Gateway to Another Universe

Tuesday was a pretty big day milestone-wise.
    Reagan began to crawl. She didn’t actually crawl and she won’t win any races, in fact, she won’t even get far from the gate, but she began to put all the movements together to begin crawling. We were at Gymboree and she really wanted to get to the small orange ball. She worked so hard, concentrated so intently to get her body to obey her will, it was an honor to watch. She only moved an inch to an inch-and-a-half at most, but she did it by herself. She was drooling so much that the mat around her was all wet with saliva, which all part of her brilliant plan to make the mat nice and slippery so that she would move easier, just kind of greasing the wheels of progress. She was so intense, holding her head up so high and trying to get her hands and feet to propel her forward for about seven long minutes and then she dropped her head and let out a cry, that said, “Damnit! I just can’t do this anymore!” She struggled so valiantly that it made me so proud.
  Which brings us to a small victory in another valiant struggle, a small battle was won, Tuesday night, in the struggle to get Tiernan to use the potty. Tiernan went pee on the potty last night, for the first time in six months. He did it once night back in January, (It was an anomaly in the universe) but has since steadfastly resisted using the potty insisting on soiling himself and being perfect content to wallow in it all day if allowed.
   However, Mom and Dad have new ammunition and Tiernan has a new incentive to rethink his position on the potty, the Swim Club. The boy loves going to the pool, and as a result, we have been going to the pool almost everyday. We go in the afternoon after naptime and when the Sun has lost some power. For those of you who don’t know, he’s a white boy and if he’s anything like his Dad, he will fry like an egg in the mid-day Sun.
   In this town full of Italians, his white skin and blonde hair make him look like an albino in the pool. All the other kids have this nice dark toned olive skin as they frolic in the pool, and there is Tiernan with his shirt on and a big ol’ wide brimmed hat, with his sun block coated alabaster arms and legs hanging out. All the other kids are like 10 shades darker.
   For all the Sun protection, he loves going to the pool. Dad on the other hand, can take it or leave it. As a kid, I loved going swimming just like Tiernan. However, the pool has lost its siren song for me. However, for some reason, Tiernan believes that the gate to the pool is the gateway to another universe. It’s like once we walk through that portal, hand our membership badge to the attendant and all the rules in his universe that are in place just three feet on the other side of the gate no longer apply, because he does not listen to me. He just goes crazy.
  A quick backstory, the vacation house we rented last year, had a foosball table. You know foosball, men with poles through the midsection playing soccer, except foosball is twice as much fun to watch as soccer, and ten times more fun to play. Well, on vacation Tiernan would spend much time “playing” foosball. He would just play with the table, turn the handles, move the men, kick the ball. He didn’t play foosball, he just kinda messed around with it, which is what 18 month-olds do.
  Guess, what his second favorite thing to do at the swim club is? You got it, mess around with the foosball table, which is four steps inside the gate. So, he messes around with it as soon as we arrive and on the way out. He doesn’t care how many kids or adults are there playing, he goes up and messes with it. And will not listen to me, when I tell him not too.  I hate it because I have to drag him away from it, while carrying Reagan in the car seat, (which by the way continues to gain weight) and the “pool bag,” which is equipped with towels, sun block, play buckets and that ilk. Plus, it is right there at the entrance, so there is always folks milling about to watch to show. I hate it. The whole place knows the kid’s name because Daddy is saying over and over again and my volume gets louder every time I say it. It’s like I herald our arrival and departure by calling “Tiernan, Tiernan, Tiernan, TIERNAN!!!” 
   He is generally a well-behaved child. Even one of his girlfriends/lifeguards said, “He is so good. He shares the toys so well and is always happy.” All of which is true. He listens, is polite and generally does not have to be dragged kicking and screaming from situations, except in the swim club. The rules of his universe outside that portico do not apply. It is a gateway to another universe.
  However, the universe that is the swim club has its own set of rules and one of these new rules have forced him to reconsider the potty thing. He loves the baby pool, but he really wants to get into the big pool. And that is the new wrinkle in the potty battle, for to swim in the big pool all swimmers must be diaper free.
  He wants to get into the big pool so badly, he has tried to talk one of the older girls, the four or five year-olds that can go in the big pool but still like to play in the baby pool. He has a bevy of babes that dote on him when he’s in the pool. He tried to talk this one little girl, Madison, into taking him into the big pool. He would take her by the hand and pull her towards the gate while pointing and saying, “big pool.”  His thought process was, “If she can play in the baby pool and the big pool, why can’t I?” For a day or two he thought that Madison was his ticket to the big pool.
  Another time, someone left the gate to the baby pool open and he seized the opportunity to take off like a bat out of hell toward the big pool. There is the little blonde flash running like mercury, and here comes Daddio sprinting after him making the ground shake with each step, yelling, “Stop” at the top of my lungs. I was able to corral him about three feet from the edge of the pool, to a smattering of applause from the folks at poolside. Had I been closer to them, I feel I would have garnered more than one pat on the back and even a few “Ataboys.”
   I swear if I didn’t get him he was going to jump right in the pool. That little episode earned him big ol’ time out. And the rest of the swim club membership got a glimpse of my world-class speed. Needless to say, nobody has challenged me to any footraces. They know talent when it shakes the Earth.
In a sense, the Swim Club, specifically the big pool is going to be a gateway to another universe for Tiernan. If getting into the big pool is his motivation for getting potty trained more of the world will open up to him. Once potty trained he can be enrolled in pre-school, which will certainly open things up for a soon-to-be three-year-old. So, while Tiernan may perceive the pool as a lawless place where anything goes. He understands that there is one big law, no diapers in the big pool. And while he doesn’t know it yet, by trying to comply with law it will ultimately give him more freedom and opportunity down the road.
I for one am all for that. Do you know what preschool means? Three to four hours without him three times a week. Party time for Daddio. I might even be able to go swimming.
 

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Milestones and Meltdowns

I love being a Dad. I know that sometimes I can come off sounding like it is one big pain in the butt, which it can be, but for the most part being a Dad is the greatest job in the world and here’s a few reasons why:
1. Milestones: I get to see all of them and they are cool. Reagan has been able to turn over for like three weeks now. She is going to be crawling by August. Reagan has also joined the rest of the family and is eating cereal now. I started giving her some cereal mixed with formula last week and she has really taken to it. The girl likes to eat.
2. Being Protector: We just had a big thunderstorm blow through here, complete with lots of lighting and loud thunder claps and windblown rain. Tiernan is afraid of thunder. It gives you a great feeling when you toddler comes running to you when he or she is afraid. Reagan slept right through the storm by the way.
3. Being Missed: There was a rare occurrence this week, when three of my grade school buddies and I were able to get together for a few drinks at the hometown watering hole. It was great to get together with guys I’ve known since I was 10 for a few hours. After about an hour of sitting at the bar BSing with the boys, my cell phone rings. Its Tiernan obviously crying, “Da-di. Where …you?” Jean informs me that he has been in meltdown mode since I left. I assure him that I am fine and I will be home shortly. Then 35 minutes later, the phone rings again. Tiernan is crying more violently this time, “Da-(sniff)di, where (sob, sniff) you?”
  I turn to my buddies, “Guys, I gotta go. My son misses me.” So, I race home to comfort the little tyke, full of pride that the little guy misses me. Of course, once I get home, I discover that he fell asleep right after I got off the phone with him. I could have stayed at the bar and he’d never known the difference. The sacrifices we make for our kids.
4. Greetings: Once you are a parent, you are almost assured of getting a great greeting when you walk in the door after being away for awhile. I love the greetings Tiernan gives my wife when she gets home from work. “I’m home,” says Jean as she walks in the door and Tiernan looks at me in delight and surprise and says, “Mommy’s home” and goes running to give her a hug.
   I especially love those greetings when it has been a day like today, when both kids were one nerve away from being placed in the playpen and forced to fight each other to the death for my amusement.
Reagan was inconsolable for most of the afternoon. She would not eat, she would not sleep, she would not shut up. Tiernan wanted to do nothing but eat and drink. Every 5 seconds. “Daddy, cheese, Daddy” or “Daddy, juice. Juice Daddy, Daddy, juice. Ap-bul juice” or “Daddy carrots.” And when the demands were not for snacks or juice it was for a new television show. “Daddy, Caillou. Daddy, Mickey over. Daddy, Bob, no Thomas. No Bob. Daddy, Bob over.”
Plus, he’s doing headstands on the couch and jumping and practicing gymnastics moves, by flinging his legs around dangerously close to his little sister. The afternoon was just a constant barrage of requests for service and admonitions to “sit still for 5 minutes, please!” all the while Reagan is screaming in my ear and I am trying to get dinner ready. At one point, I actually yelled, “Calgon, Take me away!” but it didn’t work. I was ready for my own meltdown.
  Jean walked in and Tiernan ran up and gave her a hug, and she walked over to me sitting on the couch holding Reagan who is yelling and crying and pushing the pacifier away and causing general upheaval, and Jean knew with one look that it had been a long afternoon. I love being a Dad. No really, I love being a Dad.

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A Lie Agreed Upon (I Hope)

Is it morally reprehensible to lie to your child? I don’t mean fun lies like the Great Santa Scam, I mean the little lies that make a parent’s life easier. I am talking about the lies that grease the wheels of progress and move the day along. Is that good parenting or is it hijacking your moral compass in the name of selfishness?
  Last week, the gang and I went to the mall in search of a plush Mickey Mouse, (See previous post for more on Tiernan’s obsession with the Mouse.)and I pulled off a minor miracle and told a bold faced lie to my son. It was an absolute fabrication and I repeated it two or three times.
  I will elaborate on the lie in moment, but first some background. Prior to discovering America’s 78-year-old icon of rodent wholesomeness, Tiernan was obsessing on England’s 62-year-old icon of utility, everybody’s favorite “really useful engine” Thomas the Tank Engine.
  Mickey, being almost 20 years older, is a little savvier and has had a store devoted exclusively to all things mousey for a number of years. Thomas just recently marketing and promotion superhighway with the opening of Thomas World, almost directly across the mall from the Disney Store. Prior to succumbing to the charms of the world’s best known rodent, the boy only cared about visiting the Thomas store.
  Oh, the Thomas store, a.k.a. Thomas World, it is the shell of an old Motherhood Maternity store that has been stocked with all things Thomas, from maps of the Island of Sodor to toy trains, from both the die-cast and wooden (more expensive) sets, to clothing and other various and sundry items, like stickers, toothbrushes, watches, pens, night lights, beds, bedding, etc. You get the picture, if it has a Thomas the Tank Engine license it can be found in this store.
   The peseta résistance is the Official Thomas the Tank Engine Playtable, which is stocked with just enough loose wooden trains to create an environment ripe for various displays of toddler jealousy, including; the “mine” syndrome, the “you play over there with the broken tanker car, you are too young to play with Thomas” syndrome, and my personal favorite; the “Sir Topham Hat syndrome,” in which one child decides that he or she is in charge of who can play at the table and what child can touch what train. All of which is just layers in the crescendo that builds to an “I don’t want to go” tantrum, which can lead to the bribing technique in which is child is bribed with a purchase of some sort of Thomas propaganda, i.e. a new train, a bed etc. (Never in my case however, but I’ve heard tale of such occurrences.)
  Since Thomas World is like a black hole in space, sucking in unsuspected parents and their toddlers often not releasing them until a cash sacrifice has been offered. I call that the Sodor Sacrifice.  That sort of meltdown inducing, parent manipulating experience has a way of embedding in the memory of every toddler who visits and, as such, avoiding Thomas World is something deeply desired by parents. It is the kind of place not spoken of, as in “Let’s try to avoid the T-H-O-M-A-S store if possible,” because like Saruon, the mere invocation of the name can change a toddler from a happy, proud and content kid, to screaming, begging, whining lump of tears and snots.
  The lie.
  We were walking through the mall and Tiernan’s Thomas train sense must have been dulled by an overdose of Mouse poison because I saw Thomas World before he did and I was able to distract his attention away from the fact that the store was to our right and break free of the gravitational pull and spirit him into the Disney Store. We made our Disney purchase and were about to leave and I once again managed to stay free of the Thomas World tractor beam and scurry past the store. As we got two feet past the Thomas store Tiernan said, “Go to Thomas store.”
 And I said, “Do you see it?”
 And he said, “no.”
 And I lied. “I don’t see it either.” And I told another lie, “Maybe it closed down.”
 Tiernan said, “Thomas store closed down”
 I said, “I haven’t seen it.” I had. I lied again and I kept lying, but I enjoyed my trip to the mall. I avoided the Thomas store tantrum and I avoid making the Sodor Sacrifice.
  But at what cost? Have I also sacrificed my morals? Has the Satan of Sodor managed to erode the bedrock of my principals just a little and won a significant battle? Please gentle reader, (And I know there is only one of you) please help me through my crisis of conscience. For I can not go back to the mall until I resolve this, I like the mall.

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Love the Sinner, Hate the Sin

I consider myself a good Catholic, most of the time. I am not the poster boy for Catholicism, but, I am a good person, most of the time. I hold to the Ten Commandments and do my best allow Jesus’ light to shine through me. Perhaps my biggest transgression is not keeping holy the Lord’s Day.
I have never been a big fan of going to church. Maybe it it is the perceived hypocrisy of the congregation that has put me off. The idea of loving thy neighbor while judging and condemning them for their attire or the behavior of their kids. A sin I will easily admit to being guilty of as much as any Holy Roller Church Pillar type. Judging people in church can be a kind of sport for me. However, I feel that I am just doing what everybody else in the building is doing, making assumptions and judgments.
Or maybe it is the conditioned state of fear of misbehaving and being judged by God while under his roof, which makes me rather spend the hour reading the Sunday paper. The Mass has always left me feeling further away from God than prior to going. I always felt closer to God while walking through the woods, looking at beautifully designed and constructed building, listening to music that truly stirred me, or in the healing touch of a loved one.
  And now that I am a father of two little ones, the experience of going to Mass on Sunday has become gut-wrenchingly comical. Obviously, an infant like Reagan, my five-month old, gets a pass in the behavior department – to her, hunger and discomfort are reasons to cry regardless of the location. It is what babies do. As I have said before, God may love napping babies, but He also has a soft spot for babies that cry during Mass and parents with the smarts to know when to say enough is enough, and remove the crying baby from the congregation.
  Reagan the Pagan has not been Christened yet, and this Sunday the priest asked everyone that had been baptized to raise their hands. I raised my hand, Jean raised her hand and instructed Tiernan to do likewise. I pointed at Reagan and in a low silly Daddy voice said, “Don’t you raise your hand. You’re not baptized yet.”
That comment was greeted by a giggling belly laugh from my five-the month old pagan. My wife gives me a look that says, “What the heck are you doing to her?” I shrug my shoulders and mouth, “Nothing.” I look back to Reagan and she starts laughing like crazy again. By now, everyone for five rows is investigating the laughing infant. So, I put my finger to my mouth and say, “Shhhhh.” This only fuels the fire and the laughter erupts louder. At this point, she just has to work herself through the giggles, so I stop looking at her. All is quiet.
  Tiernan, however is another story. He is old enough to understand that he must act a certain way. He isn’t old enough to understand why, but he can understand that different rules apply when we are in church. And for the most part he is well behaved in church. He acts up and gets a bit out hand, and at point we just leave, but 80 percent of the time is a good boy. He just wants to go back to a place where he fully understands the rules and one day, he told us as much. As the priest was consecrating the host, Tiernan says clear as a bell for all to hear, “All done,” indicating that he is all done with church and wishes to go home a play with his trains.
  He spends much of his time in Mass flirting. He flirts with old ladies. He flirts with teenage girls. He flirts with toddler girls. He flirts with awkward girls in their Tweens, (that ages 8-12 for those of you not up on your demographic lingo. Girls not quite teenagers but sophisticated enough to be willing to pay big bucks for in-style jeans, tees and other merchandise that marketers are jamming down their throats.)
He flirts with everyone. He’s charmed many an octogenarian during Mass. He smiles and lets a little twinkle fly from his eyes and women that can barely walk, are pushing their walkers aside to bend down and crawl under the pews to retrieve the toy he just “dropped” in their direction. You can’t teach that kind of talent and I don’t think he got it from his father.
    In an effort to get a better look at one of his girlfriends, he put down the kneeler, on my foot. At first I thought it was just him standing on my foot and then he stepped up on the kneeler and drove the base of the kneeler deeper into my foot, at which point I let out a muffled but audible, “Ouch!!!!” in a stage whisper loud enough to be heard up on the altar. My pain is met by smiles and laughter from the boy.
    He spends the remainder of Mass time, playing with his toys or flipping through the missal books, and crawling on the pew behind me in an effort to get his sister to start to giggling again.
   In recent weeks, he’s taken a keen interest in Communion. At first, as we would go up for communion, Tiernan would just say, “Me too,” as my wife and I would receive. However, this week, he became more aggressive in pursuit of the Host. Jean was carrying him and as the priest reached out to place the wafer on her tongue, Tiernan says, “Me too,” and attempts to grab it out of the priest’s hand. Mom and Dad are mortified. The priest, God bless him, is cracking up laughing. The women standing behind the priest offering Sacramental Wine is doing her best, and failing, to suppress a belly laugh and look dignified. Of course, the boy sees all of these reactions and smiles like a thief that has gotten away with robbery and endeared himself to the people he was robbing at the same time.
  Once Mass is over and we’re walking out, Tiernan is met by his girlfriends of all ages. They wave and tell us, “He is so cute” or “He is such a darling” or “What a handsome boy.” He looks back at me like, “See Dad, I’ve got it all under control. Why do you keep cramping my style, with the ‘Stop that’ and ‘Sit up straight’ and ‘Be quiet.’ See, my public loves me. The chicks dig me. God loves boys who nap. Why do you think I’ve been sleeping so much?”
 

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Mouse of the House

My down-with-Caillou campaign has gotten an unexpected shot in the arm from Mickey Mouse. Now, instead of repeatedly asking to watch Caillou, Tiernan repeatedly asks to watch Mickey Mouse.
The folks at Disney can pat themselves on the back. They have another devoted follower of the Disney Doctrine, my son is a full-fledged Mouse-Ear believer in the Disney way.
They can pat themselves on the back, for coming up with an ingenious way to indoctrinate a new generation of Mousekateers, namely the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Which introduces Mickey, Donald, Goofy, Minnie, Daisy and Pluto to the under-five set by essentially stealing all the best aspects of tried-and-true shows such as Dora the Explorer.
The all-animated show is on Saturday and Sunday mornings and it is worth checking out. I was never much of Mickey devotee myself, but the show is actually pretty good. Each show puts Mickey and the gang on some sort of quest, there is the “will you help us?” plea to the viewer, there is a Disneyed version of Dora’s Backpack, which contains items that will help Mickey along the way, there is a celebratory song. It is very formulated. A formula that apparently works.
Oh an important side-point here; the theme song and the celebratory song are both performed by the one-time darlings of the high school//college nerd-set, the band They Might Be Giants. TMBG, as they are known to fans/geeks like myself, are getting a lot of work from the folks at Disney. They also do the theme to Higgleytown Heros, also on the Disney Channel. I am a fan of the band, my brilliant wife is a fan. I have many of their CDs, including the two that were released to be children’s music, “No” and “The ABCs.” In college I used to ....ehm... watch other people get high while listening to TMBG. I’ve seen the band live on numerous occasions. I am a fan. I always said the band had a certain cartoonish quality to their music. I was right. By the way. TMBG are also doing the music for the new Dunkin Donuts “American Runs on Dunkin” commercials.
Ok, back to Mickey Mouse and the clubhouse. I can tolerate this show because, it is not Caillou, and it still has some of the classic Mickey Mouse Club schtick, like roll call and “See ya real soon.” And I feel as though, I have some sort of cosmic connection to the Mouse. I grew up watching Annette in reruns of the original Mickey Mouse Club. I was too old for the next incarnation of the club which featured Brittney Spears, Justin Timberlake and Christina Aguilera and we never had the Disney Channel until I got married - never watched it until I had kids.
Tiernan is now completely under the spell of the mouse. My wife took him for walk last night, and they came across a plastic Mickey Mouse bank on a trash heap. He flips out and has to have it. So, they bring it home, wash it up and he sleeps with it. He would not let it out of his hands. Not his sight, his hands.
He woke up with it this morning and would not put it down to put a shirt on. I thought I’d be the benevolent dictator/dad that I am I, and take a field trip to the Disney Store and get the boy a plush Mickey to sleep with.
Now, we have a 15 inch plush Mickey and a 15 inch plush Goofy, as well as a 7 inch Mickey and of course the bank which is still in the bed. The first person that tells Tiernan that Mickey lives in Disney World and he can visit Mickey will get blackballed from the O’Rourke Clubhouse.
“See ya real soon.”

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Reduced Power: Final Ride

As the VUE comes to a stop on the incline, and begins to roll backward, I apply the brakes, which happily work. Now, I am once again forced to assess my situation. I am trapped on a two-lane hill, with two kids in the car and I can only go backwards, down the hill, and that is only through the miracle known as gravity. Going forwards seems unlikely. “Now we are in trouble,” I say to my two-year old, who was roused from his sleep by an annoyed motorist leaning on his horn. He responds by saying, “Stopped, Da.”
The boy is a genius. He woke up, looked around, and instantly analyzed the situation and pinpointed the problem -- we were stopped.
In an attempt to change our fortune, I did what every red-blooded, clear-thinking American would do – I started the truck up again. And it sputtered to life. I put it in D and we began to crawl up the hill and 15-inches per hour. But, there was a sense of elation in the VUE, we were moving forward.
At the top of hill, was a traffic light. And the road split into two lanes, one for turning right and one for straight and left turns. I wanted to go straight. The right-turn lane was empty, the straight/left lane had 6 cars lined up at the light. I knew that if I had to stop on the hill, I may not be able to get going again, so I calculated that going to top of the hill in the right-turn lane and going straight was my best move. So, we inched up the hill to the cross road and stopped at the light.
At this point, I looked over at the driver in the straight/left-turn lane to get his attention, to let him know that I am driving a partially disabled car and was going to go straight. I looked and I looked. I stared and I stared. I banged on my window. The man would not look at me. If it was a freak with purple hair and a dagger through is nose or good looking woman, or any other person that I didn’t want to see me staring they would have looked at me immediately. But because, I am trying to get his person’s attention its like I am invisible. So, I blow my horn, which gets me a dirty look, but a look. I mime to him that I want to go straight and my vehicle is impotent. He nods his head and gives me another dirty look as the light changes, but he got the message. He graciously lets me go in front of him.
  The downhill portion of Century Road is not as steep a grade, but it’s a longer hill. The VUE reached almost 30 miles per hour. I felt potent again. The bottom of the hill has another light, but a right-turn split which doesn’t require a stop. The timing gods were with us as we careened around the turn and through the light at 20 mph.  
  Soon, we were back to crawling at 10 mph but, the hard part of the journey was over. And the Saturn dealership was looming just around on more perilous turn on to Route 4. As we approached the entrance to Route 4, I felt a moment of panic as I tried to remember if I would need to merge into 60 mph traffic or if there was a dedicated lane for those entering the highway. Once again the traffic planners who designed the road had folks like me in mind and I chugged onto Route 4 and found a dedicated lane. Now, all I had to do was turn into the dealership and get this bucket fixed. I would call my parents to come get the kids and I would spend the day watching Fox News on the television in the dealership, while the worked on the VUE.
  Upon pulling into the dealership, I forego pulling into a parking space and turn right into the road leading back to the service bays. I put the machine in park and as I am about to get out. I am stopped by the logistics of getting two kids (who are now both sleeping again) out of the car and into the dealership without waking them, because God loves napping children and napping children, generally, do not run around car dealerships screaming and scratching the paint on the new 2007 models.
  I admit that the logistics of trying to get both kids out of the truck and into a place that is not designed to accommodate sleeping toddlers overwhelmed me and I gave up and woke Tiernan up. He took it well but was puzzled as to why we were leaving the truck running outside and going into a building with other cars. I walked into the dealership, holding Tiernan’s hand and carrying the still sleeping Reagan in her bucket and went right to the courtesy phone.
  I called my parents and after listening to the phone ring for, what felt like three days, my mother picked up wondering why Saturn of Paramus was calling her. Wasn’t she surprised when she heard her son’s voice? I told her the short story of where I was and why I was calling and she assured me that grandma and grandpa would be right out to take the kids home. I told her to put on some speed; Reagan would be waking up soon looking for food -- food, which I did not have, because I was terrible parent. She once again assured me that they would be there ASAP.
  I hung up the phone and went back to the service area and informed the gentleman that I need service and that the patient was running in the middle of approach to the service bays. “We’ll take a look at it and let you know. Have a seat,” said the man.
  As we approached the waiting area, Tiernan took one look at the television and said, “Dada. Caillou?” (See previous post) And, I said I would try to find Caillou. I actually hoped the little Canadian runt was on. I wanted Tiernan to watch the whinny little jerk. As much as I hated all three hairs on his bald little head, I hoped beyond hope that he would be on and Tiernan would be able to hang on his every high-pitched word instead of hanging on me. Alas, he was nowhere to be found and Tiernan had to settle for watching Blues Clues. I found myself once again thanking God for giving the world Tivo.
  Before things got too out of hand or Reagan woke up screaming, the cavalry showed up, in the form of Grandma and Grandpa, and took the kids home to be fed and changed.
  Just as I was beginning to relax, knowing that the kids were in good hands and safe from starving, the man from the service area came out. “Mr. O’Rourke, I have good news and bad news.”
  Oh, boy! Here we go.
  “The good news is that we will be able to repair the car by the end of the day,” and he hands me a piece of paper with about 6 different part numbers on it. “We need to get these parts from other dealership around the state, but we should be able to get it done today.”
  Parts from other dealerships – that ain’t ever good.
  “It seems that you need a whole new throttle body. The bad news its that its gonna cost about $900 to $1,000,” he says.
  “$900,” I says. My first thought is that for $900.00, I’d rather trade it in for a new Relay, which is bigger and better suits the needs of our growing family. But, I know that my brilliant wife would never agree to anything so hasty and reckless. I tell the nice man to start fixing the problem.
  At this point, I call my wife for the first time. I give her the short version of the my how my morning is going and assure her that all the kids are fine and everything is peaceful, except that we are going to be out a grand to repair the car, to which she says, “Geez, for $1,000 we should really just look into trading it in, while we still have value for it and get a new Saturn Relay, which is bigger would better suit our needs as the kids get older.” Didn’t I tell you she was brilliant?
  And five hours later, I drove out of the Saturn dealership in a brand new Saturn Relay, with two sliding doors, and a built in DVD system. But it is not a minivan. It is an FUV – a Family Utility Vehicle. Now, everybody is happy. Tiernan is happy, now he can watch Bob the Builder in the car. Daddy is happy, we don’t have any Caillou DVDs, and Reagan is content and a content four-month old is a happy four-month old.
  Just a quick epilogue: A couple days later I had to go back out to the dealership to pick up the registration. And we pull into the parking lot and Tiernan says, “No Da. No new car. No new car. No. no. no.”
 

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Reduced Power: Part Two

Sitting there in the service station parking lot with the two kids in the Saturn SUV running on only “Reduced Power,” meaning the vehicle won’t go over 10 mph (see previous post), I begin formulating a defense to tell the good folks at the Division of Child Services when they come to take me away for; at best being an unfit parent for not having extra formula and diapers or an emergency cell phone; or at worst, endangering the lives of my children -- it came to me.
I had moment of clarity. It came to me as a vision or it could have been a billboard. I billboard reading “Saturn of Paramus, Route 4 West in Paramus.” Ding!!! This is what Sir Isaac Newton must have felt like under that apple tree. In my darkest moments, I experienced a moment of enlightenment. This… this is what brilliance feels like.
“Damn good idea,” I say aloud to myself.
“Damn good idea,” parrots my two-and-half year old son. Thankfully, my daughter Reagan has been asleep for some time now.
The Saturn dealership/repair shop is in Paramus. I am in Paramus. They nice folks on Saturn have always been helpful in the past. Surely, they will let me borrow a phone to call someone to come take my crying, screaming, foul mouthed kids out of their showroom. No self respecting business wants to be known as a haven for potty mouths, they’d have to let me borrow a phone, I am, after all, a paying customer. How hard could it be to get the Saturn dealership? Just a few tenths of a mile down Route 17 to Century Road and I can take back roads to the dealership. This…this is a good plan.
With a revived feeling that I am good under pressure, much like the fabled Jean-Luc Picard, Captain of the USS Enterprise NCC 1701-E, I started up the once mighty V6 engine of my Saturn VUE. It purred to life and immediately lost interest in continuing to run at full strength. My old nemesis, the “Reduced Power” light, was back to its old tricks sapping energy from my once proud machine. But, I had a plan. I was going to deal with “Reduced Power” and any other heretofore unknown idiot light that might choose to make visitation upon my vessel.
My plan was to go slow. If 10 mph. was as fast as I could go, then, by God, I would go 10 mph. And that is what I did. I eased out on to Route 17 again, with my Hazard Lights flashing to alert all the other drivers that I was indeed a hazard. “Here we go,” I said.
“No. No. No Da. No Da. No no no,” said my first officer from the child seat behind me.
With my hands and 10 and 2 on the wheel I slogged along on impulse power down Route 17 South, occasionally attempting to cajole the vehicle to go faster by standing on the gas pedal, but alas no response.
I never really stopped to think about how slow 10 mph. really is. It is quite slow and everybody else on the highway was painfully aware of my lack of gittyup. There was horns and hard stares from other drivers, but I was moving.
Just when things were starting to look up, I looked up and ahead of me I saw the Century Road overpass over Route 17 and realized that there was a flaw in my flawless plan. My vehicle would have to limp up the two-lane overpass and then I looked at the in-dash clock. It read 12:40 p.m. I was limping through the lunch rush. Thousands of cubical-dwelling workers would be on the road in search of sustenance and me and my crippled machine would be holding them back from their Pizza Hut Personal Pan Pizza’s and Hooters . . . whatever it is that Hooters sells besides sex.
As I began to leave the highway at the Century Road exit, I chickened out. I would never tell my first officer this, but his father chickened out, I continued going right on Century instead of attempting the left up and over the overpass. I was formulating a new plan, which involved pulling into the New Jersey State DMV Inspection Station, which was just ahead on the left. This plan too, was fatally flawed. First, it would require making a left, which would mean crossing the ever increasing throng of secretaries and file clerks in the oncoming traffic lane; a feat not to be attempted on impulse power alone. Second, and perhaps most damaging the Inspection Station was closed for lunch. So, into another nearly empty parking lot I pulled the miserable piece of crap under my command.
I regrouped and re-gathered my thoughts. I would attempt the assault on the overpass. Seeing an opening in the traffic I put-putted my way onto the road and headed for the overpass. Put-put. The truck was responding as if it was powered by a single, Asthmatic, elderly chipmunk on a rusty exercise wheel.  As we approached the incline I could feel the cold stares from the full-powered folks behind me. We were moving so slow, that the speedometer indicated that we were not moving at all. Once again there were horns, this time accompanied by crude gestures. Luckily, by this point, the nice leisurely pace had proved to be too much for my first officer and he was asleep at his post, thus he didn’t learn any of the crude gestures. You see, the original plan was a good plan, now; at least, I would be able to curse with impunity. Genius.
Put-put, we chugged up the overpass like a carnival roller-coaster car making its last run of the day. And then we reached the plateau and the VUE began to pick up speed. And just as things were looking up, once again I looked up and saw the very large, very seep hill with a traffic light at the top of it. I forgot about that hill. Genius.
As we descend and picked up speed, it seems plausible that the truck might be able to make up the hill. However, the incline soon began to take its toll on whatever extra umph gravity had generously provided and the put-putting becomes woefully unable to propel the SUV, the two kids and fat ass behind the wheel up the steep grade. And we roll to a stop one-third from the bottom of the hill. “This is where it ends,” I say. The Reduced Power light has prevailed.
Or has it? More to this story to come, plus an huge twist.
To be continued...

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Reduced Power

It has been a busy couple of days. Thursday was Tiernan’s last Gymboree class of the Spring session. It is an hour long and does a great job of wearing the boy out so he takes a nice long nap. (God blesses little boys and girls who take long naps.) Because the class is only an hour and we’re only out of the house for an hour and half, I generally do not take a diaper bag with me. If there is any kind of diaper related issue, it will have to be dealt with once we get home, which is at most an hour away. The diaper soiling child will have to stew it his or her own juices until we get home. It may be gross, but it is just easier than lugging a huge diaper bag, which may or may not be needed, all over the place. Call me a terrible father, but there are degrees of gross. And my gross tolerance was high before I became a parent.
So, we go to Gymboree, Dad, Tiernan and Reagan. At Gymboree, Tiernan does he running, climbing, falling, getting tired thing, Dad watches with the knowing smile of man sure he will enjoy a few hours of peace while the boy naps, Reagan sits in her bucket and watches the big kids, coos and sucks her fingers and occasionally falls asleep. Everybody has a great time. Gymboree is great.
After Gymboree we all get buckled in the truck, (a Saturn VUE) and we are headed for home and a relaxing afternoon of napping and laundry.
As we are about to pull out of the parking lot onto Route 17, the VUE stalls and stops responding and all the “idiot lights” come on including “Service Engine Soon” and a new light that says “Reduced Power.”
So we all sit in the truck, 10 feet from the parking lot exit. I curse, “What the F@*k?” Tiernan repeats it. I shut everything down and try to restart. (It works with the computer, right.) It works the truck starts right up and we have full power. “Let’s roll,” I say and we ease out into traffic on Route 17, once on the highway, the truck stalls again and “Reduced Power” rears its ugly head and I can go no faster than 10 mph. “What is this shit?!” I yell. From the back I hear “Shit.”  That is two new words Tiernan has learned today.
So I am coasting along at 10 mph. traffic is whizzing past us, the folks behind us are blowing their horns. Tiernan is in the back saying, “Da, no. No Da. No No.”
Up ahead is a service station. I pull in, crack open the glove box and consult the Saturn VUE owner’s manual in hopes of finding out exactly what, “Reduced Power” means and how I can increase power. According to the manual, “Reduced Power” means that “The vehicle is experiencing reduce power due to some mechanical malfunction. If the malfunction is repair, power should return. If full power does not return, please see a certified Saturn repair technician.”
According to the book, “Reduced Power” means power is reduced. So, just as I had always suspected, the owner’s manual is only really good twice a year. It tells me how to set the clock one hour ahead in the Spring and one hour back in the Fall. Car companies could save a bundle of money if they just printed those instructions in four languages, instead of the 130 pages of uselessness.
Do I really need a light to tell me that power is reduced, I figured that out when I put the gas pedal to the floor and didn’t move. Perhaps… maybe if the machine wasn’t using all power to light up lights that say “Reduced Power,” I might be able to get home.
Now, I sit in the truck shutting it off and restarting and restarting without shutting down and hearing that great high pitched “eckfftpgttptptpt!!!!!” sound that auto engines make when you try to start them, when they are already started. Every time I do this, Tiernan says, “No Dad. No.”
I look at the clock and it is 12:40 p.m. Reagan is going to have to eat in about 10 minutes. No problem, I’ll just feed her from the formula that I put in the diaper bag and….decided…not…to…bring. I don’t have the diaper bag!!!!! A shot of panic flows through me.
No, problem I will just call Gramma and Grampa on my cell phone -- my cell phone, which is currently in my wife’s work bag, under her desk in Manhattan. I DON’T HAVE MY CELL PHONE!!!!!!!! But, I always have me cell phone. I don’t leave the house without my cell phone. I wear special pants, -- Cargo Shorts, see previous post -- which have a specific pocket for the cell phone. How does the car break down on the day that I don’t have the cell phone? “Un-God-Damn-believable!,” I say pretty loud.
“Un-Gon-Damn-bevable,” says my son. That’s three, possibly four new words.
Ok, I am stuck in Paramus, with two kids, under the age of 3 with no diaper bag, and no cell phone. My God what kind of parent I am? Then I think, “This could be worse at least I had the sense to pull into a service station.” I get out and walk over to the attended, I am a little apprehensive about leaving the kids in the car, but what choice do I have? I explain to the nice gentleman about the car stalling, the two kids in the car, and what the owner’s manual says about the “Reduced Power” light and ask him if he can help? And he says, “We only do oil changes.” Naturally. Great. Thanks.
I get back in the car. “Son of a Bitch!!!”
“On nova Bixkch!” Tiernan has learned five new words in like three minutes. It’s a freaking record. Can I get him to say, “Mommy, I love you” to my wife while she’s on the phone? Noooooo. Every day I tell him to say “Mommy, I love you” and I am met with stone silence. I say “Son of a Bitch” once and it’s like he was born to say it.
So, I am stuck in a Paramus gas station, no cell phone, no diaper bag and with one potty mouthed kid and one infant who is about to begin screaming for some formula in vehicle that is, at best, unfit for highway travel.
Tune in later in the week for the conclusion to this story, I assure you that has a twist that is un-f*#cking-believable.
“Un-bubking-beveble.” That’s six new words.

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