Samson: Behind the music

What do you need for a morning walk to get coffee with Samson?

A stroller, a sippy with milk, some wipes, a banana, and oh yes, a guitar.

People think I'm exaggerating when I say he takes it everywhere with him. These people have never been interrupted in the bathroom by Sam doing his toddler Pete Townshend routine.

And while technically, it doesn't go everywhere --- it hasn't made it into the tub yet --- this is not for lack of trying.

All that said, over the course of the past few months, something has changed.

Whereas before he carried the guitar around the house, occasionally strumming but mostly banging into things and menacing the cat, he is now starting to make music.

Not music in the stage-mother, Suzuki-method, prodigy sense (which is fine by me; I find those kids unsettling), but in the sense of just sitting and singing words that pop into his head.

Like the "thank you" song he was rocking out to this morning. Or the "I love you, Mr. Gary" song that followed. Mr. Gary, by the way, is his friend Oliver's dad.

There's also a Mr. Garry who cuts Samson's hair, but given his track record, I have a hard time believing the song was for him.

Bonnie and Sam?

I'm not sure if you've noticed, but there seems to be a pattern in photos taken of Samson "driving."

At least he's wearing clothes in this picture. But I am starting to worry he's practicing for a career as the Clyde half of a Bonnie-and team...

Raindance

Sam got to spend some quality time among the trains at the B&O Railroad Museum today. And while most of the exhibits are outside, he didn't let our unexpected monsoon season get in the way of having a good time.

Miscellaneous

Salon has a great article on kids' music and the fact that more and more former rockers are getting in on the act. Which, for those of us with children, is great news. I mean, I guess there are some adults who genuinely enjoy Barney, but I haven't met any. And I'm not sure I want to.

Vicki's dad is visiting for a few days; we hadn't seen him since Thanksgiving, but he arrived bearing all sorts of Thomas swag and Samson very quickly warmed to "Grimpa."

Which is good, because he got a little extra time with Grandpa yesterday while Vicki visited the school she'll be at in the fall when she returns to work.

I came home at lunch to see how things were going and to put Sam down for his nap. Safe to say young Samson had worn the poor man out. There had apparently been numerous train wrecks involving Thomas and others. And several of his little animal toys were laid out on the floor, presumably awaiting the changing of their diapers. [I'm not kidding; this is his new thing. We were in Borders last week and he lined up a half dozen Bert and Ernie dolls and announced "change diapers!"]

In any event, during the three hours they were alone together, Samson had somehow convinced his grandfather that climbing the coffee table is something that is allowed in our house. What's more, he had perfected a two-step ninja-like ascent.

I have to say I was impressed with his technique. Very fluid.

Even so, I couldn't let it go. Once he's summitted the coffee table, the expedition to the dining room can't be too far off. And I can picture him planning to conquer the dresser in our room, a band of sherpas camping in our hallway, drinking yak butter tea and waiting for the weather to break.

So, like a thousand times before, I was reduced to the role of straight-man when I asked him, with as much earnestness as I could muster, "Samson, do we climb tables in our house?"

The reply, as ever, a smiling "yes."

Summertime and the living is easy...

Samson celebrated the first official day of summer at his friend Christopher's house, where the guys swam, snacked, and apparently knocked back quite a few apple juices.


Not exactly the Swimmer, but I bet if Cheever had written children's books, they'd have ended something like this...

The only thing we have to fear...

For those of you keeping score at home, Samson has found a new thing to be afraid of.

In addition to religious icons and birdhouses [did I mention he's afraid of birdhouses?], he's also afraid of mannequins.

Especially the ones with no heads in the children's section of Old Navy.

To be perfectly honest, I think he's got a point. It's pretty creepy to see a headless, toddler-sized humanoid in overalls and a ringer tee. In an action pose, no less.

[Sidenote: as a kid of 11 or 12, I was obsessed with "rearranging" the mannequins on those seemingly interminable trips to J.C. Penney with my family. While my parents browsed for school clothes for me and my sister, I switched hands, pulled wigs, etc. Which leads me, today, to question what kind of security that store had, since I was never caught. And for some reason, a bald, left/right-switched mannequin, arms akimbo, still kind of cracks me up.]

As with Samson's other fears, this one poses no particular life-altering threat. I mean, it sort of complicates the obvious, liberal arts degree-retail fallback option (a proud legacy both his parents carried on during and after college).

And I'd bet his mother, as a dyed-in-the-wool Andrew McCarthy fan is probably a little sad. [Sorry, Vicki, your secret is out.]

But I think, otherwise, he'll be just fine.

Sam on the Isle of Sodor

For Father's Day, Vicki got us tickets to see Thomas at the Strasburg Railroad.

I'm not sure how I can best describe the scene. Remember in Highlander, when the "gathering" takes place and the immortals converge on New York City...

It was sort of like that, except without swords (and music from Queen) and with hundreds upon hundreds of little boys (and some girls) decked out in conductor's hats and blowing train whistles.

Did I mention it hit 94 degrees yesterday? That lent the whole thing a nice pilgrims-headed-toward-the-Ganges kind of feel (and smell).

Hordes of sweaty kids, their parents, and a caravan of strollers all stumbling forward in the heat to see the big blue train with the fixed smile on his face. The juice box to person ratio must have been seven to one. If you don't have kids, this probably sounds dreadful. Heck, even if you do, it might. But it was actually a lot of fun.

The look on Samson's face as he saw Thomas approaching made the whole thing worth it. His eyes got really wide and a smile spread slowly across his face; you could practically hear the little synapses firing away in his head, sounding the alarm, "Thomas! Thomas! Thomas! Life-sized! Coming closer! Thomas!"

I'm not sure how into the actual train ride he was, but we did get to see some of the surrounding area's farms and livestock. Cows and horses were duly noted.

And at one of the crossings, there were three Amish kids sitting in the grass waving and looking like they'd jumped right from Dorothea Lange's viewfinder.

Since we didn't get to spend the day with my Dad, who was visiting my sister for the afternoon, we called as we were on our way to Thomas-palooza.

I should preface by saying that we were on a cell phone and that my Dad's hearing is not as good as it once was. And since he'll be 80 in October, we should probably give him a break.

Anyway, after wishing him a happy Father's day, I told him our plans for the day and heard him relay to my mother: "It's your son. They're taking the baby for a ride on the hummus train. That sounds great."

At which point I could hear my sister laughing and correcting him. Unfazed, my Dad said, "Oh, Thomas, that makes sense. Hummus is that stuff you put on crackers, right?"

What's remarkable about this is not that my Dad thought we were taking Samson on a train made of chick-peas and tahini but that he was so unconditionally supportive of our plans for the day.

Somewhere in his mind he was probably thinking, "I knew they fed that child tofu, but a Middle Eastern dip/train ride? Well, whatareyougonnado?"

Thanks, Dad. I can always count on you. I hope Samson can say the same when he's my age.

Colorblind

A noble goal for any society, particularly those that claim to be democracies.

Colorblindness on a personal level, however, is a pain in the bum. I have what they call red-green deficiency, which makes no sense to me, since I can spot those colors a mile away.

It's the blue/purple divide that gives me trouble [I can't even tell you how many light purple dress shirts I've almost bought, thinking they were blue].

Why am I telling you this? Because Samson, for reasons known only to him, is obsessed with taking the paper/wrappers off his crayons.

Which is funny, in a way, because he is so industrious about it and will sit quietly for minutes at a time completely engrossed in this task.

Unfortunately, it means that I have no reliable guide for the colors he's using. Obviously not a big deal when it's a brown or yellow crayon, but yesterday morning he was using a red crayon to color some trucks in his coloring book. He then reached for another crayon and started to color. The following exchange ensued:

Me: You draw very nicely. What color is that crayon?

Samson: Red.

Me: Very good. What about the other crayon?

Samson: Blue.

Me: No, I think it's actually purple.

Samson: [not looking up] Blue.

Me: Purple. Can you say "purple"?

Samson: Blue.

I let it go, figuring there was no point in arguing with a toddler who was quietly coloring. Besides, I was only half-sure I was right.

As we readied to head out for our Father's Day outing, I asked Samson if he wanted to bring some of his Thomas trains with him.

Me: Do you want to bring some of your Thomas trains with you?

Samson: Yeah.

Me: How about that green one, Percy?

Samson: Yeah.

Me: And Thomas? What color is Thomas?

Samson: Blue.

Me: How about the purple one, Fergus?

Vicki: [Laughing] Fergus is blue.

Me: Ok, bring the "blue" train, Fergus.

Absent the prescriptive Crayola wrapper, I'm willing to let the crayon conundrum be, but I'm pretty sure that Fergus is, indeed, purple.

Can I get a little help here? I think Vicki may be Gaslight-ing me.

Any given Sunday

For the past few weeks, whenever Samson has seen a dump truck [which is a lot more often than you'd expect, trust me], he has exclaimed, in a tiny voice brimming with excitement: "Dumbf---." Which was sort of an improvement over the word's earlier incarnation but still required immediate subtitle/translation to keep people from thinking he was being raised by Hell's Angels.

Put simply, we have been working on "tr" for months with no appreciable results.

In any event, on Sunday we were sitting in church and Samson was being preternaturally good (i.e., sitting still, not trying to tickle the people in front of us, quietly munching his goldfish), when he opened one of the books we'd brought for him to read. It's called "The Road Builders" and is his new favorite book.

There, on the first page, is a list with pictures of all the trucks it takes to build a road. And in that list, of course, is a big old dump truck. He sat scanning the page, quietly naming the trucks he knows: digger, loader, backhoe [which always gets a big shout-out and ends up sounding like PAKHOE], roller, bulldozer (bulldozer)...

Time slowed down as he moved his finger toward the dump truck.

I should note at this point that sitting in front of us was an old colleague of mine from my previous job. Really nice guy, with a very nice wife and three nice kids, the youngest of whom is a few months younger than Samson.

How nice are these folks? Former Maryknoll missioner nice. Their little boy was reading a board book on the story of Daniel in the lion's den. So you can imagine the chill then ran up my spine as young Samson moved his little pointer finger in the direction of the dump truck.

And there, in the quiet of the church, a small miracle.

From somewhere in that little mouth, the "tr" sound appeared, and it was like the chorus of Beethoven's Ode to Joy, as he proudly proclaimed "DUMP TRUCK."

Obviously, this was no big deal to him. He probably thought he'd been saying that all along. But I was pretty excited about the whole thing.

If ever there was a time when it would have been appropriate for church ushers to dump a cooler of water/Gatorade on someone in the pews, this was such an event.

Didn't happen, of course, but if I ever make a movie about my life, I'm adding that scene.

Toddlers of the world unite!

Of late, young Samson has become obsessed with ownership. I don't know if this is some kind of developmental stage, wherein a young child recognizes the potential for possession or if it's in some way related to the broken-record admonitions we provide him in the supermarket, bookstore, library, etc [e.g., "Be gentle with that, it's not ours," or, "Samson, that's not ours, please put it back.]

Or maybe it's that new kids' book we got from the library, about Uncle Karl and his Busy Day at the Factory.

Whatever it is, Samson is on a mission to classify everything he sees and determine whether or not it's ours.

And I mean everything, from the lake we hiked around on Saturday to the train tracks and train we saw, to the cookies he couldn't have for breakfast.

This last one was particularly difficult for him, because after I said no, he kept pleading in these plaintive tones, saying "ours? ours?"

I could see the little wheels turning in his head, thinking, "Hey, what's the problem? If those are ours, why can't I eat them?"

I dread the day he finds his mother's box of Cookie Crisp among the cereals. I'm not even going to try to explain that to him...

Rapprochement

There has been a seismic shift in La-La relations.

Those of you who know Samson know what a big deal this is. He now recognizes La-La #2 as a full member of his nap and nighttime contingent and has even been seen carrying both of them around the house. [Sidenote: La-La #3 has not been seen for months, and I fear the worst.]

He calls them each "La-La" and seems to show no preference for one over the other.

There is no way to understate the signal importance of this event. In our little world, this is the equivalent of Hamas recognizing Israel and then offering to go half on a vacation place in Nantucket. Seriously, it's a big deal.

Of course, Vicki and I are affecting a casual attitude toward the whole situation. If we've learned anything from our friends who are grizzled veterans of the model U.N., it's that it's best to allow former foes the space to work things out on their own.

Sleepless in South America

Samson's nightmares continue apace. He woke up last night around 12:30, and we just couldn't get him settled. So we brought him into our bed, which almost always means that Vicki is in for a lousy night's sleep.

Not so last night; he was all about my side.

We have a king-sized bed, so space is not usually a problem. But apparently Samson is a restless and roaming sleeper.

What does this mean? Put it this way: If our bed was a map of South America, he'd be Brazil. And Peru. Also, Ecuador.

Vicki, also known as Argentina, slept soundly --- all snug and comfy on the east coast, her dreams of Patagonia set to soothing tangos.

Sadly, I was Chile --- barely holding on along the western edge and in constant danger of simply falling off into the Pacific/onto the floor, dreams of Pinochet dancing in my head.

Needless to say, I'm a little sleepy this morning. The kind of sleepy where you get out of the shower only to realize that you still have shampoo in your hair.

When I woke, Samson had his little face just a few inches from mine, and I started my day by watching those big blue eyes open and was greeted with a big "hi."

Actually a pretty nice way to start the day, all things considered.

Even so, I'm going to bed early tonight. And I'm totally grabbing the Bolivia spot...

On the farm

On Saturday, we headed to Elmer, NJ for the annual Appel Farm Arts & Music festival.

This was our second time at the festival, and it was well worth the trip. Lots of great acts on the bill --- including a reunited Toad the Wet Sprocket, who were terrific, and a really loud and rocking Richard Thompson.

I'd forgotten that last year at this time, Samson was a really little guy. See for yourself:


In fact, last year at this time, he was still a few months away from walking. What a difference a year makes.

The photo at the top of the post and the one below are the only documented photos of Samson not in motion.

He and his buddy, Jacob, had a blast running all over the fields and just generally being crazy.

This last photo was taken toward the end of the day, hence Samson in his pajamas.

PJs and bare feet notwithstanding, when we let him out of the stroller, he was off like a shot.

I like his odds more and more these days for the summer season of church races.

Iconophobia

Also known as fear of statues and/or graven images.

Young Samson has it and has it bad. It started last weekend at his Uncle Ben's wedding rehearsal. The church, St. Anthony's, is an old-style brick building with a small grotto outside the sacristy. In the grotto, behind wrought-iron gates and surrounded by candles, is a life-sized statue of St. Anthony holding the infant Jesus.

[How all these saints who lived centuries after Christ got to hold the toddler messiah, I don't know, but I digress.]

For some reason --- actually, for the reason that a wrought iron cage filled with candles and a life-sized cement man is really spooky --- Samson was terrified.

It's not like he's unfamiliar with life-sized statues of religious figures, but he's had nightmares since. [Sidenote: I'm glad he never got to see my grandmother's dresser; she had a complete set of New Testament statuettes. My sister and I used to call it the "Jesus action figure set."]

Of course, Samson has no idea that this statue of St. Anthony is different from the other statue he's familiar with. He just knows he scared. He's woken up almost every night this week whimpering "Pope, Pope, scared."

And while I know this is the age where the imagination starts to develop and that nightmares are normal, if not common, it still breaks my heart to see him standing in the half-light of his room, shaking in his PJs from a dream. As someone who has always had very vivid dreams and even more vivid (vivider?) nightmares, I can relate.

I wonder if right now, somewhere in suburban Calcutta, there's a Dad talking his child out of a nightmare based on a statue of Kali that he saw at his uncle's wedding. The odds have to be pretty good, no?

Sand and water

It's pretty incredible to think that all over the world, regardless of religion, race, or political system, when the weather gets nice, people flock to the ocean's edge.

I'm not even going to attempt to cover the same ground that Melville so eloquently wrote of in the early chapters of Ishmael's narration, but there is something almost mystical about standing at the water's edge and looking out.

One of the greatest things about going home to see my folks in New York is that they only live a few miles from the ocean, and so we try, whenever time and weather permit (sometimes, even when weather doesn't permit) to get to the beach when we're in town.

This was Samson's first experience of the beach during actual beach weather. And while we were there for a picnic dinner [as a family, we're not melanin-equipped for the beach at mid-day], I think he had a really good time.

I know I did.

Destruction of property

I'm not sure what kind of fine the library will levy against us for returning a book that has no pages left. Obviously, we'll need to buy them a new book. Also obviously, we'll need to remember that Samson can't be left alone in his crib with books that 1) aren't ours and 2) have pages made of anything but cardboard. Or titanium.

Vicki had put him down for a nap yesterday, and he was fussing and crying and then got really quiet. Which, she assumed, meant he'd fallen asleep. Alas, no. He had merely found a project that required total concentration. And, apparently, ninja-like silence.

There are few sights sadder than the shredded remains of a children's book, its brightly illustrated pages ripped from the binding and lying scattered on the floor like so many downed trees after a hurricane.

Worse yet, this book was in the "A" rotation for bedtime reading...

Crouching tiger, hidden Samson

Samson spends a lot of time thinking (and talking) about jumping. He picked this up from his swim class, where they line the kids up on the edge of the pool and have them jump into their parents' arms. Which is cute and fun and a good way to teach him not to be afraid of the water. And from the way he flails around in the tub, it has clearly worked.

But he has quickly transferred this skill out of the pool (and our arms) into the wider world and now scouts every new location with this one intention.

As you can see, he doesn't get very far. But he's got focus and drive.