Its Been A While

Hello again, gentle reader. (I know who you are.) Let me reintroduce myself. I am Dad and I've been away from my cyberposting post. It has been a pretty lousy 2008. I stopped just before the holidays and with all the holiday hype, followed shortly by a Birthday bacchanal, followed quickly by a heart attack (not me), followed by a little thing the doctors call cardiac difib, and a Dick Cheney Pacemaker, and a touch of blood in the brain and months of physical therapy, and a serious addiction to online gaming. (The geek kind, not the degenerate gambler kind.) The Poop Truck was put in the garage for a while.

Excuses, excuses... I just haven't been writing.

What brings me back...It is time. (And I've been goaded into doing it.)

Easter was fast upon us, SuperMom and I had to get some Easter goodies for the kids. Reagan, my two-year-old daughter (for those who forgot), has been way into Toy Story. She has a big-girl crush on Buzz Lightyear. The whole fam damily is at the mall the Friday before Easter and we are forced into the Disney Store. And SuperMom and I decide that Toy Story play figurines are the perfect thing for the Easter Bunny to bring. However, the Boy (my four-year-old son) eyes me buying said Toy Story figurines.

And the lying begins... "These are not for you guys. These are for....Keelan. her birthday is in a few weeks." Which is true.Keelan's birthday was just last Saturday. But back to Easter morning. Lo-and-behold.. the Easter Bunny brought the kids Toy Story figurines. They are a big hit. All is great in the kid world.

Fast forward to this last Wednesday, before Keelan's birthday. We are once again at the mall. And Tiernan asks, "What do we need?" And I say, we need to get a birthday present for Keelan. And Tiernan responds, "But Dad...but...but...But Dad.. We already got a present for Keelan." Mom and I look at each other like, "what is he talking about?" Tiernan continues, "We got Keelan a present. We got her the Toy Story toys, you know like the ones Reagan and I got from the Easter Bunny."

SuperMom and I are dumbfounded. Awestruck! We look at each other in wild amazement. And realize that we are in a bit of trouble and must think fast on our feet. "I sent that down to her in the mail," SuperMom says. That is why they pay her the big bucks.

"Oh, good. Maybe we can play with them when we see her on Saturday," Tiernan says.

We are in trouble.

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Night (Morning) Terror

One of the many blessings that make up Reagan, which include her burgening sense of humor and unstoppable cuteness, is her sleeping habits...
She sleeps. At night when it is time for bed she goes to be. No fight, no fuss. And she sleeps all night 98 percent of the time. Earlier this Fall she was released from the confinement of a crib, and now sleeps free-range. She is still her crib but one of the walls have been removed.
As I said she sleeps. Sometimes she sleeps in. When everbody else is up at 7:30 a.m. Reagan has been known to sleep until 8:30 a.m., giving dear old Dad a chance to drink some hot coffee for a change.
One morning about two weeks ago. Everbody is up and moving. I am getting Tiernan dressed and dealing with the minutia of why Tiernan needs to where a long sleeve sweater over his Cars themed short-sleeve shirt in December or calmly explaining, for the fourth time, why the shoe on his left foot should really be on his right foot. And I was able to focus on getting Tiernan dressed and take the time to get into a serious discussion about why it is necesary to comb ones hair. (Which by the way, brought some serious social and philosophical quesions, about free expression and society's need to put labels on people.)
I was able to question why humans need to cut, style, comb, dye, blow dry, streak, perm, braid, and generally manipulate their quaffs because Reagan was still asleep. I thought, "Boy she must be going through a growth spurt. It is best to let her sleep."
I finally got the boy dressed and combed and it was time to descend the stairs and begin breakfast ritual. Prior to going down stairs, I thought it'd be very fatherly if I just popped in to check on Reagan. Imagine my surprise when her bed is devoid of Reagan. There is no Reagan in the bed. I grab her blankets and shake them, check under her bed, check her closet. No Reagan in the room. It is Reaganless. "Reagan!" I yell. At this point, I am in a bit of panic. I bound down the strairs searching for my daughter. She's not in the kitchen, not in the basement playroom, not in the nook, not in the den. The front door is still locked. The back door is shut, but can be opened from the inside, even while locked. I run out to back yard, "Reagan!!!" The gate is closed. If she got out, she'd be trapped in the yard. She's not in the yard.
I stop in the living room, and listen. I hear the faint breathing of a child. I hone in on it and discover, my little girl sleeping peacefully on the chair-and-half in the living room. She is nestled comfily in to the pillows like a puppy. She is snoring ever so cutely.
But the quesiton, quickly becomes, how long has she been down here? She could have come down here ten minutes ago, she could have come down at 3 a.m. My wife walked right past her on her way to work. I walked passed her twice while I was looking for her. I think we're gonna have to make sure that gate at the top of the stair is closed every night.

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Cars: The Second Lap

It seems, I can't get rid of Lightning McQueen and the gang. They are coming around for a second lap.
Recently, Reagan is trying to talk more and more. She's always talked, alright babbled a lot. Mostly, just incoherent baby blather. Like a Democrat. I have conditioned myself to stop trying to decipher this baby blather. But now she is trying to tell me something. Early last week, she was trying to tell me that she wanted to watch Cars, she kept saying "Dtaanrs." I had no idea what she was trying to say. Finally, I said, "Do you want to watch Cars?" And she said, "Yessssssss."
And she hasn't stopped asking to watch "Dtaanrs" ever since. In the words of Michael Corleone, "Just when I thought I was out. They pull me back in."

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No Sex for the Slow Eater

The other night the whole gaggle of O'Rourke's were sitting at the dinner table for our nightly repast. There is one among us who is a Slow Eater...
To the Slow Eater other things seem to take higher priority for the Slow Eater. The Slow Eater feels compelled to do anything while at the dinner table as long as it isn't eat his meal. He will dance. He will make faces. He will spontaniously get up and take a lap around the house - living room, hallway, dinning room, kitchen. He will go to the bathroom. Three, no four times. He is the Slow Eater. Can you guess who the Slow Eater is? Hint: He ain't me.
Long after the rest of the gaggle is done eating and most of the dinner dishes are clean, the Slow Eater will still be at the table wondering why his food is cold. It is a long standing company policy here at O'Rourke Industries, that you may not leave the table until you've eaten all the food on your plate. Enforcement of the rule is left to the discrecen of the supervisor on duty, but the spirit of the rule is derived the from the tried and true axiom, "Take all you want. Eat all you take." Which is a version of "Waste not. Want not." (To be honest, this one always kinda baffled me, but I get the point.)
From the Slow Eater's point of view, there is one important aspect of the rule, and it is subsection A, paragraph 1, which reads: "If you don't eat all of your meal, you can't have any sweets." Which we essentially stole from Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall, which goes "If ya don't eat yer meat, how can ya have any pudding? How can ya have any pudding if ya don't eat yer meat?"
So, the Slow Eater rarely gets any pudding and if often left sitting at the table while the rest of us have retired to the den to watch Jeopardy! We have told the Slow Eater repeatedly, "If you don't eat everything on your plate, you can't have any snacks later." He is used to hearing this. He hears it every night.
The other night the Slow Eater wasn't. He gobbled everything down like an stray dog, in a flash the food was gone. And for a change, Reagan was lagging behind. And I said to Reagan, "Come on honey, eat up."
And I heard Tiernan say, "No sex for Reagan tonight."
All the adults in unison said, "What?!?!?!"
"If Reagan doesn't eat her meal, she can't have snacks."

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Growth Chart

It is been a weird and busy and sick couple of weeks here at Casa O'Rourke. The boys (Tiernan and I) have been sick all week. The coughing, the oozing mucus, the fever, the general discomfort. We seem to be improving. Always a good thing. So, Reagan has gone from being a baby girl to a little girl in like two weeks....
I had chance to measure her on her wall-based growth chart. She is 2-feet, 10 3/8 inches, which is almost a full inch taller than Tiernan was at roughly the same age. She is really working to try to talk more and more. She's sleeping in her bed at night and has a new bedtime routine down. She is still getting into to trouble left and right and not listening when I try to try to get her stop, but her growth and development has really quickened in the last three weeks.
It has really taken me aback. She is speaking more coherently and trying to really understand what we are telling her.

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First Snow

The first snow allowed the kids to get and get their shovel on.
 
 
 
 

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Tattle-Tale

Earlier today, the kids and I were driving to the Stop N' Shop for groceries. On the way we passed a house that had already decked its halls for Christmas. And Tiernan said, "Daddy, we have to put up our Christmas Decorations." I said....

"Not yet." It is just too soon for anyone to be putting up Christmas decorations. I am not a Scrooge, but I haven't finished eating my kids' Halloween candy yet.

"Daddy, I want lots of presents for Christmas this year, so we have to put up good decorations," says the boy. I think he's caught on to the whole Christmas/Santa thing.

"You don't get presents based on your decorations. You get presents based on how good a boy you are," I respond sounding very parental.

"Then I am going to be good boy, until Christmas," says Tiernan.

"You can't just be good for a few weeks before Christmas. You have to be good all the time. All year long," I said, sounding more and more like a parent.

"Yeah. Well, Reagan was throwing my trains in the basement yesterday," said the good boy.

"What did you say?" I was unsettled by his sudden shift in approach. He lost me. I thought he was changing the subject.

"Reagan was bad yesterday. She was being bad. She was throwing my trains around in the basement yesterday. I told Santa she was bad," said my little angel.

"You told Santa that Reagan was bad?" I asked.

"Yeah, She was throwing my trains. I told him that," said Snitchy McSnitch. Reagan didn't seem to care that Tiernan had sold her up the river to the Big Man. She didn't protest. She didn't whimper. She fell asleep in the car seat. She is not even two and has not completely grasped the Santa/presents concept yet. She was not aware of the irreparable damage such an allegation to the Christmas present authority could have on her young reputation.

"Tiernan, You shouldn't tattle on you sister like that. Nobody likes a Tattle-Tale," I said.

"What's Tattle-Tale?"

Oh boy. "A tattle-tale is when you tell... somebody, that... someone else did.... something that... they shouldn't have," I said, struggling to figure out a way to explain this, while avoiding more complicated subjects like, There is No Honor Among Thieves or the Federal Witness Protection Program.

"Why shouldn't I do that?," asked the three-year old.

That was the big question. Why don't I want him to tell me? I do kinda want to know when Reagan is doing something she shouldn't do. Sure, it isn't fair to Reagan, because at this point she's unable to tattle on Tiernan. But she does, kind of. Let's face it. If they two of them are alone in a room, and Reagan starts crying. 80 percent of the time, Tiernan is the one who gets in trouble. But, I don't want to Tiernan to be telling on Reagan, or anyone else, just to get attention.

I try to subscribe to the If I Didn't See It, It Didn't Happen rule when it comes to how the kids interact with each other. I try to live by what I call, the NHL Ref Rule, "She may have hit you first, but I saw you hit her. You either need to be quicker when you hit her or not hit her at all. If I had seen her hit you, she would be punished too."

Now, As I am driving, I am trying to figure out a way to tell him not to be a tattle-tale, but still instill the desire to tell me everything. Right now, I don't want Tiernan to come running to tell me everything little thing that Reagan does that he doesn't like. But, on the other hand, I don't want to have him not tell me 13 years from now when Reagan is planning to get her boyfriend's name tattooed on her breast. Do you see my dilemma?

All this because because some attention needing-ninny has to have his freaking Christmas decorations up before Thanksgiving. Cristmas is being way to over-commercialized. Damn you Wal-Mart!!!

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Lasting Effects

Last month my little warrior/artist painted himself and most of the basement floor red for the sake of art. BraveArt, I called it. As with all great art, it has had a lasting effect on the house....
It seems, I have discovered the "weapon" he used to do all that painting of himself and the basement. It was a toy dust-brush. Part of a toy dust-brush and dust-pan, which purchased for the kiddies so they too, could partake in the joy of cleaning.

Well, while he was down there wrapt in artistic fervor, he spied the dust-brush. And he thought to himself, "dust-brush, paint-brush. I can use this brush to create my art. My art. My art!!!!!"

And that is just what he did. He took this six-inch wide brush and dipped in the red paint and painted the town, or at least his little corner of it, red.

I did not realize he used this brush, until he emerged from the basement a week later with red once again all over his hand. And this time he wasn't down there doing "his Art," he was just playing with toys. Specifically, he was playing with that dust/paint brush, which had never been cleaned and, as such, was still full of drying red water-based paint.

Had it not been for many years of watching CSI, I might never have been able to decipher how his hand and as a result, the wall on the way up the stairs, became stained red. The wall has little read finger prints at two step intervals.

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