Socks

So we're trying to get out of the house Saturday morning, and I'm trying to get Samson to simultaneously keep his clothes on and gather up the required quorum of Thomas trains for our big trip to the barber --- all while keeping him quiet so Vicki could get a little extra sleep.

I was brushing my teeth, looking for his shoes, and trying put some things in a bag in the event we went anywhere after he got his haircut. [If I've learned anything, it's that not carrying a diaper and wipes all but ensures a torrent of poo at the least convenient time.]

By now, Vicki had her head under her pillow as Samson kept breaking out into choruses of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" that would have made Joey Ramone proud.

So I figured, in all my wisdom, that the best option was to give Samson a job. "Samson," I said, with all the seriousness I could muster, "I'm almost ready to go; I just need to get some socks. Can you do me a favor and clean up a few toys while I do that?"

He looked up and headed into his room, closing the door halfway, at which point a low rumble of noises ensued. I couldn't see him, but I could hear him --- and besides, I was only a room away. [Sidenote: We live in a small house; everything is essentially only a room away, including the neighbors.]

I was now ready, and I called in: "Ok, Sam, time to go." No response.

"Samson? C'mon, buddy. Time to go see Mr. Garry and get a haircut."

Still no response beyond the rumbling of things definitely not being put away.

"Sam, you need to start listening. Come out here now!"

And there, in the doorway of a room positively bestrewn with toys and books and clothes, stood Samson, holding a pair of his red socks out for me.

Don't worry, I'm not going to get all Readers Digest/Darnedest Kids on you, but it was a nice corrective to my impatience.

No tears at the barber, by the way.

Although I think Samson felt insufficiently recognized for his bravery, because at one point while Mr. Garry and I were talking, he piped up: "I'm doing a great job!"