Samson Agonistes

I actually considered posting about this at 5:15 this morning, but I couldn't get my eyes open enough to make my way downstairs to the computer.

I'll explain: Last night, Vicki was putting Samson to bed and I was feeding Jane. [Among the coolest features of baby 2.0 is the fact that she takes a bottle, so I can actually do something useful for her that doesn't involve cleaning up poop or spit-up. At least not right away.]

Anyway, it was about 7:30 when Vicki came downstairs and said the words I fear most at that time of night: "We don't have La-La."

Apparently --- and I'm surprised this hasn't happened sooner --- Samson left La-La behind at school and neither he nor Vicki noticed when she picked him up. So began the wailing and gnashing of teeth. Again, I was spared the worst of this because I was with Sweet Jane, but it was tough-going for about 30 minutes or more. [Sidenote, this website has a tremendous catalog of recorded concerts available for streaming, so while all was in disarray upstairs, Jane and I were enjoying a 1990 Grateful Dead concert recorded in Oakland. Scarlet begonias indeed.]

Despite the fact that Samson is OK with all the members of the La-La family, #1 is the only one he really wants in times of stress or when it's time for bed. Vicki was finally able to convince him that #2 was La-La's Mommy and #3 was the La-La baby and that he should snuggle down with them until the morning when we could pick #1 up from her overnight adventure at school.

Unfortunately, this was not the end. He was up more times during the night than Jane was. He kept having nightmares about "Moppy" --- which either stems from some deep-seated fear of manual labor or is a new kid at school --- and ended up in our bed around 5.

Two and a half full hours before his school opened. So we had plenty of time to discuss the extraction plan. Over and over.

By six, Jane had arrived (OK, I brought her in), looking to be fed, and we were once again glad we bought a king-sized bed all those years ago.

The upshot is that at 7:30, La-La was successfully recovered after a night spent in Samson's cubby. She was hugged and bitten and snuggled and promptly left on the floor of the kitchen about a minute after she got home.

The house always wins, part II

For reasons I cannot explain, I forgot to pull the washcloth out of the tub last night after giving Samson his bath. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem, but --- again, for reasons beyond my powers of explanation --- I had chosen a baby-sized washcloth instead of going with the full-sized one. Here's a tip for new parents or even old parents: Skip the baby-sized washcloths, they're wily and small and will cost you money in the end.

By the time I discovered this, the little yellow washcloth was already on a great big adventure in the pipes of our house. So I went and got the plunger and worked at trying to retrieve the thing.

For his part, Samson thought it was hilarious to see me standing ankle-deep in his bathwater plunging the drain. I eventually got the water to go down, but I was unable to summon up the little yellow washcloth from wherever it was hiding.

Terrific. So now it's Sunday night and we've got a clogged pipe. Nothing to do but wait.

The plumber came today and, in Dwight Shrute-like fashion, informed Vicki that he thought there was at least a 25 percent chance that he'd have to saw through the wall. Apparently his partner was more of a glass-half-full (or 3/4 full) kind of guy, and he went to the truck and got some kind of robo-snake thing and pulled out the little yellow washcloth.

Shrute guy also offered Vicki a helpful primer on what can and cannot go in the toilet or down the drain. I'm pretty sure washcloths are on the "no" list.

The house always wins, part I

Last night, during the hour long free for all that constitutes the time between Samson being physically put to bed and the time he falls asleep, I looked in on him to find him standing perched on the edge of his bed with one foot on the windowsill.

Needless to say I was not pleased. Of course, the windows are not only locked, but they are safety latched, so he wasn't getting outside. But he still could have fallen about a foot or so onto his train table and really hurt himself.

However, trying to impress this on him only elicited a lot of agreement like "I know" and "Yes, I could fall" followed by "It's snowing out, Daddy" and "I won't share my trains with Jacob."

Realizing that I was getting nowhere and that it was already near 8 o'clock, I hit upon the idea of taking all of Samson's trains and tracks off the train table as a punishment. So I grabbed a big plastic shopping bag with handles and started shoveling everything in. At last I had his attention, and so I told him that he'd been warned about standing on his bed and the window sill before and that because he didn't listen, he was being punished. No trains for a whole day. Satisfied that I'd come up with a judgment worthy of King Solomon, I duly deposited the giant bag-o-trains and tracks on the landing of our staircase for safekeeping.

Suitably chastened, Samson cried a bit, promised never to do it again, and was then given hugs and put to bed. Again. But this time he fell asleep.

Sometime around 2:15 this morning I was awakened out of a sound sleep [and I do mean sound: both Jane and Samson had been asleep for six hours by this point] by a crashing sound. At first I thought it was ice coming off the gutters or falling off the tree branches outside the window. But it was more of a wooden, plinky sound. Like Lincoln logs falling from the sky.

Actually it was Thomas and friends falling out of the bag, which had apparently split wide open in the middle of the night and was now duly expelling its little wooden denizens. Did I mention Samson has a lot of trains and track?

Mercifully enough neither Sam nor Jane woke up, but it took us a good 20 minutes to figure out how to quietly clean up this train wreck, and by the time we were finally settled back into bed, Jane was up and looking for some milk.

I'm not really sure what the moral of this story is, but those trains are back on the table tonight.

Uncertain smile

Jane is now in the developmental range for what are called social smiles (i.e., smiles not related to gas). Samson got the first one the other day. She was on her changing pad, and when he came into her room I picked him up so he could see her. Presto: big smile for big brother.

Since then, Vicki has gotten a couple. At least, that's the story she's telling.

For my part, I've gotten more of the half smile that you give someone you think you went to school with/used to work with/met at a party. You know, where you're kind of like, "Hi, I think I know you," but you don't commit to the full smile just in case you're mistaken.

If I can get a photo of one of these, I'll be sure to post it. But I wouldn't hold your breath.

A seat at the table

At long last, Samson has graduated from his highchair to a booster seat and can now really join us at the table. Along with his snowplow.

In case you're wondering, that's apple slices, quesadilla, and guacamole on his little sectional plate.

Apparently the snowplow is necessary to indicate when he's finished. Very useful, no?

A true outside-the-beltway candidate

I turn 35 in June and so am finally eligible to form an exploratory committee and be coy about my plans to run for president. Look for this photo to figure prominently in the 30-second TV spots I'll be running in Iowa and New Hampshire this summer.

I'm so outside the beltway that I actually take touristy photos when I'm in Washington. You want someone untainted by special interests? You've found him.

Of course there are some character questions that may arise. There is the matter of my dodging service in Grenada [I got a spelling bee deferment] as well as concerns about my 2003 statement that "France seems like a pretty OK country."

By the way, this is our new double stroller. In the picture, Jane is snugly sleeping in the compartment below Samson [her head is by my shins]. She was the only one who never got cold that day.

Darwin shrugged

On Sunday, faced with the prospect of yet another full weekend stuck inside because of the cold, I had the bright idea that we should go to the Smithsonian's natural history museum and check out the dinosaurs. The Curious George book about his trip to a museum is in heavy rotation lately, and I knew Samson would get a kick out of seeing the giant skeletons.

Of course, I forgot that this past weekend was President's weekend. So every third family within an hours' drive of D.C. had the same bright idea that I did. Poor Samson slept almost the whole trip down only to wake and get 25 minutes of driving in circles looking for a parking space.

And because it was about 14 degrees and windy, we were determined to park as close as we could get. We finally met with success, and the wait was definitely worth it. Lots of great exhibits, especially the new hall of mammals, which has a kind of African savannah room, complete with timed thunder storm sounds and stuffed leopards sinking their teeth into stuffed gazelles. Something for everyone.

Back by the woolly mammoth skeleton was a little exhibit of cave people [I guess it's considered an exhibit; it really looked just like a big diorama]. In any event, Samson took one look at the bearded guy in an animal skin and proclaimed "It's Jesus."

I'm not sure that my explanation of prehistoric people was in any way helpful [you try explaining the concept], but he stopped and thought for a second and offered: "They help Jesus."

And that was that.

Part of me wanted to issue some kind of public disclaimer that Vicki and I weren't teaching our son according the Kansas board of ed curriculum, but mostly I just thought it was funny.

I'm kept picturing Jesus' helpers in the Garden of Gethsemane bumrushing the Romans.

Maybe Mel Gibson will try that scenario out if he makes a sequel. I'd pay $9 to see it.

Gratuitous Jane photos

Samson is finally on the mend after being sick all week, and he returned to school this morning.

He's not all better, for sure. In fact, he's still coughing like an extra in a production of Oliver Twist, but his fever is gone and his appetite has returned.

Which meant Vicki got to spend some time with just Jane this morning and have a little photo shoot.

Pagan babies (more specifically, mine)

I have a colleague who is quite well meaning and apparently Catholic in a kind of endearing 14th century sort of way.

She always asks how Samson is doing and now asks about Jane as well. One day as we were leaving work she asked when Jane would be baptized. As the godparents (Vicki's brother, Ben, and his wife, Karen) are in Texas and soon to be headed to Colorado, we figured May was probably a good target.

When I mentioned this to my colleague, she asked if Vicki and I had considered having a private baptism in our house. At first, I was totally clueless as to what she was intimating. So I patiently re-explained that Ben and Karen probably wouldn't be back east until late spring.

At which point, again in a very nice way --- sort of like if Mary Kay had worked for Torquemada --- she put forth the private/home baptism option.

Finally I caught on and politely informed her that God forbid anything should happen to Jane, I would expect that her lack of baptism wouldn't consign her to some weird Dantean eternity in the company of Homer and pals.

What I didn't say (again, this person is very nice and I'm sure genuinely concerned about all our souls) was that a heaven that's only for baptized Catholics --- or all Christians for that matter --- seems kind of pointless. No sense in burdening her with my heresy.

Also, I'm totally leaving a ham, bacon, meatloaf, veal, and roast beef sandwich on her desk when Lent starts. I'll tell her it's from Jane...

Sam and Jane: The wonder years

Samson's largesse lasted just long enough for Vicki to get a few good shots of the two of them together. Once again, Jane looks a little nervous to be in such close proximity to her big brother.

Smart kid.

The kid stays in the picture

Samson is still getting used to the idea of sharing the house photographer's time...

Slings, arrows, outrageous fortune cookies

I've often thought that writing fortunes for fortune cookies would be a dream job. In fact, after reading this, I even wrote one company to see if they needed any freelance help.

I never heard from them, so I assume the answer was no.

But I was pretty thorough in my application e-mail and even went so far as to include what I thought fortunes were lacking these days. Namely a sense of fun. And menace.

Like: "Nobody is fooled by that toupee."

Or: "Stop kidding yourself. You didn't almost go to Penn; you got waitlisted. Move on."

Or: "Your goldfish has nothing but contempt for you. Be vigilant."

Or: "Wednesday will bring only sorrow. Remain inside. Under the kitchen table."

I bring this up because in some kind of karmic payback, I opened my fortune cookie on Sunday night and got the following message: "You will soon be crossing the great waters."

Now I'm no expert on world religions, but I'm pretty sure that this is a metaphor for death.

Mind you, it was my second fortune cookie [nobody else in the house eats them], so I'm not sure if it even counts. My first one said "You have many friends" or something completely non-fortuney like that.

Clearly, whatever it was, it made nothing like the impression that the grim reaper of fortunes made.

Still, I can't help thinking that I've got grounds for an intellectual property suit.

Unsettling messages on tiny rectangles of paper was totally my idea.

O Canada?

For a while now, if we've wanted Samson to stop doing something (like crawling along the floor as we're trying to put his clothes on) we've used the old standby: "That's not what big boys do. Babies do that, but you're not a baby. You're a big boy."

However, with the arrival of Jane, I think Samson is starting to rethink the whole "I'm not a baby" stance.

Think about it: She gets held on command, carried everywhere, and never gets in trouble. Ever.

So this morning, as I was trying to get Samson to take his fingers out of his mouth, I said: "Samson, I can't understand what you say when you've got your fingers in your mouth. Big boys don't put their fingers in their mouths. Canadians do that."

He took his fingers right out and asked, with a puzzled look on his face: "Can-ay-dee?"

[Sidenote: I have family in Canada and can report with near certainty that they don't talk with their fingers in their mouths. But since we don't have any Canadians in the house, and since we do have a baby, I figure our neighbors to the north will forgive this slight bending of the truth.]

Of course this could all backfire, and we'll have a toddler walking around our house singing the theme song to Sesame Park and demanding Kraft dinner.

St. Francis, the early years?

In December, when Samson and I were stringing up Christmas lights on the tree in our front yard, he sneezed and had a giant snot hanging from his nose.

Because I'm not 73, I don't carry a handkerchief in my pocket. So I deftly removed it from his nose with my hands and wiped it on the bark of the tree. Vicki thought this was gross. Samson thought it was about the coolest thing I'd ever done.

Fast forward two months. Of late, Samson has had a stuffy nose. And while we try to keep him supplied with tissues, occasionally he takes matters into his own hands. Literally.

Unfortunately, he feels the need to give me all items removed from his nose. What's even funnier is that he does it in this very offhand way, sometimes coming from another room with outstretched hand and a casual "hereyougo."

Anyway, yesterday morning, as I was getting him out of his car seat in the parking lot of his school, I heard "Daddy?" and looked down and got the "hereyougo."

There on the tip of his index finger was a tiny green asteroid, which I grabbed and flicked to the ground with all the speed and grace of an Ang Lee hero. What follows is a rough transcription of our conversation:

Samson: Where'd my boogie go?

Me: I flicked it on the ground.

Samson: Outside?

Me: Yep, outside on the ground.

Samson: So the birds can eat it?

Me: Sure, if they want to.

Samson: If they want to. The birds will eat my boogie. (Nodding) They will. They want to.

[Of course this makes me wonder what exactly he thought we were offering the birds last week when we hung up a peanut butter pine cone bird feeder. ]

One month later

Sweet Jane is one month old today. It feels both way longer and much shorter than just one month. So what have I learned since her arrival?

1. King Kong is a terrible movie. Why do I know this? Because Jane tends to be wide awake between 11 or 12 and 2 or 3 each morning. Since we pay for HBO, and I was sitting in the basement rocking her anyway, I figured I'd give the movie a shot. You know a movie is bad when Naomi Watts and a giant computer-generated ape can't save it. Just really, really bad. At one point Jane fell asleep and I woke her back up just so I didn't have to hear the ridiculous dialogue. OK, not really, but you get my point.

2. Being a good daytime sleeper is sort of overrated. Actually, it's way overrated. Like best football team in Alaska overrated. My earlier proclamations about Jane's sleeping prowess were, like that Chicago Daily Tribune headline, perhaps a little premature. As I write this, Jane has been up for three hours, been rocked, swaddled, and even lain on the dryer with it going in the hopes the motion would be soothing. Nothing doing. Of course, she's not crying, so that's a plus.

3. Newborns poop with surprising force. I don't remember this from Samson, but apparently it was the case then too. Which leads me to number 4:

4. My memory is gone. Seriously. The amount of stuff I don't remember from just two years ago is frightening. I wonder if there's some kind of program that converts years of parenthood and the resultant short-term memory loss to years spent touring with the Grateful Dead. Unfortunately, the only people who'd have any interest in creating such a program are either asleep right now, busy cleaning up toys, busy changing a fussy newborn, or having an incredibly animated (and totally earnest) conversation about the relevance of "The Hobbit" to the situation in Iraq. Over a big bowl of mac and cheese.

5. That thesis I was supposed to defend in May? I was probably a little optimistic about how much time I'd have to work on it. Not wildly optimistic in a "they'll welcome us as liberators" kind of way, but probably slightly more optimistic (and unrealistic) than the folks who thought that what we really needed to fill the void in our lives was a fourth hour of the Today show.