Going up the country

We head to Woodstock (insert brown acid joke here) tomorrow for a family party and a mini-vacation in the Catskills.

So no posts for a few days, but I'm sure I'll have lots of photos and stories to share when we return.

Until next week...

Just-woke-up blues

Samson woke from his nap this afternoon in a musical mood.

As you can see, he takes a lot of stuff in the crib with him.

Young Sam takes kind of a pharoanic approach to going to bed, so there's usually a menagerie of stuffed animals, trucks and trains, books, an instrument or two, and, as documented in the first photo, snacks.

Pretzels, to be precise. Somehow, they help him get to sleep.

And if we've learned anything in 22 months, it's to go with what works. Besides, it would be ridiculous to put a turkey dinner in there with him.



What I can't figure out is why he's afraid of religious statues and mannequins and not that creepy, fixed-smile, frog in overalls looming in the background.

Inside voice

It's official: I have now had to ask Samson, in public, to use his "inside voice."

I felt so stereotypically dad-like. Almost like Fred MacMurray, but without the pipe.

Samson has discovered, in recent weeks, the concept of volume. Prior to that, he thought he was yelling by saying words really fast. Which was hilarious.

If he wanted me to come get him from his crib in the morning, I'd hear "daddeh; dadeh," with each syllable getting more clipped as he got impatient.

No more.

It's now: "DADDEH; DADEH"

We are not a particularly loud-talking family, so he's got a solid frame of reference for what "inside" volume should be. But boy, he bring the noise when he wants to.

Speaking of which, Vicki bought him a toy microphone yesterday. I hope he still remembers how to beatbox.

Rock star

I was not fast enough with the camera yesterday, but I finally figured out why Samson keeps going into our bedroom and putting his mouth on the bedknob at the foot of our bed.

I should explain: For our tenth anniversary, Vicki and I decided to treat ourselves to a new bed.

So far, Samson has yet to figure out that the footboard(?) could double as a ladder.

He has, however, been spending an awful lot of time standing next to the bed with his mouth on --- or very close to --- the bedknob. Weird, right?

So I've kept after him whenever I see this, and we've had some talks about how we don't lick furniture in our house [I'm not taking responsibility for what you do in yours]. But all to no avail.

Until last night during naked time (Samson's clothes-free, five-minute, post-dinner, pre-pjs and bedtime stories break), when he grabbed his guitar, ran into the bedroom, and proceeded to sing into the bedknob.

While strumming his guitar.

Like I said, I need to get a photo of this to really do it justice.

Ode to joy

This past weekend was Artscape, the city's annual festival of the arts. It usually doubles as a heat and humidity endurance test, and this year was no different.

Normally, I try to avoid giant crowds of sweaty strangers whenever possible.

But we had seen on the news that morning that the BSO was hosting a musical petting zoo for kids. So we were ready to brave even a plague of locusts to let young Samson get his hands on some orchestra instruments.

And given the kind of day we had, I think I would have faced even the locusts.

Of course, he was a little overwhelmed at first. But once he got over being shy, he dove right in.

And he was all business. No goofing around or making funny sounds; he was (as you can see) quite intent on making some music. He seemed to like the strings the best.

He also seems to have figured out that musicians get to flirt with girls without being obvious about it. He kept returning to this one girl, extending his hands and smiling, saying "playit? please. thenkyu."

Mama's (much less witty) banter

Guest blog:

Samson went to the movies for the first time with his pals yesterday. They saw Cifford the Big Red Dog and ate a LOT of popcorn...

About 30 minutes into the movie, they were out of their seats playing driving games in the lobby...



Afterwards, we went to one of our favorite local book stores, Greetings and Readings, for storytime. We three moms made a quicker-than-usual exit when our storyteller started berating some of the toddlers for making noise and touching her books while she was reading.

All the better because we left to go have lunch and do some shopping at Wegman's.

And that was all before nap time. Whew!

-V

From the people who brought you candy cigarettes

It's with some trepidation that I enter the "who are the ad wizards that came up with this one?" territory.

But this product (made by a company called Munchkin, no less, and which we have in our house), bears comment.

Of all the things you quickly learn to become un-squeamish about as a parent, poop ranks pretty high on the list. Sure, you deal --- especially in the early months --- with spit up and lots and lots of snot, but poop remains the constant. Day in and day out, as the seasons cycle by and the milestones become fond (if fuzzy) memories.

All this poop, of course, needs a repository. In the early months of Samson's life we relied on that staple of baby shower registries: the Diaper Genie. But several months back, we got tired of having a giant cylinder of baby poo standing sentry in the corner of his room.

So we decided to simply haul the dirty diapers away on an a-la-carte basis. Which, unless it's raining or snowing heavily, is really no trouble at all. The big thing to remember, however, is to keep a good supply of plastic, disposal bags handy.

But not too handy.

Hence the dispenser Vicki picked up at Target. Which is terrific, except for the fact that it's shaped like something Samson uses every time he takes a bath.

Also, it looks like the subject of a song by one of his favorite Sesame Street characters. Why not scent it like chocolate chip cookies, for crying out loud? It's hard enough to keep Samson away from things that don't look like toys and can hurt him.

I imagine right now that the good people at Munchkin are hard at work on a line of Teletubby-shaped used needle holders and Elmo-themed bleach dispensers.

I mean, who are the ad wiz... Woops, sorry.

Did I mention it looks like a toy he plays with in the bath?

So now, hidden in a basket he won't be able to reach until he's in high school, there is a duck full of plastic bags.

And every time I reach for one, he sees it [who can miss the bright yellow duck with a blue bag dangling from his underside?] and clamors "Play! Bath! Play!"

Good grief.

In the summertime, when the weather is fine(?)

Ok, the weather is not exactly fine. In fact, it's pretty awful outside.

I just got a voice mail from Samson telling me to "Check e-mail."

Looks like somebody had a little pool party this afternoon. Man, I wish I worked from home...

Ne plus ultra

What could be better than playing with a fire truck while sitting in a fire truck?



















Sitting in a fire truck with your friends. Barefoot.

[Sidenote: How does he get his shoes off so quickly? And how come everybody else seems to observe the "no shirt, no shoes, no service" rule. Even Jeff Spicoli wore shoes in public buildings...]

Everybody loves a fireman

Guess who visited the Fire Museum yesterday?

This is Samson and his buddy, Ryan. More pictures to follow...

Marginalia

Samson (with some coaching) has lately taken to demonstrating how strong he is by flexing, gritting his teeth, and growling "strronnng."

He has also picked up some new phrases, including the uber-casual "oh, hiiii," which is how I was greeted yesterday morning when I went in to get him from his crib. It's like he's all of a sudden decided his room is the center square.

In the category of unintended consequences, young Samson has taken my phrase of encouragement --- "great job"--- and decided that since he hears it when he's completed some onerous task (e.g., having his teeth brushed, face/hands washed, diaper changed), he could end those tasks sooner if he said it himself. So I now get the toothbrush near his mouth only to have him say "gretjob" and start ducking and weaving.

More importantly, however, he has become Jackie Chan fast in getting to his feet from his back, and so I really have to be vigilant now when it's diaper time. By the time I hear "gretjob," it's already too late...

One week later

I forgot to post these pictures earlier. It was about 95 degrees on the 4th of July and probably slightly more humid than the jungles of Burma (or Myanmar, if you prefer). Just absolutely gross. Added to this was the equally gross opportunism that manifested itself in the parade's floats.

Nearly every other float was somebody running for office; we had both candidates for governor, several for the vacant senate seat, too many to count for various state and county positions, and one for assistant reference librarian.

Ok, I made that last one up, but there sure were lots of people in convertibles wearing fixed smiles and trying to look pleased about being in the kind of sun that would keep French foreign legionnaires indoors.

There were some bands, of course, and various veterans and patriots' groups, including a revolutionary war re-enactment group that featured a guy who looked like he went to school with Nathan Hale. I'm not kidding. What would possess a man who probably voted for Coolidge to think that woolen breeches and a worsted great coat are a good idea in July is beyond me. But he toughed it out, and the crowd gave him a huge round of applause. [I'm sure the echoes of our clapping comforted him as he was rehydrated in the ambulance we saw racing by 20 minutes later.]

Was it a good parade? I have no idea. But Samson and his buddy, Jacob, had a blast watching the trucks, eating goldfish, and just generally commandeering a small strip of sidewalk.

The importance of being Thomas

One of the least surprising things about the Thomas the Tank Engine series is that it was started by an Anglican vicar. I have watched very little of the one video we have, but the few books in Samson's collection are replete with the kinds of language and moral instruction that you'd expect from World War II-era Britain.

We've got one story where Thomas arrives at a surprise party being held in his honor for being "really useful." I keep waiting for "Thomas saves the Raj" or "Thomas explains to a particularly low sort of chap about the importance of keeping one's voice down."

Even the little character cards that come with the wooden train toys feel like something out of a headmaster's ledger. The descriptions include things like "rather pleased with himself but means well" or "always looking for ways to avoid doing his duty."

Of course, all of this is lost on young Samson and his friends, who just enjoy pushing the different colored trains around the track on our coffee table.

And I guess a toy world that is predicated on behaving and being responsible is hardly the worst thing in the world.

Still, it is funny to hear Sam in his toddler voice going through the litany of trains on the track. Reminds me of the roll call scene in "Meaning of Life." Gordon, James, Thomas, Toby, Percy, Neville...

Oh, Susanna. Oh the humanity.

My parents were kind enough to buy Samson a CD with 914 of the most annoying songs ever recorded, by children who I can only guess studied at the Osmond/Brady/Partridge school of vocal training.

So we've got that going for us on car trips now.

Of course, there is only one song from the whole compilation that Samson wants to hear: Oh, Susanna. He can (and unfortunately, does) listen to it over and over and over again.

Let me explain: It all started --- as so much does in our house --- with Laurie Berkner. On her DVD, they do a version of Oh, Susanna. Fair enough, but somehow this became Samson's musical obsession.

[I should note here that I bear no small responsibility for this turn of events. One morning, in a fit of what I can only describe as "look-ma-no-hands-ism," I put young Samson wise to the fact that the one and only song I can play on harmonica is Oh, Susanna. He looked at me with the kind of adoration usually reserved for dump trucks and bulldozers (bulldozers). And I loved every second of it. This fact will not keep me from complaining, but I felt like I should be honest with you.]

Anyway, the song on the CD is 1 minute and 15 seconds long. Which means that on those trips that he remembers the CD is in the car (which is essentially every car trip), we get to measure time and distance in 1:15 increments.

The unit is called, appropriately enough, a Susanna. For instance, it's about 3 Susannas from our house to the park if we hit all the lights right. It's probably only two to Jacob's house (which means we should be walking). I haven't clocked it, but I'd bet it's about 8 or 9 Susannas to my office.

At the end of the month we head up to the Catskills for a long weekend and a family party. I'm going to start lobbying Vicki now about "misplacing" the disc. That's easily a 250-Susanna trip.

And for the life of me, I can't figure out what the song means.

Sloth

Sloth: Probably my favorite of the big seven. Almost no effort required at all.

It's also a handy excuse for the dearth of posts lately.

I've been on vacation for the past week, catching up on some odd jobs around the house, taking lots of walks with Samson for coffee, and just generally doing as little as possible. Ok, that last part isn't exactly true. We had visits from my folks and Vicki's mom and stepdad, and these came right on the heels of a visit from her dad. Which was terrific for Samson while it lasted, but left a little grandparent withdrawal to deal with when everyone headed back home.

In any event, it's been a nice week off, and I've got lots of stories and pictures to share. More to come later today...