The First Ten Years, Matthew Kennedy, Books, Real Stories

If George Bush, or Junior as some would have it, had only called me. I could have helped, really. I remember watching CNN and being absolutely amazed at what was happening before my eyes. It was 2003 and we are at war with Iraq. We’re also looking for weapons of mass destruction.

You couldn’t help but watch as every night CNN’s Aaron Brown would deliver the news of the day. I had the chore of putting them to bed and it was always the same ritual. We’d lie down, a head nestled on each side of my chest. I would rub Ronan’s back or head until he was off to sleep. He wouldn’t sleep unless you massaged him to sleep. O’Leary had no such interest, it was the bottle and his “bop” or pacifier. He would be ready for sleep on his own time. So there we are lying down and watching the war unfold right in front of me, never quite believing my eyes.

It was the same every night. The “embeds” were the source for what was happening. (Like everyone in America, I got sick of hearing the term “embed” pretty quickly.) They would tell us about the coalition progress and the search for WMDs. Every night it seemed there was another report that troops located a chemical lab that turned out to be a couple of muskrats and some bad dates buried under a 50 gallon oil drum.

But I knew they had it all wrong. If you are looking for a WMD, its right here on my left shoulder. He’s sleeping off the damage of the day (and passing on a newly-perfected nerve agent of his own).

It always starts in a way you can’t predict. Ronan, being the sensitive one, wasn’t keen on destruction of any type. O’Leary, well, let’s just say he doesn’t understand what sensitive means. Clearly he was born with just a little bit of the devil in him, no doubt his mother’s fault.

My first hint came when he was little over a year old. Mornings in our house back then were a bit of a ritual. I am a morning person and Alison never was. So, I was the one up with them in the morning and bringing the day in with these two. But mostly just sitting on the couch with them and listening to the Chief’s endless chatter which begins the minute his eyes open. Ronan talked, O’Leary was like a slug with a bottle and I drank coffee and watched Sports Center.

Maria, who took care of them while we worked, usually showed up around 7:30 a.m. or so. Prior to her arrival, I would have Ronan ready for his day at Wilshire Pre-school. O’Leary would spend the day with Maria doing an assortment of things, but mostly just being spoiled rotten. Maria was a Godsend.

I let the morning start, realizing full well that I have no choice in the matter. I am regretting the day of work ahead and the mornings always go too fast. Then, I hear the key in the door and Maria is here. It's official, morning is over. RATS!

Ronan had his uniform on, a beaten up Oakland Raiders hat he hasn’t taken off for two years, his track coat, made of the most suffocating material ever and, of course, his cowboy boots. Eclectic, for sure. I think all can agree his fashion sense came from his mom.

O’Leary hears the key and hops off the couch to say hello to Maria. I’m already headed to the bathroom for a shower by the time I hear Maria greeting the boys. I loved this time of the morning. Maria would tend to O’Leary. Ronan would watch cartoons while waiting for the caffeine in Alison’s morning coffee to bring her to full consciousness.

This was my time, and no matter how brief, I loved it.

So, Maria gets O’Leary’s daily routine started. The morning ritual includes a bottle, but first and regardless of need, a diaper change. The problem with changing O’Leary is that it’s like changing a greased pig. The minute you get that diaper off and turn to put it aside, he’s slipped your grip and he is off to show the world all his glory. I think he loves the breeze that comes with running naked.

I finish my shower and the solitude is wonderful, but unbeknownst to me, the unthinkable (but so predictable) has happened, O’Leary’s escaped. I’ve toweled off and stand there in my closet with a towel wrapped around my waist and trying to figure out what to wear to work. I always get stumped here. Since I’m not forced to wear a parochial school uniform anymore, dressing myself always proves to be a struggle. In the background it sounds like someone set off a bomb, I just ignore it. Maria is telling O’Leary something in Spanish but, I don’t speak Spanish and I’m not really paying attention anyway. It's her chaos every morning and I don’t want to infringe.

I’m used to chaos and noise in the early morning. Growing up with a huge family of my own, three brothers, three sisters, two parents and most importantly, the Dog, meant that anything short of the house falling down on us was just “background noise” and was always ignored. This a.m. oblivion was usually essential to navigate the morning, however, this day it proved to be fatal. Had I been paying attention, which I wasn’t, I would have noticed the anxiety in Maria’s voice, which I didn’t.

I just stood there looking over an incredibly drab and boring series of clothing options. I considered sticking with what I was wearing. After all, the towel says it all. But because I am remarkably considerate to others and their gift of sight, I decided against the towel ensemble.

I’m reluctant to choose because the minute I decide, the rest of the day begins and it’s off to work. So I stood there in a daze, vaguely aware of the huffing and puffing behind me, it hardly rose a level requiring attention. I ignore it because stuff like this tends to be a product of my imagination. . . or not.

I make a choice, reach up to grab a shirt, and I feel the draft as my towel rises up with me. Unfortunately, this was not the “my towel raised up reaching for my shirt” -kind of draft. This was the kind of draft that warns a man in a towel that something wicked this way comes. And it did.

The draft is quickly followed by the startling feeling of a cold sensation on my, forgive me, balls. “What the F. . .” I wasn’t trying to keep from swearing, I simply didn’t get to the “uck” out before the cold sensation turned to a vice. I look down and O’Leary has a grip on my balls, a smile on his face and is uttering something in what I am certain is Latin. I think he is speaking it backwards.

It's in slow motion now, like watching Joe Theisman’s leg break on Monday Night Football. I can’t believe it, he is lifting his feet off the ground. The pain is a bit delayed, but it's on its way. Then it hits and I’m down in a heap. I turn my head only to see his naked little butt round the corner, out of my closet and off to freedom. I’ll be dammed, he is actually laughing. I never felt anything like it. I felt like I had two cannon balls that were on fire in my pants for two days. He’s like some kind of demonic birth control device.

To this day, I am hyper-vigilant in the morning. I won’t ever take the sounds of morning for granted. So the lesson for the future is, always know where O’Leary is, at all times. It seems like an easy rule - don’t let him out of your sight - but it isn’t.

Alas, I got lazy and I forgot the basic rule. See, I had to have knee surgery. I had just finished running a marathon in about 25 minutes and the mile-a-minute pace really damaged my knee. The doc just had to shave it up a little because it was getting jagged and causing pain; I went a long period without being able to sleep. So I had no choice.

I was kind of like Steve Austin, I was going to be the new Six Million Dollar Man, only slower, not as strong, my ear won’t make cool noises when I listen, and I’ll be considerably cheaper than the Six Million Dollar Man, right around the $40 mark. So, with inflation, we’re essentially identical.

After surgery, I was slow coming to in the recovery room. Post-op is the worst. You can’t get your bearings and there is always the threat of a catheter if you don’t pee. That is a lot of pressure, but I had some success with that part and they sent me on my way.

I was still kind of hazy as I entered the apartment and being on crutches didn’t make it easier. Ronan was nervously watching my every move. I could hear him making noises of empathy behind me the whole time. Once in the door, Maria didn’t know what to do, she thought it would be helpful if she grabbed my crutches. I don’t think she got the idea that I needed them to walk. When that didn’t help, she was happy to stare at me blankly, now out of ideas, she did what she does best. She found some laundry and headed off to the laundry machine.

At 4 years of age, Ronan was empathetic and kind of scared, so he just sort of hovered around me. Alison was more along the lines of “if it isn’t life-threatening, then it’s not a big deal.”

O’Leary didn’t share the indifference of his Mom, the empathy of his brother or the confusion of Maria. He was focused. He knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was to poke at the bandage. I could see why it attracted him, the damn thing looked like someone bandaged a 50-pound turtle to my left knee.

He walked right up and put his hands on it, he began prodding it. He had this mystified look on his face the whole time. I tried to move but had little success. I wasn’t very nimble with the crutches. He just stood there, a two-foot, forty-pound obstacle that liked to poke. Thankfully, Maria was back and took him off to do another load of laundry.

Finally I got into bed. Ronan was concerned and would check periodically to make sure I was okay. O’Leary, on the other hand, came in and I had to watch him like a hawk. He just looked at the bandage and the knee and I could only imagine the devious thoughts going through that year and half old brain of his. But, like all gifted torturers, he waited for the right moment. He knew his time would come.

It was two days later, on a Sunday night to be exact and the Man was over. Alison had to go to a party and I needed someone to help me watch the boys. I couldn’t walk yet and I didn’t want to be left alone with O’Leary with only Ronan to assist. So the Man was there to offer assistance.

Now it should be known that the Man’s only real exposure to children at this point in his life had been to my boys. But he understood how they were and what they liked. They all sat out in the living room watching cartoons while I laid there like a manatee bored out of its mind. O’Leary was running all over the place, throwing stuff around and not wanting to wear anything but his diaper. I think in his little mind, the diaper-only look makes him more menacing.

While Ronan and the Man were sitting on the couch, O’Leary was on the couch, off the couch, and on and off again and again and again. He just couldn’t take it easy. I would come out to the living room every now and then just to alleviate the boredom of lying down with my leg up and to check on the Man. He did a good job of keeping O’Leary out of my hair, no matter how big a challenge it could be. Little did anyone know, O’Leary was simply biding his time, and finding his weapon.

Long before I had children, a good friend of mine brought me a gift back from his sojourn to India. He called it a blessing stick. It looked like the kind of bat that is used in the sport of cricket. It was solid wood and about 20 inches long and 3 inches wide with a handle. The paddle part of the stick had a Hindu blessing on it. I was supposed to hang it over the door. It never made it over the door.

O’Leary loved the blessing stick, he would carry it around with him and I could never figure out the attraction, he liked the sound it made when he hit the couch or his bed with it.

In any event, O’Leary was badgering and harassing the Man in his typical manner about his bottle and God knows what else. O’Leary has a way of repeating the same thing over and over and over until you and your good judgment just relent. The Man was no different, O’Leary was just putting his bottle on the Man’s knee and saying “bottle” over and over until the Man got him a bottle. All of this was really was just misdirection and it worked. Now O’Leary was unguarded. He seized the moment and was off the radar with his blessing stick in hand. I think he had it in the scabbard attached to his diaper.

In the midst of the madness, I heard the Man calling from the kitchen about something. Was he in cahoots with O’Leary? I got out of bed and hobbled out to the living room on my crutches, being careful not to put any pressure on my knee. When I came through the doorway, the Man was in the kitchen looking through the fridge while Ronan sat on the couch watching cartoons. Just as I was about to ask what was going on . . . “WHACK!” My knee, it felt like someone poured gasoline on it and set it afire. It was a direct hit to the repaired knee.

I crumpled in a heap, down like a ton of bricks. I was face first in the carpet. I wanted to vomit it hurt so bad. I looked over to the Man and he was no help at all. His eyes were as big as half dollars and he was clearly on the brink of laughter.

As I rolled over to see what happened, I caught the blur out of the corner of my eye. O’Leary was charging me with the blessing stick held high over his head. I was barely able to get my hands up to cover my face as he brought the blessing stick down on my forearm. “CRACK!”

“Ow! Jesus H. Christ!” I implored in this prayerful and deeply spiritual moment. I managed to snatch the weapon from O’Leary’s hands just as he was getting ready to come down on me again. And just like that, he was gone, a diaper-wearing ninja, battering my knee with a Hindu blessing. The Man just stood there, doing nothing (except making a piss-poor effort to stifle laughter). He is no bodyguard. God help me, he was outwitted by an 18-month old child.

I managed to pull myself up on one leg, Ronan just stared at me not really understanding what happened. I hobbled to the balcony with that damn blessing stick in my hand. We lived on the third floor in residential area not far from the La Brea Tar Pits. I stood out there on the balcony on one leg and threw that cursed blessing stick as far as I could, thinking it would go all the way to the Tar Pits. I was so pissed! Pissed and stupid is more like it because there was no way in hell I could throw it that far. That was confirmed when I heard the loud “CRASH” across the street.

I hobble quickly to get back in the house and O’Leary is standing in the middle of the living room, in his diaper glaring at me. You would have thought someone shot his dog. I thought for a minute he felt bad about what he did, but as he went to the balcony and reached out his hand muttering something about the blessing stick, it was clear that his only sadness was over his lost weapon.

Believe me, God has a pretty good idea about the things I’ve done on this planet. In fact, I am pretty certain I have a job driving the southern bus route in the afterlife. But don’t worry, tough guy, keep it up and you’ll be keeping me company.

It always amazes me that one child can be so different from another when they are from the same family. I don’t know that I am that different from my three brothers. But these two, holy crap! The Chief is on the Mother Teresa plan for spiritual and human development. O’Leary, well, let’s just say he is not. He’s not bad. He just seems to think he is an adult and that everyone else should submit to his will. When someone doesn’t bend, he flashes those baby blues and waits for you to crumble. If you don’t crumble, he just sort of bludgeons you emotionally and physically.

Didn’t Susan Powter want everyone to “Stop the Madness.” Maybe she could talk to O’Leary, but ultimately she is just too creepy and I’m afraid I won’t have the cash to cover her hospital bills when O’Leary throws her out the window and says something along the lines of “stop that.”

What makes this all worse is that O’Leary has co-opted Ronan to assist. I should have known that this would happen eventually. It's what I get for watching boxing and ultimate fighting all the time.

From an early age, Ronan and O’Leary would watch with me. We laid on the bed and watched Barrera vs. Hamed, Barrera vs. Morales 1, 2, and 3, Mickey Ward vs. Gatti 1,2, and 3. Ronan thrived on the emotion of it and O’Leary would watch trying to figure exactly what was going on. I think he was looking to integrate some new moves into his game plan.

They were transfixed watching Ward vs. Gatti 3. Even though Mickey Ward lost, it was a great opportunity to teach my boys about how important it is to always try your best. Ronan actually cried when Ward lost, I was so touched, but you never know when an opportunity to teach your children about life can come up (or when they can teach you something). O’Leary, still lacking his brother’s empathy said that Mickey Ward should go get him later with one of these, he was holding a toy light saber and going “zzzmmm . . . zzzmmm.”

I think all who read this will concur that O’Leary’s performance as a Jedi knight was far better than the kid who played the future Darth Vader in the new Star Wars movies.

Now some would say that exposure to boxing at such an early age may have been less than advisable, I would not agree. However, exposure to Ultimate Fighting Championship proved to be a special kind of mistake. I have no idea how I became so enamored with this sport. The competitors aren’t just big galoots pounding underage college kids at a local bar. They are real athletes with real martial arts, boxing and wrestling skills. And shock of shock, O’Leary loved it.

We (the boys, me and our good friend Mr. Tom) started watching it together on a fairly regular basis. Like any superstar, I was amazed to find that I also possessed many of the same skills as these top notch athletes. I knew the sooner I began training, the sooner I could get out of my job, seek fame and collect my fortune in the world of Ultimate Fighting. The one problem, I had no sparring partners and no one to practice all my ingenious knockout kicks and submission tactics.

What does one do in the face of adversity? You improvise, which is just what I did. I saw those two little angels (OK, one angel and O’Leary) lying on the couch. I knew an opportunity when I saw one. I laughed to myself, “Okay O'Leary, its payback time.” I had to admit, I didn’t need to seek revenge upon Ronan, but I am willing to visit the collateral damage on him to further my career as an ultimate fight star. Call it a lesson in sacrifice.

Training started slowly. I wasn’t ready for full-blown cage matches just yet, it was something to work my way up to. Better to start at ground level which started with a well-devised plan. I would wait until they were lying on the couch and then seize upon both of them with catlike quickness and the mental instability of a wolverine. I figure anything goes. They didn’t stand a chance.

The plan was to secure Ronan’s surrender first. “Do you tap?” to which he would respond “tap, tap!” or, if I was particularly hot, a voluntary “I tap” without even asking the question. It didn’t take much with Ronan as he would usually tap if I got a hold of the inside of his thigh in a death pinch, or maybe a toe lock. As with any champion, I refused to give in until I heard the scream of “tap” or felt the panicked tap, tap, tapping on my back.

Like any superstar, I had my own signature move, the Chinler. It was devastating. The Chinler finds its origins in the hallowed halls of professional wrestling. At one point in his life, Uncle Marty was waiting for his big shot in the world of professional wrestling. For God’s sake, every time the family got together, Uncle Marty was trying to wrestle me and Uncle John with his “deadly suplex” or “Asiatic Spike.” The Asiatic Spike is the forefather of the Chinler. It is a move in which the attacker lodges the point of his thumb under the victim’s jawbone and pushes up into the bottom of the mouth. It was an effective move and made all the more effective since Uncle Marty was the king of sneak attacks ending (and often starting) with the Asiatic Spike.

I recall one Saint Patrick’s Day when Uncle John and I were enjoying a wonderful conversation involving the ontological proof of God’s existence. Out of nowhere, Uncle Marty attacks Uncle John from behind with the Asiatic Spike. I had to do something lest Saint Patrick’s Day be ruined by drinking and fighting. I jumped on Uncle Marty and had a chokehold on him and was kindly trying to gouge his eyes while Uncle John played victim. Then all of a sudden, Marty lifts his feet off the ground and sends his considerable girth backwards in the air sending him and me crashing to kitchen floor. The wind rushed out of my lungs, but Uncle John didn’t wait, it was the chance he needed.

As Uncle Marty came up from the floor, making snorts of victory, Uncle John turned and grabbed a giant green cornflake marshmallow shamrock and smashed it over his head. (You may be more familiar with the less dense and less sharp Rice Krispy treats.) The shamrock shattered into countless pieces over Uncle Marty’s head (and face) and he let out the most girlish shrill shriek I ever heard (at least up to that point in time – he’s since shrieked with equal intensity on any number of occasions). Seizing an opportunity, I jumped to my feet and grabbed Uncle Marty’s glass of Powers Irish Whiskey and threw it in his face. As the whiskey splashed in all the little cuts caused by the deadly shamrock, he went to his knees into submission.

I thank God for this priceless training, but alas, nothing could fully prepare me for O’Leary. I used the Chinler on Ronan to get him out of the picture. A few fingers under the jaw bone and a little pressure and he was tapping like a penguin. Then I turned my attention to O’Leary and the most alarming thing happened. He wouldn’t tap. No matter what I did, he would not tap.

I became convinced that rather than give my child brain damage by choking him out (a restraint that my father obviously didn’t exercise with Uncle Marty), I needed a new way to defeat my nemesis. Head games didn’t work because taunting just made him throw stuff. I had to stay away from that game.

The one thing I had going for me was that they couldn’t make me tap, so I could be patient. Even O’Leary realized that Dad was just too big. No matter how hard he tried, there was no winning. He couldn’t make me tap. You can imagine my pride; these two tough guys couldn’t take down the old man. Don’t be fooled by the fact that they were seven and four at the time. I was just too tough. At least that is what I thought. But, once again, I was wrong. How could I know O’Leary had been reading the Art of War and other treatises on how to defeat your enemy?

The deadly night began like any other night. We were on the couch and, as usual, I was perfecting my techniques at the expense of these two thugs. True to form, Ronan tapped and tried a number of sneak attacks to no avail. O’Leary refused to tap a number of times. In the face of my complete and utter dominance they had to relent. What was the alternative? I wasn’t going to tap and they could not stop me. Eventually training ended for the evening and it was time to start relaxing.

So we are lying on the couch and settling into an exciting night of the Amazing Race, we all loved this show. During a commercial, O’Leary gets up to get something out of the fridge. He comes back with a bottle of water and climbs over the back of the couch. He decides to dazzle us with a feat of balance by walking on the back ridge of the couch with his water.

I’m not thinking anything about it, I am more amazed by the fact that these people on TV get to travel all over the world cooking dirty socks and eating twigs while trying to climb an ice mountain. It really is amazing.

Then it happens, like Vesuvius, he explodes in a flash. From behind, O’Leary grabs a handful of my hair in each hand and jumps off the couch. He practically rips my head right off my body. He used all his weight and jumped off the back of the couch. My head snapped back at Mach 1 and bounced off the back ridge of the couch ripping my head from his death grip.

I am beyond furious. I am seeing stars and ready to kill. I jump off the couch and turn on O’Leary who is standing there with a few hairs in each hand. He is startled and looks scared. I manage to gain my composure and very quietly, very sternly say to him, “O’Leary why did you do that? You could have really hurt me.”

He is just staring at me at this point.

He continues to stare.

I say “O’Leary, I just asked you a question.” This time more forceful, “Why did you do that?”

He takes a moment. I can tell he is swirling something around in that crazed mind. He looks at me and quietly, matter of factly asks, “Do you tap?”

I am floored. He could care less about what he just did. Stunned and even angrier I ask, “What did you just say?”

“You tap?” he repeats.

Flummoxed, I turn to Ronan. “Did you hear that? What is wrong with him?”

Ronan looks concerned and unnerved because of the loud, blood-curdling roar I let out when O’Leary almost yanked my head off my body. Foolishly, I take pity on the lad and ask him, “What is it Chief?”

He calmly asks, “Well do ya?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you tap?”

What can I do? I tap. My career as an Ultimate Fighter is over in the blink of an eye because of a tyrannical four year old and his conspiratorial brother. Don’t feel sorry for me. I still have the advantage in all of this. O’Leary doesn’t know it yet, but school is right around the corner. That means grammar school, middle school, high school and then six months in heavy equipment operations school. The saving grace - math is on the horizon for O’Leary. We’ll see how tough he is when Algebra comes knocking.