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