Breakfast at the Mars Hotel

On the mornings that I get to be in charge of the radio, we usually listen to the local college station. [Vicki, who does not like to talk in the morning, prefers NPR --- which offers talk but, unlike dada, doesn't try to talk to her.]

In any event, the music on the local station is pretty eclectic, which is great. But it seems that they always play the Grateful Dead while we are eating breakfast. Again, great. But it makes me wonder what the net effect will be on young Samson when he gets older.

I mean, all those violin prodigies were fed Mozart in utero and a steady diet of Chopin, Beethoven, and the various Bachs as they grew. What might we predict from a child who eats berries and yogurt for breakfast with a soundtrack of Scarlet Begonias, St. Stephen, Uncle John's Band, and the like?

Will he be that guy in college who changes his name to "Muzzy," wears a hemp poncho and is always hacky-sacking? Or will he go the other way and be that guy who wears a tie to class and says things like "Nixon's only mistake was getting caught."

Let's hope there's a third option somewhere in his future. Just in case, maybe we'll check out Morning Edition tomorrow. Although I bet Steve Inskeep wore a poncho in college.

You can bet Bob Edwards did...

Top 5 contest

In honor of Rob Gordon and his record shop, I thought it might be fun to see if I could come up with a top 5 list of songs that would make the sound guy at Camden Yards proud. Or get him fired. Here's my list, which, in true Gordonian music snob fashion, provides title, artist, and rationale.

If I was channeling John Cusack any more effectively right now, I'd be standing outside your window with a boombox over my head playing a Peter Gabriel ballad.

So here goes:

5. "I fought the law"/The Clash --- Sidney Ponson pitches
4. "Bigmouth strikes again"/The Smiths --- Barry Bonds on deck
3. "Wig"/B-52's --- Tony LaRussa jogs out to argue a call
2. "Knock me down"/Red Hot Chili Peppers --- Craig Biggio bats
1. "Calling occupants of interplanetary craft"/The Carpenters --- Manny Ramirez appears

Cranky pants

Young Samson had a tough morning. Two rounds of what I can only describe as atomic diapers, followed by the vicious cycle of hold-me-put-me-down-hold-me-put-me-down. The up part of the cycle was accompanied by a fairly new trick.

Since he's started pointing, he has incorporated a Creation of Adam-style reach, where he not only announces the various lights he sees but also tries to touch them. He is learning and growing every day, and it is very profound in a Robert Browning kind of way.

Although, I could probably appreciate the significance of this more if there wasn't the imminent threat of Sam discovering gravity in a very Gerald Ford kind of way.

A note of caution to anyone who will be holding him in the near future: Hang on tight. He's a lot stronger than he looks.

Big weekend, part II

Samson got his first taste (literally) of a big league ballpark yesterday [he bit the seat in front of us while I was watching a fly ball veer foul]. Our friends graciously shared tickets with us, and we got to sit behind and just to the left of home plate. These are the best seats I've ever had, and they were also the most terrifying as every time a foul would sail over our heads I was ready to grab Samson and stop, drop, and roll.

Lots of noise, a decent-sized crowd, and an absolutely awful game for the O's --- it's never a good sign when the bases are loaded and stay loaded owing to walks, wild pitches, and hit batsmen.

Even so, it was a great day. Not only did Samson and his friend, Oliver, get certificates commemorating their first game [thanks to the usher, Ms. Pat, who put us wise to this perk], but they also got their picture taken with the Bird, who serendipitously was coming into our section as we were readying to leave. I can only imagine what was going through their heads as this giant bird with a baseball hat and two guys with walkie talkies appeared.

Also, I don't know if there is a hip-quotient rating for major league ballparks, but I think the soundguy at Camden Yards used to own Championship Vinyl. When a pitcher for the O's got yanked, the soundguy played the Pixies' "Here Comes Your Man."

Maybe the baseball is terrible, but where else can you get ironic commentary via classic alternative music?

Thank you

This blog served as a final project for a summer class I took in digital media; thanks to everyone who has visited (and posted comments). I got my final grade today: A+.

In other good news, I got a voice mail from the home front earlier. Apparently young Samson has figured out how to flush the toilet and is quite taken with this newfound power.

Let's hope he's still as enamored of the toilet when it comes time for potty training. Stay tuned...

Big weekend, part I

This was a very busy weekend, and I am really tired so I'll have to serialize our adventures over the next few posts. Friday night we picked up my sister and brother-in-law at the airport, which gave Samson a chance to see some planes taking off. He was more interested, however, in playing with Vicki's cell phone --- which, after a p.m. nap strike and traffic on the beltway, was fine with us. Like most infants, once he gets into the overtired zone, it's only a matter of time before you see the face Bill Bixby used to make just before he turned into Lou Ferrigno. And then it's all over.

Saturday we went to the zoo. It really is all happening at the zoo. The weather was perfect, and all the animals were out and doing their thing. Samson hadn't seen Aunt Mo in a few months, so this was a great chance for Sam to spend some time with his godmother. It was also, as it turned out, a great chance for Samson to test Aunt Mo's restraining skills. I've mentioned before that young Samson is not afraid of the water; he's also not afraid of penguins. In fact, this total lack of fear makes him want to launch himself out of the arms of whoever is holding him and into the penguin pool. Aunt Mo passed the test with flying colors, but we spent a while watching the little guys swim back and forth and then line up on the cement ledge like commuters at a bus stop. It was great.

A side note, since it came up more than once at the zoo. Does anyone really think it's appropriate to smoke at the zoo? I mean, does the sight of polar bears and signage about global warming stress you out so much that you need a Marlboro Red? Does the Serengeti tableau with rhinos and zebra lead you to believe that the one thing missing for everyone is some second-hand smoke? Or is it just a way to complete the whole camouflage trucker hat, NASCAR/WWE t-shirt, jorts ensemble? I know this is an issue people get very 2nd amendmenty about, and I'm not trying to seize some moral high-ground. Smoke all you want; they'll make more.

But I honestly can't get my head around why anyone would feel the need to light up while looking at/learning about animals, many of whom are endangered because of human avarice, gluttony, and other deadly sins.

In any event, lots of good stuff going on at the zoo. We got to see various big cats, lots of cool primates, and learned way too much about elephant menstruation from a well meaning but over-informative docent at the elephant pavilion.

Sam's first word?

"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean -- neither more nor less."

We've had some debate in the house of late as to whether young Samson has said his first word. He's good at identifying what things are; when you ask where the cat is, he will point to the cat. He'll also, if you don't look too eager to hear it, say "ish, ish, ish."

But his big thing is lights. Houselights, streetlights, spotlights, flashlights, blinking arrow construction lights; if you've got a light, he's pointing at it and saying "t." He's figured out the last sound (phoneme?) of the word light and correctly associates it with lights.

I think this is great and love hearing it. But it's not a word. At least it's not a word in English. Vicki disagrees. Her thinking is that the association with the object and the consistent use of the sound qualifies.

[I should note that this is a friendly disagreement; we are not the kind of parents who pore over statistics for milestones and worry that he's not matching up --- so he doesn't clap yet; it's not a life skill, and if he never learns, he'll be exempt from the awkward moment in every concert when someone starts the clap-along (usually off-rhythm) and everyone else joins in but then gets stuck worrying when it will spontaneously end and if they will be the 'extra clap' person who gets caught out like the last man standing in a musical chairs finale. But I digress.]

I'm not trying to be the Grinch here, but I'm inherently suspicious of parents who report that their kids spoke at very young ages (I'm looking at you, Mom).

I mean, Sam has been clicking his tongue for months now, but that doesn't mean he's suddenly fluent in Khoisan.

Because it is there

Just in case anyone thought I'd been overstating my case regarding young Samson's climbing prowess, here's the ocular proof.

Vicki shot this yesterday at playgroup (which is, I guess, a compound noun?).

Apparently Sam crawled up to his friend's stroller, ascended the stroller, and then relieved said friend of his sippy cup.

Part of me is proud of his nascent alpinism.

The other part of me is afraid. Very afraid. We've got lots of bookshelves in our house.

Come and knock on our door...

Yet another gratuitous Samson photo.

Also, I dare you to try and get that song out of your head today.

The running man

Finally used the baby jogger for its intended purpose this morning. Samson sure didn't feel like he's only in the 10th percentile for weight when I was trying to run uphill (admittedly small hills, but still).

It's been gorgeous all week, and I finally got my act together and got us out of the house by 6:30 to go for a run. I'm pretty sure young Samson had a good time. I had anticipated being able to talk to him while "we" ran, pointing out birds, etc.

Sadly, his soundtrack for this first run was mostly my footfalls and labored breathing. Even so, when we got back to the house he was all smiles.

I have a newfound respect for the people (usually moms) I see in our neighborhood with full-size toddlers in their joggers. Hopefully this can become a part of the morning routine as we head into fall. Although, I may need to contact the good people at BALCO for some, er, assistance.

Apocalypse Sam

He just fell asleep. It's 8:30, and this is about two hours past his normal bed time. As Colonel Kurtz said: the horror.

We took a nice long walk tonight, which Samson is usually up for. It was so nice to be outside in the cool glow of a late summer day, enjoying the long shadows and cricket songs.

But then we got home, and what followed was sort of like that scene near the end of Apocalypse Now. You know, the one with the villagers and the ox.

Sam was the villagers and I was definitely the ox. I should have switched out his lullaby cd for "The End" by the Doors to complete the scene.

In any event, he finally tuckered himself out and is now sleeping soundly. Poor little guy.

Feeling warm, but not fuzzy

Another first for dada; while holding a birthday-suit-clad baby as the bath was prepared, I felt a warm sensation on my stomach. This was followed by a little laugh from young Samson, as I discovered a large, damp stain on my t-shirt. I had been peed on.

Now I'm no stranger to pee. I got used to the "no diaper geyser" in the early days of Samson's life and learned to see the signs. Ok, he still manages to trick me every once in a while and water the wall in those three seconds he's not covered by a diaper.

However, this was something new entirely. Had he stared blankly ahead, it might have been chalked up to being an accident.

But he laughed, and therein, as they say, lies the rub: I think our little guy has discovered comedy. And you have to admit, peeing on your dad is pretty funny. (Within limits, obviously; this would be troubling, if not cause for enrollment in military school, if he was 15 and doing this; but at 11 months old, it's pretty damn funny.)

Sleeping In

All hail the door; the door works wonders and is magnificent in our eyes. Young Samson slept in this morning, waking just a few minutes before 7 am, which means that we got to sleep in too.

If this doesn't seem like a treat to you, try a steady diet of 5:30 (including weekends) for several months straight and then get back to me. I love that door.

Get Up, Stand Up

It only lasted for a second, but Samson let go of the toy he was holding and stood all on his own. He looked at me with something like surprise, quickly looked around, and then re-grabbed the toy's handle (it's one of those shopping cart/walker things) for balance.

This is probably one of those tree-falling-in-the-woods scenarios, where he's actually done this a million times but nobody has witnessed it. Even so, it was pretty cool.

Gratuitous Samson photo

Shot along the shore of the Chesapeake. No great story behind it, but it would make for a cool book jacket photo, no? Maybe Samson should write a book...

Closed Door Policy

It's official: Samson now has a door on his room. We've held off all this time because his room isn't very big and the door swings in, cutting off a whole corner of the room when open.

Also, because the door was in the attic and I'm not exactly, how you say, pro-active. Vicki called me at work to let me know it was done. I was planning on doing it today after work. Honest. Now I guess I'll have to mow the lawn.

In any event, this has been a long time coming. It's nearly impossible to walk around upstairs without hitting a creaky floorboard, and Samson has some kind of infant Spidey senses that have reduced us to creeping around like teenagers breaking curfew.

He'll probably be fine with it [although advance word from the home front has it that the door was met with much wailing and gnashing of teeth], but I'm going to miss being able to see right in and watching him sleep.

Uphill

One more story from the library: we're in the "under-3" area, where kids can crawl around and "read" (chew on) board books. There's a little slide in the corner with four steps. At home, we can't keep Samson off the stairs. Here, he only wanted to climb up the slide. And so we let him try; he'd get halfway there and slide down. But each time, he'd pull himself up and start again.

This went on for a bit, and I figured he'd tire out eventually, but thought the other child in the section might want to try the slide. So I said, good-naturedly, "come on, Sisyphus, let's give someone else a turn."

I think the other child's mother thought I'd called him a sissy because she kind of looked at me strangely. And on the next try, Samson did in fact get up to the top of the slide. A miracle of persistence (and physics) that made me very proud. But I also felt uncomfortable and kind of Great Santini-esque hanging around there since this woman thought I was living vicariously through my 11-month-old's ability to climb a 45-degree incline.

What I wish I had was a pop-up window explaining 1) who Sisyphus is; 2) that I'm not a jerk [usually]; 3) that I love my son very much, and 4) that I am hoping to speak with him --- when possible --- like I speak to other people because I think baby talk is silly (and a little demeaning, to him as much as me). Instead Sam, Vicki, and I sat and checked out a board book on ducks. It was pretty good.

A New Low

In our weekend-long quest to stay out of the heat while avoiding the mall, we checked out not one but two libraries in two days. The first trip was great; nice selection of books, large kids' section, and we even got in on story-time. Young Samson sat on my lap for a good 5 minutes (which may not sound impressive, but trust me) while we listened to a story about going to school. Watching his little face as he watched the librarian turn the pages and point to the illustrations left Vicki all choked up. Ok, me too. But just a little.

Trip #2 was a different story. As Sam was trying to pull himself up onto a rocking chair in the children's section, this girl pushed in front of him and climbed up. Now I'm simultaneously trying to keep him from getting stepped on (unsuccessfully, although he didn't notice), find this kid's mother to give her one of those "this-is-not-my-child-and-I'm-not-free-daycare-guy" looks, and (grudgingly) keep the kid from falling off the chair. She gets up onto the chair, seats herself, and says, triumphantly: "MINE."

To which I replied, with all due sarcasm, "terrific for you" and looked hard at her. Hard like a Jet might look at a Shark. Without the dancing. If they were in the library on a dinosaur rug.

As I picked Samson up to go play elsewhere, Vicki, who was watching (and enjoying) all this said, "what was that all about? You just stared down a two-year-old." First of all, this kid was a big two; she looked more like 11. Or at least three. And I'd give the Pope a Tupac look if he pushed my son out of the way to get on a rocker. Although, actually, the sight of that might make me laugh.

My point is this: parents, don't make other people watch your kids. It's a pretty simple rule: you had 'em; you brought 'em; you watch 'em. This little urchin's mother eventually arrived as Vicki was helping her kid ascend (for the 400th time) the rocker and was all "were you a good girl?" Vicki, being Vicki, of course just smiled. I skipped the hard look this time, but I'm serious, this girl was not only big, but she was bad news. You think those people at Spahn Ranch just decided one day to be bad?

Pale Horse, Pale Rider

I don't know what Beechnut Stage reheated sicilian pizza is, but it was a huge hit at lunchtime yesterday.

In our continued and totally unwitting efforts to traumatize young Samson, we thought we'd let him go for a ride on one of those coin-operated horses. A store in our neighborhood has one out front; you put a quarter in and it plays the William Tell Overture.

Even with Vicki holding him and me standing there giving the reassuring "isn't this fun?" line, it was like Sam had been besieged by an army of vacuums. So we picked him up but figured we'd let him watch the horse move, sans rider. Apparently for 25 cents, you get the entire overture; I think if you drive by the store, you might see us still standing there. In any event, we'll be sure to keep away from mechanical horses for a little while.

Or maybe he just hates Rossini?

Guess Who's Bizack?

OC (original Carlos) pulled a Lazarus and reappeared. He must have hitched a ride with Samson and me when we went to Mass on Sunday morning, because I found him at the bottom of my diaper bag today.

Yes, I have my own diaper bag. If you saw the array of bags Vicki uses, you'd understand. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy quilted paisley as much as the next guy, but still...

[Full disclosure: I'm playing hooky today. Sam and I took a trip to Borders and let mama go get her hair done in peace, hence my discovery.]

I was thinking --- while packing snacks, wipes, water, etc --- that a lot of people find it a real hassle not being able to run out the door on a moment's notice. But I kind of like the idea of doing a gear check before heading out to get coffee or buy groceries. I washed out of the Boy Scouts after about 45 minutes (the Weeblo troop I was joining put a lot of emphasis on door-to-door fundraising; I was just hoping to run around in the woods and learn to dig punji pits), but I definitely internalized the whole "be prepared" thing.

Also, if the word Weeblo doesn't make you laugh, you have no soul.

In any event, OC is back, and we're glad to have him and all the Carloses. Maybe now we can get a group discount on the magazine we've mysteriously started receiving.

Notes from the Bonsai Dojo

New trick: Samson has taken to uttering a low "haaiiiii" when he's concentrating on something. It's like having a little Mr. Miyagi around the house.

Also, his climbing skills proceed apace: Now when he stands, he is trying to pull himself onto the table, bookshelf, etc. He balances on the balls of his toes and is essentially trying to do pull ups.

I didn't start rock climbing until I was almost 30 (and it shows); something tells me we should get young Samson to Earth Treks as soon as he learns to walk. If only to keep the bookshelves in our house safe.

Band of Carloses

Carlos is back! All five(?!) of him. Where was he? How did he replicate? Will he unionize?

Special thanks to dada's good friend and chief legal counsel, Gary, for the sudden surge in the Carlos demographic at our house. The BOC performed some kind of Esther Williams dance last night to celebrate their arrival. It was very moving.

And the joy in Samson's eyes this morning as he simultaneously chewed Carlos and threw Carlos while standing on Carlos, well you just can't put a price on that...

The Passion of the Sam

I don't know what bedtime is like in your house, but in ours it resembles most of Thomas Hobbes' vision of life in the state of nature. We get the nasty, and we get the brutish. We miss out, however, on the short. It usually takes about 45 minutes for Samson to get fully settled and fall asleep. Tonight I decided not just to stay in his room with him but to wait to see him drift off to sleep.

Watching a baby fall asleep is kind of like watching a lunar eclipse. You know something cool is going to happen, but it takes an awful long time (at least in our house) for it to actually happen. He had some books and toys and various lovies (lamb, bunny, etc) and was contentedly winding down. Without getting all Erma Bombeck on you, I can honestly say it was a singular joy to watch young Samson --- all but oblivious to my presence --- play with his toys, flip through pages in his books, and essentially go through his nighttime ritual. He finally lay on his side, babbling softly, his eyes heavy with sleep.

I prepared to make a ninja-like getaway when out on the street came the sound of motorcycles. It sounded like hundreds of Hells Angels on their way to Altamont; it was actually two fat middle-aged guys who were probably on their way to Burger King. Didn't matter; the damage was done, and now not only was Samson awake but he was scared and wide awake. And screaming.

Vicki eventually got him calmed down, and as I heard the bikers returning I ran out into the street and spread my arms in a classic clothesline move.

Ok, not really. But it would have been cool (and justified). And Vicki did eventually get Samson to go to sleep.

Alert Little PETA

No trace yet of Carlos or one of the kids, but the other little person showed up under the couch next to the big orange plastic ring (remember the old school stacking rings?) and some Cheerios of undetermined age/provenance.

Also, the final gate has been installed in our house [Sam likes to stand and hold on to the gate when it's closed, and I've been trying to teach him to shake it and chant "Att-i-ca, Att-i-ca" --- he just kind of looks at me.]

While Vicki was out buying said gate, she spotted an LP trio from some kind of circus set. Ostensibly, they are for young Samson, but I think she probably got them for me since what began as a good natured search for some missing toys has become an obsession.

Of course, now I'm picturing angry, pierced, hemp-wearing Little Vegan People protesting the conditions of the bear and the dog and conducting street theater demonstrations. Or worse yet, we could come home to find a kind of Herzogian scene has unfolded in our absence.

Objects in motion

It's official: getting young Samson to keep still in the bath is now impossible (except for this picture, which Vicki took). He is, thanks to early swimming lessons, very comfortable in the water. Which is great. Honestly. It means he won't be that kid tenderly putting one toe into the pool. Or hovering just out of reach of the waves at the shoreline. He will, of course, be that kid in the white t-shirt, but what can you do? [A quick sidenote: those kids grow up to lead normal, well-adjusted lives, thank you very much.]

But his comfort with water also means that when he is in the tub, he's looking to do laps. Moreover, he's transferred his newfound climbing skills to the tub and is looking for handholds in between the tiles. All of which makes bathtime kind of like a cross between The Perfect Storm, Into the Void, and that scene in Mystic River where the cops try to restrain Sean Penn's character.

I wonder if Nerf makes tub overlays. That would pretty much solve everything, no?

96 Hours

Still no sign of the missing Little People.

And now Carlos is missing too. The bus is now empty; its little STOP sign is extended but nobody's there to heed the warning. And nobody's there to board the bus. It's been awfully quiet in the living room. Maybe a little too quiet.

In a development that may or may not be related, block #1 --- of the 1 through 10 counting/stacking blocks --- is also missing. I don't know what to make of all this, but it might be time to clean our house. I only hope we can find the Little People before the vacuum does.

Wait for it . . .

Chung chung

Pulling a Moe

In the interest of creating a kind of lingua franca for this blog (and, selfishly, to make up for years of people looking at me with the kind of blithe indulgence usually reserved for the senile), I'll be introducing some terms and/or phrases from time to time to get you up to speed with dada patois.

Young Samson tends to react quickly (and violently) when he's excited about something. His little laugh is almost always accompanied by his little arms flailing about. Which is cute and endearing until you're on the receiving end. I think Vicki and I are going to get those goggles Kareem used to wear to ensure we are both still able to see by the end of Christmas morning.

In any event, this action (pictured above when Samson, in red, was only five months old) has come to be known around our house as "pulling a Moe." A fun phrase, no?

And don't worry, not only were those boys ok after this photo was taken, but their parents are actually still our friends. Although their kids now come to our house for playgroup wearing this.

Same as it ever was

Caught a little of "the Street" this morning while getting dressed. Young Samson was enthralled, and it did my heart good to see the old crew doing what they do best.

It is comforting, even amidst all the new characters (Alan, I like what you've done with the store, but you, sir, are no Mr. Hooper) to see that Ernie still has his rubber ducky and that we still get the letter and number of the day (Q and 3, respectively).

I look forward to hearing the voice of Grover in my house. Elmo, not so much. But Grover, definitely.

Without a trace

Two of the little people from the schoolbus have not been seen since after breakfast on Friday. We've checked everywhere, but with no success. I half expect to look over by the pack and play tomorrow to find a little Anthony LaPaglia interviewing Maggie at the little farm stand and questioning that little bulldozer operator guy.

We have a pretty small Little People community, so they couldn't have gotten very far. Unless there was some outside involvement (there's been tension between the LPs and the Weebles). But this is all just speculation. At least for now.

The saddest part of the whole affair --- and I wish I was kidding --- is that I found the one missing little person's little green wheelchair. It was tipped on its side, under my reading chair.

Chung chung?

Stay tuned...

The Albano-ness of Samson

I'd bet fewer than one in three Cheerios on young Samson's tray actually makes it to the final destination. Walking around in our dining room has a kind of "minesweeper" quality to it, as you never know when your next footfall will yield the low and familiar crunch of an O underfoot.

Those that avoid the floor and the mouth can be found in the corners of the highchair, the folds of his shirt and/or shorts, and --- rarely --- the bib pocket. But an even rarer group (and my favorite) of the renegade Cheerios are the ones that get stuck around his chin, literally millimeters from the mark and fastened like little whole-grain barnacles.

Sitting in his highchair, Os stuck to his chin tonight, Sam looks sort of like a mini Capt. Lou. Minus the beard (and staples), of course.

It's not the heat, part II

Actually, it is the heat. And although I've been accused, at least once, of being slightly hyperbolic, it is, without question, Africa hot outside.

I turned my back for a minute while young Samson was playing in our yard and saw this.


Good thing I had my camera, no?

Overtired

Overtired adj. In a state of near mania, with periods of quiet punctuated by outright refusals to sleep. Almost as feared as "sick."

The second nap was a no-show today, and as we trudged around town running errands and doing our best to stay cool, young Samson became increasingly tired. At bedtime, he may as well have just gotten off a flight from Jakarta he was so off-schedule.

The showdown lasted six rounds, and ultimately (though it looked questionable for a while) nature won out. He is now curled up in his crib looking like the cherub he (almost always) is.

We spent an hour in Borders today, again trying to stay out of heat, and as I was patrolling the aisles with Sam in my arms, we passed a book that promised to provide expecting parents with the "coolest baby names." Intrigued by the backcover mention of "updated hip-hop names" (look for Fitty to become next year's Aidan), I took a peek inside. Sure enough, Samson was listed under "Cool Biblical Names," which made me happy --- because his name was my suggestion, and because it's a good solid name, with a good story behind it (both in the OT and Milton's retelling).

Which may account for my exasperation at the three questions we usually get following: "So what's your son's name?" What I actually say is in italics; what I'd like to say is in bold (which clearly, I am not).

1. "Oh, do you call him Sam?"

I do sometimes, and so does his mom. But I also like the full name.

Is the second syllable a deal-breaker for you? It's not like his name is Tikki tikki tembo-no sa rembo-chari bari ruchi-pip peri pembo, for crying out loud."

2. "Is that from the Bible?"

Yes. We wanted a strong name with a good story behind it, and I've always admired the character of Samson because he was a champion of his people.

No, it's from the first season of Happy Days in honor of the Cunninghams' oldest son, who mysteriously disappeared the next season and was never spoken of again. [For those of you keeping score at home, the mysterious disappearing brother's name was actually Chuck.]

3. "Will you have a daughter and name her Delilah?"

No, I don't think so (awkward laughter).

Are you insane? Could you look at your newborn girl and say "here's a name she won't have to change when she starts a career in adult film..." I mean, really.

It's not the heat...

It's humid enough for a Graham Greene novel out there; the sun set hours ago and it's still in the mid-80s. This is what it feels like in Thailand, but at least there you have the benefit of feeling all Lonely-Planety and adventuresome. Not to mention the cheap beer. Here you just feel sticky and gross.

I can only imagine it's worse for young Samson, who spends most of his life diapered-up. The plan for the weekend is to keep babySam inside and keep him cool.

The face of evil

Apparently it's not just our vacuum he's afraid of, but all vacuums. He and mama went to a friend's house today, and one of the kids was playing with a toy vacuum --- which, when you think about it, doesn't seem like it would be very much fun at all (balls, cars, dolls = fun; implements of manual labor, less so). In any event, the toy vacuum was brought out much to Samson's immediate (and vocal) dismay.

I imagine years from now he'll try to dodge cleaning his room by feigning terror when the vacuum is brought out. It never worked for me with the lawn mower, but I'll have to give him credit if he tries...

Mad world

Young Samson got another object lesson in the randomness of nature. He was minding his own business (mostly) when the cat bit his hand. A startled look and then some crying, but he was fine. Ishmael, of course, sat there like he'd been reading William Blake.

Tonight we also discovered that Samson likes Yodels. And not just any kind, but cold Yodels from the refrigerator. We try to be very conscientious about what we give him, and his diet consists almost entirely of fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and some dairy. That his favorite foods are mango and avocado should tell you something. But I couldn't resist handing him the treat to see what he'd do. He looked at it somewhat warily, put it up to his mouth to lick it (in addition to being bitey, young Samson is also pretty licky), and got a huge smile on his face. Let's hope he still wants avocado for lunch tomorrow...

I wonder if we could condition him through some kind of word association bait-and-switch, where we'd give him a tiny taste of Yodel, tell him it's a lima bean, and then a day or two later give him lima beans for real. Either it would work and he'd love lima beans, or it wouldn't and he'd hate Yodels. In either case, he wouldn't be missing out on a major food group.

Ok, this scenario isn't really hypothetical: I told him tonight the Yodel was a lima bean. We'll see if it works on Saturday. Don't tell his mom.

Noisy

A colleague of mine was describing a recent episode in a convenience store: The clerk of the store was responding to a customer's good-natured ribbing about how loud she was by being even louder. For my colleague, this was too much, and she reported back to me how she "loathes" noise and could only think to herself: "thank God I don't have children; my life is so peaceful."

I nodded and smiled (a patented dada move, and one I will surely hope to pass on to young Samson), and that was that.

Now I don't want to get all afternoon-special on you, but I have to say that coming home to our noisy little house is the thing I look forward to most each day. The sound of life happening inside our four walls is a constant wonder to me, and I can't imagine life any other way. [Perhaps this is a comment on my dearth of imagination; so be it.]

Besides the fact that someone yelling over aisles of Slim-Jims and Cheetos is hardly the same thing as the sound of a child playing. Or crying, for that matter.

As she left my office, I thought, "thank God, indeed."

Can I get a chung chung?

Chung Chung

New feature: check my profile for an audio clip of what I like to call the chung chung sound. You know the sound (and you probably have your own name for it). It's the two-note sound that punctuates plot points on Law & Order episdoes.

How cool would it be to have this sound handy in real life when trying to emphasize a point? I can just picture it now: "And that, young Samson, is why we don't step on turtles."

Chung chung.

Point made. Lesson learned.

Take a number

I like supermarket shopping. I like it even more when I have Sam with me, even though he won't always sit in the cart (and sometimes when he does he licks the plastic covered handle --- which I imagine, on a microscopic level, looking like a battle royale for germs).

We did some grocery shopping tonight and ended up standing in front of the deli for about 10 minutes before being waited on. Which was no big deal, as young Samson enjoyed just looking around at everything, and I'm fairly content to watch his reactions to things like ceiling fans, tubs of pre-packed potato salad, and septuagenarian rotisserie chicken choosers.

The reason we were waiting, however, was because the family in front of us was having their six-year-old daughter sample different turkeys, hams, and cheeses before deciding on buying one. Choosing a lunchmeat, while no doubt an important personal decision, should not take on the trappings of a wine-tasting. Beyond that, this family was making a grown woman wait on the decisions of a six-year-old. About ham. Okay, and swiss vs. muenster. But still.

I get the whole idea behind Erikson's stages of development, but do you really need to empower your child at the deli? (And yes, I had to look up Erikson's stages, but I did remember his name, and that it was spelled with a "k." I knew that minor in Psych was a good move.)

A life lesson for my son

I have tried to mentally catalog some experiences so I could pass my hard-earned wisdom along to young Samson as he grows. Number one in a completely irregular series:

Somebody at the office ate my bag of cherries the other day. Right out of the refrigerator that we all share. The office mini-fridge, that sacred space that should be a repository of community and good will (and really old butter pats and a gigantic thermal lunchbox that someone insists on cramming into the fridge despite the fact that it's thermal for crying out loud).

In any event, I rarely remember to eat the fruits and vegetables I bring to work. Every once in a while, I'll spot a lonely ziploc full of graying mini carrots sitting way in the back. But I was ready to eat those cherries. And on the same day in which I had brought them from home. Clearly, I couldn't go around smelling my colleagues' breath or checking their trash cans for pits. And I wasn't going to send some kind of broadcast e-mail about my healthy snack gone missing. But I did wonder about what kind of person eats someone else's cherries. And what would stop them from eating the sine qua non of lunch, my turkey sandwich?

What to do? Label my lunch.

Not with my name, of course. I mean, if you ate my cherries, you'll probably go for my tuna or little serving of jello pudding as well. At home, I had a flash of inspiration and wrote in black marker on a post-it attached to the aluminum foil on my sandwich: Property of N. Mandela.

I mean, if you would take Nelson Mandela's lunch, there's just no hope for you. Seriously.

On the virtue of timidity

I admit, there are times when I think "is young Samson a bit, well, timid?" I mean, he is afraid of the vacuum cleaner. Even when it's not on. I'm not kidding: I've seen him look at the silent blue appliance from across the room with pure Conradian horror.

And yet, there's something to be said for a cautious child. I mean, would you want your kid to grow up to be this guy?

Bitey

Last night young Samson got into full Edmund Hillary mode and made his first ascent (assisted by mama) of the stairs. Our pride at the young climber's mobility and stamina was tempered by the fact that we now need to buy yet another gate for the house. Getting between floors in our place is now like a cross between prisoner intake protocol and an extreme sport.

This morning, another milestone. Our hero (dada) was bitten. Not by the cat --- he bites me all the time, and if I may digress for a moment here, I've always found that refusal to acknowledge even the hand that feeds somewhat appealing about cats. Indeed, Ishmael (the other small mammal in our house) has no compunction about taking a nip even while being petted. I like to think he serves as a kind of corrective to any Panglossian fantasies we might harbor about a universe that is orderly and fair.

But back to the story of the morning: Sam has been a bit bitey lately but to date has only bitten mama (and the cat, which was simultaneously hilarious and gross as the cat yowled and Samson sat up with a mouth full of fur). It didn't hurt that much, but I issued the sternest "NO" I could. At which point, he looked up at me and cried. Then he put his head back down on my shoulder and cried some more. I calmly explained that we don't bite in our house (and probably most houses, but I don't want him to think it's some kind of universal law and have his worldview upended the first time he gets bitten in kindergarten) and that it hurts. So that should be that. Right?

Damn you, Carlos!

The driver of the Little People bus is named Carlos. He's got a seventies mustache and disco hair---now that I think about it, he looks like a tiny, plastic Ron Jeremy. Also, neither of his hands is free to actually drive the bus. I think he's holding an apple and what looks like a pie server but I'm guessing is a crossing guard-type sign. But I digress: Carlos, in addition to his other features, also (apparently) has a seat that triggers the noises of the bus. I discovered this last night while talking on the phone with my sister and absentmindedly putting the Little People back in their bus (they were strewn across the floor as if Samson had created some tremendous accident scenario while playing). So I put Carlos/Ron into his seat and the bus croaked to life --- lights blinking and a tinny electronic chorus of "The Wheels on the Bus." I sprinted to another room, but it was too late. From the dark, and heretofore quiet nursery, I heard Samson stir and then cry out. He was up, and I looked at my wife (who by now had come up from our basement to investigate the spontaneous burst of "Wheels") and pointed damningly in the direction of Carlos. She didn't buy it.

Lots of people read books and magazines to prepare for parenthood, but I think the basics are (usually) self-evident. I think, in this instance, the Fight Club model will do: the first rule of sleeping babies: you don't wake sleeping babies. The second rule of sleeping babies: you DON'T wake sleeping babies.

Rug fuzz --- it's what for dinner

For reasons known only to him, Samson just can't get enough wool rug fuzz into his mouth. Seriously. We had to buy a new living room rug because every time we turned around, he'd be sitting with a fistful of wispy, golden-hued threads curling around his tiny fingers and a wide open mouth. I'd love to work out some kind of code word with him to save me from continuously saying "Don't put that in your mouth; hey, buddy, don't put that in your mouth. Samson, please don't put that in your mouth."

Maybe it could be a cool word, like firefox or barracuda.

Of course, this could totally backfire, and he'd end up years later feeling strangely guilty whenever the 70s Heart classic comes on the radio.

I was, however, heartened by the results of an informal poll I took among some of our friends. The sample size is three, and I have no idea what the margin of error is. So what are their kids eating?

• 2 of 3: grass
• 2 of 3: cat or dog's food
  
• 3 of 3: floorios (the cheerios that miss the mouth only to be retrieved later; a favorite in our house too)
• 3 of 3: fingers, toes
  
• 1 of 3: own poo

So there it is. Maybe some enterprising family should push the reality trend one step further and create real counterparts to those awful Precious Moments figurines. Instead of those big headed, doe-eyed darlings, you could have statuette verite. I'd pay $9.95 for a little ceramic poo-nivore, wouldn't you?

Is this thing on?

This is my first post. It's not very long. Nor, it turns out, is it terribly interesting. But there it is. My first post. Yep. Also, that's Samson, my son. And me. Sooooo. Blogging. Pretty awesome. I'm sorry, this is a crappy first post. I'm kind of tired, and I haven't had dinner yet. Maybe I'll have something better tomorrow.