Emma is only five years old. For some reason, though, she behaves as though she’s 30. She is constantly trying to help people, make people happy, and, genuinely, be a nice person. She is rarely selfish, and always shares with her siblings, friends, and strangers.

You’d think I would be thrilled to have such a wonderful, accommodating child. Well, of course I am. I can count on her. She’s the one that does what she’s told when she’s told, and rarely complains. The problem is: she does what she’s told when she’s told and rarely complains.

Emma is, after all, only 5. I think she needs a little bit of selfishness. I think she needs to be demanding every once in a while. I think she needs to be a kid, rather than an old lady trapped in a kid’s skinny little body.

Let me give you some examples of what I like to call “Poor Emma-ness:”

1. Yesterday at the playground, she pushed her brother, sister, and little friend Katie on the swings because I told them I wouldn’t (I have a stomach the size of a house – I am not pushing little ones on the swings). I told her that she didn’t have to do it, but she replied that she was only helping me.
2. Today, she helped her little sister get ready to go outside by putting on her shoes and jacket. Again, I told her that I could do that, but she said she just wanted me to rest, and that she would take care of it.
3. She often cleans out Gracie’s “Big Girl Potty” after Gracie has used it without even mentioning it to me.
4. When it’s time to brush teeth, she puts out all three toothbrushes and puts toothpaste on them for everyone.
5. She reminds Gracie to go to the bathroom.
6. She always remembers that she needs her medicine, even if we forget.
7. Emma never forgets anything. ANYTHING. EVER.


Today, I asked her why she was trying to so hard to help me out. She replied that she was practicing to be a good mother, just like me. That made me want to cry. She’s only 5!! Then I asked her how many children she wanted, and she said 4, just like me. When I told her that we might have more kids, she said she’ll be happy with however many children God gives her.

I don’t understand what wonderful things Tom and I must have done to deserve such a child, but I am sure am glad God gave her to us.

Interesting conversation with Emma this morning.

Emma: “MOM! It’s Bruce Willis! That’s who it is! BRUCE WILLIS!”
Me: “Huh?”
Emma: “Bruce Willis is the guy on that show!”
Me: “Which show?”
Emma: “Deal or No Deal!”
Me: “Actually, that’s Howie Mandell.”
Emma: “No! It’s Bruce Willis!”
Me: “Why do you think it’s Bruce Willis?”
Emma: “Well, he has no hair, and he has those same clothes he wears.”
Me: “But it’s actually Howie Mandell.”
Emma: “Oh.” Giant sigh.

The poor kid. She's devastated that it's not Bruce Willis. I'm just not sure why she cares.

Yes, yes, yes… I do, in fact, find this funny. But I have a question: Where the hell were this kid’s parents? I figure it must have taken him a few minutes to get up into the machine. He’s only three. Why weren’t the parents watching him? In the amount of time it took for him to crawl, unnoticed, into the machine, he could have been stolen by some sicko. Next thing you know, they find him dead.

Anyway, I can see my kids doing something like this, if I actually ever let them out of my sight in a public place. But, I don’t. I love them so much that I would wither to nothing if anything ever happened to them – especially something I could have prevented.

I hope this kid’s parents are able to look past the obvious humor here, and learn a valuable lesson – little kids need to be watched. Three-year-olds should not be running around a pizza place unsupervised – even Chuck E. Cheese’s.

Take a look at this article, coming to us from the lovely enclave of Lorain, Ohio, just west of Tom's hometown of Elyria, Ohio.

Here we have an 8-year-old boy who wrote a love note to a classmate. I don't know about you, but when I was 8 years old, love notes were commonplace. At that age, children are forming their first crushes, and the only way they know to deal with them is to express them. The expressions may be in the form of hugs, love notes, or shy smiles at lunch. Apparently, it is claimed that this little boy also grabbed the buttocks of the object of his affection. Of course, there is no one to corroborate this – it’s a matter of “she said so we have to believe it.” (I'm not saying the girl is lying, but I am saying that she is given the benefit of the doubt by default, whereas the boy is forced to prove his innocence.)

The poor little boy was forced to sign his name to some kind of “Request for Emergency Removal” from his classroom. He’s so young that he was only able to write his first name. And, worse, his parents were not present when he was forced to sign this document. The school was, in effect, declaring that the boy was engaging in sexual harassment of his classmate, and that he was a danger to the other child.

The school is claiming that the boy admitted wrongdoing, but his parents contend that he doesn’t understand what happened. I tend to believe the parents in this case.

Emma has a huge crush on a little boy in her preschool class. He has a crush on her, too. When he hugged Emma in class, I didn’t run screaming to the administration that Emma had been attacked. In fact, I found it hysterical. When Emma wrote this little boy a Valentine that said “I love you!” his mother didn’t take us to court. In fact, she, too, found it hysterical.

I am afraid for our children, since it appears that we are continuing to steal their childhoods. By making them into miniature adults, we put the weight of the world on shoulders that aren’t even big enough to carry the weight of a teddy bear. It’s time to take a step back and embrace “little kid-ness.” Let kids be kids. Teach them well, but don’t teach them before they have the capacity to understand.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am off to talk Baby Talk to my 2-year-old.

Today, please enjoy a collection of Gracie-isms.

Gracie's Beauty Shop
While she was combing my hair yesterday, Gracie and I had the following conversation:
Gracie: "Your bangs wook boo-ful, Mommy."
Me: "Thank you, Gracie."
Gracie: "Your side wooks boo-ful, Mommy."
Me: "Thank you, Gracie"
Gracie: "Are you awowed to have a wowwipop?"
Me: "Yes, please."
Gracie: "Here you go."
Me: "Thank you!"
Gracie: "Are you awowed to have a sickker?"
Me: "Yes, please."
Gracie: "You want a Dora sickker?"
Me: "Yes, please."
Gracie: "Here you go."
Me: "Thank you, Gracie."
Gracie: "Can I have your wowwipop, now?"

Gracie Genuflects
This morning at Mass, Gracie asked to go to the bathroom three times. After the second time, we realized what she really wanted: she wanted to genuflect (that kneeling thing we Catholics do when we enter or leave the pew at Church). Each time she left to go potty or came back from going potty, she would kneel at the end of the pew. At one point, she left the pew to practice her genuflection skills. Maybe she'll be a nun.

Gracie is a boy - sometimes.
Gracie has taken to using a new voice. It's a deep voice. And when she uses it, she says: "I'm not a girl. I'm a boy!" I guess that as long as she doesn't expect us to pay for any "operations" when she's older, we can tolerate the boy voice. We've taught her to use it to say "red-rum," which amuses us.

Gracie and Lipstick
When I put on my lipstick in the morning, Gracie likes to come up and ask for a kiss. Then she says: "Wook! I got wipstick!"

When the Baby Drops
Gracie overheard me telling my mother that the baby had dropped (in other words, I can breathe again). At dinner that night, Gracie turned to her father and said:
"Mommy dwopped the baby today. Over there on the floor."

The ABC/Twinkle Little Star Song
Gracie's interpretation of the Alphabet song:
"ABCDEFG Up above the world so high!"

That's it for now. There are more, but I'm tired. I have curtains to sew.

A friend of mine (Matt Ladner, a senior fellow at the Arizona-based Goldwater Institute) wrote a piece in the National Review Online today on school choice. I found the article interesting not only because it takes a hard look at biased fear-mongering on the part of school choice opponents, but also because it uses the writings of the late Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan (D, NY) to help support its premise.

As you'll read in Matt's article, Moynihan was getting frustrated with Clinton-era staffers who would extol the virtues of their various programs, but who failed to provide any concrete evidence that such programs were, in fact, effective. Senator Moynihan wanted two studies to support one of Clinton's programs. Two studies to show that this particular program was achieving the desired and promised results. Senator Moynihan received the two studies, but after reviewing them he found that they did not actually support the program, but instead concluded that similar programs did not show positive results.

Matt decided to take the same approach to forcing opponents of school choice to prove their continuing refrain of "school choice is bad for children." He wants someone - anyone! - to show him two studies that support the conclusion that school choice is a bad thing. Matt first asked an Arizona Republic columnist, Jon Talton, to provide two studies to support an editorial he'd written calling a school choice program "right-wing utopianism." If Talton produced the studies, Matt would take Talton out to dinner. Steak dinner. With dessert. Talton ignored Matt's challenge. Probably because he didn't have the studies. They either don't exist, or Talton is just too ignorant to know where to find them.

Matt moved on to the entire state of Arizona. If anyone in the whole state could provide him with two studies supporting their position that school choice is bad for children, Matt would buy dinner. Again, no takers.

So, Matt's now asking the entire United States. If anyone out there can provide Matt with two studies to prove that school choice is a bad thing, he is going to buy you dinner! Steak! There are some great steak places in Arizona, you know. Matt's condition for the studies is that they are random-assignment control group studies. The studies can either support the premise that "the attitudes of parents who have actually used a private school-choice program showing anything less than substantial improvement in satisfaction with their child's school" or "that show students learn significantly less after choosing to go to school elsewhere." That's all they need to do.

But, let's face it. No one will take Matt up on his offer, because no one will be able to find two independent studies, conducted in accordance with good scientific practices. They don't appear to exist. Studies from such liberal institutions as Harvard, Georgetown and Stanford continually show that children in school choice programs learn more, do better, and have higher parent satisfaction levels than children in public schools.

Parents who live in school districts where the under-performance is the norm should have the right to send their children elsewhere. If the parents can't afford the tuition at a private school that performs above their local public school, they should have access to vouchers to help them offset the costs of the education their children deserve. Our kids do not deserve to be forced into an educational system run by bureaucrats who are more concerned with money than with educating our children. If the public schools are so worried about the competition that vouchers and other school choice programs will bring, perhaps they should be focusing on improving their own services, rather than trying to eliminate programs that give a helping hand to people who truly need it by manufacturing statistics.

Teacher's unions are adamant that school choice will spell the end of their monopoly on education. Well, I don't really care, as long as my children and their peers are provided with the absolute best education in the world. Maybe it's free market Capitalism that will ultimately save our educational system. It's certainly headed down the road to nowhere in its current state.

There are too many good teachers out there, and far too many children willing and able to learn, to allow our educational system to fall into disrepair. Take a stand and support parents' rights to choose the best educational options for their children.

Matt - one thing... Do you think it's the steak dinner that's turning people off? Wouldn't you have more luck if you offered to buy a nice Vegan dinner, instead?

My (very young) mother had a pacemaker installed yesterday. I have decided to go out and buy her a pair of cymbals and some nice, fluffy pink bunny ears to go with her new batteries. That way, she can go on her daily walk and irritate the neighbors with her energetic ways and clanging cymbals. They'll love it.

Of course, you must understand that this pacemaker is a "gadget" for my mother, and my mother is not a "gadget person." She bought a new car recently, and it has a navigation system installed. I considered that one of the greatest wastes of technology known to man. She has a digital camera, but she's not really clear on how to use it. For that matter, she never really mastered any type of photographic equipment, including the ever-popular 1980s Disc camera, which was about the easiest thing in the world to use. She can use a computer, but her abilities are limited to the religious reading of the Drudge Report and foxnews.com and keeping up with her mailbox full of Bunco invitations and Red Hat meeting notices. She has actually gotten her cell phone stuck on speakerphone and had to take it to the cell phone store to get them to fix it for her. I shudder to think what would happen if I gave her an iPod. I think her head might explode (although it would allow her to download Rush Limbaugh's podcast, which she would find useful).

Since I couldn't be in Houston for my mom's operation (they frown on 8-month-pregnant ladies flying, apparently), in the spirit of absentee childism, I have come up with some great ways to help my mom get used to her new gadget. These are just some bits of information I've picked up from various sources, and I hope she finds them helpful!

1. The pacemaker manufacturers now tell us that the use of microwaves by pacemaker-implanted people is safe. If that's safe, then it's probably just as safe to actually sit in the microwave (maybe even safer, inasmuch as more of a good thing is often better). Warm your soup and your heart at the same time!

2. Airport security screeners enjoy hassling pacemaker patients, since they tend to make the machines go haywire. Make sure to always wear clean underpants when flying. That way, when they do the full-body cavity search, you won't be embarrassed.

3. No more bar fights. I know my mother can get a bit ornery, but, Mom, you've just got to calm down when some hussy starts putting the moves on Dad down at Moe's Tavern. A blow to the chest could be life-threatening, you know. Besides, Dad's afraid of you, so he'd never go along with a hussy's advances.

4. Don't bother going to the dentist anymore. Apparently, you have to warn him about your pacemaker, and that's really just a big hassle. It's better to just go around with cavities and stinky breath. Much simpler.

5. Don't handle live wires. Of course, if you're doing that anyway, you probably deserve the shock you'd get.

6. Especially important for you, Mom: Turn off the car motor when you're working on it. I know how much you like to get in there and get grease under your nails, but you've gotta be smart now that you're a pacemaker patient. The same goes for when you're working on the boat motor.

7. Good news for Dad: You can still "enjoy" housework duties (I swear that's the word one of the websites used - enjoy!) such as vacuuming, cooking, dusting and ironing. You can get back to your wifely duties within a few days.

All in all, we know that this is the best thing for my mom. When Tom's dad has his pacemaker implanted many years ago, it was more of an emergency than it was for my mother (he passed out in the bathroom in the middle of the night and they had to call the ambulance). Now that she has the pacemaker, she should be able to avoid the weird fainting spells that often precede pacemaker implantation, therefore living an improved quality of life.

I am guessing, however, that once she reads this (especially my section poking fun at her lack of technological prowess), my quality of life will diminish greatly. At least until she forgives me.


Oh, quick side story - the nurse didn't believe my mother's age when she saw the chart. She actually re-checked it because she said my mother looked so much younger. That made my mother's day. Nothing like getting electrical devices implanted in your heart and then being told how young and vibrant you are!

I uploaded some new pictures of the kids. Find them on the Tierney Photos page!

Patrick and Gracie have small bladders. They need to empty them often, because they just can't contain a whole lot of wee-wee. So, overnights are a particularly difficult time for them. If we don't get them on the potty before the dam bursts, we have stinky sheets and blankets to wash, which is really a pain in the rear-end.

We've started a new habit wherein Tom and I take them to the potty one last time before we go to bed, just to try to ensure that the sheets stay dry all night. There are few things more irritating than having to get up in the middle of the night and change the sheets on two beds: "Al Gore's Awesome You!!" motivational tape series is more irritating, but that's about it. You might be wondering why we just don't do Pull-Ups, and save ourselves the trouble. Well, the answer is two-fold: 1. I don't want Patrick to get dependent on Pull-Ups to get through the night, and have him still wearing them when he's 16. 2. Gracie refuses to wear Pull-Ups EVER. She is a "big giwl" and wholeheartedly believes that she doesn't need them.

So, each night, one of us takes Gracie and Patrick to the potty before we go to bed. I usually pretend to be asleep so that Tom has to do it (damn! He's going to read this and learn my trick!), but every so often I take them. Tonight, when we got home from a party and Tom was driving the babysitter home, I took it upon myself to take the kids potty.

First, I went in to get Patrick. He was completely sound asleep. He sleep-walked to the bathroom, I got him set to go, and I leaned him up against the toilet. Still asleep, he proceeded to deposit a gallon or so of wee-wee in the potty. When he was done, I helped him back into his pajamas, and he sleep-walked back to bed.

Next, it was Gracie's turn. I picked her up from her bed, which was all sweaty because she had covered herself with about 6 blankets, and carried her to the potty. I put the potty seat on, put her on the potty, and she did her wee-wee. She, too, was sound asleep throughout the entire process. When she was done, I wiped her and put her back to bed.

What amazes me is that I can take these kids from their warm cozy beds into a freezing cold (well, not really, but I use "freezing cold" for dramatic effect) bathroom, make them go potty, and put them back to bed without them ever even opening their little eyes. I can't imagine being able to carry out that particular bodily function while asleep But, I guess they can, since if I don't take them sleep wee-weeing, they still wee-wee in their sleep - it's just that they don't use the toilet, but their beds, instead.

And that makes more work for me. And I don't like extra work. I like to eat bon-bons.

When Gracie was just learning to talk, saying "Patrick" properly was simply out of the question. Instead, she started calling him "Pat-Pat." Now, even though she is capable of saying Patrick, she still insists on calling him Pat-Pat. As in: "Mommy, where's Pat-Pat?" or "Daddy, Pat-Pat just jumped off the dining room table."

Since yesterday way St. Patrick's Day, we decided to call the grandparents and have the kids wish them a Happy St. Patrick's Day. The Tierney grandparents were obviously out properly celebrating their Irish heritage (even though Mrs. Tierney soiled my children's pristine bloodline with German ancestry, she still claims to be mostly Irish), so we had to leave them a message. Gracie was the first to go. She wished her "Gamma and Bampa" (as she pronounces them) a very Happy St. Patrick's Day. "Happy St. Pat-Pat's Day Gamma and Bampa! I wuv you bye!" She really believes that yesterday was a holiday invented for her brother, and not for the Catholic missionary who not only drove the snakes from the Emerald Isle, but also drove the Celtic religion out of the natives. I know, however, that if St. Patrick's Day was celebrated in honor of my little Patrick, the traditional meal would be McDonald's Chicken Nuggets and root beer, and not corned beef and cabbage with a pint of Guinness.

Emma finished the message by singing two important Irish ballads: "It's St. Patrick's Day Today" and the ever-popular "Eensy-Weensy Leprechaun," which is sung at all proper Irish funerals, right after the rousing rendition of "Danny Boy."

We ended the celebrations of the day by feeding the kids horrible Peanut Butter and Jelly waffles we got from Target (no wonder they were on clearance!) while Tom and I ate some tasty corned beef and cabbage. The kids were complaining about the smell, and honestly, I can't blame them, but it was sooo good. I had to make brownies to act as an air freshener (it was a terribly unselfish act on my part, as I dislike brownies. Yeah, right.).

Speaking of the brownies... When Tom came down to feed the kids breakfast this morning, three brownies were missing from the pan. Patrick and Emma swear that they did not eat any, and Gracie was the only one with telltale brownie crumbs all over her little face, so it's possible that she ate all three by herself. She's a funny little stinker.

Well, the pipes, um, I mean the kids, are calling, so I need to run. Have a great weekend!

Duct tape the windows! Shave the kids' heads! Run in screaming terror when you hear the first robin of Spring! It's COMING! It's going to be here before we know it, and we're all going to die horrible, painful deaths.

Okay, not really. But, I am amazed at the mass hysteria surrounding an illness that, thus far, has been spread to stupid humans who do things like give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to dead pigeons. Pigeons are rats with wings, Why would you want to put your mouth to their beaks? Ick! Right now, it's still unlikely that you can get the disease from another human. So, why the mad rush to insanity?

I'll tell you why - it's been a slow news year. The media is so hell-bent on increasing the ratings of their "news shows" that they will hype anything that they know will freak people out. Since human cases of the Avian Influenza A (H5N1) virus began appearing in 1997, just over 100 people worldwide have been infected, and about half those have died. According to the World Health Organization's website, almost all of those infected lived in rural or periurban areas where birds roam (and crap!) freely, and almost all cases have been reported in people who had direct contact with infected birds or their secretions. But, because the American public is gullible and, unfortunately, highly uninformed, the media is able to capitalize on our fears of dying and increase their ratings each time they increase the fear level. They are playing on the fragile emotions of people who they know will want to see more and more and more until they all start barricading themselves in their houses for fear that the slightest human contact outside of television will kill them.

Now, I'm not saying that some reasonable precautions are out of line. I might even go so far as to stock up on some good-quality medical masks, but that;s just as much to protect a newborn as it is to protect the family from bird flu. But I think living your life in fear of something that isn't a justifiable risk is nuts. Pessimism is not what made this country great (can you imagine George Washington looking around and saying: "You know, I don't think we can beat the Redcoats. Let's just give up now"), and it's certainly not what makes people happy. Be optimistic. It's a much more interesting way to live.

Found on the website "A gallery of walls with stuff written on" in Nottingham, England:

(note: all grammatical and spelling errors are in the original quote)

"May he who readz this lose the use of their testicles in a freak fishing accident."

Too humorous not to pass on.

Yesterday was our first snow day since we've lived in Minnesota. We've certainly had snow, and sometimes a lot of it, but yesterday's storm trapped us in the driveway. The official snowfall for Chaska was only 7 inches, but they were 7 wet, sticky, heavy inches, and they trapped cars like so much flypaper.

So, we stayed in. During the morning and early afternoon, the snow was coming down in sheets, and the wind was driving it sideways. They begged and begged to go outside, but I would have none of it. The wind was so strong, it would have swept Patrick down the street. However, the father did go out and spend an hour and a half trying to use the snowblower on the driveway and sidewalks, which provided us all with a little entertainment.

After lunch, Gracie went up for her nap, and Patrick and Emma played while I did laundry, ironing, and other such important household things. At about 2:00, I heard the distinct sounds of the CD Band Gap (by Tom's friend Andy's old a capella band, Lager Rhythms) coming from Emma and Gracie's room. Ah... Emma had decided that Gracie's nap was over and they were singing Route 66 at the top of their lungs. Okay, she was already up, so we might as well head outside.

Suiting up three kids to play in deep snow is a time-consuming task. First, they all have to strip to the skivvies so that you can put them in thermal/long underwear. When it's windy, cold and snowy, long underwear is what keeps you from losing limbs. Well, that, and common sense, but five-, three- and two-year-olds don't have a lot of common sense. Anyway, once the thermals are on, you have to put back on the regular clothes (try explaining that to an ornery two-year-old). Then, it's time for the snow pants. Last year, I had just gotten them snow pants, but when they went outside, the snow would get under the waistband and freeze their little heines. So this year I wised up and got snow overalls. No worries about frozen butt cheeks, since the snow doesn't get up that far. Once the snow pants are on, you have to put on the gloves and boots. Then the jackets. Finally, the hats and scarves. Then, someone has to go to the bathroom, so you strip them down, let them relieve themselves, and repeat the suit up process. All told, it takes about four hours.

Once they were appropriately dressed, we went out to the garage and saddled up the two small ones to their "Baby Boggan" sleds and headed towards the "little playground" where we would find a "little sledding hill." Since it was so snowy, and the roads had not yet been plowed, we kept to the street, rather than trying to plod our way through the massive drifts on the sidewalks. Initially, Emma had said she would pull Gracie while I pulled Patrick. That lasted all of ten seconds. "She's too heavy! What if I fall??" Jeez, Louise, child! Get a grip! So, I pulled Gracie and Patrick over to the playground, and trudged up the hill. The back of the hill was almost devoid of snow, since it was blowing so hard. When I got to the top of the hill, I situated Patrick and got ready to push him down the hill...

and then....

FWOOSH! In I went. By "In I went," I mean, of course, that I sank into the snow, almost to my hips. I was about to send my innocent three-year-old son down a "hill" that was little more than a giant snow drift, ready and willing to swallow him up at the least provocation! Luckily, I looked a lot more tasty to the hill, and it went after me first (maybe it's the juicy baby living in my stomach that made me more attractive to the hill). Needless to say, I told the kids that we wouldn't be sledding today, but we could go home and take out the buckets and build snow forts! So, we started on the two mile, er, I mean two block, trek back to the old homestead.

As we were wandering the nearly-deserted streets, I heard Gracie start to whimper. I looked back, and noticed that her sled was perched on the top of a small snow drift, and she was leaning heavily to one side. I pulled her off the drift, and we started off again. A few minutes later, Emma fell into another snow drift and started freaking out. I helped her out, and she spent the next ten minutes crying about how scared she is of snow. (Later, she told her grandmother that she was so concerned because she thought she would fall under the snow and have to "wait until it melted to get out. Then I would have to eat the snow for food and suck on it for water." Egads. What a child!) As we pulled onto our street, Patrick flipped on his side, and left a perfect little imprint of the side of his head (complete with the tassel from his hat) in the snow. He was the only one who didn't cry. He's a big boy.

When we got home, they dragged out all the buckets and beach toys and started to build their snow forts. I got talking to a couple of the neighbors, and then took the shovel and started scraping some (very light) ice off the driveway to keep people, like me, for example, from slipping. One by one, the little stinkers disappeared into the house, leaving me all alone with the snow.

I guess they'd just had enough of the snow day.

While cleaning out my desk drawers today, I came upon a harmonica that my kind, loving, generous, obviously deaf mother sent to my children a few months back. When I took it out, Patrick happened to be standing right next to me and asked if he could please have it back. It had been put in the drawer because my head can only stand so much "music," and my kids love to make "music" with any instrument they can find. Loud "music." With lots of white people rhythm thrown in for good measure. A harmonica is a favorite, since it takes very little skill to make a whole lot of "music."

Anyway, how can you say no to those baby blue eyes? I gave it to him, on the condition that he take it upstairs, and far away from his long-suffering mother. He's such a good boy - he went right upstairs and started playing.

A few minutes later, I went up to check on him. He was in his room, walking/dancing across the bed and playing the harmonica (somewhat well, surprisingly). I asked what he was doing, and he pointed to an array of dolls he had propped against his closet door: "I am doing a show for the dolls, and this is my stage." My little boy was playing harmonica for a bunch of dolls, just like he was a real rock star. And he was LOVING it. He kept it up for about 45 minutes, when, I guess, he got bored and headed off to the playroom to torture Emma (with "music," of course).

One thing I can say for sure - those dolls have never been more entertained in their whole lives. Watch out American Idol, here comes Paddy!

Pat is a strange little man. He's smart, cute, and as goofy as any three-year-old boy should be, but he's also just plain strange. Take the "bee frosting" incident from the other evening. You may not have thought it odd that he was wearing pajamas at dinner. It's close to bedtime, so it's reasonable. However, he had been wearing pajamas all day long.

He *always* wears pajamas all day long. If we're home, he's in pajamas. If we have to go out, he'll get dressed, but he changes into pajamas as soon as we get home. He often changes his pajamas in the middle of the day for no apparent reason. By the end of the day, his room is littered with pajamas that have been pulled out of the drawer. We've taken to calling him "Hef." He has no idea what it means, but it amuses us. For next Christmas, we're buying him a little smoking jacket and silk pajamas.

In the mornings, the kids often feed themselves. They'll pull waffles out of the freezer and eat them cold. They'll help themselves to water out of the dispenser on the refrigerator. Rarely, they'll attempt to pour themselves some milk. Monday morning, Hef decided he wanted something stronger. He opted for a Diet Coke. (It's really caffeine-free Sam's Choice Diet Cola, but they don't know the difference. They still say "tissue" instead of "Kleenex" -- we'll work on diluting one brand at a time.)

Little hands aren't quite strong enough to open a soda can, so he had to resort to the next best option: Emma's Little Miss Murderer® Ice Pick! No, really, he just used his teeth. That wasn't terribly effective; if you look at the can, you can't even tell it's been opened. He was able to at least break the seal. How do you get the soda out of a can that's barely open? You squeeze it, of course. You hold it over a cup and squeeze it until not a drop remains inside. Pretty remarkable feat, if you ask me.

When we came downstairs later, the chair he used to climb up onto the counter was still pushed over in the corner. But his empty cup (he drank all of it) and the silly straw he had used were in the sink, where they belong. And the mangled soda can was sitting on the counter where we put all recyclables. He's such a good little boy.

Gracie had a fever last night. A pretty good one, too - about 102. She needed some Motrin or Tylenol to get the fever down so that she could sleep somewhat comfortably. Given that she had a runny nose and runny eyes, there wasn't a whole lot of hope for a peaceful night anyway, but we had to try.

Tom and I have had a lot of practice giving medicine to unwilling toddlers. After all, we have a kid who takes medicine three times a day (and has for four years) and another kid who has had so many colds and fevers that we're on a first-name basis with the entire pediatric office staff. We've learned the tricks. We know how to get them to take whatever medicine they need. We're good at this.

Oh, wait. Apparently, we're not good at this. Either that, or Gracie is the most stubborn child ever invented. I think it's the latter. In any case, let's review how the medicine dispensing went:

1. Our first effort was the standard "We'll give you some Diet Coke if you swallow this liquid Motrin." Gracie took the medicine, looked at us, and spit it out. "I don't LIKE IT!" Okay, on to option 2.

2. The next idea, which has ALWAYS worked in the past, is to offer chocolate along with a chewable Tylenol or Motrin pill. We were able to get one Tylenol in Gracie with this method, but when we offered her addiitonal chocolate, she claimed she didn't want any more. On to number 3...

3. Our third try was to implant the second Tylenol pill inside a chocolate covered strawberry. Gracie took one bite of the strawberry (of course, not the part with the Tylenol in it), and said she was done. She could not be coaxed into eating any more of the strawberry. Time for #4...

4. Number four was the old ice cream trick. What kid wouldn't take a pill if there was the promise of tropical punch-flavored frozen dessert?? Well, that child would be Gracie. So, I tried to smash up the pill and mix it in with the ice cream, but she still wouldn't budge. She wouldn't even open her little mouth. It was clamped shut tighter than an alligator's jaws around the leg of a Cajun.

So, how did we win (because you know, in the end, that the parents did win)? Tom tickled her until she laughed and I shoved a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth. She actually enjoyed the ice cream, but didn't want any more after that forced spoonful. She just wanted to go to bed. Poor kid.

She seems to be better this morning - no fever, but her eyes are still runny, as is her nose. She seems to have more of an appetite today, too, which is a good sign.

Of course, as it always happens in our house, Patrick seems on the way down into the virus world. This should be a fun week. The only upside is that this is the first time in a while that Tom has actually been in town for their illnesses!

My hometown is Houston, Texas. It's an awfully nice place to grow up - good weather, good food, and, above all, good people. I think a lot of people either had negative or neutral impressions of Houston prior to last September, but Houston's reaction to Hurricane Katrina changed that. People realized that Houstonians opened their hearts, homes, and wallets to over 150,000 people who had to evacuate from a devastated New Orleans after the costliest natural disaster in the history of the United States.

But, it's been six months since New Orleans collapsed, and Houston is finally showing signs that the compassion of the 4th largest city in the United States is starting to wear thin. Schools are overcrowded, as are hospital emergency rooms and jails. The murder rate is on the rise, and so is the rate of sexually transmitted diseases. Many Katrina survivors are still without jobs, living in government-subsidized housing and draining the public coffers.

It's reasonable to expect Houstonians to wonder when New Orleans will be ready to welcome back its residents. But, three New Orleans city leaders have recently said they only want hard-working residents to come back to New Orleans (see 22 February 2006 Houston Chronicle article here). So, it appears that the members of the New Orleans City Council would prefer that Houston, the city with the biggest heart on the planet, absorb New Orleans-based public assistance devotees into its population, rather than allow them to go back home - to New Orleans, where they came from in the first place.

My friends and family (and my neighbors in Chaska who donated tons of clothing and food in September) have done a lot to help people who found themselves in a very unfortunate circumstance. At some point, something's gotta give. New Orleans needs to get back to where it was, welcome back its residents, and thank Houston, Baton Rouge, Dallas, San Antonio, Austin, and the rest of this incredibly compassionate country for taking in and taking care of people who truly needed the help.

To quote Lady Liberty:

Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

That's exactly what this country did. And now, it's time for New Orleans to step up to the plate and do the right thing.

Thanks to Newsweek for giving me the impetus for this rant.

I don't know how long the link will last, so get it while you can:

http://wcco.com/topstories/local_story_061163643.html

Because Emma doesn't want any of that "dirt stuff" on her head. Sheesh. We're raising some good Catholics here, aren't we?

Poor Patrick. He is about the saddest little thing ever. Last night, while we were sitting eating dinner, he laid across his chair and started crying because he had gotten "bee frosting" on his nice, clean jammies. "Mommy! I got BEE FWOSTIN on my nice, cwean jammies!" He was so upset, but I wasn't really sure what he was saying. All I knew was that it had him very agitated. He kept crying, so I asked him to explain to me what "bee frosting" was.

For those of you who don't know, "bees" is the word we use instead of something yucky like "poop." I hate that word. Poop. Ugh. Just typing it makes my skin crawl. Anyway, apparently "bee frosting," according to Patrick, is when you do bees in your pants that "don't make any noise coming out." Okay. I had it figured out. Something I've often heard called a Hershey Squirt. Poor Patrick. Poor, potty-trained Patrick, had had a "shart" (that was my mom's word).

I took him to the bathroom, got him cleaned up, put him in new pajamas and brought him back to the dinner table. He was much happier, and then explained to his sisters what he had done. Just another adventure in Tierney-ville.