School concert

Samson's school concert was the Tuesday before Christmas. I have no idea who this guy is, but he stood, just like that, for the entire performance. I'm not sure if he was planning on selling a bootleg of this later on or if he's making a documentary about his son's early Christmas carols, but more than a few people were a little curious at this guy's seeming inability to register that there were other people in the audience, at least a few of whom had children they wanted to see.

I was standing in the back with Jane and so had a clear line of vision right to Samson (in the blue shirt, not quite singing, not yet picking his nose [he saved that for "Silent Night"].

My folks were staying with us for the week, and I think they really enjoyed the chance to be at his school and participate in what is an awfully sweet little tradition. The classes come in by age group: first the 3s, then the pre-K [which Samson, for reasons known only to him, pronounces so that it rhymes with "Enrique"], and then the 2s (they go last to head off any runners).

Each class sings one song on their own, and they do a few together and the the show ends with everyone singing "Silent Night." Well, almost everyone.

Also, and this has nothing to do with anything, but do you think Samson has been giving unrealistic expectations concerning the attractiveness of all his future teachers? Not trying to be a creepy pre-school dad or anything. I'm just saying is all...

Injured reserve

Occassionally, and through sheer stupidity no fault of one's own, injury occurs. It could be anything: trying to move a dryer still full with wet clothes fighting off would-be assailants, running into a burning orphanage to save children, lifting a box that your wife clearly told you was too heavy, or one too many 500-pound squat thrusts.

Who knows how I hurt my back? Regardless, hurt it is, which means I have not done much posting of late because blogging means sitting, and since I sit at a keyboard all day at work (sounds exciting, no?), the thought of sitting more when I get home is not so appealing.

Regardless, I am on the mend. And while I may yet be walking around like Verbal Kent with a slight grimace and twinge in my gait, rest assured: I'm ok.

All of which is to say I'm sorry for the lack of posts lately. I'll be doing some catching up in the next few days, and I thank you for your patience.

Mondegreen: the journey continues

I've written before about the mondegreens in our house, and Sweet Jane has just added a new one: teeveeallday.

Let me explain: For the past two weeks, Jane has decided that she wants to sleep only in our bed.

She doesn't usually decide this until somewhere around 11 o'clock at night, just as Vicki and I are ready for bed and deep enough into Samson's sleep that we're not inclined to teach her a lesson by letting her cry in her crib for fear of having two wide-awake and crying kids on our hands.

Clearly Jane is smarter than we are.

That said, having her with us means she no longer wakes up at 6 AM but rather stays asleep until well past 7 (which, for the uninformed, is "sleeping in" in any house with toddlers).

We don't watch a lot of television in our house. I mention this because Jane, after waking, almost immediately points to the remote and says "teeveeallday; teeveeallday."

Presumably she's heard us cutting Samson off after his half-hour of Noggin by saying "Samson: you're not going to watch TV all day." So it makes sense, if you think about it.

I'm thinking that rule might be amended today. Samson is home sick with an ear infection, and Vicki is now on day 4 at home with both kids and no chance of going outside because of four straight days of rain.

So go ahead, Jane. Ask and ye shall receive...

T minus seven

With Christmas only a week away, this is usually the time of year when I am finally able to slow down and get excited about the coming holiday.

But with work busier than ever and the economic picture starting to feel bleaker by the day (on both the macro and micro level), it's felt more like slouching toward Bethlehem than following that guiding star.

Which is not to say things are all doom and gloom at our house. To the contrary: The tree is up, the stockings are hung, there are presents to wrap, and cookies to bake for Santa. My parents will be spending the holidays with us, and I can't wait for them to experience the joy of being with Samson and Jane on Christmas morning.

Yet there is still that nagging something, like the draft that creeps into the house and gets under even your warmest blankets. So in an attempt to help anyone else with a touch of December malaise, I give you: Linus Van Pelt.

Memo to the monsters in my son's room

To: Monsters, ghosts, phantoms, bad guys et al.
Fr: Brian/Daddy
Re: Late night appearances

It has lately (and I do mean lately) come to my attention that assorted monsters have been appearing in my son's room in the middle of the night. I understand that it's very crowded under his bed and you prefer to wait until dark to get out and stretch your legs. Likewise, I'm sure the closet, especially with the hamper in there, is not the most pleasant place to hide and so a midnight stroll is probably quite refreshing.

Unfortunately, you are scaring the s*#! out of my son. And, selfishly, you are keeping us all awake. Except, of course, for Jane. Who doesn't see you or care about you. At all.

Samson, like his dad at age 4, has a vivid imagination. And we already live in a house with creaky floors and pipes that can sound like something from a Poe story. But you lot are not helping. And despite my best efforts (spreading the invisible bubble shield over Samson's bed, giving him worry dolls for under his pillow, bequeathing him the sacred necklace of Jor-El) nothing seems to work. [That last one may be my fault as they're just Mardi Gras beads with the superman shield on them.]

I understand you've got a job to do, and that your role involves archetypes and subconscious forces concerning the dark that stretch back millenia. It's all very impressive in a freshman-intro-to-anthropology kind of way.

But I'll be honest: It's really not working for us. Perhaps we could arrive at a schedule that would allow you time to be out and roaming around doing your best to terrify, but I hereby request that you cease and desist all activities between the hours of 8 PM and 8 AM, weekends included.

I have so far held back on using the anti-monster spray (cleverly camouflaged to look like Febreze), but if my request is not met, you leave me no other course of action.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Outtakes

We had planned to cut down our Christmas tree today; there's a farm not too far north of here, and we thought it would be fun and kind of Currier and Ives-y.

But with a temperature that never got above 33 and the kind of windchill that would make Shackleton nostalgic, we opted instead for inside activities. Among them was an attempt to get a photo of the kids for our Christmas card.

I'm not sure if we got anything that will make its way into the U.S. mail, but I thought I'd share some of the ones we probably won't be using.

Torquemada in chair #2

Samson desperately needed a haircut, so this morning I bundled him and Jane out into the cold for a trip to see Mr. Garry (two Rs, just like Garry Moore, the Carol Burnett show impresario; for all I know, they could be the same guy).

Anyway, we get there around 10:15, and there is, as usual for a Saturday, a line of kids waiting to see the two barbers who specialize in cutting kids' hair. We give Ms. Annette a wave, but we're looking for Mr. Garry. No dice. Apparently his mother-in-law died, and he was attending her funeral.

This news caused at least two or three families who arrived after us to skip the visit altogether. I just figured we'd wait and see who we got. Turns out, we got the owner, Chuck, who is the guy I go to. Nice guy. Old school. Not a real talker. Which is fine, as my haircuts usually take about 10 minutes and so don't require much more conversational effort than weather and sports scores.

I can only assume he thought he was getting the same deal with my son.

He was not.

Jane and I hung out eating lollipops and looking at Highlights Magazine while Samson had more of a conversation with this man than I have had in five years of sitting in his chair.

I'm not saying they discussed the federal bailout plan or anything, but I had no idea that Mr. Chuck kept different scissors for different kinds of hair. Nor had I ever seen the sharpening wheel that is kept over by chair #4 (most recently held by Wayne, whom I'm ashamed to say I never went to because he only had one eye, and, while I don't really have a hairstyle, per se, that was a greater leap of faith than I was willing to take).

Samson told him about school and asked if he liked Power Rangers; he told him about being a big brother to Jane and --- this was my favorite part --- when Chuck pointed to the buzzer and made a comment about fuzz, Samson informed him that he enjoyed digging fuzz from his toes. I only heard that part but wish I could have seen the look on Chuck's face.

That child never ceases to amaze me.

And he couldn't wait to get home and tell Vicki that he'd had his hair cut by the grown-up barber.

Conventional wisdom

Conventional wisdom has it that little girls are way more independent than little boys. As Jane is now 23 months old (!), I can report that the c.w. is spot-on.

She not only puts her own shoes on in the morning (whereas her brother would almost certainly go outside Greystoke-style if we didn't remind/cajole/eventually shoe him), but recently she decided to potty train herself.

I should explain: In the last week or two, Jane has been consistently telling us when she has peed in her diaper and needs to be changed. The exchange is usually direct and to-the-point. "Diaper. Pee. Change. Please."

So we thought it was worth introducing her to the potty. We did. She saw. She sat. She peed.

But wait, there's more. While it took months of trying and a system of bribery worthy of Casablanca to get Samson to "commit" to the potty, Jane has already, um, used it fully. Our girl is not shy.

This is not to say there haven't been some glitches. [First cream cheese, then the potty (at least it was clean); Jane Victoria is essentially hazing that baby.]


And she's still working on the whole exit strategy part of it. As in, "oh, now I can get up?" So if you're visiting our house, try not to leave any important documents anywhere in the vicinity of the potty. But all in all, it's pretty amazing.

So here's to conventional wisdom. And little girls. And, of course, you, Sweet Jane.

She's crafty

My wife never ceases to amaze me. Seriously, check this out.

I wonder if Samson and Jane will ever know how lucky they are that Vicki is their mom.

How many weeks until spring training?

Last night I did a little Christmas shopping for the kids and picked Samson up his first real baseball glove. It's the Rawlings Derek Jeter tee-ball model, and I cannot wait for him to open it and for us to be able to play catch outside.

[Sidenote: I can still remember my first glove, signed by Richie Zisk, who was not a household name even in households in towns where he played. Nice to see some marquee guys sponsoring the little gloves these days.]

Samson, as I've noted in earlier posts, has pretty good eye-hand coordination and hits really well. Catching, I think, will be a bit more challenging, but I'm really looking forward to teaching him.

And call me silly, but as I stood in the aisle at Target last night digging through the tee-ball gloves, I could practically smell the first buds on our birch tree and almost felt the chilly air of early April in our backyard. Good times.

A walk in the woods

Cream cheese and plastic

For reasons I can't even begin to explain, while we were in the car, Jane took her bagel, opened it up, smeared the cream cheese on her baby's head, and then licked the baby.

Creepy, no?

What I learned on the New Jersey Turnpike

Traveling with small children is always interesting. Especially if you hit traffic. When we left on Wednesday morning for the Thanksgiving weekend, we managed to avoid any serious delays, but because we were traveling in the daytime, it was pretty unlikely that either Samson or Jane would sleep in the car.

There's just way too much to look at. From the never-ending convoy of big rigs and Greyhound buses to the seemingly limitless supply of construction vehicles and workers (seriously, will they ever be finished repairing the roads in Westchester?), the odds were definitely against us. Which afforded a lot of time to listen to Samson and Jane as they were shuttled along the I-95 corridor. Along the way, I learned a few things:

1. Jane really likes the Crazy 88's theme music. A lot. Of course, she doesn't know the song is called "Battle without honor or humanity," and she sure as heck hasn't seen "Kill Bill Vol. 1." In fact, she calls it "shh-tuh wot won" because of the way the cymbals crescendo and to let me know it's "that one," I guess. In any event, any time she saw the iPod, she made her request.

2. If Toyota ever teams up with McDonald's circa 1985 to create a McDLT car, we will be first on the waiting list. Samson is apparently always cold. And Jane only needs to see Vicki putting on the heat for them in the back to be hot. Seriously, if Vicki's hand even went even near the dial, Jane would pipe up "hot; too hot!"

3. Vicki and I are under surveillance. Whether it's Jane looking at Samson, as he tries to grab a toy from her, saying "Don't. You. Dare." or the way that Sam sprinkles his sentences with the word "apparently," very little we say goes unnoticed. I knew this, but being in a car for an extended period of time sort of concentrates the experience.

4. I am glad Samson can't read. Despite the fact that we are proud of him for being potty trained, having to take him to use the restroom on the NJTPK is not one of my favorite things to do. So I'm especially glad he's too young yet to have taken notice of the commentary scrawled all over the stall, including references to Frank's predilection for long-haul truckers, Cheryl's lack of moral fiber, and a general lack of enthusiasm for the Eagles (not sure if the writer meant the band or the team; either way, he was kind of right).

5. When they are awake, Samson and Jane are awfully cute [I'm biased, of course]. But when they're sleeping, my kids look like angels, and I want nothing more in the world than to get off the highway and get home where they can be safe and warm in their beds.

Thanksgiving, brought to you by Agatha Christie

This was a strange Thanksgiving. Don't get me wrong, it was a good one. My brother-in-law, Greg, is a terrific cook, and spending time with my sister and godson was terrific.

But I got a call on Tuesday from my folks letting me know that my Dad was sick and would not make it to Connecticut for the festivities. So two down for the grown-up table.

On Thanksgiving Day, Greg's brother (my brother-in-law-in-law?) called to let us know one of his boys was down with a fever and so his wife would be staying home and he'd have the other two kids. Minus one more at the adult table, and one less seat at the kids' end.

Regardless, there was plenty of food (really, those three extra adults might have gone hungry with the way we five survivors put away the turkey etc), and we had a great time being the oldest grown-ups at the table. Since Greg's folks were in Atlanta visiting one of his other brothers (he's got 3), we really threw tradition out the window --- substituting our favorite (and most meaningful) Public Enemy lyrics for grace and playing flip-cup using slices of pumpkin pie.

OK, not really, but it did not go unnoticed among any of us that we had, albeit unintentionally, become the standard bearers for the most traditional of holiday meals. And as we looked down the table at those shining faces watching us, there was a sense that we were, without even trying, creating the beginnings of the stuff of their childhood memories.

We were also threatening them with no dessert if they didn't sit down and eat [except Jane, of course; that girl needs no cajoling]. But I think you know what I mean...

Lag time

Holy cow, I've been busy at work. Like busy enough that I bring work home and, after putting Samson and Jane to bed, get back on the computer. I know: Poor me.

In lieu of an actual post, I thought I'd try something more challenging. An update on Samson and Jane using the spare and haunting poetry that is haiku. So here goes.

Jane

All right now Janie
You want to try the potty?
Oh. I'll get a towel.

[OK, I was one syllable over on that one]

Samson

Samson, where are you?
How did you get under there?
Wait, don't move. VICKI!!!!

A portrait of the young man as an artist

This is the best I could do with the camera in my phone. Samson drew this for me yesterday morning and handed it to me on my way out the door. I was running late (what else is new) and so just grabbed it and headed for the office.

When I spoke with him later, I realized I hadn't asked him what it was a picture of. So I asked. The answer: "Francis Scott Key in jail." I wish I was making this up.

Not sure if they're covering the Star Spangled Banner in school or if they've got a field trip planned for Fort McHenry. Heck, I don't even know if FSK was ever imprisoned. But there it is, on the bulletin board in my office. Francis Scott Key. In jail.

Thanks Dad

My father is 82 years old. He enlisted in the Navy at age 17 after his family received a telegram that his oldest brother, a private in the Army, had gone missing in Guadalcanal.


My grandfather had to sign the papers for him, since he was underage, and was so upset at his youngest son's willfulness that he didn't speak to him for weeks afterward. With one son missing and another hell-bent on heading off into something he couldn't possibly have imagined the scale of, it's not hard to see my grandfather's side of this. [Many of the things I never understood about my father, or my grandfather for that matter, have become much clearer in the past four years.]

Even so, he was proud of my Dad, who served from 1943 until 1946, the final years of his teenage-hood, with the Pacific fleet off the coast of Japan and in Leyte Gulf in the Philippines.

The experience was not one he spoke about much when I was younger. He had been on a small ship and had, I understood, seen some things he wished he hadn't. But he took it all as a matter of course and made it home safe and sound and returned to civilian life. He married late, and had kids even later, and is now the proud grandfather of three.

Still, growing up I got the distinct sense that he was somewhat amused by the trials and tribulations of my teenage years and those of my sister. I guess it's hard to take a fight about junior-year curfew all that seriously when at 17 you were on the other side of the world eating C-rations and getting ready for air-raids (not drills but the real thing).

There are not a lot of the old guard left to visit the finally completed memorial in Washington, DC, but I am hopeful that when the weather gets warmer, I can finally get my Dad down this way and that we can visit it together.

I am sure it will make him emotional, which is OK (even though it's hard to watch). And he'll probably get annoyed (as I did) at the tourists lining up in front of their state's name with big cheese-eating grins [as if a monument to the dead was like Disneyworld minus the rides].

But I want him to see it, and for my kids to be there with him --- a reminder of what he was fighting for, even if, at 17, he wasn't sure. Pace Tom Brokaw, but the greatest generation were not high-minded individuals with sophisticated geopolitical understanding and a burning desire to combat fascism. They were not people who set out to be heroes or who were self-consciously appointing themselves to save the world.

They were ordinary guys like my Dad who believed the United States of America, and all the people in it, were worth fighting for.

They were right. They still are.

Happy Veterans Day. And thanks, Dad.

Sweet (and semi-sweet) Jane

Vicki has this recipe for chocolate chip cookies that she got years ago from a former colleague who had some kind of black belt in pastry abilities. It was apparently a measure of this woman's esteem that she even gave Vicki the recipe, and so whenever we make these cookies it feels like we're carrying on some kind of important culinary tradition.

Mostly, though, they're just ridiculously good. And Jane got her first taste of them today.

Our girl is usually not much for chocolate, but clearly she's willing to make an exception.

And yes, that's a pen-and-ink cat face drawn on her forearm. Samson went to a birthday party yesterday, and the kids all got temporary tattoos in their goodie bags. Despite the fact that I cadged an extra one so we could bring it home to Jane, she demanded one for each arm.

Hence the Hello Kitty goes to Riker's look on our 22-month-old.

Yard work

We only have one tree in our yard that loses leaves in the fall. Of course, the neighbors on either side of us have several such trees, so every fall we fill at least 15 or 20 bags of leaves. Samson is just starting to really get the whole jumping in leaves thing, and with the weather so nice lately, he's all about "helping" me with the yard work.

Good times.

What I will tell my children

Our little family waited in line for 45 minutes on Election Day morning to vote. The line snaked out the door of the elementary school that serves as our polling place and wound down the sidewalk and into the parking lot.

Forty-five minutes in line with two toddlers is usually something you'd only put up with at Disney World, but there was no way I was missing my chance to vote.

Growing up, my Dad always took me into the booth with him, and I remember when he'd pull the lever and close the curtain that it felt like I was being let in on some kind of grown-up secret. Never mind that I had little concept of what he was actually doing, I knew it was "something important."

And so it was with some degree of pride and nostalgia that I stood at the little table (no curtains for us, just tall cardboard blinders) with Samson in my arms to cast my vote. We had ample time to discuss what was going to happen as we waited, and I did my best to inform him of what voting entails. When we got inside, he was ready and suggested, since I told him my job was to pick one of two names, that I pick the one named Samson.

Alas, I could not. But I was excited to vote in a way I had not ever been before. For the first time in my adult life, I felt like I was voting for someone and not as a hedge against the other guy.

I'll be honest, I'm kind of an apostate Democrat, sort of a liberal Libertarian if that makes any sense. Was never a Clinton fan [see pot smoking, dissembling; see also genocide, Rwanda; see also Defense of Marriage Act], and I couldn't suspend disbelief long enough to buy the cowboy act from a guy who went from boarding school to the Ivy League. Even so, I don't remember ever feeling joy at either man's failures. After all, their failures quickly became ours.

And while I would love it if this country had a viable third party, at this point I'd settle for two that actually functioned properly.

In my lifetime it feels like politics has become a reductive extenstion of sports. Basically, the called third strike is only outrageous when it's your guy at the plate. Which is not only intellectually disingenuous, but it makes talking to any true partisan (left or right) both futile and vaguely embarassing.

Look, I'm not a particularly starry-eyed individual. If I could get my own personal theme song, it would be Leonard Cohen's "Everybody Knows." And I certainly know better than to expect that on January 20, 2009 the country will magically change to a nation free of troubles and absent of divisions. But I am hopeful that in a nation and a world facing a distinct crisis of leadership, we have elected someone who can rally the better angels in our nature and help deliver on the promise of what America is supposed to be about.

What I will tell my children is that on Election Day 2008, their mother and I took them with us to the polling station at eight in the morning. That there, with them in our arms, we voted for Barack Obama --- not with an eye toward "making history" or in order that we might congratulate ourselves on our "progressiveness," but with an eye toward their future and toward the kind of country we want them to grow up in.

I expect this last part holds true for those friends of mine who voted for McCain as well. I am hopeful that with a campaign that was both nasty and brutish (but sadly not short) behind us, we can get past bumper sticker philosophy (from the left and the right; seriously, Bush is not Hitler; and even if you didn't vote for him, Obama is your president) and do something. We seem to be awash in slogans. Solutions? Not so much.

With this, I will get off my soap box. I've got laundry to do.

In the immortal words of David Lee Roth...

Vicki had a craft show today, so Samson, Jane, and I had the whole day together. It was a nice, crisp fall day, and after Jane took a marathon nap [that hour time change really took it out of her], we headed out to the park.

For reasons I'm still not clear on, Samson decided that instead of going down the slide the usual way, he'd play paratrooper from the top and simply jump. I was half-turned away from him as Jane came down the slide, and the next thing I knew there was a loud thump and a blood-curdling scream. Actually, I guess it was more like a blood-gurgling scream.

Young Samson has the terrible but aw-shucks-cute habit of sticking his tongue out slightly while he does things (running, writing, playing). According to my parents, I did this too. I'd love to know how something like this is inherited.

Anyway, this little habit literally came back to bite him today. Sam landed on the ground, and, as best as I could tell, his knee struck his chin and his teeth punctured his tongue. Cue the screaming and spitting of blood.

It just so happened that only a moment before, a kind grandmotherly looking lady had sat down on a bench near us and gave me this big beatific smile as if to say "look at that nice dad playing with his kids; they sure look like a nice family."

By the time Samson had finished rinsing the blood out of his mouth, and Jane had ended her temper tantrum (brought on by my refusal to let her go up on the slide by herself while I tended to her brother), that lady was long gone.

I like to think she ran, but she did look pretty old. She probably just walked briskly.

Sam is fine, by the way, but he'll have to be careful while he's eating for the next few days.

Halloween

We've been spending Halloween with friends for the past four years. It's a great tradition: The boys, who have known each other all their lives, get a chance to stay up way past their bedtimes, play, and eat candy.

The adults get a great meal (Elizabeth always makes something good), have a few drinks, and eat candy. Everybody wins. 

This year there was a parade, which Jane was very excited about. Samson was more interested in running around to make his cape all flowy. He also kept coming up to tell me not to worry, that it was just a costume and that behind the mask it was really just him. 

Trick or treating was terrific. Our friends' neighbors are great; the kids were all polite; and I think by the end of the night Jane had figured out the whole trick-or-treating thing. Seriously, she was moving like a SEAL at those last few houses.

Like her brother before her, Jane doesn't really see the firefighter outfit as a costume. Rather, she looks at it more like a wardrobe option. So she's been wearing the pants around the house for the past few days. Which is funny for a lot of reasons, among them the fact that Jane is obsessed with putting her hands and other things in her pockets.

Unfortunately the firefighter pants don't have pockets. But they do have suspenders.

Watching her walk around  with them on has been like watching a mini Andy Dufresne. Every few steps she takes around the living room shakes something she's just pocketed loose --- crayon, matchbox car, hair clip.

If she asks for a poster of Rita Hayworth, we'll know she's planning something...

Class photo

Guess who wasn't so excited at being able to have a photo taken at her brother's school? I wish I could look at this picture without laughing.

Poor. Sweet. Jane.

Me and my girl

Season's end

The soccer season ended for Samson and his teammates on Friday. I can't tell you how glad I am that we signed him up.

He's probably not in any danger of some day playing in the World Cup (see above sequence; #5, that's my boy), but when we arrived at the field on Friday night, he hopped right into the game (already in progress) and proceeded to clear the ball up the field.

Of course, he then stopped to talk to one of his friends, but I was thrilled to see him make solid contact with the ball. And in the right direction. Most importantly: He was having fun.

It has been a great six weeks: a fun way to start the weekend, and I don't know how many more years we'll be able to go before having his games infringed on by the vicarious living crowd [there were a few even at this level, but they tended to congregate closer to the sidelines].

Also, and this may mark me as a philistine in terms of the "beautiful game," but any contest that ends not on penalty kicks but when the Papa John's delivery guy arrives is OK in my book.

Seriously, he came out to midfield, the game was called, and the handshake line speedily assembled. It was time for pizza and trophies.

By the way, if you want to see the future of soccer, look no further:

Seriously, she took this kid's ball. Kicked it from in between his feet, picked it up, and walked away. Long live sport.

Bring out yer dead

Last night while leaving the bottles and cans for the recycling pick-up, I saw something I couldn't quite identify near the side of the road (where the curb would be if we had a curb). It was dark and late, and I assumed it was an old newspaper that had collected in the gutter. I was feeling lazy and so decided to leave it until the morning.

On Fridays, Vicki and Jane leave at around six in the morning. I am almost always awake and usually watch them and wave from the window. This morning, after Vicki buckled Jane into her car seat, she started to walk around the back of the van toward her side but suddenly cried out and jumped straight into the air.

Apparently last night's "newspaper" was actually a dead possum.

Did I mention it was dark when I took out the recycling?

Anyway, Samson and I --- despite our best efforts --- never get out of the house before 8:15, so by the time we were leaving, there it was in all its inanimate glory. I casually mentioned, as we headed to the car, that there was a dead animal, and Samson's two reactions were: "Oh, is that a possum? He's cute" and "Do possums have funerals?" I think he's ready for Outward Bound.

[Sidenote: His school is across the street from a Catholic church, where, on Monday, the funeral for a firefighter was held --- the appearance of a dozen firetrucks and a team of bagpipers did not go unnoticed, and I figured there was no harm in explaining what it was that was happening. Lots of talk since then about funerals. So it goes.]

We walked carefully to the car, not getting too close [he might not have been dead, right? isn't that why they call it "playing possum?"] and got into the car and headed to school.

By the time I arrived home tonight it was clear that either this possum was going for some kind of world record for "playing" or was, indeed, dead. Of course, tonight was the last soccer game of the season, so my dead animal removal duties would have to wait until after the Light Green team's final game, pizza party, and trophy ceremony [more on this later].

I enlisted Vicki's help this time with the removal duties. I say "this time" because last year (maybe in December?) I had to do something similar. A very large neighborhood cat hat been hit by a car and was lying, quite dead, in the middle of our busy two-lane street. Right on the double yellow lines.

I did not want Samson to come out in the morning for school and see the thing splattered all over the road, so I went out [I think Vicki was at a holiday party] and stood in the middle of the road with a shovel, a flashlight, and a big black lawn and leaf bag. I remember it was cold and that I was wearing Bean boots, jeans, a flannel shirt, and a big down vest. It was raining slightly, and I imagine I must have looked like a cross between Pet Sematery and a J. Crew shoot gone horribly wrong.

On that occasion it took me the better part of a half-hour (with the kids upstairs sleeping and a monitor in my vest pocket in case they woke) to get the thing into a bag. Not to mention the fact that the cat was easily 18 lbs and kept sliding off the shovel.

I know: gross, but you know what? You're just reading about it; I actually felt the slow slide of inert tissue down the metal spade and looked into those dead, staring eyes. I digress.

This time, as I said, I enlisted Vicki's help, and it was actually pretty easy. One scoop and into the bag, although the long tail had already rigormortized a bit. Not really a big deal. Not something I want to do again tomorrow, but I can report with one hundred percent certainty that this thing was not, in fact, playing possum.

And so, with my varmint duties complete, I am going to bed. Let's hope the raccoons go quietly about their business tonight.

Genetic markers

I can already hear my Dad sighing at this picture. If you look closely, you can see Samson --- safely in the background --- making a goofy face at the camera.

I can't even begin to tell you how many photos we have of me as a kid where I'm doing something similar. Clearly it's in the genes.

Jane, of course, is less interested in the photo-op and is probably looking at Vicki wondering where her snacks are.

Bright eyes

Too busy to post much of anything right now, but I just had to share this picture of Sweet Jane.

London (re)Calling

Sorry for the silence. I was in London for work this past weekend: I left Thursday night and returned on Sunday afternoon, so I've been a little busy and sort of jet-lagged. Excuses, excuses.

I spent a good portion of my youth influenced (perhaps too much) by bands like the Clash and the Sex Pistols, and so my younger self expected to one day be living in London (natch) and living the life of an expat beat poet who uses terms like "my flat" and "cheers, mate" unironically.

Needless to say 17-year-old me would think 36-year-old me is a total disappointment.

Not only do I not live in London and spend my days hanging out with punks and acting as the poetic conscience of the anti-establishment, but I actually brought a suit to wear during my trip. Sell-out.

I did, however, spend a good portion of the flight reading Jon Lee Anderson's excellent biography of Che Guevara. So if time travel ever becomes possible, 17-year-old me will be given a 700-page reading assignment.

Enough of all that, as they say. The trip was quick, and I missed my guys. Samson is still a bit shaky on his geography (hey, he's only 4), and when I spoke to him the night after I arrived, we had the following conversation:

Me: "Hi, buddy. It's good to hear your voice. How are you?"

Samson: "Hi Daddy. Are you in heaven?"

Me: "Um, no. I'm in London. Remember? It's in England. Where Grandpa is from."

Samson: "Oh. So are you coming to my soccer game tonight?"

Postscript: Because I was there to work, and because I was only on the ground for about 50 hours, I didn't get to do a whole lot of touristy things. No Tower of London visit; no stop at Ben Sherman's; no hilarious pics of me in the iconic red phone booth.

However, I did get to see a little of the city. I arrived at 10 in the morning and by 11 was on the subway (or tube, if you prefer) headed for Westminster.

I did the obligatory walk-bys of Parliament, Big Ben, and Buckingham Palace. Because London is such a surveilled city, I imagine someone, somewhere was wondering who the latter-day Mr. Magoo was trolling around their city.

I never really did get the hang of the whole "look right at the crosswalk" thing.

It's good to be home. And still in one piece.

For the love of bungee

It's been pretty quiet on the garbage front lately. Indeed, we hadn't had any incidents since I put bungee cords on the pails.

Until last night.

Unfortunately, I think the raccoons took a page out of Fidel Castro's playbook after the raid at Moncada barracks. OK, I don't think they went to Mexico City to plan, but they are back and apparently ready for round two. [By the way, I say "they" because there are now two: a big one and a baby/trainee]. So with their return, it seems they have a new strategy.

For reasons known only to her, Jane woke up at 4 this morning. When Vicki brought her in to our room, Jane was wide awake and ready to play. Alas, we were not. So she tossed and turned and tried chatting us both up for the better part of an hour. But by 5, she was just about out. And that's when I heard the familiar low thud of a garbage pail being tipped.

I couldn't peek out the window without waking the newly sleeping Jane, but as I drifted off to sleep I dozed safe in the knowledge that our garbage was secure. Better living through stretchy cords and hooks.

This morning, as I made the usual trip to the garbage to dispose of the night's diapers (the kids', not mine), I looked with satisfaction at the pail lying on its side, lid still in place. But when I righted the pail and opened it up, I found a torn bag and some bits of last night's dinner sticking to the walls of the pail. Apparently, the little one was able to squeeze into the space between the lid and the pail when the pail was knocked on its side.

At this point, I have two options: I can either become Carl Spackler or I can keep the bungees on and admire the raccoons for their ingenuity. I think I'm going with option two.

Seriously, any animal willing to work that hard for an apple core gets my respect.

As long as it doesn't give me rabies.

With imaginary friends like these

Samson has a pretty vivid imagination (surprise, surprise) and has been talking about his friend Olga-Miga for some time now. Where the name came from, I don't know, but Olga-Miga used to be one of the 100 brothers Sam used to claim to have. Seriously, he told his new teacher, when she met Jane, that in addition to a sister he had a hundred brothers. And then started making up names. Like Olga-Miga.

At some point, however, he [and on this point Samson is emphatic: Olga-Miga is not a girl] was demoted to being just a friend. And lately, the mysterious O-M has been a bully. Tonight at dinner I got the following report:

Samson: "Today Olga-Miga was being mean to me. He said I wasn't his friend and that I was stupid."

Me: "Wow, that wasn't very nice of him. So what did you do?"

Samson: "I kicked him under a car and he went into the street and died."

Me: "Oh."

Jane turns it up to 11

Among the things Jane has picked up from her big brother: She knows how to rock.

Tonight after dinner, our girl dialed it past 10 and up to 11. Literally.

Clearly the people at Hasbro are big fans of Spinal Tap.

This is my family

What more could I ask for?

Our time in Eden

Yesterday was, quite literally, picture perfect. Is there any better feeling than being outside with the sun on your face and biting into an apple you've just picked?

With Samson and Jane in the red wagon (mostly), we wandered for at least an hour, picking, eating, playing, and generally enjoying a Sunday afternoon outside.

The trees hung heavy with Empires, and Samson and Jane could simply walk up and take their pick. The sight would have warmed even cold John Milton's heart.

More prosaically, we also got some broccoli.

It's a full-service you-pick farm: Cabbage and beets were there for the picking as well, but we demurred. And the kids really love broccoli. Me? Not so much, but let's just keep that between us.

Friday night, no lights

So we finally got it together enough to remember water for Samson [all that running away from the ball makes him thirsty] and a camera. Friday night's game against Purple was a near repeat of last week's game against Red.

I'm pretty sure that someone somewhere is manufacturing fake 5-year-old IDs, because some of the kids on the opposing team were far too coordinated to be only 5. And a few were almost twice as tall as Samson.

Which is, of course, the trouble with a 4/5 league, where you have Samson, who just turned four up against kids who might be 5 and ready to turn 6 some time later this fall. The difference a year makes at this age is almost impossible to overstate.

Not to worry. With the exception of a particularly aggressive child, who, as best as I can tell, was trash-talking Samson [I got the 50-yards-away silent film version wherein I saw a small, angry-looking boy jawing at Samson and a quizzical expression on Sam's face as he backed away slowly], Samson had a blast. Even when he and a teammate collided and he came off the field for a few moments, he wanted to get right back in there.



Injury shminjury: In no time he was downfield near the Purple goal [the ball, meanwhile was near our goal] and running his heart out toward us and yelling: "Daddy, look over there. It's the MOON!"

And indeed, there behind us, all but invisible to nearly everyone on the field and all the people watching the game, was a beautiful crescent moon, just inching above the treeline against a blue shading into violet sky.

I sure do love that child.

To build a fire

Also, to toast some marshmallows.



I've come to the realization that raising a toddler is a lot like doing business in a developing nation. Bribery? Check. Coercion? Check. Willful ignorance of minor infractions? Double check.

Which is not to say that there aren't moments of pure and uncomplicated joy. Because there are many. But it's funny how often I hear myself beginning sentences with "Well, then I guess we can't..." or "If you do X, you can have Y."

The funny thing, of course, is that these methods usually work. Stickers and prizes were the key to potty training. And they're working wonders for keeping the wanderer in bed after he's been tucked in, read to, retucked in, hugged, given a glass of water, and assured about the situation regarding monsters (i.e., negative).

The prospect of this treat, toasting marshmallows, had been held out over the course of the week as a kind of all-purpose bribe, covering the eating of dinner, kindness toward Jane [not usually a problem anyway], and general good behavior.


[Disclaimer: I should note here that Samson is an awfully good kid. He's well behaved and is overall a pretty easygoing child. That said, he's also four.]



So last night, while Vicki put Jane to bed and Samson got dressed for being "in the cold," I went out to start a small fire in the firepit on our patio . It was going pretty nicely by the time Samson and Vicki arrived with the marshmallows.

It was a perfect October night. Just cool enough for a fire, just light enough to see what we were doing, and Samson --- despite the hours upon hours spent playing fireman --- was pretty timid about the fire. Which is a good thing. There will be time enough yet for him to turn into Beavis.

He also does not, apparently, like marshmallows --- toasted or otherwise. Even so, it was nice to be outside.