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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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?

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.

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?

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.

Lunch meeting: the early years

The three-strawberry lunch with Samson and Jacob.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.]