Tempis fugit

Same park, same car, same kid. Amazing...

People skills

Part I of our Sunday outside was spent at the zoo, where we were greeted almost immediately by one of the zoo's in-house educators and a kookaburra. I'd never heard a kookaburra before, but they're pretty loud.

Loud enough that the Australians apparently refer to them as "the Bushman's alarm clock." At least according to Nancy, the animal educator. I can't remember the last time I heard the term Bushman used in a non-ironic sense, but there it was.

Anyway, Nancy was there to hold the kookaburra and answer questions.

Someone asked if the bird talked, and she said no. [Why is that the first question people always ask about an exotic bird?]

Then someone asked what they eat, and she replied that they are carnivores mostly, feeding on mice, snakes, etc. Which made the questioner ask "Do they hunt them?" To which she responded, "Well, they live in the wild; no one brings them their food." Thanks, Nancy.

To his credit, the questioner was patient and followed up by saying: "I meant do they hunt or are they scavengers? The bird doesn't look physiologically capable of being a predator." I should point out that at this juncture in the mini-lecture there were about 10 people standing around. Easily five of them were little kids (stroller sitters and front-pack riders).

So Nancy helpfully responds, "Oh no --- they're quite capable as hunters. In fact, when a kookaburra catches a snake he thrashes it back and forth, smashing its head on a rock to kill it before he eats it."

At which point, the woman next to me (with baby in front pack) grew wide-eyed, uttered breathlessly "OK, we're done here sweetie," and sprinted away.

For his part, Samson was more concerned that the bird was going to make noise again [he's not big on loud noises, unless he's the one making them] than with the way it gets its dinner.

Man, I love the zoo.

Science!

There's no way for me to ensure that when you read the word "science!" you'll hear in your head an audio clip from that classic Thomas Dolby song. But whenever I see that word I almost always hear it like that in my head. So there you have it.

Yesterday was a marathon let's-get-outside day. With the sun finally shining on a weekend, I wasn't about to miss the chance to spend some time outdoors with our family.

Along the shore of the reservoir, Samson and I conducted our very own science experiment.

We started with some field work, noting that little stones make little splashes and medium-sized stones make medium-sized splashes.

Of course, we wondered --- as good scientists do --- what kind of splash a big stone would make. Our findings have not been peer-reviewed yet, but we're pretty sure they make big splashes. At least, those are our early conclusions.

We've proposed a follow-up study with Lake Victoria as a test site, but the funding and regulatory agency that covers travel for scientists (Mommy) isn't sure our methods are sound.

In your Easter bonnet...

Here's a preview of the face Jane will make at 12 when one of us tries to drop her off in front of school instead of a block or two away. Yep, you saw it here first.

Thomas in the Third World

Because Samson upended the nicely designed train set-up that Vicki painstakingly put together some months ago, the task has fallen to me to redesign things.

Which is not good news for Samson. And it's even worse news for Thomas and his friends.

For one, I was not a train guy as a kid, which means I still have a hard time estimating how much of the wooden track I'm going to need to make this line or that bridge connect/not collide/whatever.

Not to mention the fact that as I'm trying to put things together, Samson is next to me trying to run his trains along this sad set-up.

Which leaves him with a railway system not unlike that of some sub-Saharan African nation, like Zambia or Tanzania.

The analogy is pretty apt when you think of it. Engineered and inaugurated to great fanfare with outside help (China or Vicki), then left to allow to fall into disrepair, what was once a proud accomplishment eventually becomes a series of pitfalls, broken lines, and just a general nuisance. Not to mention a safety hazard.

At this point the only thing Samson's train set is missing is miniature-sized squatter families living by the side of the railway tracks hoping to sell bottled water and snacks to passengers whose trains break down.

So basically Samson's only chance of restoring his little table-world's infrastructure is resurgent interest from an outside source. And to be honest, as busy as Vicki has been with Jane lately, Samson's best hope might just be Chinese engineers sent by the Central Committee.

The cat(?!) stays in the picture

For a short while, Ishmael was afraid of Jane. Clearly that's done.

This was supposed to be a preview of her Easter outfit, but, well, you get the idea...

Ready for his close-up

Sure, he's got sleep in his eye and some food remnants around his mouth, but I think Vicki's captured something here.

You wouldn't criticize Dorothea Lange for not cleaning up her subjects first, would you?

Men at work

The day began with a fleet of cherry picker trucks (Sam's favorite kind) across the street from our house.

I have no idea what they're doing, but there were at least seven guys standing around when I left for work, and it looked like they were getting ready to hoist a giant shiny erector set to the top of the nearest telephone pole.

To be honest, they could spend the next six hours on a coffee break and Samson would be riveted.

I just got a phone call informing me that "the man ... is in the bucket. [long pause] HE'S WORKING!!!"

Sweet Janie blue eyes

What could I write that wouldn't be superfluous?

Token economy

To assist Samson with potty training, we've introduced what teachers call a token economy.

Every time Samson pees on the potty, he gets a sticker. A poop on the potty is worth two stickers. And every three stickers gets a prize.

So basically we're bribing him to get him out of diapers.

And you know what? It's working.

Sort of.

He's now a champion at peeing on the potty.

Unfortunately, he is showing no inclination toward the two-sticker goal. And because he smarter than we are, he's figured out that he can go on juice box benders and almost assure himself of a prize every day without ever having to "shoot for two."

I'm not sure if we can change the rules just yet, but once the prize bag is empty (at this rate, it will be Saturday), I think we may need to draw up a new set of rules.

Big top Samson, pt II

As promised: Part II of the circus recap.

Just before the intermission, we were treated to a huge food fight by the clowns, prompting the Greek chorus of elephants to once again remark about how wacky humans are. Hilarious.

Then it was lights up and a full-on onslaught of vendors hawking everything from toy swords (!) and elephants to more giant boxes of popcorn. Samson was moved by none of this. He spent most of the 15 minutes looking for Miss Sara, who teaches the "big kids" (translation: she teaches the 4-year-old class). Miss Sara is also pretty, blond, and probably 25 years old. Whether or not this is relevant, I don't know, but he didn't spend even a minute looking for any of the other teachers from his school.

Anyway, during intermission we could see them setting up the tiger cage, so I tried to get Samson ready for the appearance of a bunch of these big cats so they didn't end up in his nightmares for the rest of the weekend. The performance was pretty controlled, with lots of rolling over and playing dead and the like. And here I should note that in situations like these, despite the massive (and communal) potential for PTSD, I always root for the tigers.

I should explain: it's not like I want all these kids age six and under to witness a horrible scene of carnage as one of the tigers finally snaps/finds his dignity and mauls the bejesus out of the trainer. To the strains of Bow Wow Wow, no less. But I equally don't want all these kids (especially mine) to witness a massive food fight and have to re-explain on the way home that we don't throw food in our house. There's no danger of us either training or being eaten by a large cat at home.

The final trick of the act involved the biggest tiger on a platform atop a rotating disco ball with one paw in the air. Which made me just plain sad. I'm not a big fan of animal tricks to begin with --- the majesty of two poodles on a motorcycle, pace Ringling Bros., continues to elude me. And it just made Samson wonder: "Where'd Miss Sara go?" (she was two rows behind us, but I think at that point she was getting a pretzel).

Anyway, the tiger act concluded with nothing worthy of a bad Fox special and the show resumed. Neat horse riding tricks by some Cossacks. I'm not kidding. Didn't these guys used to strike fear in the heart of the people of the steppes? I bet they totally sympathize with the tigers.

And then came the finale with that crazy steel orb with all the motorcycles in it. Set to an instrumental version of Ozzy's "Crazy Train." How they fit all those guys on motorcycles in there is beyond me, but it was well worth the price of admission. And I wasn't even rooting against them.

So all in all a pretty fun time. And let's be honest, I'd take a trip to the circus with Samson over a day at the office any day. It's not even close.

The sincerest form of flattery

Samson got this baby doll, which he named Juna (pronounced JOO-nah), for his second birthday from a friend of ours. She thought it would be a good way to get him prepared for having a new baby in the house.

For months, Juna sat under Sam's train table, but recently she has been getting a lot more attention.

And yes, I know it doesn't look like a little girl doll, but you try telling him that.

Big top Samson

Not quite the greatest show on earth. Probably like the 7th most interesting way to spend 2 hours in the greater metro area today. And only because it was cold and raining outside.

Even so, I think Samson had fun. We got there about 15 minutes early and were surprised to find we had beaten the bus from his school. They arrived 10 minutes into the show with stories about a bus driver who couldn't find downtown and took them north on the beltway instead of south. Reason #22 I'm glad we drove.

So I don't know if he had a great time or an OK time or if he could even focus on all the stuff that was going on. I am certain of this: He really enjoyed the 47 lb. box of popcorn we bought from a vendor. Anytime you can fit your whole arm into a container and still come out with some popcorn, you've hit good times.

The circus itself was really, well, weird. And not weird in a sort of cool but quasi-pretentious way (like Cirque du Soleil).

This was more weird in a "gosh those dancers look like strippers" and "why would you want to drive a Jeep over a guy's stomach?" sort of way. The whole concept behind the show was the "circus of dreams," so it started with a "family" being "picked from the audience." Which made me smile because the best thing about the circus is that it's still got that P.T. Barnum vibe to it. The whole thing is a con, so you might as well enjoy the ride.

"Dad" had always dreamt of becoming a ringmaster. Luckily for him, he had anchorman hair and a radio voice. "Mom" harbored secret dreams of becoming an aerialist. In an outfit and a pair of glasses probably bought from a Van Halen garage sale, she was up in the air in no time. If anyone didn't get that it was a set up, by the time they saw Mom they figured it out. [Except for the guy in our section who kept cheering her on. More on this later]. The big sister, Jan, had dreams of becoming an assistant to the strongman. Way to dream big, sis.

But Dan, the little brother, in addition to being a 35-year-old Chinese national, had no idea what he wanted to be. So began the journey...

There was some cool tumbling and lots of clowns, and the usual death-defying stuff with trapezes and the like. But there was also this weird sideshow video thing with three elephants talking to the audience.

One sounded like the mom from Good Times, one sounded like I imagine Woody Allen's mom has sounded in his head all these years, and one had the voice of a child. They kept going on and on about training humans and how the circus is good for showing what humans can do. Every once in a while they'd also put in a plug about how much Ringling Bros. do for conservation.

I'm not sure if it was some kind of weird circus Jedi mind trick to keep us from worrying about the elephants who were being made to do handstands for us or if they focused-grouped a whole bunch of "ethnic" sounding elephants and these polled highest. Either way, Samson was confused. And quite frankly, so was I.

Weirder still was the trained tiger part of the show. Anytime you hear a live instrumental arrangement of Bow Wow Wow's "Aprhodisiac," that should be a signal that something is amiss.

But it's late, and I'm beat, and Jane's still not asleep. So I'll have to get to that tomorrow.

Lions and tigers and, possibly, bears

It was 75 degrees today, and Samson got to show his baby sister the zoo.

OK, she actually saw very little of the zoo, but Samson and Jacob had a blast racing the otters around their glassed in habitat at the children's zoo (otters on the inside and S & J on the outside; it's not that kind of children's zoo).

Tomorrow it's supposed to be 38 degrees and snowing. Which is perfect, because we're headed downtown for the circus. I've taken the day off to accompany Samson on his first trip to the big top. His school wisely mandates that every 2- and 3-year-old be accompanied by a parent.

I used to work around the corner from the arena where this is taking place and can remember quite clearly the busloads of kids spilling out onto the sidewalks, tiny mouths agape and frosted with cotton candy wisps, armed loaded down with shiny, flashing, plastic junk. Good times.

I'm actually quite excited to get to spend a Friday with Sam. Even if the circus is terrible (which, in the spirit of full disclosure, I confess I expect it to be), what could be better than a field trip with my guy?

Stay tuned...

Bad Samson

Last week (Tuesday to be precise), I arrived home and was greeted by a grinning Samson. He had milk --- or possibly yogurt --- dripping down his chin, and he proclaimed, with apparent satisfaction: "I did a bad job at school today."

Apparently, Samson has been testing his teachers lately. On the day in question, he got not one but two time-outs. The first he earned by hitting his classmate, Maeve, in the head with a puzzle piece.

Which, all things considered, is better than hitting her with a truck or a chair or something else. But it's still not good. Of course, he gave himself up right away. When Maeve started to cry, he told his teacher "I hit Maeve." I'm not sure it was a confession as much as a "hey-look-at-me" kind of moment, but you've got to give him credit for honesty.

Infraction number two came later, during naptime. All the kids were asleep --- or at least resting quietly --- on their cots when Sammy Sunshine stood up on his and belted out a verse of "Twinkle, Twinkle." Again, not the stuff that indicates a future in reform school but still something that must be dealt with. So that night, we had a long talk.

The trouble is that at age 2 there's not much appreciation for taking away things in the future. As in, "we won't go to the park tomorrow."

Likewise, at the end of the day, there are only a few things to take away:

Dinner, which we would never do [he's skinny enough as it is].

Bath, which we really shouldn't do (especially on school days).

And La-La. Which, and perhaps I'm being selfish here, would probably only be worth it if he committed homicide. Or maybe man-1.

Anyway, he did get sent to bed that night with no stories. And that seemed to work: He cried a lot and eventually came around to the idea that one shouldn't hit one's classmates with anything.

As if to make sure he understood me, we went through a checklist of things he is not allowed to hit his classmates with, including but not limited to trains, books, sandwiches, diapers, shoes, cheese, bananas, and straws(?).

The report from school on Friday and today was that he did just fine. Played, ate, napped, and was a good citizen. Here's hoping he can keep it up. We've got a trip to the circus with his school this coming Friday, and I don't want to be that dad with that kid. Remember that kid from your pre-school?

And yes, Bryan K. I am looking at you. It's been 30 years since "the Toughskins incident," but I'll find you.

As God is my witness, I'll find you.

And though our teacher is probably dead, or at least in senescence somewhere in the sunbelt states, the truth will at last be told. Our teacher, who believed your lies and sent me home with a note will at long last know that I didn't "wet my pants."

No sir, I did not. You, Bryan K., peed on me.

Also, I bet you have a son named Kyle.

Gratuitous Jane pics

I'll have to take some time this weekend to detail Samson's bad day at school on Tuesday, but I just got these photos of Jane --- or, as we like to call her, "the good one" --- and thought I'd share.

The sweater and dress are both hand-made. Lucky girl. [By the way, she does smile quite a bit now; we just haven't gotten it on camera yet. Stay tuned.]

Belated

For so many months, we wished Samson would take a pacifier. Clearly we should have put an expiration date on that wish. Yesterday he showed some interest in one, just as Vicki was trying to get both kids out the door.

Jane Victoria is two months old today. It's amazing how quickly that time went. It's equally amazing how different she is from Samson. She's already done with swaddling, is sleeping almost straight through the night most nights, and --- these photos notwithstanding --- really doesn't cry very much.

In fact, on Sunday I got my first smile. A big 1000-megawatt smile that almost brought tears to my eyes. Sweet Jane, indeed.

Still, I keep thinking there must be a catch somewhere. She's probably a neo-con.

Poo

I've titled the post as honestly as I could, so if you're squeamish or are just sitting down at your computer with breakfast, I'll give you a minute to navigate away from the page...

OK, let's continue. Sunday morning we had every intention of making Mass, but in what can only be called a first weekend in March miracle, nobody woke up in our house until 9 AM. Usually this kind of torpor could only be attributable to carbon monoxide poisoning, and I guess technically both Samson and Jane were up at six, but everyone managed to get back to sleep until 9. Which meant the 9:30 was out of the question, and as that's the only Mass where they tolerate Thomas and the rest of his little Anglican engines, we had to take a pass.

Which was OK, because we figured we'd get a jump on the day and go do some grocery shopping. Nothing doing: Samson wanted to try to poop on the potty and decided this morning was the morning.

To date, we've taken a kind of laissez faire attitude to potty training. With the arrival of Jane just 8 weeks(!) ago, we figured he'd probably take a little time adjusting to that and so rushing him onto the potty was of dubious value. That said, he seems ready and so Vicki promised him a train if he did, in fact, poop on the potty. In the diaper near the potty doesn't count [he tried], nor does on the potty in a diaper [also an attempt by the wily Samson].

In fact, we even got a seat that attaches to the toilet as a way of making it seem like he was joining some kind of big peoples' club by sitting on our toilet. Laugh if you want; it almost worked.

But this morning, he was all in earnest about his intentions. My presence was requested to read him some stories, and then read him some more stories, and then tell him some stories, and by about minute 27 I was starting to wonder if Samson had been reading Beckett. But of course, I didn't want to betray any impatience lest he end up in the clocktower at his college muttering mysteriously about just needing more time.

Finally, Vicki realized that it was probably the height of the toilet and the fact that he couldn't put his feet down that was holding things up (so to speak). And indeed, when the old, floor model potty was introduced, Samson was well on his way to another milestone of toddlerhood.

At first, however, he tried to convince us that he could stand and do it. Which we took great pains to dissuade him of. At last, convinced to sit, he requested a little privacy. It was the least we could do.

And lo, after just a few minutes, and some loud (but private) grunting, Samson pooped in the potty. This was greeted with great joy and congratulations, and promises of the trains were again extended. But first, we had to get rid of the prize. Which, I'll be honest, looks a lot different in a diaper than it does in a little plastic receptacle. And by different, I mean big and sort-of gag-inducing.

We flushed it with all due ceremony, washed Samson's hands, and at last were on our way to do some grocery shopping and to get that train.

Spring fever?

Holy cow what a weekend.

Saturday was gorgeous, and we did get to spend some time outside, but Samson has clearly got some kind of crazy cabin fever going on.

Seriously, on Saturday while he was supposed to be napping, Vicki went into his room to find him standing on his window sill looking out the window.

Before you call Child Protective Services, you should know that the window was locked and the safety latches were on, but there he was, both feet firmly planted on the window sill looking out at the neighbors' house. I can only imagine what it must have looked like from the outside. Thank goodness they weren't home. That's not a phone call I want to get.

This is not the first time we've caught him in the window. Indeed, it was just last week that he had his trains and tracks confiscated for the same reason.

Thomas and Co. are once again out of circulation. Except they're now sitting in the attic. Unfortunately, this didn't really seem to get any reaction at all from Sam. So I tried to earnestly explain what could happen if he fell. Not much headway there either.

But we've now moved his bed to what is essentially the middle of his room, which means he can't use it as a launching pad for anything but a quick trip to the floor. Which would be bad, but not nearly as bad as a fall from the window ledge.

It also means getting around his room is like navigating a subway car at rush hour.

I know he's just being two and a half, and just like some famous athletes, I guess we're supposed to chalk it up to Samson being Samson.

But good grief, last night before bedtime it was like having a coked-up pixie in the house.

He was running around with no diaper yelling "All Abooard" and exhorting everyone within earshot [probably the whole block] to hurry and get on the train. Then he stopped and said "Hey everybody, it's me: SAMSON!"

And where was I during the tour de Sam? I was sitting on the floor near his potty, diaper and pj pants at the ready [his, not mine], laughing.

It's madness, I tell you. Pure madness.

Hippocrates in pull-ups

The patience of Job in our house is actually the patience of Jane...

But even Sweet Jane has her limits.