We're back from our little vacation in NY, and while I don't have a lot of time to write right now, I did want to note that we had a great time and even managed to avoid the tie-ups associated with the NYC transit strike.
Unfortunately, what we couldn't avoid on the way home was Delaware. "Small wonder" indeed.
It took nearly two hours on Monday night for us to travel south on 95 through Delaware. For reference, that's 2 hours to travel about 30 miles. Once we crossed into Maryland, traffic again resumed cruising speed. Which prompted Vicki to mutter "*&@%**!!! Delaware"
Mercifully, Samson slept almost the entire trip [although at one point, during the half hour we spent trying to merge from the rest stop back onto 95, we saw his little head pop up and heard "BUSSSSSSSSSS"]
Now, I'm sure there are lots of people out there with good things to say about Delaware --- beaches and tax-free shopping, and oh the skyline of Dover in springtime.
And I realize the state is more than the small (and costly) stretch of 95 I travel heading north or heading home.
Even so, if Delaware was a kid, his name would be Kyle.
12.29.2005
12.20.2005
Christmas break
Taking a break to visit the family in New York. I'll be back online some time next week.
Time to ditch the shirt and tie and enjoy some time off...
12.17.2005
Don't believe the hype
Sure, in the movie "Barbershop," everybody has a good time. Joking and laughing and sharing some life lessons along the way.
In real life, at our neighborhood barbershop, there are no life lessons being shared. There's no playful playing of the dozens, or witty repartee between old-school razormen and young new jacks on the make. Just some faded wood paneling, a weird pastel crayon portrait of Nancy Reagan, a few old copies of Field & Stream, and one really unhappy 15-month-old.
Ice Cube: you sir, sit in an adjustable revolving faux-leather chair of lies...
I took Samson for his second haircut today; we hadn't even passed the rotating barber pole meridian when he started to protest. Loudly. He was already crying while I was taking his jacket off, and by the time we settled into the chair, he was screaming.
A lot.
Mr. Garry (two "R's" for some reason) was a pro, however, and managed not only to give Sam a really nice haircut, but to keep his cool the whole time.
No idea why this child gets so agitated about haircuts.
And yes, we did get the Samson joke today. Hilarious. You know, Samson also killed a thousand Philistines with the jawbone of a donkey, but nobody ever brings that up.
Actually, this might be a good thing. (The world is full of Philistines; no sense in making them mad.)
Anyhow, if I'd paid closer attention in Dr. Keener's 17th- and 18th-century British literature class years ago, I could probably make some clever reference to Alexander Pope's "Rape of the Lock."
Sadly, I did not, so insert your own erudite joke about haircuts here.
In real life, at our neighborhood barbershop, there are no life lessons being shared. There's no playful playing of the dozens, or witty repartee between old-school razormen and young new jacks on the make. Just some faded wood paneling, a weird pastel crayon portrait of Nancy Reagan, a few old copies of Field & Stream, and one really unhappy 15-month-old.
Ice Cube: you sir, sit in an adjustable revolving faux-leather chair of lies...
I took Samson for his second haircut today; we hadn't even passed the rotating barber pole meridian when he started to protest. Loudly. He was already crying while I was taking his jacket off, and by the time we settled into the chair, he was screaming.
A lot.
Mr. Garry (two "R's" for some reason) was a pro, however, and managed not only to give Sam a really nice haircut, but to keep his cool the whole time.
No idea why this child gets so agitated about haircuts.
And yes, we did get the Samson joke today. Hilarious. You know, Samson also killed a thousand Philistines with the jawbone of a donkey, but nobody ever brings that up.
Actually, this might be a good thing. (The world is full of Philistines; no sense in making them mad.)
Anyhow, if I'd paid closer attention in Dr. Keener's 17th- and 18th-century British literature class years ago, I could probably make some clever reference to Alexander Pope's "Rape of the Lock."
Sadly, I did not, so insert your own erudite joke about haircuts here.
12.16.2005
An unfortunate series of events
Bath time in our house is a time of great excitement. Get Samson anywhere near the bathroom at the end of the day and he starts crying out "bath, bath" with a look of pure joy on his little face.
I give all credit to the swimming classes that Vicki and Samson have taken, because he is not only unafraid to have water on his face, but he actively seeks out putting his face in the water to blow bubbles. Lately, he's been lying down on his belly in the tub and kicking his legs like Miss Annie has shown them in class.
He loves splashing around and particularly enjoys knocking the various shampoo bottles lined up on the tub perimeter into the bath/onto the floor. All of which is to say that young Samson is pretty relaxed in the tub. It is also to say that I was not immediately able to put things together in my mind last night when he made a face I knew I recognized. A nanosecond later, there was poo in the tub.
Luckily, we were at the end of the bath, and so I scooped him up deftly and handed him to Vicki --- who by this point had sprinted into the bathroom after hearing my cries of alarm.
As I was handing him over to his mother and a waiting, warm towel, I pulled the bath plug. In retrospect, not a good idea --- poo moves fast, and I only managed to get two of the three bath time interlopers.
Yes, by hand. And yes, Vicki was completely grossed out, but as the tub was draining (my fault), I was not about to begin casting about for suggestions on what we could use to "skim" the tub. Monday-morning quarterback this all you want, but in the absense of a Zapruder film, I'm sticking by my actions.
[Sidenote: in high school, we had a chemistry sub who had been in the Peace Corps in Africa. How she went from that meaningful task to teaching a bunch of snot-nosed suburban kids on a part-time basis, I never found out. She was a somewhat regular sub in the school, however, and word got around from a biology class that during her time in Mozambique (or Malawi, I can't remember and probably couldn't have found either on a map at age 15) she had attended a birth that occurred far more rapidly than anticipated. Long story short, there was nothing with which to cut the mother's umbilical cord, and in a bid to preserve the health of mother and child, she bit through it. Gripping stuff, and I think now of what brilliant instincts this woman had to simply jump in and do what needed to be done. This was not, however, what we thought in Mr. Kohler's 3rd period chem class, and I can remember asking if she had really done something so gross. To which she responded, putting me (rightly) in my place: "what would you have done? Let the baby die?" Suitably chastened, I'm sure I mumbled something exculpatory and then spent the rest of class concentrating on balancing chemical equations.]
All of which is to say, I too did what needed to be done. However, my actions were neither heroic, nor (sadly) completely effective.
And yes, they were gross. Also, we now need to go buy a plumber's snake because the tub is not draining properly.
So there you have it. Poo in tub: 1 Dada: 0.
I give all credit to the swimming classes that Vicki and Samson have taken, because he is not only unafraid to have water on his face, but he actively seeks out putting his face in the water to blow bubbles. Lately, he's been lying down on his belly in the tub and kicking his legs like Miss Annie has shown them in class.
He loves splashing around and particularly enjoys knocking the various shampoo bottles lined up on the tub perimeter into the bath/onto the floor. All of which is to say that young Samson is pretty relaxed in the tub. It is also to say that I was not immediately able to put things together in my mind last night when he made a face I knew I recognized. A nanosecond later, there was poo in the tub.
Luckily, we were at the end of the bath, and so I scooped him up deftly and handed him to Vicki --- who by this point had sprinted into the bathroom after hearing my cries of alarm.
As I was handing him over to his mother and a waiting, warm towel, I pulled the bath plug. In retrospect, not a good idea --- poo moves fast, and I only managed to get two of the three bath time interlopers.
Yes, by hand. And yes, Vicki was completely grossed out, but as the tub was draining (my fault), I was not about to begin casting about for suggestions on what we could use to "skim" the tub. Monday-morning quarterback this all you want, but in the absense of a Zapruder film, I'm sticking by my actions.
[Sidenote: in high school, we had a chemistry sub who had been in the Peace Corps in Africa. How she went from that meaningful task to teaching a bunch of snot-nosed suburban kids on a part-time basis, I never found out. She was a somewhat regular sub in the school, however, and word got around from a biology class that during her time in Mozambique (or Malawi, I can't remember and probably couldn't have found either on a map at age 15) she had attended a birth that occurred far more rapidly than anticipated. Long story short, there was nothing with which to cut the mother's umbilical cord, and in a bid to preserve the health of mother and child, she bit through it. Gripping stuff, and I think now of what brilliant instincts this woman had to simply jump in and do what needed to be done. This was not, however, what we thought in Mr. Kohler's 3rd period chem class, and I can remember asking if she had really done something so gross. To which she responded, putting me (rightly) in my place: "what would you have done? Let the baby die?" Suitably chastened, I'm sure I mumbled something exculpatory and then spent the rest of class concentrating on balancing chemical equations.]
All of which is to say, I too did what needed to be done. However, my actions were neither heroic, nor (sadly) completely effective.
And yes, they were gross. Also, we now need to go buy a plumber's snake because the tub is not draining properly.
So there you have it. Poo in tub: 1 Dada: 0.
12.15.2005
Crafty
The boys were at our house yesterday making handprint Christmas trees and sugar cookies.
You'll note that Oliver is a neat baker, and Jake is a messy one.
You'll note that Oliver is a neat baker, and Jake is a messy one.
While Samson skips the baking all together and just eats the dough...
Good times.
12.14.2005
Giant steps
Guard your Christmas trees! Samson James is walking. Now don't get too excited. He's not strolling around the house or taking leisurely turns around the coffee table yet. But he's taking eight or 10 consecutive steps and relying less and less on finding things to hold on to. And while he looks sort of like an unfrozen caveman, he's our little unfrozen caveman, so it's just fine.
We had his 15-month checkup yesterday, and slim Sam is finally 20 lbs. I was starting to wonder if we'd be packing him off to college in his carseat, facing backwards.
He also, and we found this out before the checkup, is apparently one of those kids who gets nosebleeds. I went in to get him from his crib yesterday morning, to find my smiling son with a Hitler mustache of crusted, dried blood and spots of dried blood on his crib sheets and lovey lamb.
Needless to say, this was not the greatest way to start the morning. Vicki and I remained calm, reasoning that it was probably owing to his headcold and the fact that we hadn't run the vaporizer in his room the night before. He seemed completely unfazed about having one of the four humours all over his face. And indeed, the pediatrician noted that one of his children has a similar thing happen when he's got a bad headcold.
Even so, he might as well have had Helter Skelter written on the walls for the way it made my heart leap into my throat.
When we first found out that Vicki was pregnant, I can remember the doctor showing us on the ultrasound the tiny little blinking light that was Sam's heart. Vicki saw it, and the doctor wanted to make sure I saw it too, but I couldn't seem to find it and told the doctor it was ok and that I believed him.
He turned to me, with all seriousness, and said "Look again. That little heartbeat is going to keep you up nights for the rest of your life."
A good doctor and wise man.
We had his 15-month checkup yesterday, and slim Sam is finally 20 lbs. I was starting to wonder if we'd be packing him off to college in his carseat, facing backwards.
He also, and we found this out before the checkup, is apparently one of those kids who gets nosebleeds. I went in to get him from his crib yesterday morning, to find my smiling son with a Hitler mustache of crusted, dried blood and spots of dried blood on his crib sheets and lovey lamb.
Needless to say, this was not the greatest way to start the morning. Vicki and I remained calm, reasoning that it was probably owing to his headcold and the fact that we hadn't run the vaporizer in his room the night before. He seemed completely unfazed about having one of the four humours all over his face. And indeed, the pediatrician noted that one of his children has a similar thing happen when he's got a bad headcold.
Even so, he might as well have had Helter Skelter written on the walls for the way it made my heart leap into my throat.
When we first found out that Vicki was pregnant, I can remember the doctor showing us on the ultrasound the tiny little blinking light that was Sam's heart. Vicki saw it, and the doctor wanted to make sure I saw it too, but I couldn't seem to find it and told the doctor it was ok and that I believed him.
He turned to me, with all seriousness, and said "Look again. That little heartbeat is going to keep you up nights for the rest of your life."
A good doctor and wise man.
12.12.2005
Yet more gratuitous Samson pics
Above are photos of Samson and his friend, Ryan, playing in the snow early last week.
Below: a photo that is sure to embarrass both Sam and his buddy, Jake. We had pizza at Jake's house Friday night; while Jake's Dad and I were out getting beer and pizza, the moms decided to bathe the little guys. I'm already looking forward to meeting Sam's prom date and showing her this...
12.11.2005
Excuse me
I blame myself for this; I really do. Samson, when he burps, laughs and says "whoa."
I should explain. He's still probably teetering at the 20-lb. mark, but for some reason, when he burps it's like we have John Madden sitting in the highchair. [Note to Mr. Madden: I'm sure you're a nice guy, but I had to guess at which large celebrity would be a loud burper and you were top of mind. All apologies].
Now, all along, I should have been gently reminding him (as I have of late) "Samson, say 'excuse me.'" But, and it caught me totally unaware the first time I heard him say it, I guess I've been voicing my surprise/wonder/admiration lo these many months.
Hence the big burp and little voice that says "whoa."
We'll have to work on this before he goes to school. There was a kid in my elementary school who could burp the alphabet. Loudly. He was like a rock star. Unfortunately, he was still doing it in high school (and may still be doing it now as he finishes out his sentence for assault --- I wish I was kidding about that last part).
I should explain. He's still probably teetering at the 20-lb. mark, but for some reason, when he burps it's like we have John Madden sitting in the highchair. [Note to Mr. Madden: I'm sure you're a nice guy, but I had to guess at which large celebrity would be a loud burper and you were top of mind. All apologies].
Now, all along, I should have been gently reminding him (as I have of late) "Samson, say 'excuse me.'" But, and it caught me totally unaware the first time I heard him say it, I guess I've been voicing my surprise/wonder/admiration lo these many months.
Hence the big burp and little voice that says "whoa."
We'll have to work on this before he goes to school. There was a kid in my elementary school who could burp the alphabet. Loudly. He was like a rock star. Unfortunately, he was still doing it in high school (and may still be doing it now as he finishes out his sentence for assault --- I wish I was kidding about that last part).
12.07.2005
The Perception of Doors
I have class on Wednesday nights, so I don't usually get home until 8 or 8:30. Most Wednesdays, I'm able to resist the temptation to look in on Samson for fear of waking him up. If I've learned anything in 15 months, it's this: "You don't wake a sleeping baby."
Can you guess what happened tonight? In my defense, he seems to have caught my head cold, and he just sounded so full of pathos (not to mention snot) wheezing away in there that I had to go in and check on him.
Sure enough, my eyes had barely adjusted to the light when up he popped. Apparently the vaporizer, in addition to helping him breathe, gives him crazy hair. He looked like a little blonde Tina Turner in feety PJs. I actually thought about trying to get a picture, but it seemed like waking him out of a sound sleep was enough for one night.
So there we are, Sam with his head on my shoulder and me, rasping out songs in my best stuffy head/trying to be quiet Tom Waits voice, when he sees the door. Suddenly, and unsurprisingly, all bets are off. He cries "doh, doh, doh" until I open it and we walk through, both of us blinking in the light of the hallway. We went through our nightly routine of saying goodnight to all the rooms and turning out the lights and got settled back in his room, where I spent the next hour trying to rock him back to sleep. Poor little guy. [Selfishly, I liked the extra time with him, but I'm sure he'd have been better served by simply sleeping without interruption.]
A footnote: Since Samson is still not walking, he likes to be picked up and carried around. This preference, coupled with this daily increasing vocabulary, makes me feel a little like the Blaster half of the Mad Max duo Master Blaster. He points a direction and issues a command, and I carry it out expeditiously. With a deal like this, why walk?
Can you guess what happened tonight? In my defense, he seems to have caught my head cold, and he just sounded so full of pathos (not to mention snot) wheezing away in there that I had to go in and check on him.
Sure enough, my eyes had barely adjusted to the light when up he popped. Apparently the vaporizer, in addition to helping him breathe, gives him crazy hair. He looked like a little blonde Tina Turner in feety PJs. I actually thought about trying to get a picture, but it seemed like waking him out of a sound sleep was enough for one night.
So there we are, Sam with his head on my shoulder and me, rasping out songs in my best stuffy head/trying to be quiet Tom Waits voice, when he sees the door. Suddenly, and unsurprisingly, all bets are off. He cries "doh, doh, doh" until I open it and we walk through, both of us blinking in the light of the hallway. We went through our nightly routine of saying goodnight to all the rooms and turning out the lights and got settled back in his room, where I spent the next hour trying to rock him back to sleep. Poor little guy. [Selfishly, I liked the extra time with him, but I'm sure he'd have been better served by simply sleeping without interruption.]
A footnote: Since Samson is still not walking, he likes to be picked up and carried around. This preference, coupled with this daily increasing vocabulary, makes me feel a little like the Blaster half of the Mad Max duo Master Blaster. He points a direction and issues a command, and I carry it out expeditiously. With a deal like this, why walk?
Busy, busy, busy
Got some additional photos yesterday from Thanksgiving. Samson and Lucas spent a good deal of time being very busy --- taking things out of boxes, putting them in other boxes, and generally rearranging things. Seriously, they spent Rainman amounts of time sorting crayons.
And of course, we all sat around watching them like it was a show. Every once in a while (see below), one of them would notice and give us a little shout-out, but for the most part, it was all busy-ness...
12.06.2005
From father to son
When we moved into our house a few years ago, my parents had a kind of fire sale, delivering all of my old junk here with such urgency you'd have thought they were taking in boarders. It all went immediately from their basement to our attic. Which, to be honest, makes sense. What were they going to do with all my Star Wars figures? Now that I have ready access to said figures, what will I do?
Two words: Nativity scene.
[I don't have the photo anymore, but my roommate and I actually did this in our senior year of college. You'd be surprised at how many people find Yoda in swaddling clothes offensive. And you don't want to get them started on Greedo as one of the three kings.]
For some reason, among the boxes of ornaments was a box full of my old Matchbox cars. These are old school, die-cast, late 1970s (probably running on leaded gasoline) cars --- the real deal. Samson is just starting to appreciate the joy of rolling tiny cars across wooden floors, and it was really fun to watch him wrap his little hands around my old cars and send them flying across the floor.
There is apparently some kind of trans-house, inter-floor road rally going on, because in just two days time, we now have Matchbox cars in every room and on all floors. It's pretty cool (we have races at breakfast).
Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I should note that there are some Hot Wheels in the collection, but I was always more of a Matchbox guy myself. I always felt like it was kind of a Beatles vs. Stones thing.
Two words: Nativity scene.
[I don't have the photo anymore, but my roommate and I actually did this in our senior year of college. You'd be surprised at how many people find Yoda in swaddling clothes offensive. And you don't want to get them started on Greedo as one of the three kings.]
For some reason, among the boxes of ornaments was a box full of my old Matchbox cars. These are old school, die-cast, late 1970s (probably running on leaded gasoline) cars --- the real deal. Samson is just starting to appreciate the joy of rolling tiny cars across wooden floors, and it was really fun to watch him wrap his little hands around my old cars and send them flying across the floor.
There is apparently some kind of trans-house, inter-floor road rally going on, because in just two days time, we now have Matchbox cars in every room and on all floors. It's pretty cool (we have races at breakfast).
Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I should note that there are some Hot Wheels in the collection, but I was always more of a Matchbox guy myself. I always felt like it was kind of a Beatles vs. Stones thing.
12.05.2005
Trees: lit, cut, and otherwise observed
So we missed the actual "lighting of the tree" part of Friday night's tree lighting, but we had fun anyway. And besides it was at least marginally warmer in the pizza place where we had dinner beforehand.
Poor Sam and his friend, O, had probably had it with us by the end of the night, which came about 45 minutes after the start of the night. Cold, tired, and (probably still) hungry is no way to spend a night out. Add to that the din of chainsaws from the Christmas tree sale, and it's not exactly good times for the 14-month-old crowd.
Even so, it was nice to be out on a Friday night, even if it was Siberia cold, and to smell the freshly cut trees and drink some hot coffee drinks.
We went yesterday to get our tree, and if I hadn't picked up on it on Friday night, Samson was kind enough to point out again his discomfort with the sound of a chainsaw. I was holding him as the guy made a fresh cut on our tree, and Sam's little body started to quake from the soles of his feet on up --- sort of like that guy in the "Beat It" video.
Poor little guy; once the saw stopped --- and with the not unwelcome distraction of a bus heading downtown--- he was fine. We got the tree tied to the car's roof rack and made it home without further incident. [Not that it was on anyone's short list for young Samson, but just in case: this is definitely not the way to go this year.]
Vicki and I sat up last night decorating it and trying our best to keep the holiday music station on --- does anyone honestly hear Barry Manilow's "Jingle Bells" and think "At last, now I'm in the Christmas mood."
And is there a soul alive who hears "Frosty the Snowman" by The Ronettes and doesn't picture all the Goodfellas guys from the airport heist getting whacked shortly after Christmas?
I'm not trying to be a grinch here, but really...
12.02.2005
Feed the world
Now that we've traumatized our child with a compulsory visit to a large bearded stranger in a red felt leisure suit, I guess the Christmas season is officially upon us.
I heard the "Do They Know It's Christmas?" for the first time this year in the car this morning. There's something about that song that takes me back to childhood and the first time I got some inkling of suffering in the world.
Never mind that the famine was engineered by a murderous Ethiopian government, made worse by U.S. policies aimed at strangling the Marxist regime, and that of course they knew it was Christmas --- Ethiopia was a Christian nation hundreds of years before parts of Europe were. The song still moves me.
It's kind of a time capsule, and I bet there aren't a lot of people in the much-hyped and so-called slacker generation who don't feel a little twinge of something when they hear the song. At least the first time they hear it each season. By time 50, it ranks up there with that staple of Christmas store tapes, "Christmas Wrapping."
Anyway, it's a catchy song and a sentiment that needs attention all year, not just between Thanksgiving and Boxing Day [shameless bid to appeal to the one Canadian reader I have].
Tonight is the Christmas tree lighting at our church, so if we can keep Samson up past his bedtime without turning into a bear and keep him warm enough to stand outside for a bit [we are scheduled for light snow this weekend], it should be really nice.
We'll go and get our tree tomorrow, and I can only imagine what decorating it will be like. Last year, I had him on my shoulder, sleeping, as I put the star atop the tree. This year will probably not work like that...
I heard the "Do They Know It's Christmas?" for the first time this year in the car this morning. There's something about that song that takes me back to childhood and the first time I got some inkling of suffering in the world.
Never mind that the famine was engineered by a murderous Ethiopian government, made worse by U.S. policies aimed at strangling the Marxist regime, and that of course they knew it was Christmas --- Ethiopia was a Christian nation hundreds of years before parts of Europe were. The song still moves me.
It's kind of a time capsule, and I bet there aren't a lot of people in the much-hyped and so-called slacker generation who don't feel a little twinge of something when they hear the song. At least the first time they hear it each season. By time 50, it ranks up there with that staple of Christmas store tapes, "Christmas Wrapping."
Anyway, it's a catchy song and a sentiment that needs attention all year, not just between Thanksgiving and Boxing Day [shameless bid to appeal to the one Canadian reader I have].
Tonight is the Christmas tree lighting at our church, so if we can keep Samson up past his bedtime without turning into a bear and keep him warm enough to stand outside for a bit [we are scheduled for light snow this weekend], it should be really nice.
We'll go and get our tree tomorrow, and I can only imagine what decorating it will be like. Last year, I had him on my shoulder, sleeping, as I put the star atop the tree. This year will probably not work like that...
12.01.2005
Santa: bringer of fear
We took Samson to the mall tonight to get his picture taken with Santa. Yikes!
We might as well have tried to sit him on Darth Vader's lap. He started almost immediately with a quivering lip as I tried to hand him over to jolly old St. Nick --- who, truth be told, looked less like Santa and more like an unholy combination of this guy and these guys.
I mean, I get that Santa's supposed to be "husky" [side note: even now the sting of that term haunts me; damn you J.C. Penney's Boys' Section; damn you to hell].
Sorry, where was I? Oh yeah, I mean, I understand that Santa is a big guy, but this Santa looked like a mudslide with a beard. He was leaned way back in the chair and nearly immobile --- it looked like they poured him into the seat at the beginning of the day and then poured him back out at quitting time.
I think it was the sheer breadth of this man that scared Sam, not the Jerry Garcia hair, beard, and glasses.
In any event, Santa suggested that Vicki and I sit on either side of him to make Samson feel more comfortable and allow for the picture to be taken. And here I have to say that in a side-by-side comparison, the patience of shopping mall Santas would make Job seem like a whiner. [There's a sociology dissertation in that topic somewhere, I just know it.]
Now, I'll be honest, I like having my picture taken less than some South American Indian tribes, but I duly sat by Santa's side, and we got our photo. This is not, I should add, an act worthy of praise or admiration. I didn't see the terror in young Samson's eyes and decide to fix things by sitting in on the little photo shoot. Nothing of the kind: I did it because Vicki threatened me, and I'm afraid of her.
The photo actually came out pretty well, although if you look closely, behind Samson's smile is the tiniest hint of unease. Sort of like the look on schoolkids' faces when Gov. Schwarzenegger visits their class.
At least the evening ended on a positive note: We looked at the massive train set that was set up in the middle of the mall [and successfully dodged an onslaught of Hannas, Caitlyns, Conors, and Joshes, who were all three times Samson's size and racing for the toy train with the same intensity as morning commuters] and then picked up some chicken and fried yucca for dinner on the way home.
Any day that ends with yucca is a good day in my book.
We might as well have tried to sit him on Darth Vader's lap. He started almost immediately with a quivering lip as I tried to hand him over to jolly old St. Nick --- who, truth be told, looked less like Santa and more like an unholy combination of this guy and these guys.
I mean, I get that Santa's supposed to be "husky" [side note: even now the sting of that term haunts me; damn you J.C. Penney's Boys' Section; damn you to hell].
Sorry, where was I? Oh yeah, I mean, I understand that Santa is a big guy, but this Santa looked like a mudslide with a beard. He was leaned way back in the chair and nearly immobile --- it looked like they poured him into the seat at the beginning of the day and then poured him back out at quitting time.
I think it was the sheer breadth of this man that scared Sam, not the Jerry Garcia hair, beard, and glasses.
In any event, Santa suggested that Vicki and I sit on either side of him to make Samson feel more comfortable and allow for the picture to be taken. And here I have to say that in a side-by-side comparison, the patience of shopping mall Santas would make Job seem like a whiner. [There's a sociology dissertation in that topic somewhere, I just know it.]
Now, I'll be honest, I like having my picture taken less than some South American Indian tribes, but I duly sat by Santa's side, and we got our photo. This is not, I should add, an act worthy of praise or admiration. I didn't see the terror in young Samson's eyes and decide to fix things by sitting in on the little photo shoot. Nothing of the kind: I did it because Vicki threatened me, and I'm afraid of her.
The photo actually came out pretty well, although if you look closely, behind Samson's smile is the tiniest hint of unease. Sort of like the look on schoolkids' faces when Gov. Schwarzenegger visits their class.
At least the evening ended on a positive note: We looked at the massive train set that was set up in the middle of the mall [and successfully dodged an onslaught of Hannas, Caitlyns, Conors, and Joshes, who were all three times Samson's size and racing for the toy train with the same intensity as morning commuters] and then picked up some chicken and fried yucca for dinner on the way home.
Any day that ends with yucca is a good day in my book.
11.29.2005
Death of the cool
Slowly but surely, I am crossing over to talking like a Dad even when I'm not talking to Samson. Not in a do-your-homework-and-clean-up-your-room sort of way, though.
This is more like the who-wants-a-cookie? voice.
I have a colleague who has three kids, and I always tease him for explaining everything in such deliberate terms that it sounds as if he's talking to a 10-year-old. Want to guess how old his oldest child is?
I was walking with said colleague today, and a garbage truck passed us on the street.
Like some kind of Pavlovian freak, I raised my hand to point out the truck.
Luckily, I caught myself before saying something like: "Do you see that truck there? Oh, my goodness, it's a garbage truck! Can you wave to the men on the back of the truck? Good job, buddy."
I mean, it's not like I was Miles Davis before Sam was born, but this is just sad...
This is more like the who-wants-a-cookie? voice.
I have a colleague who has three kids, and I always tease him for explaining everything in such deliberate terms that it sounds as if he's talking to a 10-year-old. Want to guess how old his oldest child is?
I was walking with said colleague today, and a garbage truck passed us on the street.
Like some kind of Pavlovian freak, I raised my hand to point out the truck.
Luckily, I caught myself before saying something like: "Do you see that truck there? Oh, my goodness, it's a garbage truck! Can you wave to the men on the back of the truck? Good job, buddy."
I mean, it's not like I was Miles Davis before Sam was born, but this is just sad...
11.28.2005
Where the middle "C" is silent
We left Woodstock on Friday for my sister's in Connecticut. The trip was easy enough, and I sat in back with Samson to help keep him occupied (and serve as a sunblocker because I broke the little shade in a fit of pique when it wouldn't retract properly, thereby leaving no question as to where young Samson gets his temper [or predilection for throwing things] from).
Sam got to take the inaugural bath in Aunt Mo and Uncle Greg's newly remodeled bathroom, and we had a nice quiet Friday night with Chinese food and a movie and Samson sleeping soundly by seven [how's that for alliteration?].
Kind of a nice break after the crowds at Thanksgiving. It really was great to see everyone, but all the attention and stimulation had Samson spinning like a top at the end of the day.
On Saturday we went to Duchess for lunch [trust me, the Big D cheeseburger is the way to go] and then to the nicest library on the planet. Their kids' section is bigger than our house, and it is probably nicer than half of the children's museums we've been to (it is certainly nicer than our house).
In keeping with our track record at the library, disaster struck. Maybe it was the Duchess, or perhaps some cosmic confluence of post-Thanksgiving dining and too many snacky things, but Samson took the mother of all poos in the "Little Farm" section of the kids area.
Little Farm, indeed.
Sadly, and I'm amazed that this hasn't happened before, neither of us checked the diaper bag before leaving the house, and so in actuality, the bag was a lie. No diapers. Just bag. Lots of snacks, two wallets, two cell phones, a sippy cup, a fleet of matchbox cars, and other assorted toys/distractions, but nary a diaper or wipe to be found. I felt a little like Richard III, except with Huggies, not horses.
Vicki and my sister headed out on foot to the nearest pharmacy [there were no other kids of similar size to Samson from whose parents we could "borrow" a diaper], while Greg and I played with King Stinky.
I'm not sure if the various people who crossed our path as we played thought that Sam had "two daddies" or were considering reporting us for child abuse because of Samson's Bhopal-like sillage, but just about everybody gave us a wide berth during those 20 or so minutes before the cavalry arrived and we could change the little man.
Interestingly enough, he was totally unfazed by the whole thing.
Which is either really Zen or really gross. I'm just not sure which.
Sam got to take the inaugural bath in Aunt Mo and Uncle Greg's newly remodeled bathroom, and we had a nice quiet Friday night with Chinese food and a movie and Samson sleeping soundly by seven [how's that for alliteration?].
Kind of a nice break after the crowds at Thanksgiving. It really was great to see everyone, but all the attention and stimulation had Samson spinning like a top at the end of the day.
On Saturday we went to Duchess for lunch [trust me, the Big D cheeseburger is the way to go] and then to the nicest library on the planet. Their kids' section is bigger than our house, and it is probably nicer than half of the children's museums we've been to (it is certainly nicer than our house).
In keeping with our track record at the library, disaster struck. Maybe it was the Duchess, or perhaps some cosmic confluence of post-Thanksgiving dining and too many snacky things, but Samson took the mother of all poos in the "Little Farm" section of the kids area.
Little Farm, indeed.
Sadly, and I'm amazed that this hasn't happened before, neither of us checked the diaper bag before leaving the house, and so in actuality, the bag was a lie. No diapers. Just bag. Lots of snacks, two wallets, two cell phones, a sippy cup, a fleet of matchbox cars, and other assorted toys/distractions, but nary a diaper or wipe to be found. I felt a little like Richard III, except with Huggies, not horses.
Vicki and my sister headed out on foot to the nearest pharmacy [there were no other kids of similar size to Samson from whose parents we could "borrow" a diaper], while Greg and I played with King Stinky.
I'm not sure if the various people who crossed our path as we played thought that Sam had "two daddies" or were considering reporting us for child abuse because of Samson's Bhopal-like sillage, but just about everybody gave us a wide berth during those 20 or so minutes before the cavalry arrived and we could change the little man.
Interestingly enough, he was totally unfazed by the whole thing.
Which is either really Zen or really gross. I'm just not sure which.
On the bus
Sometime around the middle of last week, Samson started saying "bus." But he doesn't just say it, he cries it out from the depths of his soul. He's like a little Paul Revere warning his countrymen of an impending British attack. Except it's just Vicki and me. And buses on our street.
The last letter gets extra emphasis and sibilance so that what you hear is more like "BUSSSSSSS."
Of course he can't say "truck," so basically anything bigger than our Subaru gets tagged with the bus moniker. You can imagine how often we heard this from the backseat while traveling on I-95. Strangely enough, it never gets old.
We drove home on Saturday night, figuring that he could sleep the whole way since we'd be on the road in the dark and during his normal bedtime hours.
Somewhere in southern Connecticut, we passed a bus depot. Thank God Sam was sleeping or he might have exploded.
The last letter gets extra emphasis and sibilance so that what you hear is more like "BUSSSSSSS."
Of course he can't say "truck," so basically anything bigger than our Subaru gets tagged with the bus moniker. You can imagine how often we heard this from the backseat while traveling on I-95. Strangely enough, it never gets old.
We drove home on Saturday night, figuring that he could sleep the whole way since we'd be on the road in the dark and during his normal bedtime hours.
Somewhere in southern Connecticut, we passed a bus depot. Thank God Sam was sleeping or he might have exploded.
11.27.2005
Early snow
On Thursday morning, we awoke to find three inches of snow on the ground. I don't know that Samson had any idea what was going on, but he definitely got caught up in how excited his mom and I were at the sight of snow. And then we remembered: We have not yet bought him snow boots. Or mittens. The mittens was a total oversight, and I take full responsibility. As for the boots, he's not walking yet, so we thought we could wait a bit.
I mean, it's not like we'd planned a snowshoeing trek and forgotten his boots.
In any event, we were able to borrow mittens (thank you, Lucas). And Vicki improvised with some plastic bags and rubber bands over his snow pants. Hardly the stuff of Norman Rockwell prints or L.L. Bean catalogue shots, but effective nonetheless.
As it turned out, he was much too happy in his cousin Lucas' sled to want to even try walking in the snow. You can't see from this picture, but he's smiling.
Uncle Greg tried to get Sam to taste some snow, but he was more interested in the plow coming up the road.
11.22.2005
Truckin'
We hit the road tomorrow morning for the annual feast and family get-together in Woodstock, NY.
Always a crowd at the table, and always a great time. Except for the brown acid.
This will be Samson's first trip to Woodstock as we were at my sister's in Connecticut last year. It's good to get back to the tradition, and I know Samson will have fun with his cousin Lucas.
There are few things as entertaining as watching two toddlers play around each other. The degree of busy-ness is unparalleled; they're like little beavers --- minus the engineering skills.
The blog has been light on photos lately, so I'll try to get some pics to post after the holiday.
Always a crowd at the table, and always a great time. Except for the brown acid.
This will be Samson's first trip to Woodstock as we were at my sister's in Connecticut last year. It's good to get back to the tradition, and I know Samson will have fun with his cousin Lucas.
There are few things as entertaining as watching two toddlers play around each other. The degree of busy-ness is unparalleled; they're like little beavers --- minus the engineering skills.
The blog has been light on photos lately, so I'll try to get some pics to post after the holiday.
11.21.2005
What would Michael Landon do?
When the time comes, I fear we may need to send Samson to school with two lunches and double milk money. He's like a magnet for toddler bullies. At Madelyn's party, I had noticed that while Samson was playing with some Sesame Street toy, a particular little girl was watching and waiting for the right moment to move in. You know how on those National Geographic specials, when you get that bucolic image of a zebra peacefully munching some grass and then the camera pans and you see a lion standing by patiently? It was sort of like that, except the zebra was wearing overalls and the lion was in a princess dress. Anyway, she made quick work of Samson, despite my best, measured Dad voice saying: "Can you both play with that toy? Can you share that with him?" Clearly she could not.
There's not much you can do in those situations --- especially when it's a kid you don't know. Because this little girl was Hitler-youth blonde and had icy blue eyes, I was reminded of Nellie Olsen. [Side note: I spent hours as a kid being forced to watch Little House on the Prairie; it didn't quite rise to the level of the Ludavico technique, but it has obviously had some lasting (and possibly unintended) consequences.]
In any event, I thought about how Pa would always counsel his kids to be good and kind and not fight with the Olsen kids, because even though they (the Ingalls) were just poor farmers and couldn't afford fancy calico clothes or vacations in Mancato, they still had dignity and were good, God-fearing people.
[Second side note: I have always been slightly suspicious of kids who are too blonde and blue-eyed. And no this is not an ironic statement. For the record, we are strawberry blondes in our house, and Samson's eyes are cerulean].
In any event, I maneuvered Samson away from Nellie in search of toys she didn't want to play/hit my child with. And I thought about how funny it is that parenthood gives one such a personal stake in interactions between kids that they themselves probably remember for only a few seconds and then totally forget. I also thought of the wisdom of Pa Ingalls in trying to keep his family above the fray.
Later on, when Samson was playing in the basement, he was standing and holding on to a keyboard toy Nellie was seated at and playing with. He wasn't trying to touch the toy or take over, he just needs something to hold onto for support while standing. I stood off to the side and watched Samson smile at her. And then I watched Nellie look at him and put her hand to his little shoulder and give him a good, hard shove.
He made his way over to me, not happy but not in tears. I picked him up and walked back over to the toy and Nellie. And I thought "What would Michael Landon do?"
So I leaned down and said, in my best Dad voice: "You know you really should share that toy. He wasn't trying to take it from you; he's just not as big as you are, and he needs help to stand up. Also, Santa's dead."
Ok, I didn't really say that last part.
At least, as far as you know.
There's not much you can do in those situations --- especially when it's a kid you don't know. Because this little girl was Hitler-youth blonde and had icy blue eyes, I was reminded of Nellie Olsen. [Side note: I spent hours as a kid being forced to watch Little House on the Prairie; it didn't quite rise to the level of the Ludavico technique, but it has obviously had some lasting (and possibly unintended) consequences.]
In any event, I thought about how Pa would always counsel his kids to be good and kind and not fight with the Olsen kids, because even though they (the Ingalls) were just poor farmers and couldn't afford fancy calico clothes or vacations in Mancato, they still had dignity and were good, God-fearing people.
[Second side note: I have always been slightly suspicious of kids who are too blonde and blue-eyed. And no this is not an ironic statement. For the record, we are strawberry blondes in our house, and Samson's eyes are cerulean].
In any event, I maneuvered Samson away from Nellie in search of toys she didn't want to play/hit my child with. And I thought about how funny it is that parenthood gives one such a personal stake in interactions between kids that they themselves probably remember for only a few seconds and then totally forget. I also thought of the wisdom of Pa Ingalls in trying to keep his family above the fray.
Later on, when Samson was playing in the basement, he was standing and holding on to a keyboard toy Nellie was seated at and playing with. He wasn't trying to touch the toy or take over, he just needs something to hold onto for support while standing. I stood off to the side and watched Samson smile at her. And then I watched Nellie look at him and put her hand to his little shoulder and give him a good, hard shove.
He made his way over to me, not happy but not in tears. I picked him up and walked back over to the toy and Nellie. And I thought "What would Michael Landon do?"
So I leaned down and said, in my best Dad voice: "You know you really should share that toy. He wasn't trying to take it from you; he's just not as big as you are, and he needs help to stand up. Also, Santa's dead."
Ok, I didn't really say that last part.
At least, as far as you know.
Side effects may include...
Samson is on a course of Motrin and amoxicillin for his ear infection. So far, so good. Sleeping just fine; back to his old chipper self.
We were at Samson's friend Madelyn's 2nd birthday party on Saturday. They live about an hour and a half away, and we figured it would be a good test run for the Thanksgiving trip to NY later this week. He slept most of the way, which was great, and awoke ready to play with the legion of toddlers assembled to honor Madelyn.
He was having a grand old time, although I can tell that the no-walking thing is starting to frustrate him --- especially in a room full of "big kids," all of whom can walk. I took him upstairs to change his diaper and noticed a big pink spot. Now I am not one of those dads with hard and fast rules on pink and boys, but pink in the diaper, regardless of gender, is never a good thing.
So we called his pediatrician, who indicated that indeed, discolored pee can be a side effect of either motrin or amoxicillin. Why this wouldn't be on the label, I can't imagine.
Pills designed to help you sleep come with warnings not to take them before driving or operating heavy machinery, but medicine for infants that could make them pee in Wonka colors somehow doesn't merit a line?
Weird.
We were at Samson's friend Madelyn's 2nd birthday party on Saturday. They live about an hour and a half away, and we figured it would be a good test run for the Thanksgiving trip to NY later this week. He slept most of the way, which was great, and awoke ready to play with the legion of toddlers assembled to honor Madelyn.
He was having a grand old time, although I can tell that the no-walking thing is starting to frustrate him --- especially in a room full of "big kids," all of whom can walk. I took him upstairs to change his diaper and noticed a big pink spot. Now I am not one of those dads with hard and fast rules on pink and boys, but pink in the diaper, regardless of gender, is never a good thing.
So we called his pediatrician, who indicated that indeed, discolored pee can be a side effect of either motrin or amoxicillin. Why this wouldn't be on the label, I can't imagine.
Pills designed to help you sleep come with warnings not to take them before driving or operating heavy machinery, but medicine for infants that could make them pee in Wonka colors somehow doesn't merit a line?
Weird.
11.18.2005
Up all night
Work has been busy; I had a paper due; I had a fractured molar that needed a crown (and required several visits to the dentist); and Samson has an ear infection.
Just wanted to get that all out there as a way of letting you know I haven't forgotten the blog; I just haven't had much time.
First things first: our usual Monday night trip to the library was totally uneventful until we got to the parking gate and I realized I had no cash in my wallet. The fee was 75 cents, and I had 35 in the ashtray of the car. The attendant gave me one of those "I can't help you" looks, and so I backed up the car, parked, got Samson back out of his carseat, and walked a few blocks to a 7-Eleven to use the ATM.
Mind you, it was a nice night out [this was before the cold front moved in], and it was totally my fault for not checking my wallet before using the library's garage. That said, did the guy in the booth really think I was trying to game him out of 40 cents? He probably that in coins on the floor of the booth. Not to mention the fact that he had to break a twenty, and I probably cleaned him out of all of his small bills. The moral of the story, of course, is this: park on the street. Also, the library may lend you its books, but make no mistake, parking is not free.
Truthfully, Samson and I kind of enjoyed the additional adventure; he was pretty mesmerized by the whirling slurpee machine.
Fast forward to the end of the week. The night before last, Samson woke up at 3:30 or so and was crying and totally listless. He couldn't get settled, and when Vicki brought him into bed with us he just lay on her like a little rag doll. Totally out of character.
Last night, he was running a fever and woke up at 2. He hadn't eaten much, and we thought, in addition to some Tylenol, we'd give him some food. So off we go to the kitchen at 2:30, and of course, he totally perks up. Not just eating but naming and taking inventory of everything in the kitchen ---the clock, apples, my nose, the tea kettle...
A long time ago, I read Bruce Chatwin's book the Songlines, which chronicles his walk across the Australian Outback following the ancient Aboriginal dreaming tracks. In the Aboriginal creation myth, in the dreamtime the ancestors walked across the land and sang the things they saw, thereby bringing them into being. I don't completely get it either, but Samson was in total Aboriginal mode last night, which was actually really sweet.
In any event, Vicki took him to the doctor this morning, and indeed the cold he was getting over has turned into an ear infection. So he'll need some rest and have to take some antibiotics, but he should be right as rain in a few days.
I'm glad we got the diagnosis. For one, because it breaks my heart to see him hurting. Also, given his behavior lately --- alternately crying and happy, withdrawn and clingy, hungry and fasting, obsessed with the phone and uninterested in communicating with us --- I was afraid he'd become possessed by the spirit of a teenage girl.
I'm really glad it's not that.
And yes, I've probably just pushed some karmic envelope that guarantees no more XY chromosome carriers born into our house, but it's good to know he's ok and on the mend.
Just wanted to get that all out there as a way of letting you know I haven't forgotten the blog; I just haven't had much time.
First things first: our usual Monday night trip to the library was totally uneventful until we got to the parking gate and I realized I had no cash in my wallet. The fee was 75 cents, and I had 35 in the ashtray of the car. The attendant gave me one of those "I can't help you" looks, and so I backed up the car, parked, got Samson back out of his carseat, and walked a few blocks to a 7-Eleven to use the ATM.
Mind you, it was a nice night out [this was before the cold front moved in], and it was totally my fault for not checking my wallet before using the library's garage. That said, did the guy in the booth really think I was trying to game him out of 40 cents? He probably that in coins on the floor of the booth. Not to mention the fact that he had to break a twenty, and I probably cleaned him out of all of his small bills. The moral of the story, of course, is this: park on the street. Also, the library may lend you its books, but make no mistake, parking is not free.
Truthfully, Samson and I kind of enjoyed the additional adventure; he was pretty mesmerized by the whirling slurpee machine.
Fast forward to the end of the week. The night before last, Samson woke up at 3:30 or so and was crying and totally listless. He couldn't get settled, and when Vicki brought him into bed with us he just lay on her like a little rag doll. Totally out of character.
Last night, he was running a fever and woke up at 2. He hadn't eaten much, and we thought, in addition to some Tylenol, we'd give him some food. So off we go to the kitchen at 2:30, and of course, he totally perks up. Not just eating but naming and taking inventory of everything in the kitchen ---the clock, apples, my nose, the tea kettle...
A long time ago, I read Bruce Chatwin's book the Songlines, which chronicles his walk across the Australian Outback following the ancient Aboriginal dreaming tracks. In the Aboriginal creation myth, in the dreamtime the ancestors walked across the land and sang the things they saw, thereby bringing them into being. I don't completely get it either, but Samson was in total Aboriginal mode last night, which was actually really sweet.
In any event, Vicki took him to the doctor this morning, and indeed the cold he was getting over has turned into an ear infection. So he'll need some rest and have to take some antibiotics, but he should be right as rain in a few days.
I'm glad we got the diagnosis. For one, because it breaks my heart to see him hurting. Also, given his behavior lately --- alternately crying and happy, withdrawn and clingy, hungry and fasting, obsessed with the phone and uninterested in communicating with us --- I was afraid he'd become possessed by the spirit of a teenage girl.
I'm really glad it's not that.
And yes, I've probably just pushed some karmic envelope that guarantees no more XY chromosome carriers born into our house, but it's good to know he's ok and on the mend.
11.13.2005
Saturday in the park with Sam
Way better than Sunday in the park with George. Trust me.
There was an arts festival at Quiet Waters State Park yesterday, and we got to hear some music and check out some local artists' work. The park extends down to the South River, so we were able to take Samson down there to look at the sailboats and, in what would be the highlight of his day, climb the hill that overlooks the dog beach.
Mind you, he still can't walk on his own, but something about this hill made him want to climb. And climb. And climb again. He would get to the top and simply turn around and start back down, walking in a kind of Mr. Magoo-like frenzy until we reached the trail's edge --- at which point he probably would have kept right on walking into the river had Vicki or I not been holding his hands.
Today we figured that it might be a good idea, since he's really starting to want to walk, to get him a real pair of shoes. Those Robeez are cute and all, but they're more like slippers than shoes. Slippers with dumptrucks on them, sure, but still no hard sole. So we went today and learned that young Samson has a wide foot. This news came just moments after I wondered aloud why a kids' store would stock wide sizes, as noted on their display. Apparently our little guy has Fred Flintstone feet.
In any event, he's now got these cool brown boots, size 3 1/2. Wide.
He's also got a new game to play while in his carseat. We'll have to start double-knotting.
ps: I almost forgot: It never got above 55 degrees yesterday, and while we were with Samson and enjoying his forced march, there were only a few dogs playing in the water.
There was also a kid, probably nine years old, who was soaked from jumping into the water after these dogs --- none of whom, it turned out, were his.
When the beach emptied of its canine cohort, just this kid and his dad and sister were left, and I heard the Dad say, "C'mon Kyle, you're soaked. Let's head back to the car and get you warmed up."
Vicki doesn't believe me, but I know what I heard.
11.10.2005
Coffee shops vs toddlers
Thought I'd pass this along. I'm not sure what to think about the article [you'll need to complete free registration at NYTimes.com to read it], but it's worth reading.
On the one hand, I agree with the business owners and patrons who are frustrated by parents who seem to feel that the price of coffee and a muffin entitles them to community daycare (i.e., Here's my ill-mannered progeny, mind watching him while I drink this latte and read the paper? I'll be in the back). Even worse, in my mind, are the sit-down correcters --- those parents who call in plays from the sidelines rather than actually getting up from their coffee and paper to stop their child from kindling a small fire near the magazine rack.
On the other hand, some of the incidents recounted in the piece, particularly the one from the self-described feminist bookstore that asked a breastfeeding mother to leave, seem to defy both belief and common-sense.
Of course it's no fun to have to listen to a toddler crying while you drink your coffee. But it's also no fun to have to listen to some middle management investment banker master-of-the-universe-type declaim how drunk he was the night before on his cell phone. However, nobody seems to be putting up signs about this.
I worked for a while at a coffee bar, which is a great spot for observing the human condition. Among the more pernicious effects of the show Friends --- aside from the apparent nosferatu nature of the Joey character [this guy has been on TV almost as long as Cronkite at this point] --- would have to be the idea that coffee shops are places to spend a whole day.
In the world of television, this is pretty benign because it means a bunch of telegenic twenty-somethings hanging out and essentially extending dorm life into the "real world."
In the actual "real world," as anyone who has ever worn an apron and made espresso drinks for 8-hour shifts can tell you, what this translates to is a kind of day camp for the socially retarded, who come, spend $1.50 on coffee, dismantle the entire Sunday Times without purchasing it, and generally prove Newton's first law.
I'll take unruly toddlers over these people any day.
On the one hand, I agree with the business owners and patrons who are frustrated by parents who seem to feel that the price of coffee and a muffin entitles them to community daycare (i.e., Here's my ill-mannered progeny, mind watching him while I drink this latte and read the paper? I'll be in the back). Even worse, in my mind, are the sit-down correcters --- those parents who call in plays from the sidelines rather than actually getting up from their coffee and paper to stop their child from kindling a small fire near the magazine rack.
On the other hand, some of the incidents recounted in the piece, particularly the one from the self-described feminist bookstore that asked a breastfeeding mother to leave, seem to defy both belief and common-sense.
Of course it's no fun to have to listen to a toddler crying while you drink your coffee. But it's also no fun to have to listen to some middle management investment banker master-of-the-universe-type declaim how drunk he was the night before on his cell phone. However, nobody seems to be putting up signs about this.
I worked for a while at a coffee bar, which is a great spot for observing the human condition. Among the more pernicious effects of the show Friends --- aside from the apparent nosferatu nature of the Joey character [this guy has been on TV almost as long as Cronkite at this point] --- would have to be the idea that coffee shops are places to spend a whole day.
In the world of television, this is pretty benign because it means a bunch of telegenic twenty-somethings hanging out and essentially extending dorm life into the "real world."
In the actual "real world," as anyone who has ever worn an apron and made espresso drinks for 8-hour shifts can tell you, what this translates to is a kind of day camp for the socially retarded, who come, spend $1.50 on coffee, dismantle the entire Sunday Times without purchasing it, and generally prove Newton's first law.
I'll take unruly toddlers over these people any day.
Science!
I spent half of my day yesterday at the dentist re-enacting scenes from Marathon Man (actually, not really, my dentist is very nice, but she still managed to leave me in a good deal of pain for the next 12 hours).
I got back to the office only to find that my parking lot was full, which left me on my own to find parking on the street. Frustrating, to say the least. Not to mention the fact that there are a dozen or so spots that remain empty and reserved for God knows who. I pointed this out to the parking lot attendant, but, as I learned, it's extremely difficult to convey sarcasm when half of your face is paralyzed by novocaine.
In any event, Samson continues to produce enough snot to merit his own Garbage Pail Kid card, but he is otherwise doing just fine. Yesterday he and his crew went to the Science Center. I haven't had much time to write lately, so I wanted to at least post some photos from their little field trip.
And yes, I'm jealous. The most interesting thing that happened at my office yesterday was a fire drill. Don't get me wrong, it was nice to be outside in the autumn sunshine, but I would much rather have been playing in the water tables with Sam and co.
11.07.2005
The song (unfortunately) remains the same
Samson has some kind of stomach bug. Poor little guy; I came home to find him curled up on Vicki looking absolutely pathetic. And yet, despite his low-grade fever and general malaise, he still felt compelled to point out the cat to me and gravely intone: "tatt." Even when he's not sick, he's not even close to walking. I think he's focusing all of his energy on acting as our in-house narrator.
Vicki has class on Monday nights, and I knew Samson was pretty much ready for bed by 5:30, so we went into his room to read some books and sing a few songs. He's pretty good about sitting still and reading, but there are times when only a song seems to have the power to calm him down. Especially when he is overtired or sick. Then, nothing seems to settle him like a good refrain of the "Down by the station" song. Unfortunately, it's a two-verse song, which means that on a night like this, I could conceivably sing it over 100 times. Which, especially when he's not feeling well, is the least I can do. And he has started singing along during the "puff, puff, toot, toot" part. I wish you could hear his little voice and see the look on his face as he waits for the line to come around. Absolutely priceless.
Even so, as I was singing to him, I was thinking tonight of an interview I'd heard with Robert Plant and Jimmy Page. They were talking about how they'd stand backstage before a show and try to convince each other to play "Stairway to Heaven" reggae-style just to mix things up a bit.
They never did, of course.
And a reggae-version of "Down by the station" is just too ridiculous to even consider, but I think you understand what I'm saying.
Vicki has class on Monday nights, and I knew Samson was pretty much ready for bed by 5:30, so we went into his room to read some books and sing a few songs. He's pretty good about sitting still and reading, but there are times when only a song seems to have the power to calm him down. Especially when he is overtired or sick. Then, nothing seems to settle him like a good refrain of the "Down by the station" song. Unfortunately, it's a two-verse song, which means that on a night like this, I could conceivably sing it over 100 times. Which, especially when he's not feeling well, is the least I can do. And he has started singing along during the "puff, puff, toot, toot" part. I wish you could hear his little voice and see the look on his face as he waits for the line to come around. Absolutely priceless.
Even so, as I was singing to him, I was thinking tonight of an interview I'd heard with Robert Plant and Jimmy Page. They were talking about how they'd stand backstage before a show and try to convince each other to play "Stairway to Heaven" reggae-style just to mix things up a bit.
They never did, of course.
And a reggae-version of "Down by the station" is just too ridiculous to even consider, but I think you understand what I'm saying.
11.04.2005
Advice from the homefront
File this under "found art." I got an e-mail from Vicki this morning with the subject line: Advice.
Samson pooped.
A lot.
We are unexpectedly out of wipes.
Toilet paper doesn't work well on sticky poo stuck to bottom.
Spit doesn't moisten toilet paper enough.
Antibacterial gel makes his bottom cold.
Aquaphor makes his bottom sticky.
Holding him over the sink half-naked to wash him clean makes both of us
very unhappy.
Advice: don't ever run out of wipes.
Samson pooped.
A lot.
We are unexpectedly out of wipes.
Toilet paper doesn't work well on sticky poo stuck to bottom.
Spit doesn't moisten toilet paper enough.
Antibacterial gel makes his bottom cold.
Aquaphor makes his bottom sticky.
Holding him over the sink half-naked to wash him clean makes both of us
very unhappy.
Advice: don't ever run out of wipes.
11.03.2005
Lexicon
Samson has added a new word to his repertoire: baby.
This is probably the first word that doesn't require being related to him to interpret, and as you can imagine, we're very proud. It is hilarious to watch him, as I did last night, point to a child who is roughly his age, give a kind of sideways wave, and proclaim "bay-bee."
This is probably the first word that doesn't require being related to him to interpret, and as you can imagine, we're very proud. It is hilarious to watch him, as I did last night, point to a child who is roughly his age, give a kind of sideways wave, and proclaim "bay-bee."
11.02.2005
Guys night out
Vicki is a little under the weather, so I skipped class tonight to come home and help out. What she really needed was some rest, so Samson and I went out to eat. It was awesome; we had Chipotle, and miracle of miracles, no food ended up on the floor. Maybe we just need to eat all our meals there. I bet Uncle Greg would join us...
I want very much to teach my son to be kind, to be compassionate and patient. I bring this up because the woman in front of us on line, when placing her order, was offered a choice of pinto or black beans, and she asked which ones were which. The guy behind the counter, to his credit, simply pointed to the pintos, identified them as such, and then pointed to the black beans and did likewise. Now, I know that pinto is not among Crayola's chosen 64, but it seems like the black bean identification would be somewhat intuitive.
In any event, I resisted the temptation to be "helpful," for Samson's sake, so high fives all around. What do I mean by helpful, you ask?
When I was still working downtown, I got in an elevator one evening and pressed the button for the first floor. On the next floor, someone I didn't know got in and pressed the same button (which was already lit from my having pressed it) several times. He did so after a stop on the next floor, when nobody got on, and the door had closed again. I offered --- helpfully I thought --- this observation: "that button doesn't get any brighter." No response, but a half-scowl for my elevator tip.
I think it's worth noting that my father's joy at becoming a grandfather was probably matched only by the prospect of watching the karmic wise guy wheel begin a new revolution.
I want very much to teach my son to be kind, to be compassionate and patient. I bring this up because the woman in front of us on line, when placing her order, was offered a choice of pinto or black beans, and she asked which ones were which. The guy behind the counter, to his credit, simply pointed to the pintos, identified them as such, and then pointed to the black beans and did likewise. Now, I know that pinto is not among Crayola's chosen 64, but it seems like the black bean identification would be somewhat intuitive.
In any event, I resisted the temptation to be "helpful," for Samson's sake, so high fives all around. What do I mean by helpful, you ask?
When I was still working downtown, I got in an elevator one evening and pressed the button for the first floor. On the next floor, someone I didn't know got in and pressed the same button (which was already lit from my having pressed it) several times. He did so after a stop on the next floor, when nobody got on, and the door had closed again. I offered --- helpfully I thought --- this observation: "that button doesn't get any brighter." No response, but a half-scowl for my elevator tip.
I think it's worth noting that my father's joy at becoming a grandfather was probably matched only by the prospect of watching the karmic wise guy wheel begin a new revolution.
11.01.2005
Halloween recap
I convinced Vicki to cut her class last night so we could take Samson trick-or-treating with his friends Jake and O, the giraffe and frog, respectively. Our little plush menagerie hit all of three houses before the boys collectively gave up, but I think given the circumstances (time change, strangers in their faces, not being able to eat what they got), we did just fine.
Poor Samson is probably glad to see Halloween come and go; he's worn that lion costume more than he's worn some of his pajamas at this point.
And the fact that he hated wearing the lion headpiece might actually be a blessing in disguise. His feline headgear antipathy might just save us a voice mail like this in the future: "Hi Mom and Dad. Just wanted to call with some good news: I've gotten the lead in a dinner theater revival of Cats! I'm Rum-Tum-Tugger. Isn't that fantastic? I'll send you guys comp tickets once we're out of rehearsal. Also, when you come you should try the prime rib --- it's very good."
10.31.2005
What's in a name?
Samson had a Halloween parade on Friday at the little gym he goes to, and I got to go and witness 30 or so kids ranging in age from 1 to 3 in their costumes wandering around a padded room with trampolines and uneven bars. It was total chaos, right down to "The Monster Mash" playing in the background.
Actually, it was terrific; the staff were great with the kids, and most of the parents seemed pretty in tune with what their kids were doing and where they were --- always a big concern for me since Samson is usually one of the only nonwalkers at events like these.
As we made our way around the gym and Samson generally got to climb everything in sight, he got stepped on by a kid wearing a Monster's Inc. costume. He wasn't hurt; in fact, I'm not sure he even noticed, but I heard the kid's mom say, "Be careful, Kyle; watch out for the baby."
Of course, Samson is practically hyperthermic in his little lion costume from all the climbing, and he's smiling up at Kyle the baby stomper, who is standing, unrepentant, watching me to see if he should step around Sam or on him.
I picked Samson up and ended the suspense. The goodness and trust in that little smile is enough to break your heart.
But it also got me thinking. I've only known a few Kyles in my life, and their track record is uniformly unimpressive. When I was three, Kyle who lived down the block used to put dog poo on a stick and chase all the neighborhood kids threatening "Cocky!" I still hate that word, even when it's used appropriately (i.e., adjectivally) and not in stick-wielding poo context.
In junior high, there was a Kyle who had seen Fast Times and had some kind of Saul on the road to Damascus moment. Almost overnight, he went from a pretty unremarkable kid who blended in with the rest of the eighth grade to a Jeff Spicoli mini-me. Had we grown up in Venice (that's Dogtown to you, Kyle), that might have been an almost inevitable transition. But on Long Island?
And while the whole thing can't be blamed on him, Kyle MacLachlan certainly didn't do much to help keep Dune from being simultaneously bad and incomprehensible. He's also got "The Flintstones" and "Showgirls" on his resume. I rest my case.
Now I know someone out there knows a Kyle who is cool. But this Kyle is different you'll say; he's a good guy.
To which I say, good for you: Start an I love Kyle blog.
But my theory stands. Unless some guy named Kyle comes up and steps on it, smears it with dog poo, calls me "bud," and then kills some Harkonnens using only his mind.
Then it's a fact.
Not quite the gas face
Thank you to the four people who remember the song by 3rd Bass. The rest of you can catch the vapors.
So what's up with that goofy smile on Samson's face? Pop rocks. Or, more accurately, pop rock. We had an 80s style Halloween party and still have some candy left over. Vicki thought Sam might get a kick out of having a pop rock on his tongue. I think she was right. He was a little confused at first, but how can you go wrong with carbonation and sugar?
A sight rarer than Sasquatch
Samson James in a hat. This almost never happens.
And when it does, just like with Sasquatch, there's almost never a camera handy.
Of course he threw this hat to the ground almost immediately after the photo was taken, but minor victories are victories nonetheless.
10.26.2005
32 feet per second per second
It was bound to happen sooner or later: Samson fell off the bed. I got a voice mail at work from Vicki, who had sat him on our bed while trying to get dressed. Why not put him on the floor, you ask. Because he's started trying to climb into our dresser --- a trick I'm pretty sure he learned from the cat. [That's all we need is some kind of collaborationist initiative between the two little mammals in our house.]
She was half-pantsed and moving toward him when he moved to the edge and loosed the surly bonds. Poor little guy. Apparently he bounced right back (no pun intended) and was content to continue watching his Teletubbies from the floor. I almost feel worse for Vicki; I know I wouldn't want to have to witness Samson as physics experiment.
I can still vaguely recall being about 2 and climbing on the Winnie the Pooh in my crib to see what would happen if I really leaned over the edge. I am also unable to fly.
She was half-pantsed and moving toward him when he moved to the edge and loosed the surly bonds. Poor little guy. Apparently he bounced right back (no pun intended) and was content to continue watching his Teletubbies from the floor. I almost feel worse for Vicki; I know I wouldn't want to have to witness Samson as physics experiment.
I can still vaguely recall being about 2 and climbing on the Winnie the Pooh in my crib to see what would happen if I really leaned over the edge. I am also unable to fly.
10.25.2005
Veritas
We made a quick trip to the library last night to return some books and check out some new ones. Samson got to play at the train table for a little bit, but he kept taking the train and banging it on the table, which drew some stern looks from the children's librarian so we moved on.
The gated toddler room, scene of previous strange encounters, did not disappoint last night. Although there were no feral two-year-olds or random outbursts of book licking. Last night's encounter came courtesy of the other adult in the area. This dad was sitting watching his son play on the slide and struck up a conversation with me about how great it was that the library had this area for kids, etc. All of which I replied to politely, but I'll be honest, I'm not really big on talking to strangers. Particularly strange men in rooms with little kids. I know, I know, he was the kid's dad, but even so.
I've long wished there were some universal hand sign for "please stop talking to me, you're making me uncomfortable." Kind of like the choking sign but infinitely more useful on a daily basis.
In any event, there was no way out of conversation with this guy, who looked like a combination of Buddy Holly and Michael Douglas in "Falling Down." He asked how old Samson was, and I said 13 months. He said his son was 2. He asked if Samson could walk, and I replied no. He then asked about crawling, and I said yes. Then, in what was a capstone to an already awkward conversation, he took out a picture of his son from his wallet to show me what his son looked like at 13 months. Mind you, this was the same son who was standing not four feet from us.
At this point, Samson is getting hungry and tired, and I'm just trying to grab some books without looking like I'm obviously trying to get away from this guy. I'm sure a more careful selection would not have yielded a book about vegetable soup, but it does have lots of bright colors. And besides, it could have been worse.
So we're finally ready to go, and the guy asks me what Sam's name is. For the briefest of moments, I actually thought about saying "Diego" because the guy was just so weird. But I could just picture Vicki at the library in the near future and this guy coming up to her and saying "oh, you must be Diego's mom."
So I told the truth, and damn the luck, his son's name is Sam as well. So we got to talk about that, and Samson versus Samuel [no contest, it's Samson in a walk every time].
If not for Vicki, I'm almost sure I would have lied. I once spent a year at my old gym answering to the name "Chris" because I'd missed the window of opportunity to inform a guy who worked out there that my name was not, in fact, Chris. I would actually sign up for the cardio machine with the name "Christian." [For some reason, I never felt like a Christopher].
But, of course, it might also have confused Samson. There's no telling what he recalls at this point. Which is not good, because in the middle of singing the "Itsy Bitsy Spider" in the car yesterday this Chevy Gigundo (or whatever their school-bus sized SUV is called) cut us off. Without thinking, and in mid-song, I said "hey thanks, assface." Let's hope that's not something he thinks is part of the song.
In any event, we finally got through the gate and to the check out counter. I felt like Andy Dufresne.
The gated toddler room, scene of previous strange encounters, did not disappoint last night. Although there were no feral two-year-olds or random outbursts of book licking. Last night's encounter came courtesy of the other adult in the area. This dad was sitting watching his son play on the slide and struck up a conversation with me about how great it was that the library had this area for kids, etc. All of which I replied to politely, but I'll be honest, I'm not really big on talking to strangers. Particularly strange men in rooms with little kids. I know, I know, he was the kid's dad, but even so.
I've long wished there were some universal hand sign for "please stop talking to me, you're making me uncomfortable." Kind of like the choking sign but infinitely more useful on a daily basis.
In any event, there was no way out of conversation with this guy, who looked like a combination of Buddy Holly and Michael Douglas in "Falling Down." He asked how old Samson was, and I said 13 months. He said his son was 2. He asked if Samson could walk, and I replied no. He then asked about crawling, and I said yes. Then, in what was a capstone to an already awkward conversation, he took out a picture of his son from his wallet to show me what his son looked like at 13 months. Mind you, this was the same son who was standing not four feet from us.
At this point, Samson is getting hungry and tired, and I'm just trying to grab some books without looking like I'm obviously trying to get away from this guy. I'm sure a more careful selection would not have yielded a book about vegetable soup, but it does have lots of bright colors. And besides, it could have been worse.
So we're finally ready to go, and the guy asks me what Sam's name is. For the briefest of moments, I actually thought about saying "Diego" because the guy was just so weird. But I could just picture Vicki at the library in the near future and this guy coming up to her and saying "oh, you must be Diego's mom."
So I told the truth, and damn the luck, his son's name is Sam as well. So we got to talk about that, and Samson versus Samuel [no contest, it's Samson in a walk every time].
If not for Vicki, I'm almost sure I would have lied. I once spent a year at my old gym answering to the name "Chris" because I'd missed the window of opportunity to inform a guy who worked out there that my name was not, in fact, Chris. I would actually sign up for the cardio machine with the name "Christian." [For some reason, I never felt like a Christopher].
But, of course, it might also have confused Samson. There's no telling what he recalls at this point. Which is not good, because in the middle of singing the "Itsy Bitsy Spider" in the car yesterday this Chevy Gigundo (or whatever their school-bus sized SUV is called) cut us off. Without thinking, and in mid-song, I said "hey thanks, assface." Let's hope that's not something he thinks is part of the song.
In any event, we finally got through the gate and to the check out counter. I felt like Andy Dufresne.
10.24.2005
Halloween preview
Yesterday, in addition to being a perfect fall day, was the ZooBoo festival. Samson was probably more interested in watching all the kids than in looking at the animals, but we had a great time and even got to see the penguins getting fed.
By the way, based on my totally unscientific sample, boys named Ian and Jordan need constant reminders to stop touching things.
Also overheard yesterday while we were at the farm exhibit:
Dad: See those chickens?
Boy: They're ugly.
Dad: That's what they look like before you eat them.
Boy: I only eat the leg.
Just in case you're wondering, I have no idea how we got him to keep the hat on for so long, but he wore it for most of the time we were at the zoo. Keep your fingers crossed for next Monday.
10.21.2005
Throwdown
Apparently I spoke too soon. Food is still being thrown with all the fury of Zeus atop Mt. Olympus. Last night's attempt at dinner was accompanied by fistfulls of everything from the tray being sent south. Word is that lunch was eerily similar.
Although now that I think about it, this is not relegated only to meals, as his crib toys, books, and anything else he can get his hands on is shortly sent sailing.
Hopefully he grows out of this. Just in case, we may want to send a note with him for his kindergarten teacher. I know in Mrs. Griffin's class, we had a guinea pig...
Unfortunately, the mid-week warmth gave way to cold and rain, and we woke this morning to find our kitchen crawling with ants. We've never had an ant problem before, and so part of me wants to blame it on the weather. Of course, no cold snap can truly do the work of stray Cheerios and cookie pieces, but there were very few crumbs on the floor. Really.
In any event, we had a thirty-minute murder fest in the kitchen and the dining room, using among other things, bare feet (mine, not Vicki's, who thought it was gross --- c'mon, it's not like we had lobsters crawling around the floor), the dustbuster, and some kind of countertop cleaning spray that served not only to drown the ants but restore our floor to its original luster. High fives all around.
Poor Samson, of course, had to ride shotgun the whole time and so got the hipside view of pest control before he could get settled into his highchair and begin throwing his breakfast around.
On a personal note, I think the soft thud of banana on wood is one of the sadder breakfast sounds. No bounce, no reverb, just a dull thump as if it was half-expecting to be dropped all along.
Although now that I think about it, this is not relegated only to meals, as his crib toys, books, and anything else he can get his hands on is shortly sent sailing.
Hopefully he grows out of this. Just in case, we may want to send a note with him for his kindergarten teacher. I know in Mrs. Griffin's class, we had a guinea pig...
Unfortunately, the mid-week warmth gave way to cold and rain, and we woke this morning to find our kitchen crawling with ants. We've never had an ant problem before, and so part of me wants to blame it on the weather. Of course, no cold snap can truly do the work of stray Cheerios and cookie pieces, but there were very few crumbs on the floor. Really.
In any event, we had a thirty-minute murder fest in the kitchen and the dining room, using among other things, bare feet (mine, not Vicki's, who thought it was gross --- c'mon, it's not like we had lobsters crawling around the floor), the dustbuster, and some kind of countertop cleaning spray that served not only to drown the ants but restore our floor to its original luster. High fives all around.
Poor Samson, of course, had to ride shotgun the whole time and so got the hipside view of pest control before he could get settled into his highchair and begin throwing his breakfast around.
On a personal note, I think the soft thud of banana on wood is one of the sadder breakfast sounds. No bounce, no reverb, just a dull thump as if it was half-expecting to be dropped all along.
10.20.2005
Should we call Zagat's?
There's been a subtle shift in dining preference in our house. Slowly but surely, Samson is moving away from the floor-based selections and opting for the food in his lap.
No matter how close in we put the highchair tray, he still manages to lose some food to his lap. Which he then, despite the abundance of food on his tray, hunts down and eats. Even so, I never take him out of the highchair without a corresponding cascade of crumbs [how's that for a nice alliteration?]
Lord only knows what his size 12-18M corduroys lend to pieces of scrambled egg or strawberry, but I'm sensing a trend.
In what may be a related development, we've also noticed he likes the goldfish crackers that have somehow found their way under him in the stroller.
No matter how close in we put the highchair tray, he still manages to lose some food to his lap. Which he then, despite the abundance of food on his tray, hunts down and eats. Even so, I never take him out of the highchair without a corresponding cascade of crumbs [how's that for a nice alliteration?]
Lord only knows what his size 12-18M corduroys lend to pieces of scrambled egg or strawberry, but I'm sensing a trend.
In what may be a related development, we've also noticed he likes the goldfish crackers that have somehow found their way under him in the stroller.
10.18.2005
X and O
At some point in the last few days, Samson figured out how to give hugs and kisses.
He's also been saying "Mama" nonstop, which thrills Vicki to no end --- although she seemed less than thrilled at 4:30 this morning when we heard it. [I think it's axiomatic that almost nothing is cute at 4:30 in the morning.]
Essentially a hug means he grabs your carotid artery and rests his head on your shoulder. Sort of like a cute and snuggly version of Mr. Spock's signature move.
And a kiss, as you can imagine, is a big wet circle on your cheek.
It makes me smile just thinking about it.
10.17.2005
Gang of 9
Yesterday was the one-year, all-in, playgroup-palooza birthday celebration in honor of all the kids in Samson's playgroup. We went to a place called Rebounders, which despite sounding like a singles bar in Key West (or worse yet, a Jimmy Buffet song about the bar), was actually a little gym/tumbling/sing-a-long place. The woman in charge looked and sounded a little like Zelda from Pet Sematary. Which no one picked up on; consequently, I was the only one terrified by her rendition of "Itsy Bitsy Spider" and "Skin-a-Ma-rink." Even so, it was pretty cool.
I don't know if you've ever watched nine one-year-olds "play together," but it is fascinating. For minutes on end, each kid operates in total oblivion to anyone around him or her. It's sort of like those contestant waiting lines during the American Idol auditions. But less gay.
Occasionally, however, someone makes contact, and it's on. I saw at least half a dozen spontaneous crawl races, and I can't even count how many little fingers poked little eyes, ears, and noses belonging to other little people. Good times.
It was fun to meet some of the other parents, and I really enjoy watching how Samson acts in a crowd. He isn't shy, but he has these moments where he just goes off on his own and sits and observes the other kids. It's funny and endearing, and I get to see a side of him we rarely see at home. Maybe he'll be his generation's David Halberstam.
Better yet, maybe he'll be the next Kwai Chang Caine. Starting tomorrow, I'm calling him grasshopper.
Peter Parker redux
Somebody call J. Jonah Jameson. We've discovered the real truth behind Samson's climbiness.
We had actually thought of using these pjs for his Halloween costume, but we thought we'd be accused (rightfully) of phoning it in. That said, he won't wear anything with a hat, a hood, a mask, or, truth be told, socks. We practically have to chloroform him just to wipe his nose, so I can't even imagine what face paint would require. Probably some kind of Han Solo carbon-freezing apparatus.
Too bad Halloween isn't in July; we could dress him up like Bamm Bamm. He's got a little tee-ball set (thanks Uncle Tim) and already "bams" like a champ.
From the people who brought you Heart of Darkness
Belgium, the country whose King Leopold II actually owned the Congo and used it as a personal plantation for rubber and ivory, is running a series of ads from UNICEF to demonstrate the horrors of war.
How to convey these horrors? Footage of child soldiers in Liberia? Images of atrocities from Darfur? First-person accounts of northern Ugandan kids known as night commuters?
Nope, the ad agency, which sadly is probably right in assuming that all of this stuff has little, if any, impact on viewers any more, decided to go in a totally different direction. Smurfs.
I wish I was kidding.
Now I'm certainly not against raising money for UNICEF; I think they do great work (and I always give the kids with UNICEF boxes extra candy when they come trick-or-treating). And I'm definitely not against raising awareness of what war is doing to kids around the world who, owing to some cosmic geographic crap shoot, were born into war zones.
But it is depressing to think that the only way to shock people into paying attention is by carpet-bombing a Smurf village.
I'm less worried about what these images will do to kids [after all, I can remember being a kid and rooting for somebody to silence that stupid singing] than what it says about adults.
How to convey these horrors? Footage of child soldiers in Liberia? Images of atrocities from Darfur? First-person accounts of northern Ugandan kids known as night commuters?
Nope, the ad agency, which sadly is probably right in assuming that all of this stuff has little, if any, impact on viewers any more, decided to go in a totally different direction. Smurfs.
I wish I was kidding.
Now I'm certainly not against raising money for UNICEF; I think they do great work (and I always give the kids with UNICEF boxes extra candy when they come trick-or-treating). And I'm definitely not against raising awareness of what war is doing to kids around the world who, owing to some cosmic geographic crap shoot, were born into war zones.
But it is depressing to think that the only way to shock people into paying attention is by carpet-bombing a Smurf village.
I'm less worried about what these images will do to kids [after all, I can remember being a kid and rooting for somebody to silence that stupid singing] than what it says about adults.
10.13.2005
Does anyone have ESPN's phone number?
We were out to dinner the other night with Vicki's aunt and uncle, and at one point Samson got a hold of the little paper tab that holds the rolled-up napkin and the silverware inside. Lord only knows what it's called in the industry, but for our sake, let's call it a Vigoda --- something that seems inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but without which, things fall apart. [Be honest: Barney Miller would have been nothing without Fish.]
In any event, in less than the time it took for me to say, "Samson, don't eat that" and reach across the table, he had nearly eaten it.
Now, I'm not a rodeo guy, but I've seen them on TV, and I know the whole point is to see how long a rider can last before being thrown. I bet the same principle could apply to the whole "don't eat that/take that out of your mouth" scenario that happens daily in houses around the world. So I came up with something I'd like to call the Toddler Non-Food Rodeo or TONFRO. [I'm working on a logo.]
The idea is pretty simple really. Take a toddler, put him in proximity of something he is not supposed to put in his mouth --- rug fuzz, car keys, Scooter Libby's letter to Judith Miller --- and then start the clock to see how long it takes for said object to get within inches of his mouth.
I think people would not only watch this, but I can see them betting on it. Different objects could carry different odds, and the kid with the least interest in eating what he's not supposed to is the winner. Which is true anyway. So there's an upside for everyone.
Obviously there would be a safety team there to keep things from actually being eaten, and prize winnings could go into a college fund to keep parents honest.
And I'm sure we could get sponsors like Earth's Best, in the interest of equal time for things that should be eaten.
We could even go NASCAR with it and have the kids wear onesies with their sponsors' logos.
TONFRO. You heard it here first.
In any event, in less than the time it took for me to say, "Samson, don't eat that" and reach across the table, he had nearly eaten it.
Now, I'm not a rodeo guy, but I've seen them on TV, and I know the whole point is to see how long a rider can last before being thrown. I bet the same principle could apply to the whole "don't eat that/take that out of your mouth" scenario that happens daily in houses around the world. So I came up with something I'd like to call the Toddler Non-Food Rodeo or TONFRO. [I'm working on a logo.]
The idea is pretty simple really. Take a toddler, put him in proximity of something he is not supposed to put in his mouth --- rug fuzz, car keys, Scooter Libby's letter to Judith Miller --- and then start the clock to see how long it takes for said object to get within inches of his mouth.
I think people would not only watch this, but I can see them betting on it. Different objects could carry different odds, and the kid with the least interest in eating what he's not supposed to is the winner. Which is true anyway. So there's an upside for everyone.
Obviously there would be a safety team there to keep things from actually being eaten, and prize winnings could go into a college fund to keep parents honest.
And I'm sure we could get sponsors like Earth's Best, in the interest of equal time for things that should be eaten.
We could even go NASCAR with it and have the kids wear onesies with their sponsors' logos.
TONFRO. You heard it here first.
Tickle-me Samson
Hearing Samson laugh is one of the highlights of my day. Especially when that laugh is attached to a game of chase or tickling.
Turnabout being fair play, he's started trying to tickle us, which also makes him laugh wildly. His tickling is less like actual tickling, though, and more like the opening maneuvers of a rikishi. He's been known to "tickle" Vicki's glasses right off of her head.
Yesterday, while he was with his friends, he kept trying to tickle them. Of course, he was sitting in the red wagon and so was straining against the little seat belt to reach his objets d'tickle, but I think you understand his level of commitment.
He also thinks the cat is ticklish. And the dishwasher.
To be honest, I'm not sure the cat isn't ticklish, but I'm pretty sure he has no chance of being bitten by the dishwasher.
Gratuitous Sam pic
Clearly the farmers' market made a big impression on young Samson. He's gone Green Acres on us.
Actually, he went pumpkin picking with his friends yesterday. More on this later...
10.12.2005
At the farmers' market
Sunday morning, downtown at the farmers' market. Fresh seasonal fruits and vegetables, live music, an earnest socialist trying to give away copies of the party newspaper, and a stand that makes donuts.
Could there be a better way to spend a cool fall morning?
10.11.2005
Peter Parker
Not a new trick, but recently a more persistent one.
He's also tried this on the bookcase in the living room, the rocking chair in his room, the wine rack, and basically anything else in the house that is taller than he is and offers even a hint of a foothold.
We've been checking the house for radioactive spiders.
10.08.2005
Cue the Delilah jokes
Samson had his first haircut today, which actually went pretty well. I'm not saying he wants to do it again tomorrow, but he did a good job. We had a 20-minute wait, and so I think he got a feel for the whole barbershop experience --- although he didn't seem very interested in the back issues of Field & Stream. And he was totally uninterested in Mr. Charlie's Big-Mouth Bass. He likes trucks and cats and big kids. Anthropomorphic wall hangings singing old Motown tunes? Sam doesn't play that game.
Afterward, we went to the bagel place next door for a treat; I think we all needed some round bread and cream cheese.
Two questions:
1. Doesn't he look older with his hair cut? Seriously, he does.
2. I didn't get my hair cut, so how come I had to wear the "Steel Magnolias" smock?
10.07.2005
Dolittle
With cat firmly established in Samson's repertoire, we've been working on some other words: truck, dog, clock, antidisestablishmentarianism. The usual 'people in your neighborhood' stuff.
We've also been working on sounds. His friend Ethan is apparently a little Jim Fowler, with a whole ark of animal sounds at the ready. Sam's offerings, to date, are a little more modest. He knows what sound a sheep makes. Ask him, and you get a big smile and a proud "baaaa." Which, of course, makes me proud and gives me a big smile.
That said, he's also pretty sure that's the sound for snakes. And lions. Also dogs.
Although on this front, I'm probably not helping things. Whenever Vicki is going through the animals and their sounds, I like to throw in some wild cards --- giraffe, echidna, giant squid --- just to see what she comes up with.
Before you go feeling all bad, you should know this: she started it. I still don't know what sound the bunny makes.
You should also know that in our taxonomy, the giant squid says "heeeeeeeey." Sort of like this guy, but cooler.
We've also been working on sounds. His friend Ethan is apparently a little Jim Fowler, with a whole ark of animal sounds at the ready. Sam's offerings, to date, are a little more modest. He knows what sound a sheep makes. Ask him, and you get a big smile and a proud "baaaa." Which, of course, makes me proud and gives me a big smile.
That said, he's also pretty sure that's the sound for snakes. And lions. Also dogs.
Although on this front, I'm probably not helping things. Whenever Vicki is going through the animals and their sounds, I like to throw in some wild cards --- giraffe, echidna, giant squid --- just to see what she comes up with.
Before you go feeling all bad, you should know this: she started it. I still don't know what sound the bunny makes.
You should also know that in our taxonomy, the giant squid says "heeeeeeeey." Sort of like this guy, but cooler.
10.06.2005
The five-second rule
This morning during breakfast, Samson threw (as he is wont to do) his bagel to the floor. He accompanies throwing anything to the floor with a crashing noise (kind of a KSSSHHH sound).
I blame myself for this, as I employed the trick one night when trying to get him to calm down and into the crib. I took one of his stuffed animals, dropped it into the crib and did the KSSSHHH sound. Now every time something gets knocked over or dropped, we have our very own Michael Winslow providing sound effects.
Anyway, Vicki picked up the bagel within the five second window, blew on it (germs from the floor being very light), and handed it back to him. For the rest of breakfast, Sam blew on his bagel before taking a bite. I have no idea how we're going to explain hot soup to him.
I blame myself for this, as I employed the trick one night when trying to get him to calm down and into the crib. I took one of his stuffed animals, dropped it into the crib and did the KSSSHHH sound. Now every time something gets knocked over or dropped, we have our very own Michael Winslow providing sound effects.
Anyway, Vicki picked up the bagel within the five second window, blew on it (germs from the floor being very light), and handed it back to him. For the rest of breakfast, Sam blew on his bagel before taking a bite. I have no idea how we're going to explain hot soup to him.
10.05.2005
PJs
Nothing says "I'm a toddler" like a pair of pajamas.
I think these actually glow in the dark as well. They were a birthday gift from Sam's grandpa (the dada of dada), whose birthday happens to be today. Happy birthday, Dad/Grandpa!
10.04.2005
Black and blue
I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but here it is: I am tired. Young Samson has been getting up at 2 or 3 in the morning for the past week or so. Obviously, the smart thing to do is let him cry it out once. Never let it be said that I do the smart thing. At least not right away.
In fact, lately, I am haunted by a snarky comment I made in college. I was noisily coming into my dorm one late night/early morning from, er, the library. The person I had woken up appeared in the hallway and said something about it being "late." And I replied, with something approximating wit, that it was only late if one was sleeping. Hilarious.
In any event, as I was trying to settle Samson down this morning, I was saying to him "sshh, buddy, it's too early for you to be awake." He raised his head from my shoulder and looked at me as if to say, "it's only early if you're sleeping." What he actually said was "bwa, bwa, caht, kah," but the karmic implication was plain.
He finally quieted down around 3:30. I slept through my alarm, dressed in the dark, and arrived at work almost on time. I did just note, however, that I'm wearing my olive suit and black shoes with blue socks. I'm not blaming Samson for this, because even on a good day I have trouble differentiating between black and navy, but I could really use a nap.
In fact, lately, I am haunted by a snarky comment I made in college. I was noisily coming into my dorm one late night/early morning from, er, the library. The person I had woken up appeared in the hallway and said something about it being "late." And I replied, with something approximating wit, that it was only late if one was sleeping. Hilarious.
In any event, as I was trying to settle Samson down this morning, I was saying to him "sshh, buddy, it's too early for you to be awake." He raised his head from my shoulder and looked at me as if to say, "it's only early if you're sleeping." What he actually said was "bwa, bwa, caht, kah," but the karmic implication was plain.
He finally quieted down around 3:30. I slept through my alarm, dressed in the dark, and arrived at work almost on time. I did just note, however, that I'm wearing my olive suit and black shoes with blue socks. I'm not blaming Samson for this, because even on a good day I have trouble differentiating between black and navy, but I could really use a nap.
Long day's journey into night
Vicki has class on Monday nights, so she comes by my office at 5 to do the Samson hand-off before heading to school. It's fun to get a little extra Sam and Daddy time (don't tell anyone, but the first course of dinner tonight was cookies).
Bedtime, however, is a different story.
Getting Samson to sleep has never been easy. I don't remember the exact date when we finally stopped swaddling him (it's not usually a category in those baby milestone books) but it was some time around eight months(!). Not eight months ago. At eight months.
I had visions of giving his college roommate instructions on how to wrap the blanket like a burrito and make sure his arms were at his sides.
So I guess we've made some progress, but it doesn't always feel that way.
Bedtime, however, is a different story.
Getting Samson to sleep has never been easy. I don't remember the exact date when we finally stopped swaddling him (it's not usually a category in those baby milestone books) but it was some time around eight months(!). Not eight months ago. At eight months.
I had visions of giving his college roommate instructions on how to wrap the blanket like a burrito and make sure his arms were at his sides.
So I guess we've made some progress, but it doesn't always feel that way.
10.02.2005
ill communications
No haircut on Saturday. No birthday parties on Saturday. Samson slept fitfully (a nice way of saying not at all) and had a fever that just wouldn't go down. We ended up calling our pediatrician, who I genuinely like, but who is almost as laid back as this guy.
I don't doubt his competence, but he's so intent on telling you "it's perfectly normal" [NB: we've probably called him six times in a whole year, so I can't claim anything like a statistically valid sample size] that when he says something is serious, you get a little freaked out.
So we took Samson to the after hours pediatric care at St. Joseph's hospital. We figured he had an ear infection, hence the no sleep and persistent fever. Smooth sailing until the nurse tried to put the admitting i.d. bracelet on his ankle. He screamed for the next two hours any time anyone besides Vicki or I came near him.
I realized that although I've probably used the term hundreds of times, I've never truly appreciated what "screaming bloody murder" means. I do now. He screamed so loud and so continuously that neither the nurse nor the doctor could hear his chest with the stethoscope. Which meant that the doctor, fearing --- or at least wanting to rule out --- pneumonia ordered a chest X-ray. I'm not sure it's possible to overstate how vulnerable Samson looked, sitting on a table with nothing but a diaper and little lead loincloth around him. I had to hold him still, which was good because I don't think I could have borne being across the room from him while all this was going on.
The results were negative, and his fever is now gone. He's still a little out of sorts, but we managed to get out of the house a bit today and get some sunshine. Knock wood, tonight will be the first in three that I'm not chaperoning some member of the family while they get obstreperous in a doctor's office. [To Samson's credit, nobody got bitten.]
I don't doubt his competence, but he's so intent on telling you "it's perfectly normal" [NB: we've probably called him six times in a whole year, so I can't claim anything like a statistically valid sample size] that when he says something is serious, you get a little freaked out.
So we took Samson to the after hours pediatric care at St. Joseph's hospital. We figured he had an ear infection, hence the no sleep and persistent fever. Smooth sailing until the nurse tried to put the admitting i.d. bracelet on his ankle. He screamed for the next two hours any time anyone besides Vicki or I came near him.
I realized that although I've probably used the term hundreds of times, I've never truly appreciated what "screaming bloody murder" means. I do now. He screamed so loud and so continuously that neither the nurse nor the doctor could hear his chest with the stethoscope. Which meant that the doctor, fearing --- or at least wanting to rule out --- pneumonia ordered a chest X-ray. I'm not sure it's possible to overstate how vulnerable Samson looked, sitting on a table with nothing but a diaper and little lead loincloth around him. I had to hold him still, which was good because I don't think I could have borne being across the room from him while all this was going on.
The results were negative, and his fever is now gone. He's still a little out of sorts, but we managed to get out of the house a bit today and get some sunshine. Knock wood, tonight will be the first in three that I'm not chaperoning some member of the family while they get obstreperous in a doctor's office. [To Samson's credit, nobody got bitten.]
9.30.2005
All apologies
Sorry for the dearth of posts in the past few days. Samson is still getting over his cold, and Vicki has been sick all week. She actually "took a sick day" on Wednesday, and I stayed home to help out. Which was probably the best non-sick sick day I've ever had. I got to take Samson to his swim class and just generally spend the day hanging out with him.
I had to take Ish to the vet tonight for his yearly checkup. He's not big on car trips, and he's really not big on strangers examining him/giving him shots. We had thought about all going, like a little field trip so Sam could see the vet's office. I'm really glad we didn't.
It got ugly. Pet Sematary ugly. He actually bit the vet and drew blood. And this was before the vaccinations. I'm pretty sure we're off their Christmas card list. It was all I could do not to intone, in my best down-east accent "sometimes, dead is better." Somehow, I don't think the doctor would have been amused.
In any event, we've got a big weekend ahead of us. Two birthday parties, the Fells' Point festival, and --- if we're feeling particularly brave --- Samson's first haircut. Stay tuned...
9.27.2005
Paging Corey Hart
Suddenly, diaper changing has become a time for asserting one's independence. Samson is now fully against having diapers --- which clearly need changing --- changed. I can't say it's a full on protest. I mean we don't have people marching around the changing table with oversized puppets of me and Vicki; and there is no one shouting "the whole world is watching" as I try to make the diaper switch, but it's still pretty intense.
In case you're wondering what form this resistance could take: He wriggles and writhes like Iggy Pop circa 1975 [note to self: try very hard to keep Sam from becoming the next Iggy Pop].
Usually we give him something (a book, a hairbrush, Piggy's conch) to keep him occupied. Lately, however, he is too smart for this, and so I've come up with a new plan. It's ingenuity is overshadowed only by its complete and utter ridiculousness.
For some reason, Samson finds it funny when I wear sunglasses. Whenever I put them on, he laughs. So I have taken to changing his diapers while wearing sunglasses (sometimes at night). It keeps him still for a few minutes, and it lets me get the job done. Laugh if you want, but it works.
I may just keep them on and see what else they help with (dinner? bedtime? baths?).
I bet this is how Roy Orbison started out.
In case you're wondering what form this resistance could take: He wriggles and writhes like Iggy Pop circa 1975 [note to self: try very hard to keep Sam from becoming the next Iggy Pop].
Usually we give him something (a book, a hairbrush, Piggy's conch) to keep him occupied. Lately, however, he is too smart for this, and so I've come up with a new plan. It's ingenuity is overshadowed only by its complete and utter ridiculousness.
For some reason, Samson finds it funny when I wear sunglasses. Whenever I put them on, he laughs. So I have taken to changing his diapers while wearing sunglasses (sometimes at night). It keeps him still for a few minutes, and it lets me get the job done. Laugh if you want, but it works.
I may just keep them on and see what else they help with (dinner? bedtime? baths?).
I bet this is how Roy Orbison started out.
9.26.2005
Clap your hands say yeah
Another milestone reached: Samson can now clap. And he really seems to be getting into the whole clapping thing.
We went pumpkin picking on Sunday at an orchard near our house, and they had a bluegrass band playing as part of their Johnny Appleseed festival. I don't know if it was the music or some chance moment of synchronicity, but Sam put his hands together and that was that.
Again, not a life skill, but we're still very proud.
Confessional
Two-thirds of the family is sick, so yesterday I decided to give Vicki a break and take young Samson to the early (8:00 am) Mass. I figured she could get at least an hour's worth of rest with two of us out of the house.
I packed all the requisite church/distraction necessities and off we went. By the way, I love having Cheerios and goldfish in church. I mean, I feed most of them to Samson, but it is nice sometimes to have a little pre-body-of-Christ snack.
Did I mention Sam was sick? His nose continues to run. And run. But instead of a constant flow, it's now like electricity in Baghdad. Hours of nothing and then bursts of power.
We got through the second reading before I realized that the one thing lacking in my backpack was tissues. By this point, it was either use the hymnal (probably blasphemous, definitely uncomfortable for Samson) or go to plan B.
We went with plan B, wherein I do the third-grade hand wipe of the nose and surreptitiously insert said hand into my pocket to wipe it off. I know, EEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWW. Luckily, by the time the sign of peace came around, we were already standing in the back because Samson kept trying to grab the head of the guy in the pew in front of us.
We made it through Mass without further incident. Let's just say those jeans went into the wash post haste after church.
I packed all the requisite church/distraction necessities and off we went. By the way, I love having Cheerios and goldfish in church. I mean, I feed most of them to Samson, but it is nice sometimes to have a little pre-body-of-Christ snack.
Did I mention Sam was sick? His nose continues to run. And run. But instead of a constant flow, it's now like electricity in Baghdad. Hours of nothing and then bursts of power.
We got through the second reading before I realized that the one thing lacking in my backpack was tissues. By this point, it was either use the hymnal (probably blasphemous, definitely uncomfortable for Samson) or go to plan B.
We went with plan B, wherein I do the third-grade hand wipe of the nose and surreptitiously insert said hand into my pocket to wipe it off. I know, EEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWW. Luckily, by the time the sign of peace came around, we were already standing in the back because Samson kept trying to grab the head of the guy in the pew in front of us.
We made it through Mass without further incident. Let's just say those jeans went into the wash post haste after church.
Third person singular
Samson got a dancing Elmo doll for his birthday. It's probably his favorite toy right now, and when the music plays, Sam gets this huge smile and dances along. The song Elmo sings, a variation of the "YMCA" by the Village People, could be the biggest earworm since "Kokomo," "I've Got My Mind Set on You," and/or "West End Girls."
Good luck getting those songs out of your head today. You're welcome.
There is little I could say (read: complain) about Elmo that would be original. Yes, the voice is like nails on a chalkboard, but he's a muppet. It would be pretty unsettling if he sounded like Robert Goulet. Likewise, the laugh is really annoying, but I'd still take it over Fran Drescher's any day.
I may be showing my age here, but I remember when Elmo was introduced as a character. I still feel like he's an interloper on "The Street," like when sitcoms need to extend their run a few more seasons and add a new, young, ostensibly cute kid to the mix. Oliver on the Brady's, Jeremy on "Eight is Enough," Scrappy-Doo; the list is a sad and endless litany of shark jumping.
I'll take the old episodes, when Snuffleupagus [yes, I looked up the correct spelling] was still invisible and Mr. Hooper was out sweeping in front of his store. Now everyone sees Snuffy, and Mr. Hooper is long gone. And Hooper's store has been turned into a Starbucks.
Ok, that last part isn't true.
Yet.
All that aside, I think my biggest complaint with Elmo is that he speaks of himself in the third person. If Sesame Street is still an educational show and not just the best marketing campaign ever, why would they want to teach kids to speak like professional athletes?
Do I really want to hear young Samson say, "Samson loves the zoo." Or, "Samson is hungry and wants some milk and cookies." Worse yet: "Count on Samson to step up when the game is on the line. Samson is at his best under pressure that would crack mortal men."
PS: This message was brought to you by the letter V and the number 9.
Good luck getting those songs out of your head today. You're welcome.
There is little I could say (read: complain) about Elmo that would be original. Yes, the voice is like nails on a chalkboard, but he's a muppet. It would be pretty unsettling if he sounded like Robert Goulet. Likewise, the laugh is really annoying, but I'd still take it over Fran Drescher's any day.
I may be showing my age here, but I remember when Elmo was introduced as a character. I still feel like he's an interloper on "The Street," like when sitcoms need to extend their run a few more seasons and add a new, young, ostensibly cute kid to the mix. Oliver on the Brady's, Jeremy on "Eight is Enough," Scrappy-Doo; the list is a sad and endless litany of shark jumping.
I'll take the old episodes, when Snuffleupagus [yes, I looked up the correct spelling] was still invisible and Mr. Hooper was out sweeping in front of his store. Now everyone sees Snuffy, and Mr. Hooper is long gone. And Hooper's store has been turned into a Starbucks.
Ok, that last part isn't true.
Yet.
All that aside, I think my biggest complaint with Elmo is that he speaks of himself in the third person. If Sesame Street is still an educational show and not just the best marketing campaign ever, why would they want to teach kids to speak like professional athletes?
Do I really want to hear young Samson say, "Samson loves the zoo." Or, "Samson is hungry and wants some milk and cookies." Worse yet: "Count on Samson to step up when the game is on the line. Samson is at his best under pressure that would crack mortal men."
PS: This message was brought to you by the letter V and the number 9.
9.23.2005
First word, revisited
I was thinking, when I got home last night, that it's actually pretty incredible that Samson's first word was cat.
Not because it's a difficult word or a foreign concept for him, but because every time he goes near our cat [and by go near, I mean lunges at with his mouth open], I hear myself saying "Samson, gentle; be gentle with Ishmael." So for all he knows, the cat's name is Samsongentle.
That probably would have been a mouthful for a first word, however.
This photo is a few months old, but the story remains the same. We assumed, in all our parental wisdom, that if we let him "bite" the cat once or twice --- in addition to keeping Ishmael on notice --- it would serve young Samson well to learn that biting the cat is gross and lands you with a mouthful of fur.
Sadly, he has ignored this lesson. Although it does still work to keep the cat on his toes.
9.22.2005
First word
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a first word: Cat.
Lately Samson has been pointing to Ishmael and saying "caaht." So we were pretty sure about the whole first word thing, but we now have independent confirmation.
Yesterday, while he was at his friend O's house, one of their cats wandered into the room, and Samson pointed to it and proclaimed, proudly, "caaht." All the moms present heard it, and Vicki had their statements duly notarized.
So there you have it.
Cat. It's a nice start, no?
Lately Samson has been pointing to Ishmael and saying "caaht." So we were pretty sure about the whole first word thing, but we now have independent confirmation.
Yesterday, while he was at his friend O's house, one of their cats wandered into the room, and Samson pointed to it and proclaimed, proudly, "caaht." All the moms present heard it, and Vicki had their statements duly notarized.
So there you have it.
Cat. It's a nice start, no?
9.21.2005
A boy and his wagon
If it ever stops being summer, we can hop in our red wagon and do some pumpkin picking. And apple picking. And other kinds of picking (acorns? squash? acorn squash?).
The autumnal equinox is tomorrow, for crying out loud, and it's still 85 degrees outside. Could we get a little fall around here?
It's not like I want to send Samson out in a little druid outfit to mark the victory of the god of darkness over the god of light or anything.
But it would be nice if he (and dada) could start wearing corduroys. Maybe a light sweater. Is that too much to ask for?
9.20.2005
The Age of Discovery
I thought it was a fluke when it happened the other night, but after tonight's bath, I can draw no other conclusion. Samson has figured out that the drain plug, when removed, makes a cool sound. I think he'd also like to eat it, but I've been able to thwart his attempts so far [is there anything this child won't put in his mouth?].
Bathtime has morphed from a cute nightly ritual of laughter and splashing to something more like the trash compactor scene in Star Wars. Lots of futile attempts at climbing the walls mixed with a fair amount of yelling and despair. Friends who have kids who are a little older say this is a phase and that bathtime will soon be fun again.
Maybe so, but I still wish we had a droid to help us out of our nightly jam.
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