Sam fights the law; the law wins

Samson got his first time-out at school yesterday. Which is sort of funny, because Vicki and I were just talking about this the other night, saying how he gets them all the time at home but doesn't seem to ever get in trouble at school.

Not that I was worried, but it's good to know he's comfortable enough now at school to misbehave. [I should be careful what I wish for, but I'd rather him get in trouble occasionally because he feels at home than be scared silly and silent every day at school.]

Apparently he was talking at nap time and then stood up on his cot. Clearly against the rules, and clearly stuff he knows he should not do. [By the way, his cot is about three inches off the ground. Still a bad choice, but not a dangerous one. Like when he tried to stand on the windowsill in his room, using his headboard as a stepping stone. I digress.]

For punishment, he had to sit in the "little chair." According to Samson, one of the other kids in his class had a time-out in the "big chair," so I'm thinking there's a sliding scale for infractions, with Samson's registering on the lower end of things.

When I asked him about it last night, he seemed suitably chastened by the whole experience. We'll see...

Living After Midnight

For some reason, Jane can't seem to settle down in the wee small hours of the morning. I still stand by my claim that she's a better sleeper than her brother was. She sleeps through most of the day with no problem (and is apparently unmoved by drums, trucks, Samson's cries of "Strike up the band!" and other household noises).

And even when she's awake in the middle of the night, she doesn't make a whole lot of noise about it. This is not to say she's demure when she's hungry or has gas, but by and large she's just not a noisy baby. Which is good, because we definitely don't need both kids up at 4 in the morning.

At the same time, there's something a little unsettling about looking down at this peaceful little bundle and seeing those blue eyes staring intently back at me. This morning, as I walked around the house with her, rocking and shushing and talking to her, I'd catch her eyes closing every once in a while. But just when I thought it was safe to sit down with her, they'd snap back open as if to say: "I'm watching you. Back to work..."

This is a terrible analogy, but I can't think of a better one. So here goes: You know how in horror movies, there's always a scene where the star/hero thinks he has defeated the bad guy/monster? And then there are those few seconds of cautious joy mixed with sheer exhaustion. But then you get the close-up of a hand or an eye or something, and it moves, and you know it's starting up again.

It's kind of like that. Without the hockey mask, of course.

The one thing, apparently, that helps Sweet Jane get to sleep when she just can't settle is the sound of the hairdryer.

I've heard of this type of thing before, but running anything louder than a toaster for baby Samson sent him into fits of terror, so I was pretty surprised to see Jane's eyelids get droopy once that high-pitched whine started.

Makes me wonder if we shouldn't have gotten this instead of the rocking chair for her room.

The People's Game

Is there a more fun sport for two year olds than duckpin bowling? We went on Sunday, and I can honestly tell you there is not.

Seriously, where else can you combine the sheer thrill of rolling a heavy, potentially toe-crushing sphere with the excitement of knocking things down and the high drama (and possible finger loss) of the ball return mechanism?

In short, it's a perfect day out. Especially when the day is really cold.

Samson and Oliver did a terrific job taking turns and sharing the balls. It got a little dicey when the lane next to us was occupied by some kind of Golden Girls meets Gray Panthers bowling club, but even their reproachful looks at Samson as he reached for their reset button didn't diminish the fun.

You should know that Oliver is an excellent bowler. He's actually more of a thrower, but he sends the ball speeding (sort of) on its way to its destiny with those little duckpins.

Samson, on the other hand, is more of a slow roller. Watching his ball meander down the lane and meet the pins feels almost like a Beckett play. Long periods of waiting for something to happen. Occasionally something does. Or not.

Even so, it was great. And Samson woke up Monday thinking we were going again. It's kind of hard to sell school as an exciting option when you've spent the previous day being encouraged to throw things and knock other things down.

In borrowed shoes, no less.

The Kids are All Right

Freezing temperatures outside + Samson, Jane, and Mommy stuck inside = photo shoot.

Jane actually doesn't look so sure about this, but Sam looks like he's having fun. Man, I wish it was Saturday...

Code talker

When Samson was a newborn and having trouble falling asleep, we explored a number of theories to help get him settled. Swaddling seemed to work best. At least most of the time.

Unfortunately, it worked so well that we had to keep doing it to get him to sleep until he was about 8 months old. Which is a very long time, even if it doesn't sound like it [swaddle-months are like dog-years.] Indeed, we were worried we'd need to give his college roommate instructions on how to swaddle him.

Another scheme we tried was something Vicki read about where you create an association with a word or phrase and falling asleep. The trick, allegedly, is to catch the baby just as they are falling asleep and to say the word so as to build the connection. Once such a connection is built, the word or phrase can then be used to help settle the child down and ready them for sleep. Sort of like Pavlov, without all the salivating.

It seemed reasonable (or not any less reasonable than being up all night), and as I recall, the conversation went something like this:

Vicki: "I was reading about this technique where you create a code word to help the baby fall asleep."

Me: "Yeah. How does it work?"

Vicki: "Basically, you pick a word or a phrase and try to link it, in the baby's mind, with the act of falling asleep."

Me: "What kind of word do you use?"

Vicki: "I guess it could be anything."

Me: "Like 'poop'?"

Vicki: "We probably don't want to say 'poop' to get Sam to sleep. But it could be a phrase like 'lights out' or 'sleep tight' or something. Basically, it can be anything as long as you're consistent."

Me: "How about 'Unicorn Karate'?"

Vicki: [sighs]

Anyway, I won out, and we tried "Unicorn Karate." [She did say it could be anything.]

But we never had much success. Perhaps something about mythical one-horned beasts engaged in martial arts struck Samson as decidedly not sleep-inducing. Or maybe he was familiar with the little known Bruce Lee film. Or maybe it was that neither of us could say it without laughing and waking him back up.

Whatever, it still takes him more than an hour to fall asleep every night.

But now that Jane is here and is exhibiting some of the same night/day confusion symptoms her brother had (although on a far smaller scale), I think it might be time to give Unicorn Karate another chance. She's sleeping now, but I expect she'll be up sometime around midnight.
I'll keep you posted...

Il Postino

Jane, you've no doubt noticed, has a good, thick head of black hair. So did her mother. And apparently her grandmother as well.

Is Jane the Esau to Sam's Jacob? Probably not. She's got blonde eyebrows, and so I expect, just like later pictures of her mom evidence, a little towhead to emerge from under that Sid Vicious hairdo. And to be honest, I'm just glad she's got hair. From what I can tell from the pictures, I had the G. Gordon Liddy look for almost a year and a half. Not such a big deal for a little boy, but I can picture Vicki taping barrettes to poor Jane's melon. So we dodged that bullet.

Anyway, yesterday a colleague joked that Jane must be the mailman's child because of the dark hair.

Hilarious.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a cuckold joke as much as the next guy with a two-week-old baby.

What made the joke funny to me is that our "mailman" is a 225-lb black lady with cornrows.

Samson's protestations to the contrary, I'm pretty sure she didn't have anything to do with it.

People are strange (still)

I meant to write about this the other day and totally forgot. On Sunday, in a minor miracle (not quite on the level of the loaves and fishes at Cana or Lazarus coming out of the tomb, but slightly more miraculous than the immaculate reception) we made it to church. On time.

OK, Vicki and Jane made it on time. Samson and I were parking the car and so arrived after the opening procession. But we were still there in time for the first reading. In any event, we went to Mass and then met up with friends for some coffee afterwards.

We had just about finished when an elderly woman (sort of a well-coiffed combination of Cruella De Ville, the old woman from Titanic, and the middle Stygian witch) walked past the table, stopped to look at Samson, and proclaimed: "He's too pretty to be a boy. He should have been a girl."

I'm sure somewhere in the archives of Emily Post there's an appropriate response to this kind of gender-defiant compliment, but I was, uncharacteristically, at a loss for words. I thanked her with a puzzled look and pointed to Jane, lamely offering "well, his sister is right there." To which she said, "Oh, she's sweet. You should let me have her."

Again, I had no response at the ready. Which didn't matter, as it turned out, because she then let us all know the following: "I like them at this age. Up until three. Then you can have 'em back." And with that, she was gone.

So now I'm wondering if this woman lives in a gingerbread house somewhere on the edge of town and has a pen full of kids who she keeps until three and then returns to their rightful guardians.

I'm also wondering if somewhere out there is a two-year-old little girl whose parents are going to be told: "She's too handsome to be a girl. She should have been a boy."

Playing with food

Not exactly haute cuisine, but you really can't go wrong with a project that allows your two-year-old to make his own snacks.


To be honest, I think he's humoring me with the peanut butter and raisins. While I was working away on the masterpiece below, he was munching on a plain piece of celery.

Of course, it's a lot easier to gin up some excitement by calling out, "Who wants to make ants on a log?" than it is by saying, "Who wants to sit in the dining room and eat plain celery?"

First snow

The first snow of winter fell today. We probably didn't pick up more than an inch, so it was as much like digging in the dirt as it was playing in the snow.

Even so, it was a perfect excuse to get out of the house. And the look on Samson's face as he watched the snow falling was like something out of a Rockwell painting.

We weren't out for very long, however, because somebody refused to wear his mittens. Repeatedly. If there's one thing I won't abide, it's a refusal to dress for the weather. [Seriously, ask my sister. I'm very concerned about people being warm enough.]

The enforcer

I'm not sure who Samson has been observing for diapering techniques [should we call his school?], but consider yourself warned: Sam takes no guff.

Especially not from Care Bears.

Say it loud...

Something really strange happened last night while Samson and I were downstairs playing with Play-Doh. By the way, if you haven't played with Play-Doh in a while, there are two things you should know.

1. It still tastes salty. [My curiosity got the better of me, and I took a tiny taste while Samson wasn't looking. I figured it would be the same, but with all the new colors, I wasn't completely sure that they hadn't gone all "new" Coke on us.]

2. According to the warning label on the container, Play-Doh contains wheat. Some of Samson's friends are allergic to wheat, so I know how serious it can be. I also would never in a million years have guessed it contained anything related in any way to food. So now you know.

Anyway, while we were cleaning up and I was trying --- in vain --- to separate out all the squished colors and put them back in their respective little tubs, I asked Samson to hand me the black Play-Doh. [One of the new colors: great for making wheels and snakes and handlebar moustaches, but I digress.]

Amazingly, he went and picked up said doh and brought it over to me, singing "I'm black Play-Doh; I'm black Play-Doh." At which point he dropped the last part and started dancing around our basement singing "I'm bla-aaack; I'm blaa-aack!"

I have no idea what this means or where it's come from. But I think it's hilarious. Maybe it was that James Brown mobile he had as a newborn...


On the Jane front, her umbilical stump fell off today. Which will make changing her diaper a heck of a lot easier. I don't know what your experience has been, but the nurses at our hospital put the fear of God into us about touching the thing. Of course, when we took Sam for his first doctor's appointment, his pediatrician saw that it was hanging on by a thread and simply pulled it off.

Even so, I wasn't touching that thing for love or money, so I'm really glad hers fell off on its own. And Samson was really excited to hear the news because "now she's big."

Life as we know it...

Jane came home last week, and both she and Vicki are doing just fine. Likewise, Samson is doing a pretty good job adjusting to the big change. He's not crazy about me holding her, and the first few times she nursed he was fairly vocal about not wanting Janie to "put her nose on mommy's belly."

Overall though, so far so good. Some random stories from the past week:

Apparently the standard baby/infant seats (those ubiquitous buckets you see people awkwardly lugging all over town) do not fit in captain-style seats. Our minivan has such seats, which means that Vicki's step-dad spent a lot more time with me in the backseat of our van than anyone should ever have to.

After a mighty struggle, we decided quitting was the smartest thing to do and called up to the hospital room to our respective wives (not without some trepidation) seeking advice. Vicki's mom graciously offered to pick us up the kind of seat we knew would fit, and that was that. Still, I felt like an object lesson on the evils of procrastination there in the parking lot of the hospital (yep, I was that guy; what can I say? Jane came a bit earlier than we expected).

We continue to work on getting the ground rules down with Samson regarding Jane. As in, yes you can touch her arm or kiss her cheek. No, you can not push that train on her sternum. Definitely a work in progress. But he's trying.


It's still early, but Jane is a very different baby from Samson. For one, she sleeps pretty well. She's still figuring out the whole night/day thing, but she doesn't really cry all that much. And she can sleep through just about anything [perhaps she's been hearing the muffled yells and drumming of her brother all this time and so takes it as a matter of course]. But even when she's fussing she never really gets up to Category 5 strength like Sammy Lungs did. This is not to say she's not waking up at night or that we're not tired. She is. And we are. But nothing like the last time around. Sweet Jane.

She does, however, go through an incredible number of diapers in a day. I'm sure I have casually used the term "stinky-poo" at some time in my life. Only now do I truly appreciate the power of that compound noun.

The number of people who ask if we've named our daughter Delilah is surprisingly high. And I can't tell if it's an attempt at humor or if they really think that the pairing (despite the creepy things it would imply) makes sense. Either way, it would be fascinating as a sociological study if it wasn't so annoying.

We have also gotten a lot of "You had a girl? How wonderful. Now you can stop." I get the general idea, namely that people are telling us we have a nice, balanced little family. And I'm ecstatic to have a little girl, just as I was (and remain) ecstatic to have a son.


But to be perfectly honest, having another child is not among the things on my mind not two weeks after the birth of our daughter. I wonder if parents who have a second child that is the same sex as the first get comments like "Too bad you had another girl/boy. Guess you'll have to try again." or "Well, you win some, you lose some."

Perhaps Jim Morrison said it best when he said "people are strange." [Of course, he also said he was the lizard king...]

Gift of the Magi

She came a little early (on the Feast of the Epiphany, no less), but she's here safe and sound.

Welcome to the world, Jane Victoria.

Both she and Vicki are doing well. And big brother Samson is ready to start big brothering. Look out, Janie...

I'll post more later. Lots of photos, lots of stories, just not enough sleep. See you soon.

Letterbox

Wouldn't you know it? Right after Christmas, and just before what will certainly be a time of bunkering down in our house [although it's not exactly cold out right now], the TV in our bedroom is dying.

Mind you, I bought this set --- which weighs about twice what Samson does --- when I was in graduate school 11 years ago. So it really doesn't owe us anything. And it's not that the TV is going that is so annoying. It's how it's going.

I assume, based on my vast knowledge of electrical appliances, that the picture tube is slowly giving up the ghost. I say this, because now when we turn the TV on, there's a better than 50 percent chance that whatever we watch will essentially be in the letterbox format. Which might be cool when you're watching indie and foreign films. But it makes the news hard to watch.

And it makes Curious George almost impossible to find on-screen.

Lately, this is Sam's show. Which, I have to say, is a welcome respite from the Higglytown Heroes.

Aside from the creepy weeble aspect of the show, the cast of 'heroes' seems to waning. I'm sure the idea was sound when it all started: Introduce kids --- via talking nesting dolls --- to the many career opportunities out there.

Fair enough, but the pickings are getting a little slim: They've gone from doctors and teachers and firemen to clerks of court and electrolysis technicians. I imagine we'll see an episode soon where the kids do a ride-along with a bounty hunter or meet the tollbooth guy on the HTPK.

Kitchen confidential

Special thanks to Williams-Sonoma for carrying a Samson-sized apron that was not pink or yellow gingham.

This one even has a train on it. Measured against the toys he got, this was probably the least exciting Christmas gift we gave Samson.

But something tells me he's going to get a lot of use out of it.

Ringing in the new year

With Vicki due in just one week(!), we have been pretty busy getting things ready for the new arrival.

Even so, we did take some time to ring in the new year. Or at least, we made a valiant effort to ring in the new year but ended up calling it a night sometime around 10 pm.

The ball, I presume, dropped in Times Square?

The boys had fun, and I don't think any of us would have wanted to keep them up (or to stay up with them) until midnight.

Samson actually closed out the old year by being really cranky --- seriously, he was meaner than I've ever seen him. Not sharing, not smiling, not even really interested in playing music.

Still, all was forgiven by the stroke of 9:30.

And Jacob may have discovered his true calling. So here's to 2007...