11.30.2006

We don't even have Yoko to blame...

It's official: Greg Wiggle (the yellow one) has left the band. Of course the show will go on, and apparently the new Yellow Wiggle's name is Sam... so that should lend plenty of confusion to things around our house.

I should say right off the bat that while I'm not a fan of the Wiggles' music, I certainly wouldn't want to see any harm come to them. OK, maybe I'd like to see Captain Feathersword keelhauled, but Greg always seemed harmless enough.

And of course, not being a fan of their music is no guard against it being stuck in my head from time to time. I actually found myself whistling the "Lights, Camera, Action" song as I walked to my car after work last night. If you don't know the song, consider yourself lucky.

If you do, it's probably now just starting to play in your head.

You're welcome.

Also, am I the only one amazed to learn that the Yellow Wiggle is 34 years old? I can't say I had any idea how old I thought he was, but the fact that he is my age is just weird. The fact that he founded this band at 19 is even weirder still.

All of this being said, I feel the need to offer full disclosure: We do owe a huge debt of gratitude to the Wiggles. Where we live, their show comes on at 7 am every morning.

Which means that at least three or four mornings a week, those guys in polyester shirts and matching trousers allow Vicki and I to get a little extra sleep while Samson sits joyfully between us on the bed, singing along and laughing uproariously at the show.

It's almost a morning ritual: He calls me in to get him in the morning [he hasn't yet figured out he can just climb out of the triple-B, and I'm sure not going to tell him], and I bring him into bed so he can snuggle down with Vicki, and we "watch a little Wiggles" as he puts it.

Good luck to you, Greg. And thanks for those extra 15 or 20 minutes of sleep each morning.

11.28.2006

Hot dog hat




I don't know what I could write that would do justice to this, so I'll just let the pictures speak for themselves.

Special thanks to Oliver's parents for getting Samson the frankfurter lid. Sorry Strunk & White, but this hat is the awesomest.

11.27.2006

Calvin and Sam?

Somehow, Samson's time at an Episcopalian preschool has turned him into a Calvinist.

OK, this is not strictly true. I mean, it's not like he comes home and goes on and on about election. And to be fair, he shows no interest at all in the "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" coloring book I got him. But lately, he is obsessed with grace.

Our family goes to church. Not every Sunday. And not always every other Sunday. And we're definitely not that family sitting with "father" before Mass having coffee and bagels. But we go more than we don't.

At least as far as you know.

Anyway, my point is that Samson has some familiarity with organized religion. Even if it does seem to revolve around Cheerios and footraces. So it's not like this is some totally new concept for him.

Apparently at his school, in addition to chapel on Mondays [what would you give to be a fly on the wall of the two-year-old chapel session?] they say grace before lunch. Which I think is really sweet. And we have always said grace before dinner at our house. I think it's important for us to remember to be thankful for what we've got. This is honestly one of the things I hope to teach Samson as he grows.

But within reason. Right now, I can't so much as grab an apple without getting a stern "Daddy, fold your hands" rebuke from the grace Nazi.

While my parents were visiting, each time a new person sat down for breakfast, we had to say grace all over again or risk the wrath of Cotton Mather in feety pjs. I can't wait until the next time we eat out somewhere and he starts patrolling the other diners. Good times...

11.26.2006

Riding that train...


Not only did we see Santa at the railroad museum on Friday, but we also got to see a miniature Dick Cheney at the model railroad town.


Strange, no?

Samson also got to try his first candy cane. It was a big hit.


The weather was perfect, and there were lots of families wandering around the train gardens outside.


As we walked around, and I overheard some of the dads talking to their kids about the finer points of railroad models ("See that one? That's an 1880 Shea; you can tell by the pistons."), I realized how little I know about trains.

This realization did not in any way make me sad.

[Sidenote: I have nothing against train guys; I just don't aspire to be one. It's a level of enthusiasm that escapes me. To me, they inhabit the same universe as Civil War reenactors and those guys who sit at the ballpark listening to the play-by-play on headphones while watching the game (and keeping score). I say this knowing full well the glazed-eye look I get from Vicki when I start talking about Moby-Dick.]

Overdue


This is from a few weeks' ago at Madelyn's birthday party. Remember when I mentioned the best party favors ever?

All Samson needs for Halloween next year is a John 3:16 sign. [We've already lost the nose.]

Leftovers




Here's my lame-o, catchall post-Thanksgiving recap post.

My folks visited for several days, which was fun. Sort of.

My Dad, through no fault of his own, caught some kind of crazy 48-hour stomach virus, which pretty much took care of him for Wednesday night, Thanksgiving Day, and the day after.

Oh, and we got to take him to the emergency room on Thanksgiving to fend off dehydration/keep him from going into diabetic shock. So that was fun. He's fine now and at home (of course). And he actually rallied on Friday night in time to play with Samson before leaving on Saturday.

But Thanksgiving at our house wasn't exactly Rockwell.

It was more like Gericault. Not exactly, of course, but you get the idea.

Even so, it was good to see my parents, and I know Samson had fun with them. He always does.

Ad astra

Samson's room continues to be a work in progress, but as we continue to decorate the triple-B, we are going with a kind of rocket ship/planets and stars theme.

So we've put some cool glow-in-the-dark stickers up on his ceiling (including the constellation Orion).

Each night when we turn out the lights, he lays back and looks up at the stars. Tonight, as he fought going to sleep with every fiber of his being, I was lying on his floor looking up at the ceiling.

Every once in a while I'd give a soft admonishment about it being time for bed. But in between sleep patrol duties, I just looked up at the stars.

And then it hit me, the ceiling looked a little like a lot of dorm rooms I remember from college.

Needless to say, I'm going to be very watchful to see if he asks for a black light for Christmas.

Good thing Pink Floyd doesn't put out children's albums. Oh, wait.

Far out, Samson. Far out...

11.18.2006

*%!!#$@!!!!

Cover your ears kids: Dada is doing some home improvement.

Until today, Samson's big-boy-room --- despite it's Sodor Island splendor --- was really unfinished. No pictures hung, no curtains, etc. It is now slightly less unfinished. And it only took me an hour and lots of muttered curses to get the curtain rods in place and the curtains hung.

Which is good, because it's hard enough to get him to sleep in the BBB when it's dark. In broad daylight, well let's just say that today we took one of those drives to nowhere in the hope that he'd fall asleep. Which he did at about mile 3 to nowhere. Unfortunately, once the drive is started, we can't just pull into a parking lot somewhere because he'll wake up. Rule number 1 is: you don't wake up a sleeping toddler.

We almost made it to Pennsylvania before deciding it was safe to turn around. [No-nap Sam is no joke. Way worse than angry fire-throwing Sam. Seriously.]

Anyway, for the life of me I can't understand why curtain rods can't be made with some kind of detachable part for the rod to rest in. It's almost impossible to screw the hardware in and work around that thing.

I don't even know what the stupid thing is called, which somehow is only more infuriating. [Sidenote: Please feel free to educate me if you know. I like to call it the *!$~!!#; the tilde in the middle lets you know it's a Portuguese swear word].

I used to think that Muammar Gaddafi lived in a tent to stay true to his Bedouin roots. Kind of a pan-Arabist way of keeping it real. I bet it's not the case at all. He's probably just wise to the fact that nobody would take a leader (especially a dictator) seriously who hung crooked curtains in his kid's room.

Think about it. Would you take direction from a guy who spends ten minutes looking for a drill bit only to remember it's in his shirt pocket?

Lucky for me Samson was downstairs eating dinner.

11.17.2006

Under the influence

Each day at Samson's school, all the kids play together outside. It's usually in the late afternoon in the hour or so before parents start picking their kids up. I guess the prevailing wisdom is that at the end of a long day of singing, snacking, making crafts, and napping, the kids need some Lord of the Flies time.

Samson is certainly getting it. Last night every time he got angry, he would point an open hand at Vicki or me and say "FI-YUR."

I'm pretty sure he's not the next Beavis --- in fact, I'm pretty sure he doesn't know exactly what he's saying. Even so, it's a little unsettling.

Obviously, not nearly as unsettling as if he was actually able to conjure up "FI-YUR," to go with his anger, but still...

When I asked him if he learned it at school, he said yes. I figured they didn't cover it in chapel, so I pressed him further about who says it on the playground.

Bobby and Drew say it. I don't know who Bobby and Drew are, but something tells me they are "big boys."

Ok, Samson tells me they are "big boys," which at his school could mean 3- or 4-year-olds. We've heard about Bobby before. Usually in the context of "Bobby is cool." I wish I was kidding.

No idea who Drew is. Presumably, he too is cool. [What, I wonder, makes one toddler cool to another?]

Regardless of their coolness, we now have a toddler who is shooting fire at us.

To her credit, Vicki has decided to try the oversaturation/desensitization route, using "fire" repeatedly in all sorts of contexts. [Perhaps I should send a warning to the local "Mommy and Me" movie club]

Of course, I chose the classic: "Hey Sam, could you stop saying that, please?"

One of these times that approach has to work, right?

11.16.2006

More to come...


For some reason, this new version of Blogger is not letting me upload any photos from Samson's friend Madelyn's birthday party. Except for this one.

Which tells you a little of what you need to know about the party [it was a lot of fun] but doesn't provide much context. Like the moonbounce in Madelyn's basement, which is roughly the size of The Gambia (but far less humid).

Or the photos of the greatest kids' party favors ever. I'm not even going to ruin it by telling you what they were. You'll just have to wait for the photo to appear. Hopefully soon.

Ok, you want a hint? Think John 3:16.

Also, since I'm complaining, our internet at home is still not working.

Apparently, the good people at Verizon DSL have taken Brezhnev-era bread lines as their customer service model. If you want to see Vicki mad, mess with her internet connection. Seriously.

So, as they used to say in Moscow, "vee vait."

Sucko.

11.14.2006

The light, the way, the crumbly cheese

We made Greek salad with grilled chicken and flatbread for dinner last night and were pleasantly surprised at how much Sam liked the feta cheese.

His new favorite song is "Jesus Loves Me," which is apparently in heavy rotation at school during sing-along time.

Why am I telling you this? Read on.

Scene: Our bathroom, 8:15 AM. Sam and Daddy brushing teeth and getting ready for school.

D: "Hey Samson, today for lunch, you're going to have some more of that yummy Greek salad from last night."

S: "Yeah."

D: "Remember? With tomatoes, and cucumbers, and lettuce. And chicken and feta cheese. Do you like feta cheese?"

S: "Yeah."

D: "It's good right. Delicious feta cheese."

S: "Feta cheese. [louder] Feta CHEESE. [pause] Feta Cheesus loves me. [singing] Feta Cheesus loves me."

There are times when I wish we had surveillance cameras in our house.

11.13.2006

Movin' on up

Samson is indeed moving on up.

Not as far as the east side, but all the way across the hall into his big-boy room (BBR).

More importantly, into his big-boy bed (BBB).

Vicki had off on Tuesday for Election Day, so I took the day and we sent Samson to school for the morning, which allowed us to paint what was our computer room/office/guest room and is now --- and will forever be known as --- the BBR.

Interestingly, the color we painted it is almost exactly the same color as the nursery (the little-boy room?). Which, being kind of color-blind, I take no blame for.

And besides, I've always liked the color we painted the nursery. I'm pretty sure it's blue.

In any event, the room isn't fully set up yet, but it's got a train table, a bookshelf, some toys, and the chair from his old room. [Sidenote: We are slowly but surely starting to refer to his old room as "the baby's room." We'll see how long he plays along with this. For now, he's all about the BBR.]

Even better, he's all about the BBB. He has now slept in the triple-B twice --- all night Friday and all-night last night. We skipped Saturday as we were in Virginia staying with friends. More on this later...

Naps are still a whole other issue, which makes sense. Despite the guard rail on the triple-B, he can certainly get out, and all the fun stuff in his room is just a short walk away. Still, I'm trying to plant the idea that once he's in bed, he can't come back out.

On Friday night, we were pretending his bed was a castle, and I likened the rail to the castle gates. But I just didn't have the heart to tell him the floor was a crocodile-filled moat. (And I totally left out the part about dropping cauldrons of hot oil onto would-be invaders.)

Still, we're moving forward. Which, really, is all you can ask for.

11.10.2006

Excuses, excuses

Our home internet connection went down last night, and it may be a few days until it's up and running again. I've got lots to post but no time right now. Be back soon...

11.06.2006

The five stages of sleep

Samson's school sends a little note home after each day with some basic info checked off. I had a good day/bad day; I ate/I didn't eat; I was happy/sad/resigned to the existential loneliness that the sandbox symbolizes. You know, the usual stuff.

Last Tuesday, and I remember it now because it's been going on all week at our house, Samson's note read: "I had a hard time staying on my cot." Apparently, not only would young Samson not take his nap, but he kept talking to the other kids as they were trying to sleep.

Lately, Samson has been taking longer and longer to get to sleep. We put him down last night at 7:15, and it took him nearly an hour to finally put head to pillow and head for the land of Nod.

Those of you without children are wondering, "why not just put him to bed later?"

The answer, of course, is because he's really tired (and totally crazy) by bedtime and keeping him up an extra hour would only prolong things.

So here, without further preamble, are the five stages of sleep as played out on a nightly basis at our house.

1. Denial --- This is the first and almost always follows the announcement of bedtime's imminence. Usually accompanied by bald-faced lies, like "No, it's not bedtime" and "I'm not tired," and my new favorite (especially since we've gone to daylight savings time) "It's not dark out."

2. Anger --- Depending on the night, this can involve a general surliness about getting pajamas on or more targeted announcements like "I don't want Daddy to read a story" and "I don't want to go in my crib." [Sidenote: I'm not sure that the twos are "terrible" so much as preferential. We are treated daily to a litany of things he wants or doesn't want.]

3. Bargaining --- Samson, by this point, begins the charm offensive. It's not unusual, amidst the pleas for "one more book" or claims of being hungry to catch a "Mommy's so pretty" being floated like a test balloon. It never works.

4. Depression --- It's been a while since we hit stage 4, but lately it's back, and it's usually just some crying. Occasionally, he'll also sing songs by the Smiths, but mostly it's just crying. And usually (and mercifully), it's brief.

5. Acceptance --- Slowly, and almost never without a few follow-up visits from one of us to fix the blanket, pick up a fallen La-La, or bring a desperately needed toy, Samson reaches this stage.

At which point, Vicki and I are exhausted --- the other reason we don't keep him up for the extra hour.

11.01.2006

Halloween recap


What a difference a year makes. The boys met at Oliver's house for dinner and some trick or treating.

Unlike last year, however, the guys were a little more on the ball about the whole getting candy thing. This is the best we could do for a group photo.

Also, I made the mistake of teaching Samson the noun "loot," as in, "Hey buddy, do you want me to hold your pumpkin? I don't want you to lose all your loot."

Big mistake: The entire drive home from Oliver's (all seven minutes of it) was a lamentation on the fact that he could not hold his "loot" and that he very much wanted to.

Even so, the boys had a great time visiting houses and digging in for some free candy. I'm not sure they got the "only one" rule, but they all remembered to say thank you at each house.

Kudos to Vicki for getting this shot at the end of the night. It lasted about three seconds before all the sugar kicked back in and they were off and running again. Hence the wailing and gnashing of teeth about "my looooot."