Shiner

My poor guy...

Samson started "Space Camp" today at his school, and apparently it's a lot tougher than we expected. The kids were playing outside --- taking a break from their discussion of the Big Bang Theory --- to run around under a sprinkler when Samson and one of the twins, either Ethan or Noah, collided.

I say one of the twins because when he told Vicki the story, it was Ethan. When he told me the story, it was Noah. Whichever one it was, I assume they've got a good sized knot on their head; I've collided with Samson before, and that boy's head is hard.


He's fine now, but I think it put a bit of a damper on the first day of space camp [he wore his NASA hat and everything].

Selfishly, this is at least good timing. The last two times he's gotten a black eye have been the day or two before big family get-togethers. He'll probably still look slightly UFC for our friends' barbecue on the 4th, but by then it should be faded. I hope.

Toothbrush

I struggled to find a more clever title for this post, but in the end, I decided just to go basic.

The story, in a nutshell, is that on Thursday, through no fault of his own, Samson ended up watching his toothbrush follow his poo down a flushing toilet. To her credit (and chagrin), Vicki made a valiant effort to stop the toothbrush's fantastic voyage, but alas, to no avail. That night, a friend of ours came over to help me try and locate the errant brush. And by locate, I mean unscrew and lift the toilet off its base.

Of course, you can't just pick a toilet up and put it on its side. I mean, I guess you could. But you probably wouldn't want to.

In any event, our friend, Patrick, helped do all the things needful prior to setting a toilet and tank on its side, and I then attempted to midwife Sam's missing toothbrush. No luck. Vicki gave it a shot. As did Patrick's wife, Noelle. Nothing doing. I suggested, given that his hands are much smaller, that Samson should try, but he seemed to have no interest in sticking his hand up into the toilet bowl.

So, having given it the old college try, we realized there was nothing more to do but hope. It was possible, Patrick said, that the toothbrush had gone all the way through and was even now being picked up at a treatment facility. More likely, however, was that it was stuck somewhere in the serpentine innards of the base of the bowl, never to be seen again. Eventually, he said, it will clog and you'll need to replace the toilet.

Apparently, "eventually" meant "tomorrow." Because I got home on Friday to find the toilet not working. So we had a big old family trip to Home Depot to pick out our new bowl and tank. And a seat with a lid that could only be opened by combination lock.

On Friday night, Vicki and I got to work removing our old toilet (again) and installing the new one. Had we not just seen the whole thing done the night before, we'd probably still be up there working on it. But we managed to do the entire job ourselves. Which --- laugh if you want --- felt pretty good. Especially as I'm sure a plumber would have charged us a good bit for the work involved.

On Saturday morning, Samson and I made a trip to the dump. I didn't want to have an old toilet sitting by our garbage pails for any longer than absolutely necessary, and (more the point) I was pretty excited to hurl this thing to its doom and watch it shatter. Sort of like the old Letterman stunts from way back in the early days.

So there Sam and I stood, the back of the minivan pulled up to the lip of the dump's, er, dumping area. It was already hot and fairly smelly at the dump, but this felt like an event --- like something significant Samson and I were sharing. Not necessarily on the order of Abraham and Isaac on Mount Moriah, but a moment nonetheless.

And lo, did I lift the old toilet up. And yea did I hurl it into the depths to watch it smash a hundredfold. And it smashed with the roar of a thousand toilets.

"Look," cried out young Samson. "There's my toothbrush."

And so it was. And it was good. [Actually, it was gross. It was twisted with enough toilet paper to qualify as a Christo installation. Also, there was poo.]

Dada strikes back

Samson's foray into the world of Star Wars figures is about to take a time out. For about two weeks now, he's been playing with all the guys and ships and generally doing a good job. However, he's probably still just a little too young to play with these things and not, well, break them.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not this guy.

But I'd still like to keep these toys, some of which were first played with during the Carter administration, in tact. Not perfect. Certainly not in their original boxes (which I never saw the point of). But with wings working, wheels functioning, and heads firmly atop shoulders.

Which brings me to the decision to put the toys back in the attic for a bit. The other morning Sam decided to drum out a beat on the floor using Princess Leia. Remember that scene in Clash of the Titans when Perseus (years before he made it big as lawyer in L.A.) sheared off Medusa's head? It was sort of like that. Just a clean pop and some rolling.

Not a huge deal, and he didn't get in trouble. But perhaps we were a little hasty with the whole "hey, why don't you play with these old (and apparently) fragile toys" thing. I did pick him up a few figures of his own [Boba Fett, natch, and a cool Stormtrooper] so he wouldn't be bereft of all action figure, er, action. And I imagine that by this time next week he'll have moved on to something else. He's been carrying his little doctor's bag around the house for the past few days, so we may already be on the verge of a new thing.

Also, I'm also pretty sure that the Leia figure was my sister's. Don't tell her; we'll send a card...

Bikes and tykes

I had a day between when we returned from New York and when I had to go back to work, so we (finally) dusted off the bikes and gave Jane her first ride in the bike trailer.

I got Vicki a bike for Mother's Day two years ago and had planned a long bike ride and picnic for our then-three member family. That morning, however, Vicki gave me the good news that she was pregnant. And really tired. And not at all up for a bike ride. Anyway, we've been vowing to get back on the trail ever since.

Of course, after getting everything ready (checking tires, assembling trailer to make sure all parts were there and working, wrestling with bike rack) and loaded, I discovered that my rear wheel was flat. So I pumped it up again, but I could hear a leak. Which meant a side trip to REI, where --- and I really do need to write them a letter --- they took care of my bike (new inner tube + labor, $10) and had me on my way in 15 minutes. Good people at that store.

Once we reached our destination, a decommissioned railroad trail that runs north into Pennsylvania, we were ready to go. Jane, however, was not at all interested in her helmet. Even when we called it a hat. Even when Samson told her she had to. So we decided she was probably safe enough sitting in the trailer and with her harness buckled.

We probably rode all of three miles before various factions in our party professed to be tired and in need of a horna potty [for some reason, Sam just cannot grasp the idea that it's a porta potty]. In truth, three miles of pulling 50 pounds of kids was probably good for the first time out anyway.

At one point, a mother deer and her fawn crossed about 100 yards in front of us. Both Samson and Jane saw it because I heard a kind of combined "hey" and "ooh" from directly behind me. It's hard to explain, but whenever I'm out hiking or biking and see something like that, I always get this feeling like I've been let in on a really cool secret.

Sort of a reminder that the world goes on even when you're not there to see it.

The beautiful game

We were in New York with my parents for a few days last week. The weather was unseasonably nice, and so we spent a lot of time in the back yard.

As a teenager, I hated that yard because I had to mow it. As the father of two small children, I loved it like I've loved no other lawn before. We were out more than we were in. Jane got to do her thing (walking/stumbling/falling/repeat) and Samson now has a new favorite sport: soccer.

And so we played. And played. And played some more. We may actually qualify for membership in FIFA at this point.



In any event, it was great to have so much room to run around. And he's already got better ball control than I did during my one inauspicious season playing youth soccer. It's not a good sign when you're a sub on the 7- and 8-year-old team. (Ironically enough, that's me holding the ball.)

Breakfast in Eden?

We bought Samson a kids' Bible a few months back, and he really seems to enjoy some of the stories. [You can guess which one is his favorite.] Of course, Samson is also a pretty literal guy --- he is 3 after all --- and so I think we miss some of what he's picking up.

This morning he didn't finish his breakfast and didn't clear his place. When he went in to the dining room later, the milk that was in his bowl had been absorbed by the cereal he'd left. The following was relayed to me by Vicki a few minutes ago:

[Scene: dining room; Dramatis personae: Samson, Vicki]

Vicki: Samson, you didn't clear your place.

Samson: I'm not finished. I still want to eat my cereal.

Vicki: Well, we need to get you fresh cereal and milk.

Samson: (looking in the bowl) Hey, where did the milk go?

Vicki: Where do you think it went?

Samson: Did God drink it?

Father's Day

For Father's Day, Vicki and the kids took me hiking. It's been a while since we've been on any kind of trail, and I was a little worried that Jane would protest being in the backpack. Clearly my fears were unfounded.

Vicki and I hiked this place years ago, but I didn't remember it until we'd gotten about a half-mile into the trails. The place is a nature preserve, and at one point we were in some kind of grove surrounded by honey suckle bushes. When the wind blew, the sweetness in the air was almost overpowering. Seriously, it was almost Arthurian (minus all the chain mail and wizardy stuff). It's not hard to see how years ago people thought of forests as enchanted.

At one point, Vicki and Samson went on ahead to explore, and Jane and I just stood still. The sun was warm on my face, a slight breeze rose off the water, and the stillness was broken only by the sound of a cricket or two in the tall grass.

Of course, this little transcendental reverie was broken when Sam tested out his "sword" on Vicki's leg [clearly he too was feeling Arthurian], but it was nice while it lasted.

Acoustic breakfast

Monday started very early [like 5:25 early], and Vicki wisely decided to go to the gym. After breakfast someone (not me) decided it was time for a concert.

In truth it was mostly sound-check. Still, nothing says good morning like acoustic John Jacob Jingleheimer (?) Schmidt. [His name being my name too, and all.]

Farm fresh

We got up early on Saturday (surprise, surprise) and headed out to pick some strawberries. It was still relatively cool and not too crowded at the farm. Unfortunately, Jane took no morning nap and so was really cranky. This, combined with her still-wobbly walking skills, meant that everyone ended up looking like they'd been to a dinner party at Spahn Ranch. Which was fine for everyone except Vicki. Strawberries on shirt, OK; strawberries on seat of pants, not so much.

I'm not sure what happens, but whenever we go picking [apples, strawberries, peaches], I get all hunter-gathery. Seriously, we had five pounds of strawberries and I was pulling the "five more minutes" thing with everyone. Of course, all those cut-and-runners are enjoying the jam I made last night.

Our neighborhood grocery store just underwent a complete renovation, so they've taken to posting a sullen teenager by the door with store maps and mumbled offers of assistance to help everyone adjust. When I asked "Justin" [has anyone cool ever had that name?] where the pectin was, I might as well have been asking for a copy of the Gilgamesh.

Anyway, I did find it --- and no, Justin, it's not in the same aisle as the jelly --- but it turns out I didn't need it.

Here's a quick and easy recipe. [Remember to sterilize your jars before putting anything in them; nothing ruins fresh strawberry jam on toast like botulism. And once you give people food poisoning, they never let you live it down.]

3 lbs strawberries, hulled

3 cups sugar

1 1/3 cup fresh lemon juice

Mash the strawberries and simmer for 10 minutes. Add sugar and lemon juice, stirring to ensure the sugar fully dissolves (approximately 2 minutes). Boil for 10 - 20 minutes, stirring occasionally and ladling off any foam. Pour while still hot into jars, leaving 1/4 inch at the top.

A new hope

With the end of the school year, Vicki had to close down her office. Which meant she had to find and turn in her office key. Which led to a search for her winter coat, which was packed away in the attic for the summer. Which meant that yesterday, while it was 98 degrees outside, our Vicki was in the attic rummaging through down jackets and wool coats.



On the plus side, she decided that it would be a good time to introduce Samson to his patrimony: a gently used and nearly complete set of Star Wars figures.

I'm not sure which one of us was more excited to play with this stuff. [Sidenote: for those of you keeping score at home: that's an original X-wing fighter, the plastic part of the Jawa sandcrawler set, the Hoth battle station, and Jabba the Hutt, who Samson thought looked "like a poop with eyes."]

Journal of the plague week

We had a wild stomach virus roar through our house last week, so sorry for the dearth of posts, but it was ugly at our house.

Interestingly, Jane got it first, so she wins the Typhoid Mary vector award for least likely carrier in the house. Honestly, we just naturally (and almost always correctly) assume that Samson is the bringer of germs, but this time Jane threw us a curve. A wicked, wicked curve.

All is well now, so I've got to play catch up. More to come soon.

Quick sticks

Samson's obsession with baseball has been tempered by a new found interest in lacrosse. It doesn't hurt that we live in the Fertile Crescent of laxdom. So now after dinner we're in the backyard with our sticks.

One of Samson's favorite things to do is "scramble" for the loose ball. Which means each night I am basically getting the crap beat out of me as he yells things "I'm the defenseman, and I'm mean" or "I'm Hopkins and you're The Syracuse; I have to check you."

I have to say, however, he can throw pretty well. Where last year at this time he was struggling to keep the ball in the pocket, now he's all about trying to knock it out of mine. So I suppose that's progress.

Sleepover

Aunt Maura and Uncle Greg were in town for their 10-year college reunion [translation: they are old], so we got to hang out with Luke for a while and have a full-on sleepover.

The kids had fun, and we had a ball with them. These are post-bath pre-bed pictures. And yes, we had the television on to keep them all relatively still so we could take some pictures.

Two years from now, these sleepovers are really going to be something. I can't wait.

Jane says

Compared to her chatty brother, Jane is practically a Benedictine monk. But she's got quite a few words now. And while she doesn't usually talk unless she's got something to say, she's starting to pick it up in the conversation department. What follows is a tally, so far, of what Jane says:

baby (much to Sam's consternation, as she often points to him and says it)

Daddy (still my favorite)

Mama

water

pee (that's right; our girl says "pee"; want to guess where she learned it?)

flower

milk

banana

Papa

NO!

dog

With an article or two and maybe a verb and/or a pronoun, we could probably make a haiku out of her lexicon. More to come, for sure. Stay tuned...