Share and Share Alike

The hardest part about having two kids, is not the juggling act – not attempting to provide the same level of attention or care to both kids, that is easy. Not the sleepless nights associated with a eight month-old’s teething. Not the juggling the different dietary needs of the little ones. Not the extra laundry. The hardest part of having two kids is getting the older one to share. And not just his own toys, but his sister’s toys.
  Anything that Reagan picks up to explore is soon swatted out of her hands to a chorus of, “Hey, that’s mine.” Anything. No matter if it’s a Thomas train or a plush dolly or an Matchbox car or a building block, or Pooh or Pigglet. Everything is his. He can be totally engrossed in whatever he’s doing and not even realize that his sister is in the room. But if he looks up from the train that he’s been meticulously constructing and sees that Reagan has something in her hand and a smile on her face -- Tiernan feels that it is his duty to remove both of them.
  I am tired of telling him to share. “You have to share your toys.” “You have to share your stuff.” “Reagan, can play with that you are playing with your trains.” “Give that back to her and say you’re sorry.” “Say you’re sorry.” “Give it back.” “Don’t take that from her.” “If you touch a toy that Reagan is playing with again, I will throw away one of your toys.” “You have to share.” “You have to share.” “You have to share.” “You have to share.” “You must share.” “You must share!” “YOU MUST SHARE!!!!!”
  It is baffling to me, because Tiernan is really good at sharing when it comes to other people. He understands that if we’re on the playground and he has two toys and another child comes over and wants to play, he should give one toy to his new friend. And he does. He is willing to share on the playground with strangers, but with his sister, he refuses to share his stuff.
  In his defense, most of the stuff was at one point his and only his. Most of the “baby toys” were toys that he played with at Reagan’s age. Now, he has moved on to bigger and better toys, but any time the girls touches a toy, there he is asserting his ownership rights.
  This must be the beginnings of a sibling rivalry. One of my biggest fears about having two kids was handling sibling stuff. As an only child it is hard for me to grasp how Tiernan feels about his sister and vice-versa when it comes to things like parental attention, playing favorites, and sharing space and the world with a rival. Now, I am trying to find a way to bring peace to the chaos, and allow Reagan to same opportunity to explore and learn that Tiernan, when it came to toys and experiences.
  I was always both amazed and very proud of the way Tiernan developed. And to pat myself on the back, I was proud of job that myself and my wife did in guiding him on his journey as he developed to skills to make advanced development possible. I want Reagan to have the same skill set.  Sometimes I think that I worry too much about whether Reagan is getting the right experiences and doing all the things that are necessary to develop the skills she needs to take the next steps.
  Is my need to keep Tiernan happy, active, healthy and safe, and the attention that is required to keep him from hurting himself detracting from the attention that Reagan needs to develop the skills she needs for the next three months? Or does the presence of an older sibling and the things that can be learned from watching her brother, compensate for the parental attention diverted by a need to be responsible for two children? In other words, will she learn more from her brother than from me? And if that is the case, should I spend more time worrying about raising Tiernan, since he will be a big factor in developing her future skills? Which brings me back to how to I get Tiernan to share, his toys and his knowledge with Reagan?
 

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Tripping Over Milestones

It has been awhile since I’ve had the time gather my thoughts and put them in blog form. Here are some of the things you, gentle reader, have missed.
Reagan, the daughter, is no longer a pagan. She became a member of the Roman Catholic Church Aug. 20, in a lovely baptismal ceremony that she completely slept through, including the water being poured on her head. And like many Catholics, she hasn’t been back to church since. In fairness to her, we were away on vacation for two Sundays, away visiting her grandfather another and she was sick last Sunday.
In other developments, Reagan is also no longer stationary. She crawls!!!! And she’s fast and getting faster. She crawls, she sits up, she pulls herself up on tables, she crawls up and down the step to the den, she tries to crawl off the changing table, and this development is perhaps the biggest reason why I have not had the chance to write a blog entry. As ESPN’s Dan Patrick says, “You can’t stop her. You can only hope to contain her.”
In another de-velop-ing sit-ua-tion, to paraphrase Bill Pidto another ESPNer. Reagan has sprouted teeth, two teeth in her bottom gum, and she is currently cutting a few more, which means she is both mobile and unhappy, and wet. The arrival of teeth is heralded by the opening of the drool floodgates. The poor little girl’s chin and neck are always damp.
While the fact that she is crawling and pulling herself up on tables and couches is great, however, she still has not figured out how to fall, or that certain actions will result in falling. So, she falls and hits her head on the rug quite a bit which means there is a crying factor involved. Kids fall and hit their heads, until they acquire the skills to break their fall, or get used to the feeling of falling. I don’t think the crying is from the contact as much from the shock and the feeling of helplessness that come with a fall. As adults falling can be unsettling, for an infant, falling must feeling like skydiving.
I suspect the thought progression is something like this, “Look at me, hanging on the couch with one hand. This is cool. Whoa! Whoa! I am falling, I am falling. BANG. Hey, that wasn’t cool. I’m hurt. My head, I am hurt. I must let out an audible cry so the big creature that feeds and cleans me will know that I may be badly hurt and in need of serious medical attention. WHAAAA!!!! WHAAAA!!! Hey, wait a minute. If I open my eyes and look around, I am only inches from where I was prior to the fall. And the cry seems to have a clearing affect on my head and I no longer feel that pain I felt a second ago. That didn’t hurt that much at all. Oh wait, here comes that large male caregiver. I better make it look as though I am really hurt, otherwise he’ll ignore my cries in the future. Whaaaa!!! Lungs: breath harder, short breaths. Eyes: make with the tears. Not too many just enough to show him that we mean business. OK, he’s picked me up, and is consoling me. Yes, the soft pats on my back make me feel much better. Resume normal breathing. Stop crying and end the tear production. OK he’s putting us back on the rug. Excellent. All functions operating normally, now where is that couch I was climbing on?”
Now, the den is stocked with at least 15,000 various in sundry toys that, you think would appeal to a creature with a developing — if not already keen interest in all things bright and shiny. Objects created to stimulate just such a mind. But these toddler jewels, go unnoticed by little Reagan. What is she attracted to? The step up to the living room. And developing her own ability to navigate up and down said step. As an experienced parent, I know that a 7 month old spending her day playing on a step will eventually end with a trip to the emergency room. Maybe not the first day but, if you allow this behavior to continue, and you throw in an overactive older brother by the end of the week you get a baby with a permanent scar. And nobody wants that, especially on a little girl. You might be able to get away with it on a little boy, because chicks dig scars, but not a beautiful little princess.
So to avoid the permanent scar, I adopted the Ottoman Doctrine. Which means that we place a small ottoman, which fills up half the doorway and fill the other half with large throw pillows, thus creating an padded obstacle for the infant, and path for the rest of the family. The Ottman Doctrine is only a temporary fix, because by this time next week, Reagan will have the ability and will to climb the pillow hill and gain unabated access to the rest of the house. However, the Ottoman Doctrine prevents a trip to the emergency room and possible visit from Child Services.
Speaking of the emergency room, I had my first trip to the ER as a parent. The week before vacation, Tiernan developed Pink Eye. It started with a green ooze from his left eye and a trip to the pediatrician proved useless as it was misdiagnosed as a the body’s natural cleansing of a piece of sand in the eye. However, when the other eye started oozing ectoplasm I knew we had larger problem. After a nap, Tiernan could not get his eyes open as a result of being caked closed. And then after they were pried open, he said he could not see. So, we went up the ER at HUMC.
There is such a thing as a pediatric ER. A whole ER with separate waiting rooms, patient rooms, and procedure rooms just for the little ones. Complete with TVs in each room. It was I dare say a pleasure. No dealing with scary old people with old people sounds, fluids and smells. No stabbing victims, no gunshot wounds, it was very nice. Toys and books for the kids to keep them occupied while they wait. If you have kids and they need medical attention and you are in the HUMC area stop in. You won’t be disappointed.
The folks at HUMC prescribed some drops and the Pink Eye was banished in a matter of days, with out further infection to other family members. Another victory in the war on germs.
There are three basic rules of parenting. I mean the bare bones of being a parent are made up of these three tenets:
1.) Avoid Death. Keep your kids alive. It doesn’t get more basic than that.
2.) Avoid The ER. This is closely linked to no. 1., but can be harder to follow. But, it is your duty to do your best to keep your child out of the emergency room. I am not saying that a trip to the emergency room equals bad parenting, but if this is your third trip because you child keeps playing with fire and burning himself, you might want to rethink your approach to parental supervision.
3.) Avoid The Permanent Scar. Again closely related to Nos. 1 & 2, but harder to avoid. Everybody has permanent scarring somewhere, at some time in life well lived the body becomes deformed somehow, either through an act of God or an act of foolishness. It is you duty as a parent, to ensure that the later does not happen to your child while in your care. If stepping over a throw pillow 20 times a-day, can help stop your little girl from breaking her nose before she’s a year old, throw the pillow down and step around.

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"What's That, Dad?"

Yeah, its Sept. 11. I spent most of the morning fighting back tears. I woke up and looked out the window at 7:10 a.m. saw that it was a beautiful crystal blue sky and said, “The weather is just like five years ago.”
I watched the beginning of the reading of the names ceremony and quickly had to flip to something else. The kids were great. Tiernan was in the den playing with his toys and occasionally watching Noggin. He’s just trying to figure out why Daddy is walking around the house wiping his eyes and mumbling “fucking bastards” under his breath.
Reagan was with me in the nook just hanging out, literally hanging from the Baby Bjorn, the handsfree device that allows the child to hang from you chest and keeps parental hands free. The American Indians called it a papoose.
As I flipped through the channels, MSNBC was replaying the coverage from Sept. 11 as it happened, in real time in 2006. And, since I had never seen it, because I was working that day, I could not tear away from it. I watched the first tower fall and as the second tower collapsed. I was full of sorrow and anger and pain, with tears streaming down my face. As I watch the smoke and dust fill lower Manhattan, Tiernan walks in, looks that the TV and says, “What’s that, Dad?” Then he looks at me and says, “Are you OK?”
For a moment I had to try to figure out what to say to him. Finally, I said, “I am fine. It is just a very sad day,” then between choking back sobs I said, “five years ago, before you were born, a bunch of bad men did a very bad thing and a lot of people were hurt.”
The tragedy that is 9-11 continues to find new ways to infuriate me. First and foremost is all those lives cut short and all the victims families that have to carry on.
Next, is the loss of innocence. As I said earlier, it was a beautiful day. And I can never wake to a beautiful morning without thinking, “This is the type of day in was Sept. 11, 2001.” These fucking bastards have tainted one of Gods most precious gifts, a beautiful day.
Next, is the emptiness in the New York skyline. I loved to look at the World Trade Center. It was a testament of mans genius, an engineering marvel. They were beautiful buildings. Another gift from God taken from us.
Now, for the first time, I had to explain this barbarism, this senseless slaughter of innocents and innocence to my 2 year old son. That is something I should not have to do. Thankfully, he is still too young to understand any of this, beyond, bad men did bad things. But, eventually, I will have to tell him and my precious daughter what happened five years ago.
How do you explain it to a preteen child? A bunch of men hijacked a plane. “Daddy, what does hijack mean?” Well, it means that they took control of the plane. They bullied everybody into letting them fly where they wanted the plane to fly. And then they flew the planes so that they would crash into buildings. “These men forced the pilots to crash into buildings? What about the other passengers, Daddy?” Well, pumpkin, the hijackers killed the pilots and flew the planes themselves.
The act that I have just described is almost too much for the brain the process. Men took control of planes full of people, killed the pilots, and crashed the planes on purpose. Try to forget for a moment that almost 3,000 people died in the buildings. Just getting your head around the first part of this terrible event is difficult. “Why, daddy?” Because they don’t like Americans. “Why not, daddy?”
You see where this is going, right. I am not sure I have answers to the questions that my kids will eventually ask me. And the very idea that I have answer these questions pisses me off and steels my resolve and feeds my hatred of these bastards.
For now, bad men did bad things. And I picked up my 2 year old son and hugged him and told him that I loved him. And he hugged his 7 month old sister and looked at me and said, “Dad, lets go to the park.” And we went to the park and moved on. Soon the only person crying was Dylan, the redhead that cries when he doesn’t get his way and doesn’t know how to share.

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Carry-On Baggage

For a half-hour last Wednesday night the weather and the mosquitoes cooperated and allowed my two year old, Tiernan, and I to sit out on the deck and watch the airplanes.  Tiernan is going through an airplane phase. He’s very interested in planes. And he’s lucky, because we live almost directly under the landing path of two major airports. We are a stone’s throw from Teterboro and about 10 miles from Newark Liberty International. For a kid who loves airplanes, we live in a target rich environment.
  It was kind of magical. We were having a great time. I was having fun, looking at the planes and telling Tiernan what planes were going where. “Planes going East or that way,” I would point toward the front of the house, “are going to Teterboro. They fly that way and turn in the sky then fly over Grandma and Grandpa’s house and come around and land at Teterboro Airport.” And Tiernan would get all excited. Then a big jet would fly south on approach to Newark. “That one is going to land at Newark,” I’d say and then I would quiz Tiernan, “Where is that plane going?” and he would answer either Newark or Teterboro.
  Then I started to teach him about directions, North, South, East, and West. He was very interested, he didn’t quite get it, which is understandable since it was the first time he was learning about directions.
  Then Tiernan would spy a plane that was way up in the stratosphere and ask me where that plane was going. And I would say, “Oh, that one way up there is going North and may be going to maybe Boston or Montreal in Canada.” He would point to other planes flying too high to be landing anywhere nearby. “That one might be flying to Europe, probably London’s Heathrow Airport or Dublin Airport or Shannon Airport in Ireland,” I’d say.
  It was a Father/Son moment. Guy stuff. Talking about flying machines and directions. I remember thinking that I have always had a great sense of direction, and I wonder if he is going to be blessed in the same way. It was just another daddy fantasy, playing “The I Wonder If Game.”
  And more than just guy stuff. It was a special moment in time. Tiernan was enthralled and listening to every word and paying attention. I wasn’t being discipline daddy, I was just hanging out being Dad. I was able to look at airplanes in a different way, to see them through his eyes, as these great cool machines that fly through the air. I was able to get into his head and try to ask the questions that he had but couldn’t speak just yet. It allowed to view planes as an innocent child again. To see them as magical machines that make cool noise and can soar like birds.
  It was the first time that I looked at an airliner as a just a plane and not a weapon that may kill me since 9/11. On that faithful Tuesday in 2001, I was walking across Fifth Ave to my office in Greenwich Village, a block north of Washington Square, when I heard an airline flying very, very low behind me. By the time I turned around it was behind the buildings and I couldn’t see it. But, I remember saying to the stranger that was passing me, “That is not good. That guy is flying too low.”  And I continued walking to me office, and as I sat down at my desk, my phone rang and my wife called to tell me that a plane had just slammed into the World Trade Center. After that, I went back downstairs and walked back to Fifth Ave, where I could get a great view of the Towers. And while I was watching the North Tower burn, the second airline hit. I couldn’t see the plane, I just saw the huge fireball. And I knew that none of this was an accident and my world was about to change. And the feeling of security and innocence in America was gone.
  After the attacks, every time I looked up at a jet liner, I thought is that the next one to kill thousands? Every time the big jets on approach to Newark would alter their flaps or reduce engine power creating a strange noise, I would get a jolt of adrenaline. Look up and prepare to run. In the years since the attacks, the thoughts of airliners as death machines had diminished, but if I stared at a plane flying across the sky for too long. It would stir up all those 9/11 feelings, the anger, the fear, the heartache. And I would stop looking at the plane and concentrate on something else and go about my business.
  So last Wednesday, Tiernan and I watching the planes fly by and I am enjoying the father/son moment, and I didn’t have a single feeling of dread or fear. The evening was so nice and cool, the sky was so clear, and the excitement that Tiernan was exhibiting was so innocent, the combination chased the ghosts of 9/11 from my psyche. Eventually, it got too dark and late and it was time for Tiernan to go to bed.
  As I drifted off to sleep, I remember thinking that it was pretty cool night. My son and I shared a moment. That is the payoff for being a parent and since the weather was supposed to stay cool and clear, maybe we’d be able to do it again the next night.
  I woke up to the television telling me that the British authorities had disrupted a planned terrorist attack involving the blowing apart of 10 airliners from  London’s Heathrow Airport bound for America. I thought, this is a joke right. These Bastards have managed to taint a memory of my spending time with my son, as he marveled at the magic of flight. Now, I will never be able to look back on our night of plane watching without thinking about the thwarted plot. Thank God, that they weren’t able to pull of the attacks. However, the plot had its victims, just as my innocence was beginning to get off the canvas after being knocked down on 9/11, just as it was being helped up to one knee by the purity of a child, these bastards, came along again and punched it in the back of the head. And once again, in my psyche, planes are not magical vehicles, but vehicles of murder.
  Thankfully, Tiernan is too young to comprehend terrorism and the dangers of air travel. To a two-year-old every plane is cool. It is only the adults that carry the extra baggage that can never be checked. Unfortunately, it is a carry-on that I may never be able to put down.

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No Autographs, Please

Your humble Poop Truck driver is a minor, very minor celebrity in the small world of stay-at-home moms and dads. Back in May, I was interviewed for an article about stay-at-home dads in Bergen County to appear in Bergen Health & Life magazine. It was nice interview and there was even a photo shoot with me and the kids. They sent a team of photographer type people to snap some shots of Daddio and Tiernan and Reagan.
  It was all very exciting, but I’d all but forgotten about it. Until, I walked into Gymobree on Tuesday with Reagan, and the Diane, the Gymobree site manager, calls to, “Kevin! Kevin! Look!!!” and she points to the bulletin board and there is the article with a full page picture of me and the kids as the opening to the story.
  I read the story, which was very well done by writer Jeff Iorio and even I am impressed with how smart I sound when quoted. For those of you that don’t subscribe to Bergen Life & Health, (of which I am one, in fact I’d never even heard of the magazine before the being asked to do the interview) I am told that you can probably pick it up at Barns & Noble, provided that I didn’t come in and buy up all their copies myself.
  In other news: Tiernan has crossed what is, in my opinion, a major threshold in his development and just in time for foot ball season.
  He has gained enough strength in his arms or learned to leverage his weight in such a way that he can open the refrigerator door. I noticed him do this earlier this week and Wednesday, while I was feeding Reagan her rice/gruel and applesauce Tiernan wanted some cheese. So, I told him to open the refrigerator and get the cheese and bring it to me and I would open the package for him. He did so, without making a mess or doing anything else that would earn him a Time Out.
   Now, he will be able to get me a beer while the game is on. Life is getting better.
 

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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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