, dude.

As we leave her tears still streaming,
but now he too is crying, yelling, screaming.
It is a full-on meltdown, with stamping of feet.
Oh, yes another trip to the mall is complete.

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

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

She didn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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First Date, Last Date

Going to diverge a little bit here from talking about the kids. And talk about my date on Friday night. I went out on a date with a girl that I used to go out with all the time. She's beautiful and funny and could always talk about anything. I haven't been able to go out with her since I became a father, but we got together on Friday for dinner and a show.

I met my date in Hoboken and we took the PATH and subway up to 51st for dinner at Bobby Flay's Bar Americain. Dinner was good. Overpriced but good. I wouldn't go back and I am not completely sure I'd recommend it. I had a pork chop and my girl had mussels. The only thing that was really good was the sweet potatoes gratin, that was amazing. Worth the $9. Dinner was OK. However, I've had better meals that didn't cost me $120.

On to the show. The weather was amazing on Friday so we opted to walk nine blocks down to the Hilton Theater. Which was a bit of a mistake, because so did every other tourist in the City, as the scurried to their theaters. The Hilton Theater is beautiful. Really quite breathtaking. It must have been recently renovated, because it is amazing. The theater was really nice.

We were going to see The Pirate Queen, the somewhat true story of Grace (Grainia) O'Malley, a female 16th Century Irish Chieftain/pirate. It is the stuff of Irish legend. The main reason I chose this show was because, the male lead character's name is Tiernan. The musical is written by the same Frenchmen who wrote Les Miserables and Miss Siagon and the producers are the Irish husband and wife team that gave the world Riverdance. The pedigree seemed pretty good.

And pedigree is a good term. This show is a freaking dog. It was more inbred than purebred. The show opens with a lone man walking on stage with a pan flute. A pan flute that his obviously not playing. It never got any better than that. The music sounded like one long never ending Celine Dion song. (I hate Celine Dion, even more then that whiny little bastard Caillou. And I hate Caillou.) The show is set in Ireland in 1580 or so, but not everybody has a Irish accent all the time. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. The only thing touching Irish was the Irish step dancing, thank you Riverdance folks. However, only one or two cast members actually could do the steps. The rest just faked it. Poorly. I kept trying to figure out how the Irish Dancers were making the "tapping sounds" with soft soled shoes.

The show is almost entirely sung. The music never ends and as you are sitting there, it seems like the show will never end. It freaking plods. It struggles. It fights the audience to maintain focus. It insults the audience with hack-kneed character strokes. It embarrasses the audience for showing up. The singing doesn't stop, which is unfortunate because the lyrics are so abhorrent. The rhyming is shoehorned in to make them fit. Or just so bad that its seems like the actors are just making it up on the spot. "God above/I am in Love/Hand me that glove." The songs are utterly forgettable, and every one is sung like its going to save the world with its beauty and depth of emotion. But it ends and you ask, "What was she singing about? Did she just say something important? Something about no glove, no love. I think."

The entire show is just one big Procrustean Bed that the entire audience must lay in and discover that it doesn't fit. Nothing fits. And everything has had either its head or knees cut off to fit the into the bed. And the audience wishes that someone would decapitate them. Everything is so very contrived. I understand the theater is the realm of contrivance, but good theater is subtle contrivance.

I am not a Broadway illliterate. I get musical theater. I like it. I’ve been part of it, doing some acting in the local church productions. Last year, we did Oliver! I played Bill Skyes. I got to sing and die on stage. I like showtunes. I am not gay, but I get theater.

The scene that put it over top for me was the bachelor party scene with Grace's husband in a arranged marriage, where all the men including her betrothed are wearing codpieces. Yes, codpieces. Irishmen in the 1500s wearing leather pants and codpieces, singing "Boys will be Boys." The last time I saw anyone wearing a codpiece was when I saw W.A.S.P. open for Kiss in the Brendan Byrne Arena. I was 14. I thought it was stupid then. This was a big budget Broadway show, with men wearing codpieces and not for comic effect. Still stupid.



It was right after that scene when my beautiful date started looking through the Playbill looking for Intermission. I was sitting there in my orchestra seats, thinking, "Is this really that bad? Or am I just being overly critical?" I look at my beautiful and funny date she is ready to blow her brains out.

We left at intermission. I don't think this girl is going to want to go out with me ever again. Which is really unfortunate since she's my wife.

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Going to the Mattresses

Listen up parents and wanna-be parents. I have a new rule to abide by for a better life. I beg of you to learn from my mistakes. The rule is:

Never take your toddlers mattress shopping.

It sounds simple enough. But, I needed a new bed and when nobody is around to watch the kids, sometimes forced to bring them. However, do not bring your kids mattress shopping. Anyone who has shopped for a mattress set can tell you one thing -- it sucks. It is all a scam. They all feel great in the showroom. But....

So... anyway there we are. My wife holding Reagan. Trying to keep her as far from the beds as possible because she's got a little case of the trotskis and a diaper failure could be imminent. And we don't want to buy a mattress with a trotski stain on it. The mattess saleslady is trying to gauge our interst, "Is this one better or this one?" My wife and I are trading the girl back and forth. Laying down. "And now try this one on your side? Better now? Softer? or Firmer?"

All the while, the boy is running from bed to bed yellling, "Try this one. Try this one Daddy. Try this one. Ohhh yeah. Soft. Try this one. Now try this one. That's soft. Ohhh babbby!!!! Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy, try this one."

Up. Down. 'How about about this one? Softer? Now your side?"
"What do you think, hon?" Up. Down. "I like that one better." Soon they all feel the same. They are all pretty comfortable compared to the crappy bed I am currently sleeping on. Meanwhile, the girl has developed an amazing case of gas and is fumigating the showroom with a fragrance so pungent that makes your head turn on contact, wincing as you move her away, "Ewwwoh!"
"Here you take her."
"I don't want her. Keep her on your side of the bed."

"Daddy!!!! Daddy Look at this one! Daddy I want this one!!!" He found the bunk bed. "Daddy it has a ladder and another bed up there, see. I want it. I want it. I want it."

"No honey, that's a bunk bed. If Reagan was a boy. You would have had a bunk bed, but she's a girl. So you lose."

By the way, the new bed comes today. I can't wait to go to sleep.

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New Photos Posted

Hey there, a fresh batch of photos of the kids have been posted on their photo pages.

Click here for Tiernan's Photos or here for Reagan's Photos
You can always use the links on the side of this page as well.

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Happy Accident

I love it when there is no plan, but great things happen. Over the weekend, I had a chance to get back to my third job around here, contractor and continue working on the house. The weekend entailed a new coat of paint for the woodwork in the upstairs hallway. My wife and I spent the better part of Sunday whitewashing the old woodwork, which had been painted pea soup green by the home's previous owner. (May she never have a day's peace in hell for her decorating sins on earth.)
At some point my daughter woke up from her nap and wanted some Mommy time. As a result, my work crew was cut in half.

I am painting in the hallway, which means that every room on the second floor is effected. Doors are either opened or closed based on what needs to be done. So.. to make sure that I did not step-in, sit-in or in any way molest the top to the paint can while I worked, I put it in on the floor in the bathroom.

Well, Reagan, being 14-months-old and unattended by her mother - who did not know that paint top was in the bathroom - for three seconds, walked right through the paint-can top in her bare feet and left the cutest little trail of baby footprints on the floor and the bathroom mat. If we wanted her to walk through something and leave footprints we couldn't get her to do this as perfectly as she did.

One was so perfect, -- a true happy accident -- that I have decided it is going to stay on the floor of the bathroom for as long at it likes. It will be a great way to compare her growth. It was just too cute. I could not bring myself to wipe it up. So, I left it and tagged it with her name and the date.

By the way, now Tiernan wants to have is footprint on the floor of the bathroom.

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Fetch, Good Boy

I spent twenty minutes this morning playing fetch with my son. Tiernan pretended to be a dog, a dog named Wondermut, (a name he chose). I would throw a ball and he'd go fetch it. He bring it back in his mouth and spit it at me. I would throw it again. He'd get it and bring it back. Then he started to pant like a dog, and dig in the ground like a dog.
All of this would have been fine, were it not for my real dog, Maggie, laying on the couch next to me and looking at me like, "Dude, I am the dog. It's little degrading to your son to make him fetch. But, you're the boss. I'll just lay here and laugh to myself." By the way, when she laughs to herself, she laughs like Muttly from Penelope Pitstop. "Stupid human. Hsssst Hsssst Hsssst Hsssta!"

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