What would a trip to the train museum this time of year be without a visit with Uncle Jessie, er, Engineer Santa Claus. [I guess we should be thankful it wasn't Railway Riding Hobo Santa or Trainyard Bull Santa.]
Regardless, Samson was all business. I'm not sure if he's even begun to wonder how there could be a Santa who wants to talk to him in just about every location he visits.
What he is certain of is that he's going to let each bearded guy in a red hat know what he wants: A fireman set.
Mind you, none of us has any idea what a fireman set is. He talked at great length with my parents about it over Thanksgiving, and they are now all Gallahad and Lancelot in pursuit of one. Good luck to them, I say.
Jane was a little less sanguine about the whole encounter. Her face is obviously telling, but watch Samson's eyes as the sequence progresses. Nothing beats fast shutter speed, man.
Sweet Jane is already wise beyond her months (11 next week).
Vicki said that Samson and Jane were playing in the basement, and Samson took a toy from her. She let out a pathetic sounding cry and then turned to look at Vicki's reaction.
Sam duly gave her back the toy (which he should have), but he was totally unaware that Jane was beginning the grift.
I think she's just testing things out right now [a "listening tour," if you will], but it won't be long.
I have a younger sister, and she was particularly adept at the Jane maneuver when we were kids, so part of me wants to warn Samson about what's coming. I feel like I've been given some kind of time-traveling ability, and I can use my powers for good to warn Sam of the certain doom that awaits him.
The other part of me (the less charitable part, I guess) thinks it might be fun just to sit back and watch how this all plays out.
Rather than spend the Friday after Thanksgiving fighting the hordes at the mall, we decided to spend the Friday after Thanksgiving stuck among the hordes at the annual Festival of Trees.
It was nice, in a 19,000-people-stuck-in-an-arena-with-Johnny-Matthis-being-piped-in sort of way. Actually, it was fine --- although there were a few moments where I wondered if there were any religions I could convert to that didn't require annual exposure to Bing Crosby on an endless loop. Maybe Zoroastrianism?
The event is actually a fundraiser for a local research and treatment hospital for children. So as I browsed the rows of dancing Santas and NFL-themed trees, I kept reminding myself "good deed, good deed, good deed."
And my parents and the kids loved it. Actually, so did Vicki. So maybe it's just me.
Regardless, there was a Santa and a magic show and some rides. The highlight for Samson was his favorite band, Milkshake, but I'd have to say his second favorite thing might have been the foot-long hot dog he ate.
It was uncanny; maybe we just need to put whatever we want him to eat in a foot-long bun. He might yet crack the 30-pound mark.
Yesterday was Samson's first trip to the dentist. I was unable to go but got a full report afterwards, including a discussion of the "magic chair" and an explanation of why it's not scary when the hygienist wears a mask.
According to Vicki, when the hygienist put the mask on, Samson became like a Victorian gentleman in the presence of an exposed ankle. He turned his head and simply looked away. It took a bit of coaxing to get him to face forward again, but we've noticed this is something he does when he knows there's something that might frighten him. [For the record, he is not afraid of ladies' ankles.]
Man I wish I had a photo of him in the dentist's chair wearing the little lead blanket and waiting for his X-rays.
Clearly this dentist knows what she's doing, because he came back with a bag full of goodies and couldn't wait to go upstairs and brush his teeth.
I expect we'll be playing a lot of dentist in days to come. Which means Jane better watch out...
Apparently I look like a detective. I mean, I get it: Irish, short hair, navy suit, raincoat.
Let me explain: I grabbed lunch today at the Chipotle near my office, which, I guess, is a popular lunch spot for police in this part of the city.
A few weeks back, the cashier, who doesn't speak much English, asked me "Police?" I was confused but said no and was rung up and sent on my way.
Today, she didn't ask, but she did give me a knowing smile and the "discount" ($3.50 off a $7.89 bill). I thought about correcting her misapprehension but then thought it was silly to look a gift burrito in the mouth.
Hard to believe this was Jane's first Thanksgiving. Obviously, I know it was, but it feels like she's been here forever. My parents came to visit, and we had a great time. Given last year's turn of events, I was ready to consider the day a win as long as it didn't end in the emergency room.
But it really was fun.
And educational: According to my parents, Samson's obsession with discussing poop is some kind of cosmic payback from my obsession with same 32 years ago.
I can honestly say I don't remember saying "Happy Thankspoopy Poop," but according to them, I did.
I took the day before Thanksgiving off and so was able to enjoy a five-day weekend of reckless abandon. Or at least five days of not shaving or wearing a tie.
Unfortunately, Jane decided I needed a sixth day off and came down with an ear infection late Sunday night. So I stayed home today to take her to the doctor and just do what I could to help the poor thing out.
Somewhere around hour 3 of last night's marathon, it occurred to me --- as I sat on the rocker in her room with her little sleeping head on my shoulder --- that this was the most uninterrupted time I'd gotten with her since those very early months when she hadn't yet gotten night and day straight.
Which is not to say I ignore her, but I just don't get the time with her that I got with Samson because of, well, Samson.
In any event, after a trip to the doctor and an ear exam that left the nurse noting with approval, "she's got quick hands," we got some medicine and were on our way.
There were no naps today, which made my attempts to "work from home" interesting. [I don't think I've ever used any of the Function keys on the laptop; Jane has now used them all.]
But I think she should be OK in a few days. Sleep well, sweet Jane.
OK, so we don't have a rat in the kitchen, but we do have a mouse, somewhere in the house.
We discovered this yesterday and have not mentioned it to Samson --- he freaks out about spider webs on the deck, so something tells me that real live vermin in our house might just traumatize him. Even more than our ill-conceived attempt to do his room in a Willard theme.
Needless to say, with my folks coming into town tomorrow for the holiday, this is not exactly the most convenient time to be infested. And I'm not really sure, since we have a cat, how this is even possible. As old and incontinent as Ishmael is, I always cut him a little slack because I assumed he was doing preventive work simply by his presence. But clearly he's been phoning it in.
So now I'm looking into giant bubbles for Jane to crawl around in. Maybe Travolta is selling his on eBay?
We hit the farmer's market yesterday morning in preparation for this Thursday's feast. The Sunday before Thanksgiving is always really crowded, and this year's showing did not disappoint.
In addition to throngs of people getting everything from pumpkin pies to hefty bags full of greens, there were news trucks there shooting B-roll for the early evening slice-of-life news segment.
Samson was impressed with the TV truck and the reporter doing a stand-up, but he was really impressed with the two firefighters he saw doing some shopping. It must be pretty awesome to know that wherever you go, throngs of toddlers mark seeing you as the highlight of their day.
Back at home, Sam and I cooked up some cranberry applesauce. I don't know about you, but that ribbed stuff from the can just creeps me out. And this is pretty easy to make. Even with a three-year-old "helping."
Ingredients:
2 lbs apples (4-5 apples, preferably Golden Delicious) 1 cup cranberries 1/2 cup sugar 1/4 cup cider 2 T butter 2 t lemon juice 3-inch lemon zest (I usually just cut a piece of the rind and put it in) 1 cinnamon stick
Basically, you peel and cube the apples and then throw everything together in a stock pot. Heat on a medium flame for about 15 mins, stirring occasionally. Remove the rind and cinnamon stick, and place the mixture into a food processor for, er, processing.
So yeah, it's great that Vicki has her business up and running, but it's seriously cutting into her duties as official (and unpaid) photographer for this site.
In any event, in between trying to clean the house for Thanksgiving, trying to clean the yard [I bought a leaf blower and ironically listened to the "Into the Wild" soundtrack while blowing leaves into our neighbor's yard], and trying desperately to get Jane and Samson to nap at the same time, we took a break for a little photo shoot.
Anyway, if we learned anything today, it's that Samson will work for lollipops. And the chance to play with sticks.
And Jane, well she was a good sport for a little while. But even Sweet Jane has her limits.
Once inside, the day of no naps reared its ugly head. Not quite Altamont but a nice "behind the music" look at our family. [Just fyi: Only Vicki is faking distress in this picture. Jane has a real death grip, and Samson, well, he may need to work on his grappling skills.]
Finally, this blog has a commercial sponsor. Or at least a potential one.
Just in time for the holidays, Vicki has gotten her stationery design site up and running. I'm biased, but she really does some great work. See here for cards, invites, and other fun things made of paper.
Not my Sam but another one. I'll set the stage. We were at a birthday party on Sunday for Samson's friend Madelyn, who is 4. Our friends live in a rural part of Virginia, so they have a sizable backyard and for the party had a hay ride and a pony.
Their backyard also has a swing set with rope/ladder thingy to climb and this was pretty much all Samson wanted to do. He did enjoy the hayride but not as much as being able to climb.
To be honest, they could have had Sesame Street meets Burning Man in their backyard and Samson wouldn't have noticed.
As guests arrived, it was funny to watch the kids size each other up. For the most part, they all played really well together. Which is pretty impressive given that there were 4- and 5-year-old girls and 3- and 4-year-old boys, who, developmentally, might as well be different species.
I digress. At one point, a small boy who appeared to be Samson's age arrived with his mother and a sleeping infant. This boy's name was Sam. And Sam, which may have been short for SonofSam, was bad news.
I've often thought that it would be helpful --- as a way of gauging whom to approach and whom to avoid --- if people came with theme music. I like to think that my entrances would be accompanied by something from Curtis Mayfield. Or maybe Leonard Cohen's "Everybody Knows."
Anyway, if such an aid existed, this kid Sam would be accompanied by the opening movement of Carl Orff's Carmina Burana. Or maybe the music from "The Omen."
So Samson saw Sam and another kid (this one inexplicably named after a rock in Europe) playing with trucks. Assuming they were kindred spirits, Samson went over to play. At which point Sam turned and growled. Loudly. Like the feral kid in the Mad Max movies. Which not only startled Samson [not a lot of growling at his school or among his friends] but made him cry.
I happened to be playing with Jane and so missed most of this but came in on the tail end of things, i.e., the crying. Vicki, because she is wise, thought it best to let the kids sort it out themselves. [For my part, I would much rather have been admonishing Samson for pasting this kid in the face than reassuring him that he'd done nothing wrong and simply needed to tell Sam not to bother him.]
Of course, I wouldn't change Samson for anything, but I do tend to lose perspective when I see him getting his feelings hurt. He pretty much stayed away from Sam for the rest of the party, but he did keep tabs on him. And every once in a while he'd call out across the yard: "Hi Sam. You're mean." Presumably he's hard at work right now on a letter to the editor.
Obviously, all this is part of growing up, and Samson needs to learn to fend for himself. And for the most part he does pretty well. But man, this Sam kid was weird. And indeed, mean.
The intense focus in our house on bodily functions [see training, potty; see also, accident avoidance] has had the unintended consequence of creating a running stand-up routine for Samson.
It's a fairly simple formula: He takes a sentence, like "Samson, please pick up that book" and then switches in the word poop or pee. Incessantly.
I'm not saying this is sophisticated stuff, and I imagine 3-year-old boys and bathroom humor are the bane of every nursery school teacher. Not to mention their parents.
But if he's going to try to be funny, it seems only right to give him some guidance. The other day Vicki was actually trying to get him to understand why poop is not always funny in a sentence. He was singing Dan Zanes' "Pay Me My Money Down," and I heard her explaining to him "Pay me my poopy down" was funny but "Pay me my money poop" was not.
A subtle difference to be sure, but therein lies the comedy. I can't wait to have to explain this next week at his parent-teacher conference...
Samson has re-emerged from last spring's unsuccessful bid at potty training with a new Gore-like confidence.
He's grown since then, having written a book about the experience, dabbled a bit in teaching, and he's even putting together a documentary and PowerPoint about a topic he feels pretty strongly about (firetrucks).
Most importantly, he's back in the, er, saddle again.
And once again, we are bribing the heck out of him. No more stickers, however, as he saw through that ruse. The stakes are much higher this time: Sour Patch Kids. At this rate he'll be fully potty trained but toothless by Easter.
Today marked the first day he wore underpants to school, and apparently he was like a little Paul Revere about the whole thing. Which is not only sweet [who is more enthusiastic than Samson James?] but useful: Every teacher has essentially been put on notice should they see our boy quietly making his way over to a corner of the playground for some privacy.
Of late, Sweet Jane has become Jane on a mission. Now that she's figured out how to pull herself up to a standing position, she's lost all interest in doing much else.
Except crawling.
Gone are the days of holding this sleepy little wonder in my arms. If she's in her crib, she's standing; if she's in your arms, take a picture, because she's got things to do and they don't involve being held by you.
I'm pretty sure if she could get Vicki "to go," she wouldn't even take the nursing breaks.
All of which has put the cat completely over the edge and caused Samson to offer a running commentary of the things in our house that are not Jane's.
He's particularly concerned about her putting his backpack in her mouth as she might choke.
That piece of Lego he left on the floor, however, seems to be less of an issue for him.
Apparently Samson has been getting out of bed at naptime/bedtime. I say apparently because neither Vicki nor I have witnessed it, but yesterday, after both kids woke up from their naps, Vicki found some of Samson's toys (play food, actually --- a red bell pepper and an asparagus, to be precise) in Jane's crib.
And this morning, when I went in to get him, the pirate action figure he'd taken with him into bed was somehow standing in the crow's nest of the pirate ship across the room.
So either his room is haunted or he's getting up and cruising around when we think he's sleeping.
In keeping with tradition, Samson, Jacob (the bee), and Oliver (ducky, which is his version of La-La) got together to do some trick or treating. Apparently three is the age where it clicks that free candy from strangers and being out at night is awesome.
Vicki was trying to get these guys to sit still and smile for the picture, when, in a fit of inspiration, she asked them to say "trick or poop." Comic gold. Also a little confusing for the houses left to be visited, but well worth the looks on their faces. Say what you will, but the word "poop" is just funny. I don't care how old you are.
Because Oliver's costume required explanation, I guess Samson figured that such action was part of the Halloween experience. So after saying trick or treat (or poop), he would inform the candy-giver, in all seriousness, "I'm a fireman." Occasionally he'd also let it be known that he was really Samson but in a fireman's costume. Full disclosure trick or treating.
It was too cool for Jane to go in just her dancer's costume, but the tutu held up pretty well over her pajamas. And she's started doing this really funny thing where she makes bubbles with her saliva while saying "mmwaaa, mmmwaaa." Apparently I did this as a child. We'll try and get a photo.
She's got two teeth coming in on top but not the front ones. So very shortly sweet Jane will have fangs. Good times.
I don't know that she's ever been outside at 7:30 at night, so for her this was like Alice stepping through the looking glass. We were probably only outside for 20 minutes, but she spent most of our walk looking around in absolute wonder.
Or maybe it was silent envy at the dozens of lollipops Samson was hauling in at every stop on the way. We all discovered last night that the downside to the boys being big enough to approach the houses on their own, as opposed to being carried to the door, is that they tend to pick out the candy they want. Which means Samson came home with enough lollipops to reenact the entire first season of Kojak. Bleah.
Call me dada. This has, in the few months since my son started "talking," become my name. I'm sure (at least I hope) it will eventually morph into something less early 20th century art movementy --- but I am marked forever as dada. And this is a good thing.
I have no real advice to offer, other than always carry Cheerios and extra onesies, and I don't really have a lot of 'wacky' adventures to regale you with. Truth be told, this is as much for me as it is for you. So, uh, thanks for stopping by. I hope it's at least an interesting time-killer.
And if not, consider this an ironic exercise in skewering the bourgeouis notions of 21st century American parenthood by deconstructing the materialist ethos that has turned childhood into a demographic and rendered adults simultaneous enablers and slaves. Or something.
