Playing (nicely, I might add)

Samson has been waiting, somewhat patiently, for Jane to be ticklish. I think he got his wish.

Fear and loathing at the deli counter

Am I the only one who feels weird stating a preference for "white American" cheese at the deli counter?

I was standing in line, holding Samson [the only way to keep him from using his new found knowledge that there is a seemingly endless supply of numbered tickets in the "take a number" machine] and had to assert my choice of white over yellow American.

I know that neither of these should really even be considered cheese, but I'm not about to start putting Gouda on my burgers. So you can take that concern elsewhere.

Still it feels weird to be saying "I'll have the white American" out loud. Obviously, not as weird as it would be if I was picking teammates at the U.N.'s annual kickball tournament, but still.

Yarden party

What better way to break in the new play area than to have some friends over to play? Jacob and Oliver came over for a cookout on Sunday, and the boys immediately got busy golfing.

When they tired of hitting little white balls around, they embarked on a Lord of the Flies tour of the yard, using the clubs to hammer everything that didn't move (and a few things that did). For some reason, they did not get tired of this.

Not even a little.

You'll notice one of Samson's shoes in his hardhat; Oliver (always fashion-forward) wears Crocs, and Samson decided that he was making the switch, which, of course, left Oliver barefoot. We got Sam a pair the following day and have been trying to keep him from wearing them to bed ever since.

Sing along with Samson

Last Friday was the Spring sing-along at Sam's school. Unlike the winter concert, during which he stared pleadingly at Vicki or cried, he was pretty into this show. If you've never been in a room full of 2, 3, and 4-year-olds singing "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt," you're missing out.

They particularly enjoy the shouting part.

Each class had a featured song. Because Samson's class did "Mr. Golden Sun" they all wore yellow and held up little suns during the song. Priceless.

By the way, you can't really see it, but I believe Jane has perfected Samson's blank stare look.

For children (like mine) who won't go gently into that good night

Interesting article from Slate on kids, sleep, sleep deprivation, and the like.

It still takes Sam between 30 minutes and an hour to fully settle down and go to sleep. This can involve singing, crying, screaming, playing, and reading in any number of combinations. Last night we could hear him on the monitor giving his trucks (his bed is like a garage with the number of vehicles it contains) a time-out for not listening.

We really should tape some of what he says in the moments before sleep; it's like having a two-year-old William S. Burroughs in shorty PJs upstairs.

That said, I shouldn't complain because he still stays in bed. It hasn't yet occurred to him that a very powerful form of sleep protest would be a walk-out.

We're in for it when he makes that connection...

The Running Man

Among the weekend's festivities was a 5K on Saturday that Oliver's dad (Mr. Gary, official legal advisor of this blog) and I ran. It was awfully muggy by 8:15, and right around mile 2, I started to wonder --- since this was a neighborhood race --- if there were any water stations. Indeed there were, but I wished I'd brought a small bottle with me.

In case you're wondering, I finished 130th out of 302 runners with a time of 27:46. I had hoped to make it under 30 minutes, so this was not bad. Obviously, it's not great but it was a consistent 9 minute 15 second per mile pace.

Still, I was passed (pretty quickly, I might add) by a woman pushing a double stroller with two full-size toddlers inside. On the official results website, I counted at least a dozen kids who are not old enough to see PG-13 movies who beat me.

And toward the end of the race I heard a cheer go up from behind me "Way to go, Grandma! Almost there." Oh, the humanity.

Even so, Gary and I had our own cheering section, and it felt good to be out running on a sunny Saturday morning.

Quick fix

Lots of stuff to catch up on, but a quick post will have to suffice for now.

We spent all day yesterday doing absolutely nothing. OK, not nothing: Naps were taken, hamburgers were eaten, and some games were played.

And young Samson was introduced to lacrosse. Watch out! [Seriously, he tends to throw the stick when he gets frustrated...]

Music in the woods

Saturday was the music in the woods festival at a park near us, and the day didn't disappoint. Sam has already picked up on the fact that guys with guitars get all the attention.

Some great acts (bluegrass, jazz), some weird acts (clog dancing anyone?), and hot dogs for lunch.

What more could you want?

[Sidenote: I'm not sure why the men need to dress like Johnny Cash/Ralph Furley and the women like Flo from Mel's diner, but Sam really enjoyed all the stomping and clapping.]


And despite all the noise, Jane managed to get some sleep.

Yarden

For some reason, Samson has always conflated the terms "yard" and "garden." So when he wants to go outside, he asks to go out into the "yarden." As far as I know, he only does this at our house; maybe he thinks our yard is special.

And yes I know we should correct it, but it's kind of endearing.

In any event, we spent the past few days fixing up the backyard to create a little play area for young Samson (and eventually, Jane).

We finished up last night after he went to sleep, so I can't wait to get home and play outside with him.

Punctuation marks

Holding Jane these days is like holding an upside down exclamation point.

For some reason, with better head control has come a fascination with testing my reflexes by suddenly straightening out and watching to see my reaction.

For his part, Samson is now a question mark. The number of times he asks "why?" in one day is fast approaching the number of decimal places in Pi.

Nothing escapes the why-ness of the Sam these days. On our way to school, he not only questioned why we were stopped at a red light, but why the light was red, why our car is white, why it was a school day, and why a woman was on the sidewalk with her dog.

The answers, in case you're wondering, are as follows: We stop at red lights because it's the law; the light is red to let people know to stop and let other drivers have a turn; our car is white because that's the color it was painted at the factory; it's a school day because it's Monday, and you go to school on Mondays; the woman is walking her dog because it needed some fresh air.

Vicki blames me for encouraging this ceaseless questioning, but it seems silly not to answer at least the first hundred or so times.

Plus the whys at the beginning of the day are a lot easier to manage than the stalling-on-the-way-to-bed whys that come at night.

Snapshot

It's not exactly in focus or particularly well composed, but there is just something about this picture I really like.

I had the day off on Thursday [hence my ambitious racetrack/balloon launch plans], and we went to the zoo in the early afternoon. Apparently, so did every unruly third grade class in the greater tri-state area.

There were about 7,000 school groups running amok throughout the zoo. It was like Lord of the Flies meets A Hard Day's Night but with colored t-shirts and name tags.

Seriously, every exhibit had an animal that looked like it was calculating its chances at grabbing one of the kids hanging over the fence.

The leopard was particularly attentive to the boys from a local Lutheran day school. Ditto for the vultures. But even the penguins appeared to be considering how much kid they could fit in their cave.

The trip, by the way, was probably Sam's favorite ever because he got to spend more than an hour observing big kids running free.

And I think he really was studying them, because he turned to me at one point and asked in a very serious tone: "Do girls poop?"

Good times.

The sport of kings

Because the Preakness is tomorrow, there are all sorts of local (and free) events this week around town. Among them is a chance to visit Pimlico at sunrise for a tour of the stables and a chance to see the horses work out.

Such an event at that time of day is probably appealing only to parents with small children and serious gamblers. Falling squarely into the first camp, and going on a tip from a friend who had taken his daughter the morning before, I made plans for a little Sam and Daddy adventure: Sunrise at the racetrack.

Unfortunately, yesterday morning, in the doorway, keys-in-hand, was when I learned that Samson is a little afraid of horses. I'd turned the news on as we were getting dressed to show him where we were headed, and he seemed OK but not overly enthusiastic. Of course, it was 6:40 in the morning, so I didn't give it much thought. But as were literally on our way out the door, he began to let me know that he really had no interest in going and that, in fact, he wasn't a big fan of horses. Truth be told, they frightened him. [Note to self: The next time an episode of Thomas is on in competition with Godfather I, we should watch Thomas.]

So, unwilling to simply call it a day before the day had begun, I suggested we go see the 6:30 hot air balloon launch taking place at a park about 20 minutes from our house. Not bad for a quick fix, I thought, and we drove north in the early morning light.

Unfortunately, the launch was scheduled for 6:30 PM [a quick call to Vicki revealed my small but important mistake], so our arrival at approximately 7:03 AM meant we had our pick of parking spots but not much else.

Needless to say, I was pretty bummed. Selfishly, I'd planned this cool, almost cinematic experience for us: Morning at the race track, mist coming off the infield, and the thunderous sound of hoofs in the chill morning air. Instead we were sitting in an empty parking lot in a northern suburb and would probably hit rush hour traffic just trying to get home.

However, if Samson was disappointed, he didn't show it. I'm still not sure if he thought the empty playground at the park was the "really fun thing" I'd been referencing in the car. So after a quick trip to Panera for a muffin and some coffee [or a bagel and some chocolate milk], we spent about an hour as kings of the playground.

And the whole family went back that night to see the balloons launch. I don't know that it would have been worth an 11-hour wait, but it was pretty amazing to see.

So I guess the moral of the story is: It's OK if you can't tell time as long as you have a Vicki at home to cover for you. Also, things don't seem nearly as bleak after coffee and a few good swings on the monkey bars. Still, I really would like to have seen those horses. Maybe Jane will go with me next year...

Crafty Sam

Court of appeals

Samson is starting to figure out how to work the system. Right now, he's more like Bambi learning to walk than a grifter working the long con, but still...

The other day he wanted something and Vicki had told him no. I was sitting in the living room and heard him go back and ask her again, following up with: "Daddy said I could." Smart kid.

Of course, Daddy had said no such thing, and I stepped right in on his scam. However, part of me was proud of his initiative. He still needs to work on his timing, of course, and there's the whole issue of keeping parent A out of earshot of parent B. But he's definitely doing some quiet calculating while he plays with his trucks and his trains.

Our little guy is growing up.

Having seen both London and France...

So much for my role as the early morning drop-off pied piper of Samson's class.

Yesterday, as Samson and I settled in to read our customary story, there was a huge crowd gathered over by the bookshelf. Apparently three of Samson's classmates who are already potty-trained were having an underpants showing.

Look, I like to think I deliver a compelling rendition of "I Love Trucks." And I don't want to flatter myself, but I believe my interpretation of "I'm a Big Brother" is both heartfelt and whimsical. But I know when I'm outgunned.

To be honest, I'm not sure Dr. Seuss himself could compete with a Spiderman underpants parade.

Unfortunately (at least as far as Samson's potty-training goes), he was the only one in the class not interested in checking out his classmates' drawers. At this point, Juna might be out of diapers before he is.

Gratuitous Sam and Jane pics

The Gospel according to Sam

Samson's class has chapel every Monday, and so every Monday night at dinner we get a little piece of what occurred. For the past few weeks, the class has been going into the church to look at the stained glass windows, see the altar, etc. I think all this preparation work was leading up to today, where they celebrated some version of the last supper.

I say "some version" for two reasons. One, because we got something about this in the mail, but I can't remember exactly what it said or whether we gave permission for him to have wine. He kept talking about wine at dinner, but I'm betting it was grape juice. I base this on the fact that he was still wide awake (and belting out songs about bread and Jesus) at 8 o'clock tonight.

Reason two comes from the recap we got, which I'll try to reproduce verbatim.

Me: "So what did you learn in chapel?"

Samson: "God was sad."

Me: "Really? Why was he sad?"

Samson: "Because of Jesus."

Me: "Oh..."

Samson: "Jesus took his bread and wine. And God wanted it back. So he gave it to his guys."

Me: "The apostles?"

Samson: "Yes. The poss...possers. Then he was happy."

Me: "Did you sing any songs?"

Samson: "Then the bunnies ate the bread. And they put it in a bucket."

[At this point, I think he decided to see how far he could take the story before I became suspicious. One of his bowls is some kind of Beatrix Potter print with bunnies on it; I'm pretty sure these bunnies have buckets. Also, while I guess there may have been bunnies in the Garden of Gethsemane, I'm reasonably certain they didn't have much of a role one way or the other in the whole "Take this bread and eat it" scenario.]

Ugh

The best laid plans of mice and men never include alternate plans in case of illness. So it goes.

Samson spent Saturday with a 102 fever and snot running from his nose like the great Ganges. He was OK by Sunday. Which meant it was then my turn.

I spent almost all of yesterday either sleeping or in the bathroom. Bad times.

Even sweet Jane was feeling under the weather with a stuffy nose.

So Vicki's Mother's Day gift was that she alone was spared the wave of illness that descended upon our house. Until late Sunday night.

And all my plans of a weekend in Washington, a trip to the farmer's market, and an ice cream date with the kids to celebrate Mother's Day went unexecuted.

I suppose there's always next weekend.

I believe Pliny the Elder said it best when he wrote: Sucko.

From the dept. of darnedest things...

Last night while I was giving Samson a bath, I began to pour water over his head to get it wet for the shampoo.

He looked up at me, quite seriously, and said: "Excuse me. Please don't do that." and then went back to playing with his boats.

Honestly, I need a pause button for this kid, so I can stop, laugh, and then resume with a straight face.

Gitmo

Over the past few months, young Samson has gotten really into Playmobil. Which is great, because the figures are almost exactly the same as when I played with them. Honestly, I think the big difference is that now some of the guys have beards, but otherwise it's the same as it ever was.

We've got a pretty good cross section of Playmobil society: police copter, bank, construction site, rancher (with cows and cow poop; no, I'm not kidding), and a plane with pilot and flight attendant.

At this point, we're just an Indian chief and leather guy short of having our very own Playmobil Village People.

Usually the pilot and all his passengers talk about where they're headed or offer each other juice. Sometimes they finish conversations with "OK, bye. I love you."

I'm not sure what has shifted, but last night after he'd gone to bed and we were cleaning up, Vicki and I discovered some sort of mini Guantanamo Bay set up. This bears watching...

Food: It's what's for dinner

I don't think Jane was nearly as excited for her first taste of rice cereal as we were. She was a pretty good sport about it, but this may take a little work...

Story time

It only took me half a year to figure it out, but Samson does a lot better with the drop-off at school if I spend a few minutes with him in his class before heading off to work. Lately, we've developed a little routine where I'll put his things into his cubby while he goes and picks out a book from the bookshelf. We'll then read the book together, and then he's pretty content to go and play with his classmates.

Clearly this has not gone unnoticed. For the past week or two, Samson and I have been joined by Colin, a newer member of Sam's class. He doesn't say a whole lot but usually brings a book with him too and will look up at me and solemnly intone: "Ree boo." Which, I assume, means he wants me to read to him as well. If I have time, I try to read both books to the boys. [In case you're wondering, I'm almost never on time for work.]

This morning, however, I had everybody. Six kids and me at the snack table reading about Steve and Blue, his dog, and their picnic. We then proceeded to a lift-the-flap book about Winnie the Pooh and his lost honey pot. Big hit with the crowd, especially because the whole book is spent looking for said honey pot but finding other things (socks, tea kettle, balloon) in all the wrong places (oven, bathtub, under the carpet).

Obviously, I realize what a tremendously difficult job it must be to have charge of 8 or 10 2-year-olds on a daily basis. But sitting on the floor with all those kids and hearing them laugh as we turned each page was a pretty nice way to start the day.

And I have to say I was pretty impressed with Samson: He seemed fairly willing to share me for at least a few minutes. This is not always the case at home, where he's starting to get a little more protective of me and my time (as in, "Hold me! Let Mommy hold Janie!" or "Janie's tired --- she should go to bed now.")

Theater of the absurd

So Samson's school has a new director. She started in the early spring and has already made a huge impact. We get weekly letters home; the school has instituted mandatory parent-teacher conferences, and they've introduced a science curriculum for the "older" kids [next year, Samson, next year].

She's painted the hallways and hung murals and really made some welcome changes. And her son is in Sam's class, which is great because she's got even more of a vested interest in what goes on with the "young 2's."

Unfortunately, we've gotten a Clintonian two-fer with her ascension to the director's office. Her husband has sort of adopted the school as his own. Which would be fine except he's a total doofus. I mean that in the strictest, most clinical sense of the word.

He's also, apparently, ubiquitous. I don't know if he sleeps there or what, but we are, at least in theory, on the same drop-off schedule three days a week.

Which means I get lots of time for grinning inanity as I'm trying simultaneously to give Samson his last-minute school day pep talk and get his gear into his cubby and his lunch and snacks squared away.

I should note here, if you haven't already guessed, that I'm kind of a curmudgeon. I have an extremely low tolerance for people who aren't funny but feel the need to make jokes, and I have an even lower tolerance for people who feel compelled to fill any moment of silence by talking.

Obviously, there's a certain amount of small talk that is necessary to grease society's wheels. I'm sure I probably ask people how they're doing dozens of times a day.

But the kinds of conversations you have as you pass by someone in the hall or wait for your stop on the bus or your floor on the elevator are (I always thought) universally understood to be about one exchange long. Two at the most.

So the question "How're you doin'?" is not an invitation for the recipient to hold forth on his lower back pain but simply an acknowledgement that, well, you've got to say something, so this might as well be it.

I wish there was some kind of national public service campaign to let people know it's OK to have nothing to say. In fact, being quiet (particularly for adults) is really kind of underrated as far as I'm concerned. Maybe Nancy Reagan could be brought out of retirement to shoot a whole new set of commercials for the "Just say nothing" campaign. She'd probably be totally on board after last week at her husband's library.

Likewise, as far as being funny, a little self-knowledge goes a long way. So when my two-and-half-year-old walks into class with his hat and glasses on, it would be funny to make a witness protection program joke. Sliding downward, it might even be funny just to make a joke about being in disguise. But it's not funny to say: "Hey: Look at you, STUD!" and then wait a beat for me to erupt in gales of hysteria.

I mean, come on, even Pauly Shore's writers would have left that line on the cutting-room floor.

As always, Samson had the appropriate response --- a long soulful/puzzled look followed by a Beckett-like observation about ants in his cubby.

Samson in repose

Judge me if you want, but you know in your heart of hearts that you would have taken this picture too.

And you can bet this photo will somehow miraculously reappear the first time Samson brings a date home...

God bless what's-her-name...

So Jane's christening on Saturday was wonderful. The priest did seem to have a little trouble remembering her name, which is understandable given that it's so exotic, but even so the ceremony was quite nice. Incidentally, the priest's name is Fr. Sam; and one of the altar boys was also named Sam; so our little guy was pretty excited at this festival of Sams.

When we booked the date for the christening, we worried that Jane's godparents, Karen and Ben, might not be able to make it from Colorado for Jane's big day. What we didn't realize was that Jane's big day coincided with the annual church carnival.

Which explains why it was available when all the other dates were taken through July. And which meant that there was absolutely nowhere to park owing to the bejorted masses drawn by the siren call of the tilt-a-whirl. On the upside, every once in a while the wind would carry the sweet scent of funnel cakes through the church. So all in all, a plus.

Jane was an angel, as usual, and I actually got to hold her for the full hour of Mass. I almost never get to hold her at all, much less for a whole hour [see: Samson; see also: kicking and screaming].

At one point, I found myself losing track of what Fr. Sam was saying --- in all fairness, his sermon kind of zigged where it might have zagged --- and just gazing into those big blue eyes of hers and thinking: "What a gift. Thank you."

Speaking of gifts, Jane fell asleep at 6:30 with a house full of people downstairs and didn't wake up until 8:45 the next morning. That's 14 hours of straight sleep. It's like she's practicing to be in college.

Lonely Planet: the early years?

Whatever path he pursues career-wise, I guess Samson is already planning for his "gap year" adventure. Vicki got the kids a little backpack to keep some toys/games in for when we go to church or out to eat. It's kind of a grab-and-go selection of cars, books, etc.

You'd be surprised how much time and energy is expended on the way out the door trying to figure out the right mix of his stuff. I'm showing my age here, but Samson's decision process on what toys we bring reminds me of making mix tapes in college. Anyway, I imagine this will only increase once Jane is old enough to have her own preferences (although something tells me she's going to be really into excavators and firetrucks).

Regardless, Samson took immediate possession of the backpack and is now apparently ready for the Khaosan Road.

Career planning

Since it's May Day and all, I figure I might as well tackle this topic now. Samson has already scoped out his career path and it involves hard hats.

He kind of goes back and forth about being a fireman or being a construction worker, but I think the important thing to him is the headgear.

Don't get me wrong, he still loves planes. And trains.

And he continues to drum on anything with a flat surface. But this kid is crazy for helmets. Which is fine up to a point. But you try putting a toddler to bed in a hardhat.

I can't tell you how many times he's hit the bridge of my nose while sitting on my lap with his fire chief hat on.

I'll be honest, even baseball hats are tricky when he's in my arms and makes a quick turn to look at something.

So lately I've been switching out his Thomas videos for "Fiddler on the Roof." I'm open for other brimless hat occupations, but I figure a little interest in the rabbinate right now couldn't hurt.