A Christmas Miracle

In what was truly a Christmas miracle (or, at the very least, the fruition of a successful whisper campaign leading up to the 25th), I also got a didgeridoo for Christmas.

Yep, that low droning sound you hear is the sound of Samson and me on the stairs scaring the bejesus out of the cat. Good times.

Samson really seems to like his didge, although we've got to figure out a way to keep him from launching it when he's done playing. Beyond the sound of PVC on hardwood (which is way louder than any of his drums), I'm afraid one of us is going to lose some toes.

The night before Christmas

Samson's ear infection notwithstanding, he had a great time at Jacob's house. And when we came home, we were ready with our milk and cookies for Santa.


[Sidenote: Growing up, we always left a mug of beer and some cheese and crackers for Santa. I wish I was kidding about this. It wasn't until I was older (like college-aged) that I learned that this was not what other families did. I'm torn between admiration for my Dad for the sheer audacity of the proposal (which went on for years) and horror at the idea that as kids, my sister and I fought over the honor of who got to pour "Santa's beer" for him. Nothing like giving old St. Nick one for the road...]

Anyway, as you can see, we not only put out milk and cookies for Santa, but we also left him a note and put some food out for his reindeer. In case you're wondering, reindeer food (courtesy of Miss Jacki at Sam's school) is made out of oatmeal and sparkles. It was a cold, clear night when we put it out. Unfortunately, it rained all Christmas day, so we ended up with a nice, sparkly papier-mache on our front steps when we finally changed out of our PJs on the 26th and rejoined the world.

Recap

OK, so I'm a little late on the Christmas posts. Samson came down with an ear infection on the 23rd, and we spent some of Christmas Eve at the pediatrics clinic. Apparently he has some kind of genetic propensity toward ear infections. Thanks a lot, Vicki.

Apparently we also are not doing a good enough job of cleaning out his ears, because his right ear needed to be irrigated. Lets just say it's not something I hope he has to do again anytime soon. Still, this trip was better than the one last time. And it did seem to help. In fact, it produced a piece of ear wax roughly the size of a cuff link. So not only did we get to have a screaming, febrile toddler on our hands, but we also got to feel like neglectful parents. God bless us, everyone!

Anyway, Samson got his antibiotics and is on the mend. He was feeling well enough to go to church [although we didn't make it through the whole Mass] and then rallied again so as not to miss out on Jacob's Christmas Eve-palooza. And by Christmas morning, he was pretty much back to his old self.

I guess we should count ourselves lucky that he's good about taking his medicine. But to be honest, he's a little too excited about taking it for my liking. There's something about the way his face lights up when he sees that little plastic shot glass full of pink medicine that just makes me uneasy.

Gratuitous Samson pics

In case you're wondering, it's always open mic night at our house...


Which is funny, when you consider that the picture below is from his school's Christmas concert last week.

Yikes!

Have you seen this?

Kind of puts the whole Grandma-lets-the-kids-eat-junk-food-before-dinner thing into perspective, no?

Cheap sunglasses

I believe it was the poet Billy Gibbons who exhorted young men to go get themselves some cheap sunglasses.

I have no idea where this pair came from, but lately Samson won't leave the house without them. Yesterday, as we were getting ready for school, he insisted on wearing them with his wool hat. Which made him look like the littlest witness protection program member.

But for the fact that we were running wildly late [not unusual on his schooldays], I would have grabbed the camera. He still had them on at school, and his teacher told me he'd been carrying them around on the playground the day before.

We watched a few minutes of U2's performance at the Live 8 concert the other day, and I'm guessing that it made a bigger impression on him than I realized at the time.

The most wonderful time of the year

Oliver's mom and dad were nice enough to invite us over for their neighborhood's annual Santa visit the other night. Which was great for the boys and a really nice excuse for us to get together for beer and pizza on a weeknight. Sam and Jacob showed their gratitude by putting their sticky candy cane fingers all over everything and then sitting on some packages under the tree.

Of course, Oliver also sat down on a package, but it is his house...



[Full disclosure: those "gifts" under the tree were decorations, not actual gifts. You'll note I'm using the past tense.]

The visit was really sweet, although both Santa and his helper bore an eerie resemblance to post-Swingers Jon Favreau. I imagine the mall Santas in Vegas are similar.

After spending a few minutes with jolly old St. Nick, who apparently was slow in making the rounds that night due to a bone spur [clearly Santa's elf didn't sign a confidentiality clause], the boys were ready to do some singing. Think last call on New Year's meets the Wiggles and you've got a pretty good idea what it sounded like.

Guess who's discovered YouTube?

Samson's index

Days until Christmas: 7
Number of Wise Men Samson made us take to church yesterday: 2
Number of times we sang "Jingle Bells" before bed tonight: 3.5
Number of times we sang "Frosty": 2
Minutes spent discussing Frosty melting and then being resurrected: 6
Guess-timate number of days after Christmas we'll still be singing "Jingle Bells": 165
Number of times I've almost given him the didgeridoo: 4
Percentage of toys in our house from the Island of Sodor: 35
Percentage after Christmas: 50
Hours Vicki will likely spend in her PJs that day: 16
Hours I hope Samson will nap: 3
Number of candy canes Samson will begin: 11
Number he will finish: .7
Hours Samson probably will nap, in light of all those candy canes: .5

You can build it (in theory). We can help (allegedly).

Don't believe the hype, I've rarely found the guys at Home Depot to be particularly helpful. In fact, it's not easy to find them at all. So it goes.

I hit the Depot the other day to get some PVC pipe to make Samson a didgeridoo for Christmas. This summer at the farmers' market, there was a guy there playing a didgeridoo [or didge, to the cognoscenti], and Sam was absolutely fascinated by it.

Unfortunately, the guy never showed up again, but every time we go to the market poor Samson expects to see him.

In any event, since then he has been making didges out of paper towel rolls. He scrunches up his face and does his best to imitate the rather singular sound of the didgeridoo. You've probably heard one without realizing it, but click here for some samples.

You can imagine, of course, the reaction I got from the guy in the plumbing department when I asked him to cut me 3 feet of PVC for a didgeridoo. He protested he couldn't cut to measure. No problem, I said, just make it approximate.

He protested that he had to sell me all 10 feet. No problem, I said, I'll just stick the shorter piece in the cart and carry the rest to the register.

And then he protested that they sold stand-alone pieces of 2 feet in length, and wouldn't I rather have that instead.

Samson, from the cart ventured his opinion/confusion: "The man is helping us?"

I assured Samson that the man was and hoped the guy would just cut the damn pipe and let us get out of his aisle.

Surly orange-aproned guy aside, we got all our supplies and headed home.

Last night, after sanding and priming the pipe, I painted it. In truth, it looks less like primitive art and more like art therapy for head wound survivors, but I tried.

I have to make the beeswax mouthpiece tonight, and then it's ready to wrap for Christmas. [Yes I took him with me to get the materials, and yes he has some vague sense he's getting a didge, but I'm banking on the intervening weeks and continued train requests to push this gift to the back of his mind.]

Nothing says Christmas morning at our house like the low drone of a stone-age instrument made out of plumbing pipe.

Good Santa

We went to the mall last night to get Sam's picture taken with Santa. What a difference a year makes. Last night, aside from the eight-person entourage in front of us (is the first photo with Santa a rite of passage in their family?) and the kid screaming bloody murder behind us, it was pretty uneventful.

Samson duly walked up to Santa, put his arms up for a little help onto the lap, and said in his politest, most practiced voice, "I want a train for Christmas...Please."

For my money, this guy is a great Santa. His eyes really do twinkle when you talk to him.

Samson even managed a smile. Well, sort of.

Christmas Card: The Director's Cut

Here's the card you won't be getting this Christmas. Wiser heads (i.e., Vicki's) prevailed in this decision.

And really, it's probably for the best. But it sure would have been funny to hear the confused voice mail from my parents after they got their card...

A Christmas carol (actually several)

In addition to being a grace Nazi, Samson has also become a Christmas carol fascist. Don't get me wrong: I like Christmas carols as much as the next guy. OK, if the next guy's name is Nasrullah Ali Hussein.

I mean, who can resist a classy version of "Hark the Herald" by Nat King Cole?

Especially when it's been carefully chosen for your listening pleasure by the good people at Williams-Sonoma. And Crate & Barrel. And Pottery Barn, J. Crew, Ann Taylor, and every other place that takes Visa. Except for the gas station, where they're too busy piping out "Jingle Bell Rock" and "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" to fit old Nat into the mix. I digress, but you get my point.

[Full disclosure: In college, I worked as seasonal help at Radio City Music Hall, first as an usher and then as house security. Which means that from Thanksgiving until after New Year's, I spent a couple of years surrounded by Christmas music for 10-hour shifts. Sort of like the Ludovico technique. Except with Rockettes. Also, I got paid. Pretty well, actually.]

Well, young Samson is crazy for "Jingle Bells" and "Frosty the Snowman." So now, in addition to the three books we ritually read before bed, we've also got a set list of carols we need to sing. Which, in truth, is really sweet. And I would use my last breath to sing carols with him before revealing my inner Grinch.

But man, if you're not careful, Jingle Bells can last longer than "Light My Fire." And for the life of me, I can't remember all the words to Frosty. So we usually just cut to where he heads off into the hills. [Sidenote: Vicki pointed out the eerie similarity between this verse and the final days of Guy Waterman. We'll hold off on letting Samson know about this for a few more years.]

Saturday night lights

On 34th Street (natch), the people of one block all decorate their houses in a fashion that makes Mardi Gras look restrained. Lots of lights; more dancing Santas than you can imagine; and lots and lots of plastic Magi. Samson was particularly taken by the manger scene on the roof of one house. Nothing says Christmas like a two-year-old looking up with wonder into the cold December night and proclaiming "Look. On the roof: It's baby Jesus!"

We took him to this block last year, but I think this time he got a little more out of it. Certainly he enjoyed seeing all the Frostys and Rudolphs. He was less taken with the Grinch.

And neither of us could understand why unblinking dolls holding candles have anything to do with Christmas.

Even if they are in little velvet dresses. Creepy.

My favorite story of the night is one I wish was mine. Our friends took their daughter, Sara, to see the lights, and at one of the houses was a guy nominally dressed as Santa [slight paunch, white beard, red shirt]. This Santa was standing on his steps, smoking, and called down to my friend's daughter: "Hey Shorty, here's a candy cane."

I'm paraphrasing here; the important part of this is that Sara's encounter with Santa involved smoking and the term "hey, shorty." And yes, I'm jealous. We visited the same house, and this Santa was neither smoking nor tossing out nicknames like George W at a barbecue.

He did, however, give Samson a candy cane.

School Days

I've been trying to figure out just how to write about this, so here goes.

Last week, after Vicki picked Samson up on Tuesday, the director of the school, Bev, called Vicki into her office. Never a good sign. Sam's teacher, the much beloved Miss Jackie, had been out on Monday and Tuesday and so Miss Melissa was filling in.

On Monday night, when I asked him about her, Samson offered a terse assessment: "She's not pretty."

So I wasn't entirely surprised that she said something to the director of the school about him. But what she said was that Samson is having too much trouble adjusting (i.e., crying too much and preferring to be in point A when it's time to go to point B, etc).

The upshot of it was that the director wanted to know a) if we were aware of this [we were not; each day, his little sheet tells us if and what he ate, whether he napped, etc --- it does not provide any information on existential crises during playtime] and b) what we wanted to do.

Once Vicki explained to the director that she could not leave work early [this was after she'd already told her she worked at an elementary school] and could not "bring work home with her" [even for a school counselor this would constitute kidnapping], they arrived at the idea that maybe he just needs some more time at school to establish a routine.

Fair enough, since he goes on Monday and Tuesday and then has five days off. Not quite as sweet a deal as a NYC fireman, but pretty damn close. Of course, when Vicki asked Bev what Sam's teacher thought, she told her that she hadn't discussed it with Jackie since she'd been out for the past two days.

So essentially she'd called Vicki in for a conference based on the recommendation of a "not pretty" substitute. Super.

In case you're wondering, it's not a good idea to upset an eight-month-pregnant lady. I don't know if Bev has any idea how close she came to being beaten up with a Thomas the Tank Engine backpack, but believe me, she came pretty close.

I followed up with Miss Jackie the next day, and we will indeed send him for a half-day on Fridays to help him get more into the groove. Literally, since Friday is music class day, and Jackie noted how Samson seems to be able to turn anything in the classroom into an instrument. I couldn't tell if she said this with admiration or exasperation, but if he's making didgeridoos out of paper towel tubes in her class, it's a good sign. [More on this in a later post.]

We're fine with giving him an extra half-day, but I wonder why this couldn't simply have been suggested in the first place. I had a short but somewhat frustrating conversation with the director in which she explained to me --- in a tone usually reserved for giving foreign tourists directions --- that two-year-olds enjoy routines and need them. To which I duly replied "I understand, and I think your idea about an extra half-day will help him." And that was that.

What I wanted to say was "Thanks, Piaget. I've been reading the same three books every night to him for four months now. I think I'm pretty well apprised of this toddler's love of repetition. Any other insights you want to share?"

In any event, I do think this will help him adjust a little more. Especially since we're about a month out from the arrival of the baby.

Which, and I'm no early childhood expert, I imagine will give Samson pause. [Perhaps I should call Bev up and get her thoughts on the matter...]

Underage

Because we strive to be green in our house, there are three allegedly empty Sam Adams bottles sitting in the little carry carton next to the trash. They are supposed to go out tonight with the bottles and cans for the recycling pickup tomorrow.

I say allegedly because last night, while I was calling home to say I'd be late, I heard Vicki say "Samson, put that down" followed by Samson's little voice in the background saying: "Mm. That's good. It's salty."

I assume, and I can't say for sure, that they were rinsed before they were placed there. My sister, Greg, and I each had a beer with dinner the other night, but I was doing dishes, not clearing the table. So I have no idea if it was a sip of three-day-old beer or a three-day-old beer/water rinse-out cocktail.

Either way, he slept really soundly last night.

At the movies

Have I mentioned Samson's new thing is watching movies and eating popcorn? Here he is with Aunt Maura and Go-Go Greg watching "Mary Poppins."

The Godfather

My sister and brother-in-law visited this past weekend. Aunt Maura, who is my little sister and Samson's godmother, threw a "sprinkle" for Vicki. Being a second child herself, Maura is keenly attuned to the fact that the second kid gets a lot less pre-game attention (like showers, day-by-day diary entries, etc). Hence, the sprinkle. Not a full-on shower, but a... well, you get the idea.

Which meant that Samson's godfather, Uncle Greg (or, as Samson calls him "Go-Go Greg"), and I got to spend Saturday at the train museum.

Three-Gs is easily Samson's favorite person. His arrival at our house is something like the Beatles deplaning at Kennedy that first time.

Seriously. The poor guy can't go to the bathroom without Samson calling after him, making sure he's coming right back to play.

We had lots of fun at the museum and got to hang out with some of the other sprinkle non-attendees (Jacob and Oliver and their respective dads).

It was pretty cold out, so a few of us took the complimentary train ride to nowhere that the museum offers.

I think there must be some historical significance to the track itself. Someone mentioned it was the original mile of track laid down for the B&O railroad. I sure hope so, because the sights along this trip included a lot of rusting, graffitoed cars; the remains of a modern-day Hooverville; and a guy standing with an enormous pitbull waiting to cross the tracks.

Not to mention the fact that the train itself is museum-quality only in the sense that it's a decommissioned 1980s-era Washington, DC commuter train. I couldn't help but wonder if the toddlers lined up and slowly proceeding from the platform onto the train weren't getting some eerie sense that the future wasn't all it is cracked up to be.

Regardless, we had a good time.

These shots of Samson and his friend, Jacob, from the little guy train ride kind of say it all...

We don't even have Yoko to blame...

It's official: Greg Wiggle (the yellow one) has left the band. Of course the show will go on, and apparently the new Yellow Wiggle's name is Sam... so that should lend plenty of confusion to things around our house.

I should say right off the bat that while I'm not a fan of the Wiggles' music, I certainly wouldn't want to see any harm come to them. OK, maybe I'd like to see Captain Feathersword keelhauled, but Greg always seemed harmless enough.

And of course, not being a fan of their music is no guard against it being stuck in my head from time to time. I actually found myself whistling the "Lights, Camera, Action" song as I walked to my car after work last night. If you don't know the song, consider yourself lucky.

If you do, it's probably now just starting to play in your head.

You're welcome.

Also, am I the only one amazed to learn that the Yellow Wiggle is 34 years old? I can't say I had any idea how old I thought he was, but the fact that he is my age is just weird. The fact that he founded this band at 19 is even weirder still.

All of this being said, I feel the need to offer full disclosure: We do owe a huge debt of gratitude to the Wiggles. Where we live, their show comes on at 7 am every morning.

Which means that at least three or four mornings a week, those guys in polyester shirts and matching trousers allow Vicki and I to get a little extra sleep while Samson sits joyfully between us on the bed, singing along and laughing uproariously at the show.

It's almost a morning ritual: He calls me in to get him in the morning [he hasn't yet figured out he can just climb out of the triple-B, and I'm sure not going to tell him], and I bring him into bed so he can snuggle down with Vicki, and we "watch a little Wiggles" as he puts it.

Good luck to you, Greg. And thanks for those extra 15 or 20 minutes of sleep each morning.

Hot dog hat

I don't know what I could write that would do justice to this, so I'll just let the pictures speak for themselves.

Special thanks to Oliver's parents for getting Samson the frankfurter lid. Sorry Strunk & White, but this hat is the awesomest.

Calvin and Sam?

Somehow, Samson's time at an Episcopalian preschool has turned him into a Calvinist.

OK, this is not strictly true. I mean, it's not like he comes home and goes on and on about election. And to be fair, he shows no interest at all in the "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" coloring book I got him. But lately, he is obsessed with grace.

Our family goes to church. Not every Sunday. And not always every other Sunday. And we're definitely not that family sitting with "father" before Mass having coffee and bagels. But we go more than we don't.

At least as far as you know.

Anyway, my point is that Samson has some familiarity with organized religion. Even if it does seem to revolve around Cheerios and footraces. So it's not like this is some totally new concept for him.

Apparently at his school, in addition to chapel on Mondays [what would you give to be a fly on the wall of the two-year-old chapel session?] they say grace before lunch. Which I think is really sweet. And we have always said grace before dinner at our house. I think it's important for us to remember to be thankful for what we've got. This is honestly one of the things I hope to teach Samson as he grows.

But within reason. Right now, I can't so much as grab an apple without getting a stern "Daddy, fold your hands" rebuke from the grace Nazi.

While my parents were visiting, each time a new person sat down for breakfast, we had to say grace all over again or risk the wrath of Cotton Mather in feety pjs. I can't wait until the next time we eat out somewhere and he starts patrolling the other diners. Good times...

Riding that train...

Not only did we see Santa at the railroad museum on Friday, but we also got to see a miniature Dick Cheney at the model railroad town.


Strange, no?

Samson also got to try his first candy cane. It was a big hit.


The weather was perfect, and there were lots of families wandering around the train gardens outside.


As we walked around, and I overheard some of the dads talking to their kids about the finer points of railroad models ("See that one? That's an 1880 Shea; you can tell by the pistons."), I realized how little I know about trains.

This realization did not in any way make me sad.

[Sidenote: I have nothing against train guys; I just don't aspire to be one. It's a level of enthusiasm that escapes me. To me, they inhabit the same universe as Civil War reenactors and those guys who sit at the ballpark listening to the play-by-play on headphones while watching the game (and keeping score). I say this knowing full well the glazed-eye look I get from Vicki when I start talking about Moby-Dick.]

Overdue

This is from a few weeks' ago at Madelyn's birthday party. Remember when I mentioned the best party favors ever?

All Samson needs for Halloween next year is a John 3:16 sign. [We've already lost the nose.]

Leftovers

Here's my lame-o, catchall post-Thanksgiving recap post.

My folks visited for several days, which was fun. Sort of.

My Dad, through no fault of his own, caught some kind of crazy 48-hour stomach virus, which pretty much took care of him for Wednesday night, Thanksgiving Day, and the day after.

Oh, and we got to take him to the emergency room on Thanksgiving to fend off dehydration/keep him from going into diabetic shock. So that was fun. He's fine now and at home (of course). And he actually rallied on Friday night in time to play with Samson before leaving on Saturday.

But Thanksgiving at our house wasn't exactly Rockwell.

It was more like Gericault. Not exactly, of course, but you get the idea.

Even so, it was good to see my parents, and I know Samson had fun with them. He always does.

Ad astra

Samson's room continues to be a work in progress, but as we continue to decorate the triple-B, we are going with a kind of rocket ship/planets and stars theme.

So we've put some cool glow-in-the-dark stickers up on his ceiling (including the constellation Orion).

Each night when we turn out the lights, he lays back and looks up at the stars. Tonight, as he fought going to sleep with every fiber of his being, I was lying on his floor looking up at the ceiling.

Every once in a while I'd give a soft admonishment about it being time for bed. But in between sleep patrol duties, I just looked up at the stars.

And then it hit me, the ceiling looked a little like a lot of dorm rooms I remember from college.

Needless to say, I'm going to be very watchful to see if he asks for a black light for Christmas.

Good thing Pink Floyd doesn't put out children's albums. Oh, wait.

Far out, Samson. Far out...

*%!!#$@!!!!

Cover your ears kids: Dada is doing some home improvement.

Until today, Samson's big-boy-room --- despite it's Sodor Island splendor --- was really unfinished. No pictures hung, no curtains, etc. It is now slightly less unfinished. And it only took me an hour and lots of muttered curses to get the curtain rods in place and the curtains hung.

Which is good, because it's hard enough to get him to sleep in the BBB when it's dark. In broad daylight, well let's just say that today we took one of those drives to nowhere in the hope that he'd fall asleep. Which he did at about mile 3 to nowhere. Unfortunately, once the drive is started, we can't just pull into a parking lot somewhere because he'll wake up. Rule number 1 is: you don't wake up a sleeping toddler.

We almost made it to Pennsylvania before deciding it was safe to turn around. [No-nap Sam is no joke. Way worse than angry fire-throwing Sam. Seriously.]

Anyway, for the life of me I can't understand why curtain rods can't be made with some kind of detachable part for the rod to rest in. It's almost impossible to screw the hardware in and work around that thing.

I don't even know what the stupid thing is called, which somehow is only more infuriating. [Sidenote: Please feel free to educate me if you know. I like to call it the *!$~!!#; the tilde in the middle lets you know it's a Portuguese swear word].

I used to think that Muammar Gaddafi lived in a tent to stay true to his Bedouin roots. Kind of a pan-Arabist way of keeping it real. I bet it's not the case at all. He's probably just wise to the fact that nobody would take a leader (especially a dictator) seriously who hung crooked curtains in his kid's room.

Think about it. Would you take direction from a guy who spends ten minutes looking for a drill bit only to remember it's in his shirt pocket?

Lucky for me Samson was downstairs eating dinner.

Under the influence

Each day at Samson's school, all the kids play together outside. It's usually in the late afternoon in the hour or so before parents start picking their kids up. I guess the prevailing wisdom is that at the end of a long day of singing, snacking, making crafts, and napping, the kids need some Lord of the Flies time.

Samson is certainly getting it. Last night every time he got angry, he would point an open hand at Vicki or me and say "FI-YUR."

I'm pretty sure he's not the next Beavis --- in fact, I'm pretty sure he doesn't know exactly what he's saying. Even so, it's a little unsettling.

Obviously, not nearly as unsettling as if he was actually able to conjure up "FI-YUR," to go with his anger, but still...

When I asked him if he learned it at school, he said yes. I figured they didn't cover it in chapel, so I pressed him further about who says it on the playground.

Bobby and Drew say it. I don't know who Bobby and Drew are, but something tells me they are "big boys."

Ok, Samson tells me they are "big boys," which at his school could mean 3- or 4-year-olds. We've heard about Bobby before. Usually in the context of "Bobby is cool." I wish I was kidding.

No idea who Drew is. Presumably, he too is cool. [What, I wonder, makes one toddler cool to another?]

Regardless of their coolness, we now have a toddler who is shooting fire at us.

To her credit, Vicki has decided to try the oversaturation/desensitization route, using "fire" repeatedly in all sorts of contexts. [Perhaps I should send a warning to the local "Mommy and Me" movie club]

Of course, I chose the classic: "Hey Sam, could you stop saying that, please?"

One of these times that approach has to work, right?

More to come...

For some reason, this new version of Blogger is not letting me upload any photos from Samson's friend Madelyn's birthday party. Except for this one.

Which tells you a little of what you need to know about the party [it was a lot of fun] but doesn't provide much context. Like the moonbounce in Madelyn's basement, which is roughly the size of The Gambia (but far less humid).

Or the photos of the greatest kids' party favors ever. I'm not even going to ruin it by telling you what they were. You'll just have to wait for the photo to appear. Hopefully soon.

Ok, you want a hint? Think John 3:16.

Also, since I'm complaining, our internet at home is still not working.

Apparently, the good people at Verizon DSL have taken Brezhnev-era bread lines as their customer service model. If you want to see Vicki mad, mess with her internet connection. Seriously.

So, as they used to say in Moscow, "vee vait."

Sucko.

The light, the way, the crumbly cheese

We made Greek salad with grilled chicken and flatbread for dinner last night and were pleasantly surprised at how much Sam liked the feta cheese.

His new favorite song is "Jesus Loves Me," which is apparently in heavy rotation at school during sing-along time.

Why am I telling you this? Read on.

Scene: Our bathroom, 8:15 AM. Sam and Daddy brushing teeth and getting ready for school.

D: "Hey Samson, today for lunch, you're going to have some more of that yummy Greek salad from last night."

S: "Yeah."

D: "Remember? With tomatoes, and cucumbers, and lettuce. And chicken and feta cheese. Do you like feta cheese?"

S: "Yeah."

D: "It's good right. Delicious feta cheese."

S: "Feta cheese. [louder] Feta CHEESE. [pause] Feta Cheesus loves me. [singing] Feta Cheesus loves me."

There are times when I wish we had surveillance cameras in our house.

Movin' on up

Samson is indeed moving on up.

Not as far as the east side, but all the way across the hall into his big-boy room (BBR).

More importantly, into his big-boy bed (BBB).

Vicki had off on Tuesday for Election Day, so I took the day and we sent Samson to school for the morning, which allowed us to paint what was our computer room/office/guest room and is now --- and will forever be known as --- the BBR.

Interestingly, the color we painted it is almost exactly the same color as the nursery (the little-boy room?). Which, being kind of color-blind, I take no blame for.

And besides, I've always liked the color we painted the nursery. I'm pretty sure it's blue.

In any event, the room isn't fully set up yet, but it's got a train table, a bookshelf, some toys, and the chair from his old room. [Sidenote: We are slowly but surely starting to refer to his old room as "the baby's room." We'll see how long he plays along with this. For now, he's all about the BBR.]

Even better, he's all about the BBB. He has now slept in the triple-B twice --- all night Friday and all-night last night. We skipped Saturday as we were in Virginia staying with friends. More on this later...

Naps are still a whole other issue, which makes sense. Despite the guard rail on the triple-B, he can certainly get out, and all the fun stuff in his room is just a short walk away. Still, I'm trying to plant the idea that once he's in bed, he can't come back out.

On Friday night, we were pretending his bed was a castle, and I likened the rail to the castle gates. But I just didn't have the heart to tell him the floor was a crocodile-filled moat. (And I totally left out the part about dropping cauldrons of hot oil onto would-be invaders.)

Still, we're moving forward. Which, really, is all you can ask for.

Excuses, excuses

Our home internet connection went down last night, and it may be a few days until it's up and running again. I've got lots to post but no time right now. Be back soon...

The five stages of sleep

Samson's school sends a little note home after each day with some basic info checked off. I had a good day/bad day; I ate/I didn't eat; I was happy/sad/resigned to the existential loneliness that the sandbox symbolizes. You know, the usual stuff.

Last Tuesday, and I remember it now because it's been going on all week at our house, Samson's note read: "I had a hard time staying on my cot." Apparently, not only would young Samson not take his nap, but he kept talking to the other kids as they were trying to sleep.

Lately, Samson has been taking longer and longer to get to sleep. We put him down last night at 7:15, and it took him nearly an hour to finally put head to pillow and head for the land of Nod.

Those of you without children are wondering, "why not just put him to bed later?"

The answer, of course, is because he's really tired (and totally crazy) by bedtime and keeping him up an extra hour would only prolong things.

So here, without further preamble, are the five stages of sleep as played out on a nightly basis at our house.

1. Denial --- This is the first and almost always follows the announcement of bedtime's imminence. Usually accompanied by bald-faced lies, like "No, it's not bedtime" and "I'm not tired," and my new favorite (especially since we've gone to daylight savings time) "It's not dark out."

2. Anger --- Depending on the night, this can involve a general surliness about getting pajamas on or more targeted announcements like "I don't want Daddy to read a story" and "I don't want to go in my crib." [Sidenote: I'm not sure that the twos are "terrible" so much as preferential. We are treated daily to a litany of things he wants or doesn't want.]

3. Bargaining --- Samson, by this point, begins the charm offensive. It's not unusual, amidst the pleas for "one more book" or claims of being hungry to catch a "Mommy's so pretty" being floated like a test balloon. It never works.

4. Depression --- It's been a while since we hit stage 4, but lately it's back, and it's usually just some crying. Occasionally, he'll also sing songs by the Smiths, but mostly it's just crying. And usually (and mercifully), it's brief.

5. Acceptance --- Slowly, and almost never without a few follow-up visits from one of us to fix the blanket, pick up a fallen La-La, or bring a desperately needed toy, Samson reaches this stage.

At which point, Vicki and I are exhausted --- the other reason we don't keep him up for the extra hour.

Halloween recap

What a difference a year makes. The boys met at Oliver's house for dinner and some trick or treating.

Unlike last year, however, the guys were a little more on the ball about the whole getting candy thing. This is the best we could do for a group photo.

Also, I made the mistake of teaching Samson the noun "loot," as in, "Hey buddy, do you want me to hold your pumpkin? I don't want you to lose all your loot."

Big mistake: The entire drive home from Oliver's (all seven minutes of it) was a lamentation on the fact that he could not hold his "loot" and that he very much wanted to.

Even so, the boys had a great time visiting houses and digging in for some free candy. I'm not sure they got the "only one" rule, but they all remembered to say thank you at each house.

Kudos to Vicki for getting this shot at the end of the night. It lasted about three seconds before all the sugar kicked back in and they were off and running again. Hence the wailing and gnashing of teeth about "my looooot."

The not so great (or even ripe) pumpkin

Samson's school took a field trip to a pumpkin farm last week. In addition to a petting zoo --- which he loved (surprisingly, given his track record) --- and a hayride, which, for reasons known only to him, he keeps referring to as "the ride in a cage," each child got to pick his or her very own pumpkin.

I have no idea if this thing is some special breed of heirloom pumpkin that's supposed to be green or if we'll have to wait until Easter for it to ripen.

Either way, he is very proud of his pick.

Trucks, trucks, and more trucks

We went to the "Touch a Truck" event on Saturday morning. It was a fundraising event benefiting the Junior League. I have no idea who these people are or what they do, but I had always thought they were like a kind of Superfriends type group made up of people named after their more famous fathers. You know, like Hank Williams, Jr.; Frank Sinatra, Jr.; Jr. Pac-Man. And I figured they helped other, less famous people who also bore their father's names.

[I'm like 95 percent sure that this is not this group. I reserve the right to believe such a group exists, however.]

This was one of the best events I've ever been to. It was like Lollapalooza for the pull-ups crowd. There's really no way I could do justice to the kind of time Samson and his friends had at this thing.

Suffice to say that every Saturday between now and Christmas will pale in comparison, and we're really going to have to upsell the whole come-be-my-helper-at-the-grocery-store thing for a while...