Radio days

Just got these photos a few moments ago and figured I'd share. Vicki picked up some kids' music CDs yesterday at the library, and Samson sat down for some "If You're Happy and You Know It."

This last photo is Samson shouting "hooray!" As in, "if you're happy and you know it, shout..."

Spaghetti --- it's what's for dinner

Our church had a spaghetti dinner fundraiser on Sunday night. It was perfect, in a silly parish elementary school gym kind of way. We met our friends there for an early dinner, sat the kids on our laps [no one remembered booster seats, and we actually forgot a bib as well], and let the noodles fly. Glad I wasn't wearing a white shirt...

Catch-up (not the condiment)

My folks have been visiting for the past week, which means the computer room/guest room has been otherwise occupied. Lots of good stories to catch up on, but watching my parents with Samson made me realize why grandparents love grandchildren, particularly very young ones, so much.

They offer a kind of passage backwards in time, offering all the joys of being a new parent without all the anxiety and sleep-deprivation. Watch a grandfather or grandmother with a very little child and you can almost see them when they were younger. For my folks at least, the house has been emptied of kids for years now, and while I certainly don't think they'd trade their routine for ours, I think I can safely say they had a blast chasing him around the house.

Vicki and I were talking last night after I dropped my parents off at the airport about how lucky we are. I hope we never take for granted the wonder of looking into those wide blue eyes, the joy of hearing his tiny giggle in the house, or the simple pleasure of sitting with a little person who, while not a blank slate, is not yet old enough to be anything other than honest [whether this means taking something he wants or burping loudly and without embarrassment].

We know we live in a kind of magic circle right now, where every day brings some new word or discovery. Our house is noisy and toy-bestrewn and crumb-laden, and I wouldn't change it for the world.

Songs of experience and innocence

I'm sure this is not what William Blake had in mind, but I thought I'd pass along these two small pieces of wisdom...

1. Baby-sized goldfish snacks are a cute idea, and we were certainly taken in by the clever marketing/packaging. But at the end of the day, they're really just a challenge to see how many cute little fish your cute little toddler can stuff in his cute little mouth at one time. Which can only lead to one thing. And even cute little fish can't make choking fun. There's no such thing as a cute little Heimlich maneuver. [Sidenote: I am always amazed at how blithely Samson continues with his day after I've had to do some kind of finger-sweep of his mouth. It scares the hell out of me, but he seems to take it as a matter of course. ]

2. Just because you are careful and take out all the potentially dangerous things under the bathroom sink doesn't mean your child won't find something in there to play with. And it's not like we leave Samson alone in the bathroom to play, but apparently it only takes a minute to set up a tampon/toilet lid drum kit.

I really wish we had taken a picture of this.

Tiny bubbles

I don't know what the good people at Gymboree put in their bubble solution, but those bubbles are awesome. They're thick, if such a thing is possible, and they don't explode on impact but rather rest gently on the carpet, chair, cat, etc. I'm sure there's an episode of Mr. Wizard's World somewhere in all of this.

Anyway, Samson is now obsessed with blowing bubbles. And he's pretty good at it.

Although he kept putting the business end of the bubble pipe (wand, bugle, shofar?) in his mouth --- which might account for his super gurgly stomach afterwards. Clearly he's not a candidate for aversion therapy. [He was probably thinking, "hey, this tastes like the bathwater I enjoy so much."]

The fugitive

On Sundays, we try to hit the 9:30 Mass. It's in the church basement and is promoted as the "family" mass. What this means, basically, is that people are forewarned that they might very well end up with someone's else child standing in their row and leaving a trail of Cheerios behind him as he rambles on. In fact, they might end up with my child doing just that.

Before we had Samson, I would only attend this Mass as a last resort. Call me a curmudgeon, but I'm not big on guitars and John Denver-y music in church. And I really don't need to hold other people's hands during the Lord's Prayer or to get all revival tent with the whole call-and-response thing.

That being said, I totally appreciate being in an environment where my 17-month-old is allowed to act his age and do his thing. Within reason, obviously, but it is really nice to watch him sit and play with his trucks with other kids his age.

The trouble is, the older he gets the less he sits. In fact, I realized today the major difference between a 17-month-old and a 21-month-old is not size or emotional development or language skills. It's speed.

The little boy next to us --- I think his name is Michael --- was fast. Olympic track-and-field highlight reels fast.

Normally, and especially in church, Samson will walk about 15 or 20 feet away from us and then turn around to see if we're watching. When this other little boy's feet hit the floor, it was like someone had fired a starter pistol. No look back, no gradual sneaking away. He was all forward motion.

Which made me think that our church [and maybe yours, too] is missing out on a big opportunity. If, at the start of Mass, you could put money on which kid (or kids) would make it to the altar before being caught by their parents, I bet it would bring in way more than bingo.

Live racing versus numbered ping-pong balls in a hopper. C'mon, it's not even close.

Think about it; you've got a small but active number of kids between 1 and 3 years old [and let's be honest, anything over 3 just wouldn't be fair] who make a break for it every Sunday. The oftener you go to Mass, the more familiar you'd be with the field of racers.

The church could cap the prize money at, say, $20, and have the rest take the place of the inevitable (and inevitably unpopular) second collection. And it could be a little more sophisticated than simple winners or losers. You could allow a parishioner to bet that Timmy Peterson (19 mos, 24 lbs) makes it to the altar rail before the second reading. Or something along those lines. Instead of ads in the bulletin, local businesses could sponsor toddlers.

This could work. Seriously, how much can you make from bake sales?

And yes, this is what I think about in church as I'm chasing after my son.

[Here's an inside tip if you come to church with us. I love my son more than anything in the world, but if you want a safe bet, put money on his friend Oliver. That little guy is showing some real promise. I think he'll be on the altar by Palm Sunday.]

Sesame Street live?

Friday night at the mall (a big, late-night-out for us), we stopped at the food court to get something to eat. Figuring it would be fast and at least marginally healthy, we got in line to order from Chick-fil-A. Seated at a table near the end of the line was a woman I can best (and most charitably) describe as a less attractive Don King doppelganger. With orange hair. And I mean orange.

Samson, who was in my arms at this point, looked around the court at the hordes of Friday night mallgoers, which for some reason included an entire division, it seemed, of newly minted Marines. I appreciate what these guys go through and what they do, but they look far less impressive out of the dress blues. Particularly when they are walking around with Abercrombie & Fitch bags and drinking frozen Starbucks' drinks. But I digress.

Young Samson looked at the woman near us, pointed, and said quite clearly, although if she heard us she gave no indication, "EL-MO, EL-MO." If you've ever tried to recover from something your child has said, or even something you've said, you know that certain words can be covered up. "Elmo" is not one of them.

I briefly considered saying something like "No, Samson, this is the food court. The Alamo is in the beautiful city of San Antonio."

But that would just have been ridiculous.

Since she pretended not to hear it, I pretended Samson didn't say it and took him looking for a high-chair and an empty table. We sat next to half of Bravo company as they slouched in their chairs, ate waffle fries, fiddled with their cell phones, and (probably) regretted not wearing their dress uniforms out.

Dance-party Samson

In keeping with his newfound interest in lyrics, apparently young Samson has also got dance fever. This morning, as I was trying to get out the door to go to work, he stood in the middle of the living room floor, pointed at the stereo speaker, and said "dance."

Ok, it was more like "denz," but I knew what he meant.

We put some music on [is it any wonder I can't get to work on time?], but no deal. He pointed to Vicki and repeated "denz." She obliged by picking him up and tango-ing him to the door to see me off.

From the looks of playgroup yesterday, all the kids were gettin down. And yes, that's the garbage pail they're drumming on. The living room was packed with toys, but nothing draws a crowd like a closed metal cylinder full of cast-off food and other domestic detritus.

It actually looks like a lot of fun.

Samsonova

Lately Samson has been walking around the house saying "ANN-NUH, ANN-NUH."

He is crazy for this little girl, who is, by all accounts, the belle of playgroup.

And he's clearly not shy around her either...

Still waters?

I don't know when this happened, but at some point in the past few days, Samson not only picked up a whole bunch of words, but he learned some lyrics.

We sing all the time. In our house, in the car, at the table. Not in a Family Von Trapp be-lederhosened way, mind you, but still, we sing a lot. We cover the classics like "Itsy Bitsy Spider," "You Are My Sunshine," and "Down at the Station." And if things are really desperate, we break out the "Stairway to Heaven" of kids' songs: "Old MacDonald."

[Sidenote: this song can last for hours; I've gotten far enough into it that I've had Old MacD with deer on his farm. When I get to the part about the sound they make, I do the eyes thing that Susanna Hoffs did in the video for "Walk Like an Egyptian."]

[Second sidenote: I was in Cairo a few years ago. You should know: nobody walks like that there. I figured I could blend in with the locals by aping their gait; they spotted me as an outsider right away.]

Anyway, the other night, Vicki and I were putting Samson to bed and singing when we noticed he was supplying the last word of each line of "Sunshine." Thinking it might be a fluke, we tried "Spider." Same deal. We ran through the rest of our nighttime repertoire, and sure enough, he knew at least the end words of every sentence of all of our songs. We were amazed.

Does this make him some kind of prodigy? Of course not. But it is pretty cool. [And I'll be honest, child prodigies tend to creep me out.]

Beyond being cool, this latest development is also a little spooky. Lord only knows what other words he's heard and has yet to unveil.

Big snow, part II

Samson's friends, Jacob and Oliver, came over to play in the snow. And because the snow was high enough for us to lose them in [or at least high enough to make it impossible for them to play in], I dug a zone of fun for them in our front yard.

I'll get out of the way and let the photos tell the story...

Big snow

It started snowing yesterday afternoon, and by six o'clock all the local newscasts were featuring live shots of reporters standing by a busy highway and warning the public to stay inside.

For a change, the storm actually merited the hype, and we awoke to more than a foot of snow. Samson wasn't sure what to make of it at first [I have no idea if he remembers the snow in Woodstock on Thanksgiving], but he seemed willing to check it out.

Until we put his boots on.

It was if we'd outfitted him with a pair of 19th-century diving boots [you know, the kind worn by those little figures at the bottom of your aquarium?].

He absolutely refused to move. At one point, he had himself turned halfway around to see his mother, and his feet were as firmly planted as if he was Superman in a pair of green kryptonite slip-ons. [For the record, Samson's boots are blue and are made, I think, of rubber and rip-stop nylon.]



However, once we got him outside --- and picked him up from his inaugural face plant in the snow --- he seemed to like it just fine.

Thanks, Nana and Papi

Vicki's mom and step-dad visited on Friday and Saturday and brought with them a Samson-sized digger/loader. This could very well be his favorite thing in the universe.

I'm serious, if it had a tray attachment, he'd be taking his meals on it.

One of his big things lately is handing you something and saying "share." He usually grabs it back about a nanosecond later, but I can't wait to see how the sharing goes when some of his friends come over and check out his new ride.

Oh no, it's Devo!

Guess who found part of dada's Halloween costume...

Foiled again

Samson is obsessed with climbing into his little toy box. I, however, am equally obsessed that he not do this as he almost always ends up falling over onto his head. For some reason, last night I decided that enough was enough. Concussion or no, I would let him get into the toy box. He'd bump his head and realize it wasn't worth it, and we'd all go on our merry way with toys in the toy box and Sam outside the toy box.

As you can see, it didn't quite work out that way. Which is not to say I was rooting for him to fall on his head, but you have to admit this makes it a lot harder to be credible the next time I try to persuade him to stay out of the laundry basket, recycled paper bin, etc.

And no, you're not imagining things: that is the same shirt he was wearing on Sunday at the aquarium. I can say that he really likes that shirt. I can also say that I was at work when said shirt was put on him. When I left in the morning, he was wearing pjs. I'm not pointing any fingers, I'm just saying is all...

Another installment of gratuitous Samson pics

The Age of Aquarium

A classmate of mine works for the National Aquarium and got us passes for Sunday. They have a no-stroller policy, so we had to break out the backpack, which was actually fine (although Samson is definitely heavier than I remember from last time).

There are several areas where visitors can stand and look up into the water, and I could see his little face reflected on the glass, staring up at the sharks as they conducted their silent patrols. Spooky. [I was thinking about it as we walked around, how even the fiercest mammalian predators still retain something recognizable in them that speaks to a capacity for more than just killing. But watching the lidless sharks knife their way through the water filled me with equal parts dread and wonder.]

The aquarium also features an Amazon rainforest exhibit and an Australia section. For some reason, this last exhibit was practically empty, so we liberated young Samson from the pack and let him wander around. I think being able to press his nose against the glass and look at the sleeping freshwater crocodiles was the highlight of his day.



Again, kind of a spooky juxtaposition.

Lunch special

This is what happens when Samson takes a long nap before lunch and I'm left with a little too much time on my hands.

Uncanny

When I opened the letter from my parents and saw this photo, I had to look closely for a second.

This is from Christmas 1973. Cool, huh?

Is there a nicer word for schadenfreude?

I certainly did not take any joy in Vicki's being sick today, but it meant that I got to stay home and hang out with Samson all day. We started the morning playing in the kitchen in the basement. He has toy food and carried the toy pickles and cookies with him for the next several hours. God, I would love to get inside that little head.

The whole spring in winter thing continues, so we took a nice walk this morning to get Vicki some cold/flu stuff from the drug store. It's like there's a whole world I miss by being at work all day. We chatted with senior citizens out for their morning constitutional, exchanged pleasantries with the guy at the coffee place, smiled at the lady waiting for the bus, and came really close to belting out the chorus of "People in Your Neighborhood" as we waited for the light to change. At least I did. Maybe next time.

Thursday is gym day for Samson, so I got to take him to his 45-minute play session. It was awesome. I'm amazed at how much more relaxed he is since I went with him in October. And the teachers and some of the moms [there was only one other dad there, and he looked vaguely witness-protection-programish] knew Samson --- which was both cool and weird.

The class is crowded, and one of the mothers confided to me how many "new people" there were. Something in her tone made me think she was trying to sound vaguely like an Edith Wharton character descrying the horde of arrivistes at the opera. Which of course is just ridiculous, so I looked at her and said "well, our family has been coming to this playgroup since the early 1700s..." People are so weird.

Perhaps the best thing about the gym is this thing they call "turtle time." Essentially, they take a big plastic turtle (probably a sandbox in its outdoor incarnation) and fill it with wiffle balls and other toys and let the kids just play for a few minutes by themselves. It was so amazing to watch my little guy playing --- if not exactly with, then at least around --- other kids and just totally doing his thing. He walked right into the middle of things, took a ball from a kid wearing a CBGB t-shirt [an unwise move, I thought], had it taken back, and found something else to play with.

After the gym we went to Baja Fresh for lunch. This is a weekly ritual for Samson and Vicki, and so all the people behind the counter wanted to know where she was. I told our cashier, Oscar, that she was sick, and he asked that I convey my condolences. I'm not kidding.

And then I felt weird being like "it's just a cold, man. I mean, it's not like she has Guinea Worm or something. Also, I think we'll have the kid's chicken quesadilla and a burrito mexicano for me." Actually, it was very nice of him to be concerned.

The line got very long after we'd already been served, and one woman called from her table to her friend in line "Hey Nancy? Nancy, I've got cash, just get me what you're having. Thanks, Nance." No sooner was she finished than I heard from the high-chair at my left "Nan-cee. Nan-cee. Nan-cee..." I don't think the woman heard him. She didn't look like she would have been amused if she had.

Anyway, it was a nice break in the week. Vicki's already feeling better. And I've got too much to do to miss another day of work. Besides it's supposed to rain tomorrow.

Found in translation

I realize Samson is an early talker. And I appreciate it, honestly. There is nothing in the world I love more than hearing his little voice saying "hi" or trying out a new word ["blessyou" after we sneeze is the latest addition].

With that said, I feel like I'm his walking subtitler/interpreter whenever we're out. Particularly whenever there are truck sightings. Which is way more often than you'd imagine.

When Samson says truck, he replaces the first consonant with the last, skips the 'r' and goes right to the final phoneme. Essentially, every time he sees a truck he calls out "kok," which always prompts my half of the call-and-response: "I see that truck, Samson. That's a [insert truck type here, usually garbage or dump]. Can you say TR-uck? TRrrrrrruck?"

Clearly this is how he will learn (I hope), and I do think it's kind of funny. But I can also feel strangers giving us the fish eye, as if to say: "what are you teaching this kid at home?" I expect this will only occur more frequently now that he's started saying "fire truck."

Sam's pretty good with the "f" sound but the rest gets blended in with the hard consonant sound at the end of the second word.

Can you guess what that sounds like?

Also, can you guess how much faster I am with the subtitles?

When that fails, I look apologetically at the offended stranger, smile slightly, and gravely intone: "his mother just got out of prison."

Which is even funnier when Vicki is somewhere in the vicinity and comes back while said offended stranger is still nearby.