Back in blog

We're back from a week in NY, so I've got lots to catch up on at work before I can do any posting here, but it was a packed six days: the beach, a parade, a barbecue, a wedding. I hope Samson doesn't expect that kind of excitement every time we go to visit the family. Anyway, it's good to be home, despite the fact that the cool spring we were enjoying is gone and it's now Africa hot here.

Lots of photos and news to report. Stay tuned...

Reading (it's fundamental)

Have you ever read something and thought "Wow, this author is really speaking to me. He totally gets it." I can distinctly recall reading certain books as a kid and just really connecting with what the author was saying or what the character was feeling. I'm no reading specialist (although I'm related to two), but I'd bet that that kind of connection is what gets kids hooked on reading.

Obviously Samson can't read yet, but I think he's already had that experience. If you don't have kids, reading No, David! is a pretty good primer on life with a toddler. If you do have them, almost every page is recognizable.

As Vicki read the book to him, Samson was looking at the pictures and you could just see his little mind working away, going "man, this guys totally gets it. It's like why can't I put my cars in the toilet? And let's be honest, it is funny when I stick lo-mein in my hair. Stand strong, David. There are millions of us out here, and we're all drawing on the walls with you, brother..."

Slick

It's when the house gets quiet that you know Samson is up to something.

Almost everything he could possibly get into has been out of reach for months now. I say almost, because we obviously forgot to put the tub of vaseline back with his diaper stuff and out of his reach.

Vicki said she found him rubbing it on his pants and saying "lotion." You can see from the photo that his head and neck were almost glossy from the stuff. He may be baby smooth until his 20s...

For those of you who haven't had the joy of finding your child covered in petroleum jelly, nothing short of sandblasting gets it off.

We ended up throwing all of his clothes into the tub, where we made a half-hearted effort to clean them. This stuff is sort of like napalm --- it just doesn't come off.

Ultimately, we decided to say the heck with it and just throw his viscous little outfit away.

Interestingly, the more people I tell this story to, the more people tell me of similar experiences from their own childhood. This must be some kind of toddler rite-of-passage I missed when I was his age.

I'm just glad the cat was asleep in the basement when all of this happened.

Strawberry fields

Although it's still early in the season, we took Samson strawberry picking on Saturday. If you haven't done this recently, do yourself a favor and get out there.

Is there anything sweeter than a strawberry just picked?

I don't want to get all Thoreau on you, but there is something elementally satisfying about eating food at the source. The taste of a strawberry --- slightly warm from the sun's rays and full of a sweetness that could only be organic --- had a kind of Proustian effect, transporting me back to when I was a child and my sister and I would go picking with our parents, eating far more than we put in the little baskets we had in our red wagon.

As I stood in the mid-morning sunlight, with a cool May breeze blowing and the leaves of the strawberry plants rippling like tiny waves on a great green lake, I listened to Samson chattering "strawberries, strawberries" as he searched for spots of red on the ground.

The sky above seemed infinite and impossibly blue, and for just a few moments, the whole world compressed into that quarter-acre patch of little red berries.

Get on the bus

In the tradition of Kerouac and Cassady, Guevara and Granado, another classic road trip is born.

Sort of like "On the Road" but with more of an "in the living room" vibe.

Samson and Jacob are lighting out for the territories. Or at least the kitchen.

Because that's where the snacks are, man.

Boogie mornings

Young Samson has a wicked headcold. I spent almost 10 minutes this morning trying to clean his nose off before we went downstairs for breakfast. The poor little guy was so stuffed up and crusted over, he could barely protest with his customary "No. No like it!"

On the plus side, we got a break from N this morning as his dad stayed home from work to go pick his brother up from the airport.

Good deed; good deed; good deed...

Partly sunny, with a chance of Greg

Part of our nightly routine with Samson includes singing. He's totally over "Down at the station" [that was so 6 months ago], but he still likes "You are my sunshine" a lot.

And as I've noted before, he sings along at the end of each line. However, for some reason, the line "you make me happy when skies are gray" has turned into "when skies are Greg."

Why this is, I don't know. But it's pretty funny.

Occasionally, he then branches off from the song and just starts some kind of free association listing of friends and relatives, starting with Mo-Mo [Uncle Greg's wife, and my sister] and then moving through Gram, Papa, Nana, Papi, and the litany of his friends and friends' parents.

Sometimes we even get a shout-out for the neighbors' dog before he circles back to Vicki and me. And while I'd like to think this means something, sometimes he ends with "tractor," so I'm not going to read too much into it. Either way, it's really sweet to hear him chronicle the population of his world before laying his head down for the night.

Secret handshake

Happy Mother's Day!

I usually take weekends off, but I thought I'd post a special Mother's Day edition of the blog, since it's not yet time for the Sopranos and all the nightly chores are finished. [Sidenote: I wish there was something like a time bank where we could get credit for the 15 minutes Vicki and I spend at the end of every night picking up toys. Each year, we could check our balance and then be given that time back to sleep in or go to the movies or just have extra time to take Samson out someplace fun. The Mayas had something like this, but I think they used their extra days for fasting and mourning. I'll keep my penance to the nightly corralling of Thomas and all his friends, who somehow are always in between the couch cushions. I know Samson and his whole crew really, really like Thomas, but I'll be honest, trains with fixed smiles kind of creep me out.]

In any event, the weekend passed like my year in fifth grade. Basically, under a threat that never quite materialized. In this instance it was bad weather (in the other, it was military school). Despite said threat's failure to pan out, my behavior was shaped accordingly, which meant I ditched the weekend plans I'd made for us to go biking and have a picnic. [For anyone interested, I also learned to raise my hand to speak in class and stopped trying to "bring a little comedy" to Mr. D's class.]

Even so, it was a nice, laid-back weekend. On Saturday, we checked out a local park we hadn't been to in a while and just generally hung out. Lots of fun stuff for Samson to climb.

This morning, I thought we'd let Vicki sleep in and go get her some flowers from the farmer's market. Samson is big on pink flowers [I'm pretty sure he thinks it's one word], and so we got some fresh mini-donuts from the mini-donut guy and made our way leisurely around the market. Of course, to do this meant we were skipping church, which little Sammy Superego noted a few times by looking up at me and questioning "Church? Church?" The market is also near a huge Lutheran cathedral, so the sound of their bells tolling at 9 only reinforced our dereliction of Sabbath observing. But we did have fun, and there was even a guy there playing guitar [curiously, he dedicated "No Woman, No Cry" to all the mothers at the market].

And we did get those pink flowers.

Later in the day we hit the spring carnival at the zoo and got to catch up with our old friends the penguins and giraffes.

Samson Davis, Jr.

As Samson hurtles toward two, with all the concomitant quirks of this developmental stage, he's really started asserting himself.

Put another way, we get a lot of "no" in our house these days.

Which is obviously normal---and sometimes quite funny.

He's also developed a sound for when he's frustrated. It's kind of an "oew" sound and usually includes him swinging his arms, and occasionally hitting something, or someone. [Despite my continued assertions to the contrary, apparently we do hit people in our house. More accurately, one of us (hint: it's not me or Vicki) hits people in our house. It's a work in progress.]

In any event, his little "oew" sound is sort of like the sound Sammy Davis, Jr. used to make when he was, well, doing whatever it was that SDJ did. (Riffing? Scatting?)

In any event, the sound makes me laugh. Which, in turn, tends to frustrate Samson even more [see: hitting, above].

Is there a solution in sight?

Well, calendrically speaking, he'll be three in just 16 more months. And we could always teach him the lyrics to "The Candyman." It would be a much better outlet for his frustrations than hitting.

Of course, we'd have to de-program him before sending him out into the world.

I mean, I definitely don't want Samson to be that guy in high school who hits people. I always (quietly) hated that guy.

At the same time, I don't want him to be that guy in college whose computer just crashed and is overheard in his dorm room singing: "Who can take a sunrise? Sprinkle it with dew. Cover it in chocolate and a miracle or two..."

Short-term memory loss

Lately, Samson's bedtime ritual has included throwing La-La [a sort of hybrid lamb doll/dishrag that smells like the day of judgment no matter how many times we wash it] and his sippy cup out of the crib.

Upon completion of this action---which, if you're present, he narrates by looking you square in the eye and saying "throwing"---he then begins screaming for said discarded items to be returned to him. Immediately.

I was never a big fan of the Road Runner vs. Wile E. Coyote cartoons, and this runs along the same script. Which is to say that once is kind of annoying. But after the first 11 times, it gets to be really tiresome. Particularly since this is now becoming a bookend activity, with him not only closing out the day with it but beginning it in this fashion as well.

At 5:38 this morning, we heard "La-La. La-La! MOM-EEE. MOM-MEEEEEE." Roughly translated, this is the 19-month-old's version of "Good God. What have I done? Oh the humanity!" Good times.

In other early morning news, N arrived this morning wearing cologne.

The reason? He has a field trip today.

Because Samcrankypants needed a little downtime this morning, Vicki took him up to his room to read some stories. Which meant I had breakfast with N. By myself.

It wasn't exactly My Dinner with Andre, but it had its moments.

This is an actual exchange from the breakfast table this morning:

N: "How old is your cat?"

Me: "We got him in 1997, when he was probably already a year, so I think he's almost 10."

N: "Wow, how old are you?"

Me: "I'm 33; I'll be 34 in June."

N: "How old were you in 1998? That's when I was born."

Me: "I was 26."

N: "I knew that. You know how I knew that? I counted backwards from 2006 to 1998."

Me: "That's really good. How old are you?"

N: "I'm supposed to be 8, but my mom says I'm 7."

Me: "Oh."

Caption contest

In the spirit of true web collaboration and interactivity (or blatant laziness, your choice), I hereby invite you to provide a caption for this photo.

It's sort of like the New Yorker contest, but less urbane and with no prize.

Entries will be judged for their originality and wit and should be less than 20 words. Good luck!

FAQs:

Q: Do spelling and grammar count?

A: Is English your first language?

Q: Do you provide my e-mail information to third party organizations?

A: Yes. They are known as list brokers, and this is how I will pay for Samson's college.

Q: Shouldn't you be working right now?

A: Probably.

Q: What if no one enters the contest?

A: I will be sad.

Q: What if no one is funny?

A: I will be sadder.

Q: How will I know if I've won?

A: You'll receive a call in the middle of the night. Just like the Nobel laureates. Except this call will be from Samson. And he'll probably be saying something along the lines of "No. No like it! Sleeping!"

From father to son, pt. 2

Now it looks like we've both been practicing for photos of our band.

Maybe we could put this photo on the cd itself...

Brave, brave Sir Robin

On Saturday, we went to the Annual Sheep and Wool Festival. Where we saw some sheep.

And wool.

It was actually pretty cool; there were lots of different things going on, from fly-tying workshops to weaving exhibits and livestock judging.

There was also, in keeping with my theory, the requisite Incan music band. And we saw some llamas, alpacas, rabbits, and various other wool-providing animals. The crowd was a mix of renaissance festival types, back-to-the-land Whole Foods types, and never-left-the-land bib-overalls types. Plus legions of knitters eagerly seeking out, er, whatever it is they seek out. High-fives all around.

We spent a lot of time checking out the animals. At one point, we came upon a trio of lambs who were nuzzling at the bars of their pen. They were bleating, as they do, but one of the three had less of a baa and more of a "blaaa" going on.

Which, for some reason, I found funny. Samson stood silently studying these guys for a while, and then the one let out a loud "blaaa" and Samson (aka, brave, brave Sir Robin) cried.

Not right away, to his credit. Indeed, you can see in the picture that he's trying to keep it together.

But in the end, he could not. Maybe instead of "no like it," I should teach him to say "run away! run away!"

Lamb-induced trauma aside, he had a good time. And I was content to be out walking around on a nice day (and avoiding yard work).

Although I wondered how the lambs felt, being in their pens and only a few hundred yards away from the kebab stand. They must have smelled the grill and thought, "you know, that really smells familiar, but I can't quite place it."

I hope I never know.

Gotchoo

I'll post more later, but I wanted to get this picture up while I had time.

It's actually from last week, and I'd just forgotten about it. Anyway, it's a nice action shot of the ever-popular "I'm gonna get you" game, which Samson requests by running and yelling out "GOTCHOO! GOTCHOO!"

Nightmare

Samson has been having nightmares lately. So far, we've been unable to figure out what they're about, because he has simply been waking up either crying or saying "no. no like it!" Which is both funny and sad at the same time.

But sometime around 4:30 this morning, when he woke up crying and I went in, he said "gog."

Gog is his word for dog. We don't have one, but our next door neighbors have a good-sized dog that barks a lot. I have no idea what breed he is, but he's brown (does that help?). And he's a pretty nice dog, I guess. [Although I can't figure out why he barks when I am in my yard. If I was walking into his yard, I'd get it. I digress.]

In any event, I guess Samson is afraid of this dog. He's been skittish around other dogs as well, including some that probably weigh less than our cat, so maybe that's just his thing. [As a child I was afraid of Sasquatch. Seriously.]

Of course, he could really be saying "Gog," which is one half of the duo Gog and Magog found in the Bible. This idea occurred to me last night as I stood rocking him in the early morning quiet of his room.

Maybe he's having dreams about the apocalypse.

I mean he does read "Thomas the Tank Engine Witnesses the Rapture" a lot, not to mention "Richard Scarry's Great Big Book of Armageddon."

And now that I think about it, maybe that mobile I made for him out of old Iron Maiden cds wasn't such a great idea.

Anyway, he eventually fell peacefully back to sleep. And when he woke, he was his usual smiling self. Of course, I'm a zombie this morning from dreaming about the end of days, but that's my own fault...

Double-wide

Samson's friend, Jacob, came by to play yesterday, and we decided to try out the converter kit that turns our bike trailer into a stroller.

It was surprisingly easy to do. [Having spent my formative years watching Voltron, I always expect technical transformations to involve fire, stilted dialogue, and 80s-style synthesizer music. But this was a snap.]

Of course, it's not exactly the world's smoothest ride [think high-end wheelbarrow with safety harnesses], but I think the boys had fun. Photographic evidence [that's "ocular proof" for you Shakespeare fans out there], notwithstanding...

This last shot makes me wonder if they haven't secretly formed a band and started practicing their cool/disinterested looks for publicity stills.

Guess who's coming to breakfast?

Not much to report of late. My semester ends tonight, so now I really have no excuse for skipping the gym. Or at least getting outside and running before or after work.

We've started watching our neighbor's eight-year-old in the morning. His brother, who usually watches him before heading out to work, is inexplicably out of the country for the next three weeks [in fairness, they're Bosnian nationals, and he is alleged to be in Bosnia visiting his alleged grandmother]. So we now have "N" from about 6:50 each morning until he gets on the bus at 8:10.

[Sidenote: I'm not trying to recreate the 19th-century fiction writer's convention of naming characters by letters; I just honestly don't know how to spell the child's name. I only found out recently I'd been pronouncing it wrong for the three years we've been living next door to him.]

Anyway, I'm sure you're thinking this is no big deal. And all things considered, it's not. He's a sweet kid, and our neighbors are good, kind people and would certainly help us out were we in the same situation.

But for those of you who don't get to spend the first hour and a half of your day each morning with someone else's eight-year-old, count your blessings.

I spend a lot of time each morning repeating to myself the mantra: "good deed; good deed; good deed."

Samson, of course, loves having this early morning playdate. He is obsessed with big kids, and every morning he gets to have a real, live one in his living room. The only thing that would make it better would be if "N" rode a tractor up our front steps while playing guitar.

It's actually sweet to watch this little guy get on the bus and to watch our even littler guy waving at him and all the kids on their way to school.

It would be a lot sweeter if it wasn't every day, but still...

[good deed; good deed; good deed]

On the waterfront

We went down to the harbor yesterday for the annual waterfront festival. This year it was coupled with the Volvo Ocean Race (formerly the Whitbread Race, which always struck me as curiously close to "whitebread" --- not the best analog for a sport that already has an image only slightly less elite than polo. But I digress.)

The combination of the events meant that in addition to the usual weekend crowd of tourists with fanny packs strapped to their jorts, there were knots of people in quasi-nautical attire (topsiders, plaid shorts, belts with whales, or flags on them). Then there were the people who are actually part of the whole ocean race thing; they were easier to spot because they were wearing nautical anorak versions of NASCAR suits and they usually had a leathery look and either really expensive sunglasses or a preternaturally squinty expression [from all those years before the mast, presumably].

All of which meant it was really, really crowded. But the weather was perfect, and we had a great time. We did lose a hat and a sippy cup along the way. I can guess that each was pitched out at some point when we were navigating the crowds on our way back to the car. He'd tested my reflexes more than once with his little matchbox trucks, but they must have made sufficient noise to attract my attention as I pushed the stroller.

The hat, I can only imagine, landed with little more than a cottony flop, like a lone maple leaf falling in the Catskills. Or something.

In fact, I probably wouldn't have noticed as soon as I did except for the fact that we were heading west back to our car, and I could hear a little voice crying out "Bright. No like it."

I don't even have a theory on the cup; it's made of plastic, so I should have heard some kind of small thud. There were hordes of college-agers wandering around, so it was probably picked up, emptied of its contents, and promptly made into a bong by a guy whose name is Steve but whose friends call him Turtle. So the karmic wheel spins...

Speaking of "no like it," Samson got his first taste of the formerly novel and now ubiquitous Incan pan flute music. Since he's so crazy for guitars, I thought he might get into it. Nothing doing. He listened for about four seconds before offering up a summary judgment of: "Leaving. No like it. Sam." Which is probably not a good sign for the genre, given that kids Samson's age are about the only ones at this point that haven't heard these Zamfirs of the Andes.

Items lost but not found aside, it was a terrific day. And while I can't say Samson was all that interested in the sailboats, there was a Volvo pavilion that featured all manners of Volvo products, including the BL 70. Sadly, there was no test drive offer on this particular vehicle.