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.
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