Proud

My father has been sick for the past few days with a kidney infection. He's 81 and not in great health, so I try not to keep Samson apprised of Papa's condition every time he gets sick. Vicki mentioned it, however, and Samson thought a care package and card might help cheer his grandfather up.

So he asked Vicki for some supplies and set to work making my dad his own La-La and a get well card.

Those tasks completed, he was a little worried that there wasn't a toy for Papa. So he went through his stuff and picked out one of his superheroes. [Samson already had a Batman figure when he got this other Batman, so he decided this new guy was "Ra," Batman's brother. Full disclosure: In the hierarchy of Sam's superheroes, Ra is pretty much near the bottom. I don't think an act of Congress could have induced Samson to send his Papa The Flash.]

The package was already on its way by the time I got home from work, but Vicki was kind enough to take pictures so I could see what my boy had done. Occasionally words fail me, and this is one of those times.

Suffice to say, young Samson has a very big heart. And I am both humbled and extremely proud.

Preschool of hard knocks

Yesterday was Samson's first day of school. As in years past (see here and here), I tried to get the official first day of school picture.

And as in years past, as you can see, it sort of worked. Samson was insistent that La-La be included in this year's picture. Rather than fight with him on the front step, I figured so be it.

This year, however, we had an interloper: Star, the neighbor's cat, who "gets out" so often that it might as well be an outdoor cat.

Alas, Star has taken to stalking Samson whenever she sees him outside.

At this point I decided I better put the camera down and help defend Samson against all seven pounds of our neighbor's almost stray pet. And off to school we went.

No trouble (and I hadn't expected any) at the drop-off, especially as Sam's buddy Jacob is in his class. In fact, Vicki had to pull him from the playground at the end of the day when she went to pick him up.

I got home excited to hear all about his day, but the face that greeted me at the door had a slight shiner and a cut to the side of the right eye. Samson was chosen to be line leader for the first day of school and was injured in the line of duty. Literally.

Apparently, while leading his class down the ramp and to the stairs he walked into the corner where two hallways meet. I wish I was kidding.

The "incident report" noted that he didn't want ice or a band-aid, and that he cried a bit but was then OK. By the time I got home he seemed to have forgotten all about it.

And so another school year begins...

Hey, nice jerkin

We took the kids to the renaissance festival today. Given the weather of late (more like late September than late August), and the fact that we knew Samson would get a kick out of seeing the jousting, we thought it would be a fun way to spend a Saturday.


Jane, unfortunately, did not sleep on the way there and so only wanted to be held by Vicki. Which was OK for me, but really hard on Vicki, especially as the day warmed up and we attempted to do, well, anything that necessitated Vicki not holding 21 lbs. of cranky, screaming child.



Even so, it was fun. The joust in particular was pretty impressive. I mean, I'm sure the knights have some padding under their armor, but they were hitting each other with lances while speeding on horseback. And I'm pretty sure the horses weren't faking the whole galloping thing.

Of course the thing that makes the renaissance festival so entertaining is the people. And not usually the ones being paid to provide entertainment.

Now, I am not a scholar of the time period, but apparently the renaissance was a time of leather bustiers, affected guys with wispy goatees, and clove cigarettes. I only wish I'd had the presence of mind to surreptitiously record some of the more egregious examples of inappropriate/anachronistic/just plain godawful costumes.

Similar to those folks I see all painted up at sporting events, I've often wished I could see these people pre-game. Like the guy in the soda line dressed, in meticulous detail, like Captain Jack Sparrow. Who is he? Where does he live? Is he sad at the end of the day as he takes off his make-up and transforms back from Captain Jack into Dwayne from the Help Desk?

Pathos

The other day we made one of those super stock-up trips to the supermarket, you know the kind where you need just about everything. With the cart full to overflowing, I took Samson to get the car while Vicki and Jane hung back to finish checking out and planned to meet us in the designated loading zone.

Unsurprisingly, there was a minivan that looked like ours already in the zone. I guess Jane thought Samson and I were in it, however, because when it pulled away, she burst into tears and cried out: "NO! ME! BEEP! BEEP! NOO! MEE! BEEP! BEEP!"

Of course she was both confused and relieved when Sam and I pulled up a moment later. But the tears in her eyes (much less the story, when I heard it) were enough to break my heart.

Sweet Jane is aware of way more than we give her credit for.

The song remains the same

One of the reasons I quit band in high school was because I really didn't like to practice. I also really didn't like carrying a trombone around. And I absolutely hated marching.

Even then I realized the commitment needed to be able to play something well was more than I was willing to give. Also, I couldn't stand hearing the same song over and over and over again.

Apparently, Samson doesn't have that gene. Indeed, his ability to hear the same song on a seemingly endless loop borders on Guantanamo-worthy.

Seriously, I have now heard Vampire Weekend's "Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa" at least six times a day, every day, for about two solid months. He sets up some boxes and bowls in front of the radio, gets out his drum sticks, and plays along.

And when the song is done, he starts it up again. Which tells me he definitely has the patience and dedication to be a real musician. It also tells me we should, for everyone's sake, get him a drumkit for his birthday next month and put said kit in the basement.

In case you think I'm making this whole thing up, see here for independent confirmation.

Sweet Jane at the market

I'm not sure why, but Jane loves eating food out of a bag. This is a shot of her at the farmers' market. She's got a Snickerdoodle in hand and a bag of grape tomatoes at her feet and was alternating between the two.

And while she looks all sweetness and light in this shot, she was a force to be reckoned with if anyone got too close to her food. As her brother found out. Repeatedly.

Gravity and its discontents

Sorry about the long delay between posts. I've been really busy at work, and the school year has started for Vicki, so while I've actually had a few days at home with the kids, I haven't exactly had loads of free time.

Lots to catch up on, but a quick post for now will have to do. Last week, Samson discovered all three of Newton's Laws of Motion. At once.

Put another way: Shorts around your ankles is no way to go down a flight of stairs. Unless you want to get down very quickly. And without walking.

For reasons we still can't quite grasp, Sam came out of the bathroom completely undone and attempted to descend to the first floor this way. It didn't work out very well.

Once Vicki got him calmed down, he took great pains to let her know he didn't drop the drumsticks he was carrying. He mentioned this to me when relating the story too. I'm not sure if this was the silver lining of the otherwise woeful tale, but it seemed to make him feel better about the whole thing. Of course it made me wonder why he brings his drumsticks into the bathroom.

And I did try to point out that he might have used his hands to brace himself instead of doing the bare-bottom luge on our uncarpeted steps, but I'm not sure he believed me.

Just in case you're wondering, that night before bed we had the "we-don't-go-down-the-stairs-with-our-underpants-around-our-ankles" talk.

Dada-ism turns 3

Today marks the third anniversary of this blog, which I started way back when as a project for a digital media class.

As a chronicle of our family's life, it's far from perfect. As a procrastination tool, however, it's nearly flawless (at least for me, and probably for you if you're reading this at work).

In any event, just a quick note to thank you for reading. Much more to come...

Sunday in the park

At a certain point (at least for those of us who like cool, if not cold weather) the summer ceases to be a novelty.

Sure the long days are nice, and I suppose the whole no-school thing is a bonus. But at this time of year, the outdoor fairs and festivals start to peter out, and it's basically too hot to spend a whole lot of time outside anyway.

Still, there's nothing worse than a house full of air-conditioned crazy. Especially when the sport of choice is couch jumping. [Sidenote: I made the mistake of leaving a copy of the punk documentary "American Hardcore" sitting on the coffee table. Samson took one look at this guy and thought it might be fun to try. Luckily, I was not home: Vicki was not amused.]

So on Sunday we visited a park we haven't been to since Samson was a very little guy. Lots of giant recycled tires and other fun things. It didn't disappoint. Despite the fact that the tires in the direct sun were a little hard to climb, owing to their heat-retaining qualities, the kids had a blast.

And, selfishly, it was nice to be able to climb along with them.


Unfortunately --- in our rush to get out the door before someone got hungry, tired, or needed to pee [E.R. docs have a "golden hour"; we've got the golden 15 minutes] --- we forgot to pack a lunch. And so even though nobody was tired or hungry (yet), we needed to leave the park to get some food. Contingent on our leaving without too much wailing and gnashing of teeth, however, was a promise that we'd come back after eating.

Which we did.

Is there anything more fun than a friendly game of baseball on a warm summer day?

By the way, Samson is a total purist and insists, before taking any at-bats, on sitting "in the dugout." He'll then call out his own name and approach the plate, hit his Crocs with the end of the bat, dig in, and announce: "ready for the pitch." I'm not kidding. And Jane is just happy to be wherever her brother is.

At least for a little while.

Maybe summer isn't so bad after all...

19

Sweet Jane is 19 months old today.

I'm not sure what the cut-off is for counting age by months. I'd say 2, but I don't want to jinx myself in the event that Vicki has bought me something nice for two days from now, when I celebrate 434 months...

Tugboat Sammy

On Saturday, we visited the tugboat festival that was sponsored by a local museum. There was actually a nice breeze coming off the harbor, and we were able to go aboard a real, working tugboat, which had made the trip up from Louisiana for the occasion.

Samson is only a fan of loud noises when he is making them [see drums; see also yelling], so the horn on the tug, which every visitor got the chance to blow, was not his favorite thing. In fact, he looked like a little Rainman trying to walk along the topside of the boat with his hands on his ears.

Even so, we got to learn about the boat and what it does and even got a visit to the engine room. In case you're wondering, tugboat enthusiasts are cut from the same cloth as train guys. Which meant that Samson and I were treated to an impromptu seminar concerning maximum rpm, diesel fuel efficiency at over 6 knots, and other things I felt compelled to nod knowingly about but might as well have been discussed in Farsi. [Sidenote: I don't want to stack the deck here, but I'm guessing Samson is not facing a future in engineering. His main concern about the engine room was why there were so many fire extinguishers. And why it smelled like fuel.]

Vicki wisely decided not to take Jane on the boat. For some reason, Jane is convinced she can swim. She all but hurled herself off the dock to join the ducks bobbing in the murky water below us. And if it looks like I'm restraining her below, it's because I am. Samson made a little tug out of paper and Styrofoam, and I think Jane wanted to be the Kraken monster for his test voyage.

There will be blood

Apparently young Samson is prone to getting bloody noses. I say apparently because he's had several in the last few weeks. This is not without precedent, but heretofore it's been related either to nose-picking or winter and the onset of a head cold.

So the summer version has caught us (or at least me) unprepared. Vicki spoke to his doctor, who suggested that he might need some nasal spray to keep his sinuses from getting too dry. This worked for as long as we used it, but sure enough, this morning around 1:30 I could hear him sniffling and starting to cry. The poor little guy was sitting up in bed with a thin red trail leading across his left cheek and down on to his neck. So in we went to the bathroom for the cleanup and to calm him down.

To his credit, Samson takes these episodes with as much aplomb as can be expected from a three-year-old in the middle of the night. I, on the other hand, have been pretty much "scared straight" from pursuing a second career as a cutman.

We called Sam's doctor again this morning, and he recommended using the nasal spray again and referred us to an ENT specialist. Stay tuned...

A new chapter

Samson, with a little help from Vicki, has discovered the joys of "chapter" books.

He has always liked being read to, and both Vicki and I usually tell him a story at bedtime (in addition to reading to him, getting water, checking for monsters, etc.), so this was kind of a natural next step.

Even so, watching his face as Vicki read about the adventures of a brother and sister who discover a magic tree house was priceless.

Clash of the Titans

I should state this up front: When it comes to Jane, I'm kind of a push-over. So last night when she woke up crying at around 9, I went right in to try and settle her down. By 9:45, when it was clear she was playing me (I know because she was laughing and smiling every time I suggested she go "night-night") and had no intention of settling down unless made to, I decided to put her in her crib and flee.

Which set up the showdown. As I've mentioned before, Jane can be pretty stubborn. In fact, in our house there is only one person more stubborn than Jane. Can you guess who it is? [Hint: It's not me or Samson.]

And so it began. Jane started with outright wailing, and Vicki held firm. She quieted for a bit, and I said "well, OK, I guess that's over." Immediately she started in again. This cycle of sturm und drang punctuated with brief periods of quiet went on for at least an hour --- which was long but not a record.

But then she started calling for us. It started with "Mah-MEE, Mah-MEE," and then progressed to "Da-DEE, Da-DEE." Again, Vicki held firm. I, of course, was like this guy, ready to bust in for the rescue. But nothing doing; cooler heads (Vicki's) prevailed, noting, "She's not hurt or sick, she's just really overtired. And if we bring her into our bed, this pattern will only continue." Fair enough.

So the showdown wore on. We were at 90 minutes when Jane switched tactics. She was quiet for a bit and then played the pathetic card. She cried out for Samson. For some reason she calls him "Ta-TOO," and my resolve was sorely tested when we heard from behind her door the plaintive cries of "Ta-TOOOO; Ta-TOOOOO."

I guess that was her plan C, because it wasn't long after that Jane finally gave in and fell asleep. We were at 1 hour and 48 minutes, a new record. She slept in until 8:00 the next morning [for those of you without children, anything past 6:30 is considered "sleeping in"], so clearly she was just overtired.

The following morning she woke up all bright-eyed and cheery and ready for breakfast. I can't be sure about this, but I think I detected a kind of secret nod of admiration from Jane to Vicki, like the grudging admiration Bill "the butcher" shows "Priest" Vallon in Gangs of New York. Whatever it was, it did not make its way to the guys at the table.

Samson and I may need to move to South America for Jane's teenage years...