A Christmas Miracle

In what was truly a Christmas miracle (or, at the very least, the fruition of a successful whisper campaign leading up to the 25th), I also got a didgeridoo for Christmas.

Yep, that low droning sound you hear is the sound of Samson and me on the stairs scaring the bejesus out of the cat. Good times.

Samson really seems to like his didge, although we've got to figure out a way to keep him from launching it when he's done playing. Beyond the sound of PVC on hardwood (which is way louder than any of his drums), I'm afraid one of us is going to lose some toes.

The night before Christmas

Samson's ear infection notwithstanding, he had a great time at Jacob's house. And when we came home, we were ready with our milk and cookies for Santa.


[Sidenote: Growing up, we always left a mug of beer and some cheese and crackers for Santa. I wish I was kidding about this. It wasn't until I was older (like college-aged) that I learned that this was not what other families did. I'm torn between admiration for my Dad for the sheer audacity of the proposal (which went on for years) and horror at the idea that as kids, my sister and I fought over the honor of who got to pour "Santa's beer" for him. Nothing like giving old St. Nick one for the road...]

Anyway, as you can see, we not only put out milk and cookies for Santa, but we also left him a note and put some food out for his reindeer. In case you're wondering, reindeer food (courtesy of Miss Jacki at Sam's school) is made out of oatmeal and sparkles. It was a cold, clear night when we put it out. Unfortunately, it rained all Christmas day, so we ended up with a nice, sparkly papier-mache on our front steps when we finally changed out of our PJs on the 26th and rejoined the world.

Recap

OK, so I'm a little late on the Christmas posts. Samson came down with an ear infection on the 23rd, and we spent some of Christmas Eve at the pediatrics clinic. Apparently he has some kind of genetic propensity toward ear infections. Thanks a lot, Vicki.

Apparently we also are not doing a good enough job of cleaning out his ears, because his right ear needed to be irrigated. Lets just say it's not something I hope he has to do again anytime soon. Still, this trip was better than the one last time. And it did seem to help. In fact, it produced a piece of ear wax roughly the size of a cuff link. So not only did we get to have a screaming, febrile toddler on our hands, but we also got to feel like neglectful parents. God bless us, everyone!

Anyway, Samson got his antibiotics and is on the mend. He was feeling well enough to go to church [although we didn't make it through the whole Mass] and then rallied again so as not to miss out on Jacob's Christmas Eve-palooza. And by Christmas morning, he was pretty much back to his old self.

I guess we should count ourselves lucky that he's good about taking his medicine. But to be honest, he's a little too excited about taking it for my liking. There's something about the way his face lights up when he sees that little plastic shot glass full of pink medicine that just makes me uneasy.

Gratuitous Samson pics

In case you're wondering, it's always open mic night at our house...


Which is funny, when you consider that the picture below is from his school's Christmas concert last week.

Yikes!

Have you seen this?

Kind of puts the whole Grandma-lets-the-kids-eat-junk-food-before-dinner thing into perspective, no?

Cheap sunglasses

I believe it was the poet Billy Gibbons who exhorted young men to go get themselves some cheap sunglasses.

I have no idea where this pair came from, but lately Samson won't leave the house without them. Yesterday, as we were getting ready for school, he insisted on wearing them with his wool hat. Which made him look like the littlest witness protection program member.

But for the fact that we were running wildly late [not unusual on his schooldays], I would have grabbed the camera. He still had them on at school, and his teacher told me he'd been carrying them around on the playground the day before.

We watched a few minutes of U2's performance at the Live 8 concert the other day, and I'm guessing that it made a bigger impression on him than I realized at the time.

The most wonderful time of the year

Oliver's mom and dad were nice enough to invite us over for their neighborhood's annual Santa visit the other night. Which was great for the boys and a really nice excuse for us to get together for beer and pizza on a weeknight. Sam and Jacob showed their gratitude by putting their sticky candy cane fingers all over everything and then sitting on some packages under the tree.

Of course, Oliver also sat down on a package, but it is his house...



[Full disclosure: those "gifts" under the tree were decorations, not actual gifts. You'll note I'm using the past tense.]

The visit was really sweet, although both Santa and his helper bore an eerie resemblance to post-Swingers Jon Favreau. I imagine the mall Santas in Vegas are similar.

After spending a few minutes with jolly old St. Nick, who apparently was slow in making the rounds that night due to a bone spur [clearly Santa's elf didn't sign a confidentiality clause], the boys were ready to do some singing. Think last call on New Year's meets the Wiggles and you've got a pretty good idea what it sounded like.

Guess who's discovered YouTube?

Samson's index

Days until Christmas: 7
Number of Wise Men Samson made us take to church yesterday: 2
Number of times we sang "Jingle Bells" before bed tonight: 3.5
Number of times we sang "Frosty": 2
Minutes spent discussing Frosty melting and then being resurrected: 6
Guess-timate number of days after Christmas we'll still be singing "Jingle Bells": 165
Number of times I've almost given him the didgeridoo: 4
Percentage of toys in our house from the Island of Sodor: 35
Percentage after Christmas: 50
Hours Vicki will likely spend in her PJs that day: 16
Hours I hope Samson will nap: 3
Number of candy canes Samson will begin: 11
Number he will finish: .7
Hours Samson probably will nap, in light of all those candy canes: .5

You can build it (in theory). We can help (allegedly).

Don't believe the hype, I've rarely found the guys at Home Depot to be particularly helpful. In fact, it's not easy to find them at all. So it goes.

I hit the Depot the other day to get some PVC pipe to make Samson a didgeridoo for Christmas. This summer at the farmers' market, there was a guy there playing a didgeridoo [or didge, to the cognoscenti], and Sam was absolutely fascinated by it.

Unfortunately, the guy never showed up again, but every time we go to the market poor Samson expects to see him.

In any event, since then he has been making didges out of paper towel rolls. He scrunches up his face and does his best to imitate the rather singular sound of the didgeridoo. You've probably heard one without realizing it, but click here for some samples.

You can imagine, of course, the reaction I got from the guy in the plumbing department when I asked him to cut me 3 feet of PVC for a didgeridoo. He protested he couldn't cut to measure. No problem, I said, just make it approximate.

He protested that he had to sell me all 10 feet. No problem, I said, I'll just stick the shorter piece in the cart and carry the rest to the register.

And then he protested that they sold stand-alone pieces of 2 feet in length, and wouldn't I rather have that instead.

Samson, from the cart ventured his opinion/confusion: "The man is helping us?"

I assured Samson that the man was and hoped the guy would just cut the damn pipe and let us get out of his aisle.

Surly orange-aproned guy aside, we got all our supplies and headed home.

Last night, after sanding and priming the pipe, I painted it. In truth, it looks less like primitive art and more like art therapy for head wound survivors, but I tried.

I have to make the beeswax mouthpiece tonight, and then it's ready to wrap for Christmas. [Yes I took him with me to get the materials, and yes he has some vague sense he's getting a didge, but I'm banking on the intervening weeks and continued train requests to push this gift to the back of his mind.]

Nothing says Christmas morning at our house like the low drone of a stone-age instrument made out of plumbing pipe.

Good Santa

We went to the mall last night to get Sam's picture taken with Santa. What a difference a year makes. Last night, aside from the eight-person entourage in front of us (is the first photo with Santa a rite of passage in their family?) and the kid screaming bloody murder behind us, it was pretty uneventful.

Samson duly walked up to Santa, put his arms up for a little help onto the lap, and said in his politest, most practiced voice, "I want a train for Christmas...Please."

For my money, this guy is a great Santa. His eyes really do twinkle when you talk to him.

Samson even managed a smile. Well, sort of.

Christmas Card: The Director's Cut

Here's the card you won't be getting this Christmas. Wiser heads (i.e., Vicki's) prevailed in this decision.

And really, it's probably for the best. But it sure would have been funny to hear the confused voice mail from my parents after they got their card...

A Christmas carol (actually several)

In addition to being a grace Nazi, Samson has also become a Christmas carol fascist. Don't get me wrong: I like Christmas carols as much as the next guy. OK, if the next guy's name is Nasrullah Ali Hussein.

I mean, who can resist a classy version of "Hark the Herald" by Nat King Cole?

Especially when it's been carefully chosen for your listening pleasure by the good people at Williams-Sonoma. And Crate & Barrel. And Pottery Barn, J. Crew, Ann Taylor, and every other place that takes Visa. Except for the gas station, where they're too busy piping out "Jingle Bell Rock" and "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" to fit old Nat into the mix. I digress, but you get my point.

[Full disclosure: In college, I worked as seasonal help at Radio City Music Hall, first as an usher and then as house security. Which means that from Thanksgiving until after New Year's, I spent a couple of years surrounded by Christmas music for 10-hour shifts. Sort of like the Ludovico technique. Except with Rockettes. Also, I got paid. Pretty well, actually.]

Well, young Samson is crazy for "Jingle Bells" and "Frosty the Snowman." So now, in addition to the three books we ritually read before bed, we've also got a set list of carols we need to sing. Which, in truth, is really sweet. And I would use my last breath to sing carols with him before revealing my inner Grinch.

But man, if you're not careful, Jingle Bells can last longer than "Light My Fire." And for the life of me, I can't remember all the words to Frosty. So we usually just cut to where he heads off into the hills. [Sidenote: Vicki pointed out the eerie similarity between this verse and the final days of Guy Waterman. We'll hold off on letting Samson know about this for a few more years.]

Saturday night lights

On 34th Street (natch), the people of one block all decorate their houses in a fashion that makes Mardi Gras look restrained. Lots of lights; more dancing Santas than you can imagine; and lots and lots of plastic Magi. Samson was particularly taken by the manger scene on the roof of one house. Nothing says Christmas like a two-year-old looking up with wonder into the cold December night and proclaiming "Look. On the roof: It's baby Jesus!"

We took him to this block last year, but I think this time he got a little more out of it. Certainly he enjoyed seeing all the Frostys and Rudolphs. He was less taken with the Grinch.

And neither of us could understand why unblinking dolls holding candles have anything to do with Christmas.

Even if they are in little velvet dresses. Creepy.

My favorite story of the night is one I wish was mine. Our friends took their daughter, Sara, to see the lights, and at one of the houses was a guy nominally dressed as Santa [slight paunch, white beard, red shirt]. This Santa was standing on his steps, smoking, and called down to my friend's daughter: "Hey Shorty, here's a candy cane."

I'm paraphrasing here; the important part of this is that Sara's encounter with Santa involved smoking and the term "hey, shorty." And yes, I'm jealous. We visited the same house, and this Santa was neither smoking nor tossing out nicknames like George W at a barbecue.

He did, however, give Samson a candy cane.

School Days

I've been trying to figure out just how to write about this, so here goes.

Last week, after Vicki picked Samson up on Tuesday, the director of the school, Bev, called Vicki into her office. Never a good sign. Sam's teacher, the much beloved Miss Jackie, had been out on Monday and Tuesday and so Miss Melissa was filling in.

On Monday night, when I asked him about her, Samson offered a terse assessment: "She's not pretty."

So I wasn't entirely surprised that she said something to the director of the school about him. But what she said was that Samson is having too much trouble adjusting (i.e., crying too much and preferring to be in point A when it's time to go to point B, etc).

The upshot of it was that the director wanted to know a) if we were aware of this [we were not; each day, his little sheet tells us if and what he ate, whether he napped, etc --- it does not provide any information on existential crises during playtime] and b) what we wanted to do.

Once Vicki explained to the director that she could not leave work early [this was after she'd already told her she worked at an elementary school] and could not "bring work home with her" [even for a school counselor this would constitute kidnapping], they arrived at the idea that maybe he just needs some more time at school to establish a routine.

Fair enough, since he goes on Monday and Tuesday and then has five days off. Not quite as sweet a deal as a NYC fireman, but pretty damn close. Of course, when Vicki asked Bev what Sam's teacher thought, she told her that she hadn't discussed it with Jackie since she'd been out for the past two days.

So essentially she'd called Vicki in for a conference based on the recommendation of a "not pretty" substitute. Super.

In case you're wondering, it's not a good idea to upset an eight-month-pregnant lady. I don't know if Bev has any idea how close she came to being beaten up with a Thomas the Tank Engine backpack, but believe me, she came pretty close.

I followed up with Miss Jackie the next day, and we will indeed send him for a half-day on Fridays to help him get more into the groove. Literally, since Friday is music class day, and Jackie noted how Samson seems to be able to turn anything in the classroom into an instrument. I couldn't tell if she said this with admiration or exasperation, but if he's making didgeridoos out of paper towel tubes in her class, it's a good sign. [More on this in a later post.]

We're fine with giving him an extra half-day, but I wonder why this couldn't simply have been suggested in the first place. I had a short but somewhat frustrating conversation with the director in which she explained to me --- in a tone usually reserved for giving foreign tourists directions --- that two-year-olds enjoy routines and need them. To which I duly replied "I understand, and I think your idea about an extra half-day will help him." And that was that.

What I wanted to say was "Thanks, Piaget. I've been reading the same three books every night to him for four months now. I think I'm pretty well apprised of this toddler's love of repetition. Any other insights you want to share?"

In any event, I do think this will help him adjust a little more. Especially since we're about a month out from the arrival of the baby.

Which, and I'm no early childhood expert, I imagine will give Samson pause. [Perhaps I should call Bev up and get her thoughts on the matter...]

Underage

Because we strive to be green in our house, there are three allegedly empty Sam Adams bottles sitting in the little carry carton next to the trash. They are supposed to go out tonight with the bottles and cans for the recycling pickup tomorrow.

I say allegedly because last night, while I was calling home to say I'd be late, I heard Vicki say "Samson, put that down" followed by Samson's little voice in the background saying: "Mm. That's good. It's salty."

I assume, and I can't say for sure, that they were rinsed before they were placed there. My sister, Greg, and I each had a beer with dinner the other night, but I was doing dishes, not clearing the table. So I have no idea if it was a sip of three-day-old beer or a three-day-old beer/water rinse-out cocktail.

Either way, he slept really soundly last night.

At the movies

Have I mentioned Samson's new thing is watching movies and eating popcorn? Here he is with Aunt Maura and Go-Go Greg watching "Mary Poppins."

The Godfather

My sister and brother-in-law visited this past weekend. Aunt Maura, who is my little sister and Samson's godmother, threw a "sprinkle" for Vicki. Being a second child herself, Maura is keenly attuned to the fact that the second kid gets a lot less pre-game attention (like showers, day-by-day diary entries, etc). Hence, the sprinkle. Not a full-on shower, but a... well, you get the idea.

Which meant that Samson's godfather, Uncle Greg (or, as Samson calls him "Go-Go Greg"), and I got to spend Saturday at the train museum.

Three-Gs is easily Samson's favorite person. His arrival at our house is something like the Beatles deplaning at Kennedy that first time.

Seriously. The poor guy can't go to the bathroom without Samson calling after him, making sure he's coming right back to play.

We had lots of fun at the museum and got to hang out with some of the other sprinkle non-attendees (Jacob and Oliver and their respective dads).

It was pretty cold out, so a few of us took the complimentary train ride to nowhere that the museum offers.

I think there must be some historical significance to the track itself. Someone mentioned it was the original mile of track laid down for the B&O railroad. I sure hope so, because the sights along this trip included a lot of rusting, graffitoed cars; the remains of a modern-day Hooverville; and a guy standing with an enormous pitbull waiting to cross the tracks.

Not to mention the fact that the train itself is museum-quality only in the sense that it's a decommissioned 1980s-era Washington, DC commuter train. I couldn't help but wonder if the toddlers lined up and slowly proceeding from the platform onto the train weren't getting some eerie sense that the future wasn't all it is cracked up to be.

Regardless, we had a good time.

These shots of Samson and his friend, Jacob, from the little guy train ride kind of say it all...