Unsolved mysteries?

Yesterday Vicki called me, laughing, because Samson had walked into the kitchen, said "glasses? garbage" and then toddled on his way back into the living room.

When she looked in our garbage can, indeed, there was her glasses case. When she asked him if he'd put the glasses case in the garbage, Samson nodded his head and said "yes, good."

Vicki and I have each lost of pair of sunglasses in the past few weeks, and since we used to leave them on the table by the door (the same place the glasses case was), I think that little mystery has been solved.

But the larger mystery of Samson's phantom word also appears to be solved [although there is no consensus on this in our house. I say yes, but Vicki is not convinced.]

So, what could Buk-uh-nay-nay mean?

I'm pretty sure it's his way of saying "Berkner," which refers to Laurie Berkner. [Vicki is not disputing this fact, but she thinks the chronology doesn't match up --- i.e., he was saying "buk-uh-nay-nay" around the house before we had any "buk-uh-nay-nay" in the house. As you can tell, we lead very full lives.]

For those of you without kids, Laurie Berkner (pace Sam Anderson) is like the Liz Phair of the under-5 set.

Samson attends to her DVD with all the reverence of a pilgrim at Mecca or Woodstock. He knows most of the words, readily sings along, and occasionally does some free dancing. Which, of course, is my favorite.

And really, what's not to like? Buk-uh-nay-nay has smart songs, catchy melodies, and just a hint of world-weariness as she uses her acoustic guitar to chronicle the lonely crowd that is modern America.

Ok, that last part's not true, but I really do like her music.

In fact, her song about dinosaurs has been playing on a loop in my head for months now.

Yet another installation of gratuitous Sam pics

Samson and his friend, Anna, had a little post-Easter egg hunt yesterday at the park.



Until he discovered the bulldozer (bulldozer).

Erudition

At last, a word to describe what we learn when we watch the garbagemen in our neighborhood hauling away everyone's junk.

I can just picture Samson working on his anthropology thesis while hanging from the back of a big, green truck. Live the dream, son. Live the dream...

The prize winner of defiance

I have known for some time now that Samson James has a bit of a willful streak. Genetically speaking, he was probably predisposed to this. For sure, the quickest way to get Vicki not to do something is to tell her to do it. Likewise, I have a reputation in my family for avoiding confrontation not by carrying out the requested action but simply by nodding and then quietly going my own way.

But this put Vicki and me to shame.

On Sunday, while protesting the removal of his diaper, he hit my arm. Nothing more than a little swipe, to be sure, but it was meant to say: "hey, buddy, I prefer to stay in this poop diaper."

Or something along those lines.

In any event, I reacted by saying "Samson! We don't hit in this house. When you're angry you don't hit people. Say you're sorry."

To which he solemnly responded, "people."

But he definitely knew he'd done something wrong, and he also knew that I was unhappy. How do I know? Because he immediately started saying "hi" and smiling and trying to change the subject by observing that the cat was "funny" and offering up a host of other non sequiturs.

Obviously, I didn't want to make a huge deal out of this, but since he's closing in on 2 [at least chronologically; psychologically, I think he's already there], I know he's testing the limits of what he can get away with. So again, I said, "Samson, say you're sorry."

Nothing doing. He flat out refused to say it. Which is not to say he clammed up. Indeed, he was as chatty as he always is, but he was just not giving in on that word.

Since it was the end of the day, this standoff continued through the donning of pjs, the washing of the face, the traditional getting of a cup of water for the crib, etc.

I could feel myself actually getting angry at this intransigence, which, of course, was ridiculous.

But a small part of me was also proud in a weird way. I could see in his eyes that flicker of recognition of free will, looking right back at me as if to say: "I know what you'd like me to do; it's just that I prefer not to."

In the end---and after I had given him some hugs (stern, disapproving hugs, to be sure) and put him to bed---he did say "sorry."

And I'm not sorry to say, I was relieved. That kid is tough.

Which, in and of itself is not a bad quality for lawyers and Army assassins. But it's less cool when it's somebody you need to hold still while you change his diaper.

Vicarious living, sponsored by Samson

I meant to post this on Friday, but I couldn't get the photos to load. On Thursday, Sam & Co. went to a new park. This is apparently the greatest park ever, and the boys were having a grand old time exploring all the cool slides and climby things.

But then the construction guys on the site next to the park finished their lunch break, and all bets were off.

We took a walk Sunday morning and spent almost 20 minutes watching some guy in a small, green backhoe dig up corroded PVC piping in front of the bank. The look on Samson's face was one of pure rapture: He kept pointing and asking me, "see that? see that?"

It must be funny to be a construction worker/fireman/truck driver/garbageman and know that you are essentially a rock star for kids Samson's age (and older). And let's be honest, would you rather watch some guy move big things with a crane or bear witness to a well crafted e-mail being sent? I'm not looking to switch jobs or anything; I'm just saying is all.

I can just picture Sam and his buddies lined up along the fence at a job site waiting for the guys to get off work and sign their toy tractors and diggers.

Lawnmower man

Now that the weather is nice, Samson can finally get outside and get some yard work done.

This was a gift from his Uncle Greg and Aunt Maura, and it actually shoots bubbles out the side as you "mow." At least it does on lawns that are reasonably level. Ours is more like an artillery practice ground, so although Samson can still mow, he ends up watering the lawn with bubble solution.

By the way, all he'd need to complete the 70-year-old-man-mowing-lawn look would be dark socks instead of the white ones. If it's still warm in October, this would be a great Halloween costume. We could even get him a tiny shirt that said something like "#1 Grandpa" or something.

Easter parade, pt. 2

We had a great Easter weekend. Samson got to take part in his first egg hunt. And while he managed to find a few eggs, he was really impressed with the manhole cover he found. He was also totally nonplussed by the sight of a large anthropomorphic bunny. Which tells me I made the right decision in not getting him that Donnie Darko board book for his birthday...

Later on we dyed some eggs, which went pretty well. Although there were times when it felt like that first dinner party at Lord Greystoke's house. The onesie he has on in the picture now looks like it was tie-dyed, but I think he really enjoyed watching the eggs turn different colors.




Easter Sunday was another beautiful day, and Samson was resplendent in his Easter finery. We had a little photo shoot outside our house when we got back from Mass.

We had a terrific, non-ham/non-lamb Easter dinner with friends. No mint jelly for miles around, and we just enjoyed hanging out on a sunny Sunday.

Unfortunately, the night went south with the discovery that our cat, Ishmael, was really sick and hiding upstairs. The poor thing has been to the vet twice in three days, and we still have no idea what the problem is.

I have to admit, I felt a little silly Sunday night sitting in the waiting room of a 24-hour animal hospital offering a silent prayer for my cat to be all right. But if I could petition the Lord for miraculous intervention in October, I could certainly see my way clear to asking for at least some comfort for our little friend.

He's been a part of our family for almost 9 years. Indeed, he provided the impetus for our son's first word (and continuing understanding of the universe as a place without order).

So we're still waiting for lab results and hoping for the best. I'll keep you posted.

Suiting up

All credit goes to my friend and former colleague, Joe, for putting me wise to this gem from ESPN's Uni Watch column. Their in-house uniform maven, Paul Lukas, writes:

"Just when you thought you'd seen everything, check out the latest news release from the Arena Football League: "For the first time in sports history, a professional franchise will wear Bible-themed jerseys during a game. On Saturday, May 5, the Birmingham Steeldogs will don jerseys with the name of Bible hero Samson embroidered on the front... "

You can access the rest of the article here. You'll have to scroll down a bit, but it's worth it.

[Sidenote for those of you who really paid attention in Sunday school: the jersey should actually read Judges 13, since that's where Samson first appears. Of course, it would be awfully difficult to call a game with every player having the same number.]

Maybe this isn't just a blatant publicity stunt and will catch on.

Then again, maybe it is a blatant publicity stunt and will catch on anyway. Because nothing says I am a monotheist and adherent of the Judeo-Christian ethic quite like a shirt made of nylon mesh. With numbers on it.

That said, how awesome would it be to have an offensive line of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John? Or a special teams made up entirely of the minor prophets? [Actually, I bet there a few teams in Lancaster, Pennsylvania with a roster that looks like that.]

Paging Dr. Erikson

Although he'll only be 19 months old this Friday, for all intents and purposes, Samson is now 2.

I say this not as someone who keeps a checklist of developmental milestones on the bedside table --- parents who are super-apprised of what their children should be doing at certain ages have always left me cold.

No, I say this as someone who has tried --- and failed --- to successfully steer my child through a supermarket aisle.

In conjunction with his new self-awareness --- have I mentioned that when he looks in the mirror, he points to himself and says "Sam" --- he's figured out the whole free will thing.

Which is obviously wonderful and cause for great joy and celebration. I'm serious about this.

But it also means he may end up getting run over by a shopping cart as he exercises this newfound freedom.

At home, he's now figured out that eating doesn't always have to be a three-step process (i.e., insert food, chew, swallow), but that you can spit it back out, remark "funny," and then pick it up off the tray and start over again. He's also tried this with milk, albeit with less success.

And of course, four times out of five I can keep it together and gravely inform him that we don't behave that way at the table.

But the other 20 percent is lost as I struggle in vain to suppress a smile.

I may have to start wearing a hockey mask to dinner.

[Years from now he'll be the only kid at a sleepover who watches Friday the 13th and, rather than being frightened, is somehow reminded to wipe his mouth and chew his food slowly...]

Easter parade

We won't see my folks for Easter so they sent a little care package down for Samson. Included among the treats was a little blue, bunny-shaped Easter basket. Which Samson proceeded to hang from the crook of his arm and march around the house with, proclaiming: "Bag... Sam... Awesome..."

I wish I had a picture of this to share with you...

The awful truth

Friday night we gave Samson a bath. Nothing unusual about that, really. We try to give him a bath most nights as he's usually got whatever was for dinner in his hair. And he really enjoys splashing around in the tub. I don't think I can overstate that fact.

This Friday night, however, I noticed a small jet of water moving outward from young Samson and heard him, in his continuing role as the narrator of our lives, say "peeing." Which he was.

At which point I went into emergency mode and made ready to empty the tub, swaddle the as yet unbathed child, and re-start the bath process.

But Vicki stopped me, saying "you know he does that all the time."

Gentle reader, I can assure you I had no idea that he did this all the time. Were we in the kiddie pool, I would certainly have assumed that. At the beach, I would have assumed that. Heck, even on a log flume ride I would have assumed that. But I guess I've just been under the impression all these months that he's got an outstanding track record of holding it in while in the tub. [With one glaring exception.] Not so; not even a little so.

You may be wondering why this is such a big deal. I mean, when you think about it, it's hardly surprising. To paraphrase John Kerry, who among us hasn't peed in the tub?

Except that we use his bath time as a time to practice what he's learned in swimming. Which includes having him put his face in the water to blow bubbles. An important part of the whole face-in-the-water-bubbles drill has been my teaching by example. Which means I put my face in the water to blow bubbles.

We begin work on snorkeling skills this week...

The truck whisperer

We have lots of trucks in our house. Big ones, small ones, trucks that make noise, trucks that are self-propelled, trucks with little truckers to fit inside. And while Samson plays with them all just about every day, there's a special place in his heart for the bulldozer.

How do I know this? Because he gives it the double-name treatment. When he really likes something, he'll say it twice. Sort of like Jimmy Two-Times in Goodfellas.

Except with the bulldozer, the second mention gets whispered. Why is this? I have no idea.

But watching him sit down with his bulldozer and hearing him proclaim "BULLDOZER; bulldozer" is my new favorite thing.

Radio silence

Work has been very busy, and I've come down with some kind of crazy sore throat, achy-fever thing, so sorry for the dearth of posts lately. Rest assured, I'll be back on track in a day or two.

We tried out the bike trailer this past weekend, and---wonder of wonders---Samson really liked it. Which is good, because there's nothing sadder than a family biking on the trail with their toddler in a little nylon and aluminum chariot of sorrow...