dada-ism

The Gospel according to Saint Veruca

2010-03-07T22:44:00.000-05:00

Last Saturday night was the silent auction fundraiser at the kids' school. It's their main fundraiser and is really a great cause. In the past two years, the school community has raised more than $20,000 --- money that has gone to build a new playground, get the building set with wireless and afford each teacher a laptop, and cover the cost of installing a new intercom and security system in the school.

Needless to say, we're not high rollers [see: college majors; see also: humanities and social sciences], but it is nice to be able to play some role (however small) in helping keep their school the truly wonderful place that it is. And it's nice to have a night out. [Full disclosure: It's also nice to have a beer in the multipurpose room of an Episcopal preschool and actually talk to the people you are usually running past during the morning drop-off.]

So these nights are themed, and this year's theme was 80s night.

Clearly the faculty had fun preparing for the event. Each class made a music video to an 80s tune --- Jane's class did "Safety Dance" and Sam's did "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go." Basically it was a minute and a half of 3- and 5-year-olds, respectively, jumping up and down. The former group wore construction hats and caution tape while the latter were in their PJs. The videos were shown during the event, and it was fun to be able to see my kids completely in their element up there on the big screen.

Anyway, in keeping with the 80s theme, the teachers (more than a few of whom were born in the 80s) were coming in costume. Which meant, I learned only a few days before the event, that we were expected to do likewise.

Being good sports, Vicki and I obliged. Unfortunately, we have no pictures of ourselves because we forgot to bring the camera. [We don't get out on our own that often. We did have wipes and, inexplicably, a change of clothes. Plus a small bag of Pirate Booty.] Anyway, for her tribute to Molly Ringwald and Madonna, Vicki was voted "prom queen" of the evening and given a free copy of the video containing all the videos the classes had recorded. Alas, I did not win any awards for my outfit. Which was ok, but I have to admit I was surprised at how many people mistook my Nancy Reagan for Daniel Dee Snider. Truly the 80s are gone.

All of this, of course, leads me to the point of the story. The part of the evening that gets all the kids in the school excited is the raffle. Each class picks a theme for a basket and every member of the class signs up to bring something in. Jane's class was "fun in the sun," and we got to the sign-up sheet sort of late, so the only item left was sunblock. [Truth be told, I felt like that was a purchase I could make with some authority.]

Sam's class, despite having more girls than boys, put together an "Star Wars/superhero" basket. We contributed two little Star Wars lego sets and spent the next two weeks hearing about which toy Samson would play with first when we won the basket. His optimism was not without some grounding, as last year we won the "sports" basket that his class had put together. Which was fantastic: He woke the morning after the event to find a basket in the living room with lax sticks, roller skates, a basketball, a frisbee, and several other items for play outside.

Try as we could, however, we could not convince young Samson that it was best not to plan on winning again this year as the odds were pretty great against such a repeat. He was unmoved by our logic, and as we walked out the door that night he hugged me and whispered, "I love you. Don't forget to put all your tickets in the Star Wars basket."

And wouldn't you know it: When they called the name for the raffle, we won! So much for my knowledge of probability. We had spent $15 for raffle tickets, and I probably put 8 or 9 in for that basket and the rest in some of the others [we do have two children, you know]. But this was clearly the prize of the night as more than a few parents came up to tell me how jealous they were and how lucky Samson was.

Apparently, the father of one of Sam's classmates had not had the same "count on not winning" talk with his son, as he came over to congratulate me [I was standing holding a giant Rubbermaid tub of Lego, etc.]. We had not met, but I had seen him wandering around all evening, and he had bid on and won at least a third of all the items up for silent auction. I'm guessing the ironic humor inherent in an 80s night escaped him. I'm also guessing he was probably finished with college by the time the 80s happened and so was not quite sure what the big deal was. [Note: I base this last observation on the fact that he was wearing a tweed sportscoat, dress shirt but no tie, and dress pants. Perfect Saturday night out attire for a guy in his 50s. I digress.]

Anyway, he introduced himself, and I noted that our sons had been in class together the year before. We chatted for a minute or two, with him doing most of the talking, and it quickly became apparent that not only was this a guy with a lot of money [anybody who tells you not only what neighborhood they live in but what street they're on is looking to make sure you know he's a big deal], this was also a guy who was very used to getting his own way.

So he finally comes out with it: "I told my son he would get this. I can't go home now." At which point I smiled, and he said, "No, I'm not kidding. I don't know how you won it. I must have put like 90 tickets in that thing. I probably spent more than a hundred dollars on that stupid raffle. He told me not to come home without it."

And that's when it got weird. He began trying to trade all the other stuff he'd gotten for this basket. Vicki, who is much better at this stuff than I am [have I mentioned she's a counselor?], did well in the kind of verbal feinting/conversational redirects that one probably learns to employ when dealing with the insane. But this guy was dead serious. At one point, Vicki suggested we might just get the boys together for a playdate, to which he replied (and I'm still not sure if he was joking): "He'd probably come over and steal it."

Now mind you: The contents of the basket couldn't have amounted to more than $75 worth of toys. Fun stuff, for sure, and the next morning saw Samson not only thrilled but vindicated in his 5-year-old Panglossian worldview. However, it's not like any of the items were one of a kind. We're talking Star Wars Lego for chrissake.

So I went from being happy that Sam had won to being really happy that this guy had lost. Which, in the end, is what an 80s-themed fundraiser at a Christian preschool is all about, right?

Spellbound

2010-03-02T12:49:00.004-05:00

Last night we were playing spelling bee with Sam and Jane. [OK, full disclosure: Vicki was playing spelling bee with them. I was near the bee but at the sink doing the dishes.]

The game is pretty straightforward: Vicki pulls a card with a picture on it from a deck. Each image has a word on the other side identifying what the picture is (car, cat, etc.). The kids take turns identifying what the picture is, and Samson gets to spell the word while Jane tries to use it in a sentence.

So far so good. We made it through "dog," "wig," and "mop" with no problem. Then we got to "fox," which Sam, for some reason, spelled F-U-X. And while I thought it was kind of funny, I managed to keep my inner Beavis in check and focus on loading the dishwasher.

Vicki told Sam he hadn't gotten it right and asked him to sound it out. On the second try, he spelled it correctly. To which Vicki cheerily added: "Very good. The short 'O' sound makes it FOX. If you used a 'U' that would be F______."

I'm not sure what that unit of time is called for the micro-fraction of a second that elapsed between Vicki's "teachable moment" and the realization that she'd just dropped the F-bomb --- albeit phonetically and unintentionally --- during the spelling bee.

I almost bit my tongue in half to keep from laughing. Vicki, the very vision of grace under pressure, channeled her royal (if not actual) namesake, smiled broadly, and continued on to the next word.

Which was "rug."

The sound of (awkward) silence

2010-02-23T14:21:00.002-05:00

Scene: this morning, in the building, on the way to my office. I am running late from having to get blood drawn as a follow-up to a routine check up with my doctor.

Colleague: You look like you're running late this morning.

Me: Yeah, I got held up at LabCorp getting some blood drawn.

Colleague: Is everything ok?

Me: (cheerily) Oh yeah, monthly blood screens were a condition of my federal parole agreement.

Colleague: ____________

Me: (still smiling) I'm just kidding. There was no agreement when I was paroled.

Colleague: ____________

Me: (embarassed) Actually, it was just a cholesterol screening. I'll be fine, thanks.

Colleague: Oh.

Me: I'll, um, see you later.

Geography for the win

2010-02-23T13:16:00.002-05:00

All the pre-K classes in Samson's school have been doing an extended unit on geography and world cultures for the past few weeks. It's a terrific idea: The kids each made passports, and every Wednesday they "travel" to their new destination and then spend a few days learning about the country and its people (what language they speak, what foods they eat, etc). Vicki's mom got Samson an atlas for Christmas, so he's really enjoyed being able to connect the book's content with what he's doing in school.

They started in the western hemisphere and visited Mexico and Brazil. The kids learned some Spanish and Portuguese words, talked about foods, and even had a Carnival parade with Brazilian style masks. So far, so good.

Next on the tour were Australia and Antarctica. Which I thought was a little weird, since only one of those places has full-time residents. But the stuff they learned was still pretty interesting, and visiting Australia gave Sam a chance to bring in my didgeridoo and let the kids hear what it sounds like.

After that, however, came Africa. The whole thing, apparently.

Not Kenya or Morocco, Senegal or Mozambique. Just Africa. So I was already a little skeptical about what they'd be learning. [Sidenote: I should point out that my in-country experiences in Africa total about three weeks in just two countries, so I'm hardly an old Africa hand who could credibly step in and offer some expert guidance. That said, it seems like it would have been fairly easy for the teachers to pick a country and do a quick Google search for a few odds and ends to pass along to their little globe trekkers.]

In any event, Jane's teacher made a special appearance to talk to the kids in the pre-K because in college she had gone on a mission trip with her church to 'Africa' [I never did find out where].

The results of this little guest spot were almost as predictable as they were sad. When Samson came home, I asked him what he learned, and he said: "People don't have shoes in Africa." Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed, and of course, no amount of protesting on my part could convince him that, indeed, quite a few people in the forty-odd nations there, do, in fact, have shoes. [I felt less bad when my next door neighbor --- who is from Ethiopia and with whom I spent a lot of quality time shoveling snow --- told me his four-year-old daughter said she didn't want to visit her grandparents there because of the hyenas.]

Anyway, Sam's class rounded out their world tour with a trip to China in time for the lunar New Year and a quick stop in Canada to begin the Olympics.

Then they got to create their own country. The class was asked to figure out where it would be, draw its shape, and give it a name. I haven't been given details on the first two yet, but the name tells me there was some kind of power struggle between the four boys and five girls in the class.

Ladies and gentlemen: I give you the sovereign nation of SpidermanKingUnicorn. No word yet on the footwear situation of its citizens....

Keyboard confessional

2010-02-17T12:04:00.013-05:00

Some day my son will read this, and I know it will hurt his feelings. And for this, I apologize. But I need to clear my conscience on the matter, if only in the virtual confession box that is this blog. And what better day than Ash Wednesday for this cleansing?

Here goes: I hate Clone Wars.

The whole thing: the first three movies, the resultant cartoon series, and, perhaps most of all, the idea behind it. This may seem harsh (in an uber-nerdy sort of way), but hear me out:

I was five years old when Star Wars came out. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the popcorn and the Naugahyde seats of my parents Buick Skylark, in which I sat, at a drive-in near the Canadian border, watching with wide-eyed wonder. We were on vacation in way upstate New York, staying at a cabin on a lake. I'm sure I caught some fish and roasted some marshmallows, but what I really remember from that week was going to the movies. I hadn't been alive all that long, but what I saw on screen that night was like nothing I'd ever seen in my life. From the terrifying Tusken Raiders to the amazing powers of Jedi knights and their light sabers, I was hooked.

I know it's cool to claim Empire as your favorite from the trilogy --- and that movie certainly has a special place in my heart (not least because I earned the right to go see it by reading the book first). But for me, and I suspect many others, Star Wars was where it began.

Viewed through the cool distance of 30-odd years [I grow old, I grow old; I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled], it's not anything like a good movie. The acting is dreadful and the jokes are beyond corny. But the story, not just what is on screen but what is hinted at, remains powerful, elemental even in its sweep of good versus evil, technology versus spirituality, and other important versus(es).

As a kid I watched that movie with all the attentiveness of a Talmudic scholar, and so when Obi-Wan (still my favorite) made a passing reference to the "clone wars," my mind conjured images of faceless warriors locked in battle across the silent infinity of space. The sheer possibilities in such a phrase. I probably didn't even know what a clone was, but what I took as a hint of blankness was enough to strike a vague terror in me not unlike Ishmael's reckoning of the whiteness of the whale.

I may not have been precise in what I imagined all those years ago, but I can tell you it did not include guys with weird braids who looked Phish roadies, aliens in croptops, and a bunch of Boba Fett/Stormtrooper knock-offs with names that sounded like children's tv hosts and adult film stars. [I'm looking at you Commander Cody and Captain Lex.]

It was bad enough when the prequel movies came out and we got treated to an intergalactic Step'n Fetchit and were told the force was basically just a cool blood condition. Not to mention the actor who played Annakin had less range and fewer facial expressions than the guy who plays Jack on "Lost." [In case you're keeping track: Dr. Shephard has three: eyebrows up with smile; eyebrows down with no smile; squinty eyes with jaw set. Seriously.]

I don't begrudge George Lucas the right to make even more money from this franchise. But I like to think we were doing fine without the back story. It reminds me of a saying (possibly apocryphal) attributed to P.T. Barnum about the spectacles he put on. He said something along the lines of "If the people like one elephant, they'll love 10!" Kind of the whole "more is more" philosophy. But if anything, in this case, more is less. Way less.

Perhaps the most frightening thing about Darth Vader was that he simply appeared, fully formed in all his metallic fury. Knowing what he was like as a kid would have made him infinitely less frightening. If only because it explained him. And who wants their villains explained?

Think about it: If the Coen brothers had flashed you back to Anton Chigurh getting taunted on the playground for looking like Luis from Sesame Street, it might have diminished his apocalyptic menace just a little bit. Some things are best left untold, unseen. Left to our imaginations, however fevered or feeble they may be.

So why am I telling you all this? (assuming you're still with me at this point in the post.) Because Samson --- my boy, my pride and joy and heir to my name, my genes (insufferably recessive and sunburn-inducing though they be), and all my well preserved Star Wars swag --- is smitten with the Clone Wars. And so, of course, is Jane. [Last week Jane walked around the house for a good two hours in a clone trooper mask, pajamas, and ruby red slippers. There are days when our house looks like a cross between Mardi Gras, the Castro, and, well, Star Wars.]

Anyway, we don't let them watch the show as it's rather violent, but Sam has some of the Clone Wars figures, and he also has a few of the little Lego sets. And he just loves them. I mean really and truly loves them.

Loves their cool uniforms, their giant guns, the fact that they all look like Stormtroopers. Basically he loves them because he is five and doesn't carry the ludicrous film-geek baggage his dad lugs Jacob Marley-style through this life.

So for now, I'll play along. I'll nod approvingly as we discuss the awesomeness of battle droids and stifle my inner Beavis when the evil Count Dooku is mentioned.

But someday there will come a reckoning.

Or better yet, by the time Sam is in his 30s, Lucas will have made three more movies (ante-prequels? supersequels?) and Samson will be dealing with the angst inspired by his son's love of whatever variations on the theme are now in use.

The house always wins

2010-02-16T22:04:00.000-05:00

Or at least, it won this time. And by the house, I mean me.

I'll explain. All this snow nearly obscured the fact that two weeks ago was the high holy day of football. Also, advertising.

And because I believe that all small children should be taught to gamble, Samson and I placed a friendly wager on the outcome of the game. He picked the Colts, and I chose the Saints. [Those of you wondering if I gave him points are wildly overestimating my abilities as both a gambler and someone with even a baseline ability to do math.]

At stake was this: Winner gets to choose a "victory" dinner; loser does laundry. Since Samson is always trying to direct the former, and I always do the latter anyway, he figured it was probably a safe bet to take.

He didn't make it past halftime, which was just as well, as I would have had a hard time explaining the deep look of sorrow that I had while watching the Who as dinner theater.

Anyway, the kid has class. When I woke him the next morning and gave him the news, he offered me a high five and congratulated me on winning the bet. And he was totally up for getting on a step stool and throwing in some laundry.

I'm still working on a victory dinner choice. His pick was milkshakes and brownies, which actually sounds kind of awesome, but we may need to sneak a vegetable in there somewhere...

The lemons to lemonade principle

2010-02-10T13:10:00.005-05:00

In case you hadn't heard: It's snowing here in Maryland. Again.

And while the following recipe will do precious little to get rid of the 4 feet of snow that has piled up across the front and back yards, it is pretty delicious. Snow removal, 8 cups at a time.

Snow ice cream

8 cups snow

1 14-oz. can condensed milk

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Mix in bowl; enjoy.

C-5, Miss

2010-02-08T20:43:00.006-05:00

With a bit more time inside than usual [see: snow; see also: lots], we've introduced the kids to a few classic board games. Vicki spent part of yesterday trying to teach Samson how to play checkers, and I introduced both kids to Stratego and Battleship.

For Jane, this meant the two of us taking out the pieces and then putting them back. She particularly enjoyed doing this with the little Stratego guys.

Of course, two years makes a big difference and Sam got the hang of Battleship pretty quickly. He was really excited to be playing a game listed for "Ages 7 to Adult."

The kids' school is closed until Thursday, and we're forecast for another 12-20 inches tomorrow.

By the time this is all done, Sam and Jane might well be chess grand masters.

Trench warfare

2010-02-07T22:12:00.009-05:00

When the storm finally ended late Saturday afternoon, we were looking at a total of somewhere between 25 and 28 inches. And hours and hours of shoveling.

The storm itself was quite something, complete with howling winds and lighting and thunder (!). I have never seen snow fall so fast. At one point, we were picking up two or three inches every hour.

I shoveled our porch and front walk before I went to bed at 11 on Friday night. I was up at 5 on Saturday to handle some storm-related work e-mails. When I went out to shovel, at 6 am, snow had already risen past the front door, and I had to force my way out.

Anyway, now that the storm has passed (although there's another forecast for this Tuesday with an addition 4-6 inches possible), it is time to focus on digging out. We have on-street parking, which is realtor-speak for "no driveway." So a storm like this really puts the screws to us. Between the plows (which were good) and the drifts (which were better), we had snow more than halfway up both cars and easily three feet of snow between the driver's side and the street.

Long story short: I will probably be shoveling in my dreams tonight after freeing both cars. The kids, however, had a blast. As you can see. And in the end, this is what they will remember. As well they should.

I am sure my folks spent hours digging us out of the blizzard of '78. But I have no recollection of that. What I do remember is the intense quiet that settled over everything. And how all that snow seemed kind of magic, like the normal rules had been suspended for a while. This may have been due to my neighbors, two bigger kids named Anthony and Andrew who added to the drifts and built a ramp of snow up to their garage roof and launched their sleds from it.

That last picture above is Sam standing on our holly bushes, completely help up by the snow. Maybe it's a good thing we don't have a garage. (Although after six plus hours of shoveling today, I'd definitely take a driveway.)

Two feet high and rising

2010-02-06T06:16:00.000-05:00

Or, for those of you who speak text: snOMG!

It's been snowing now for about 15 hours, and we've probably got about two feet on the ground, with drifts rising several inches above that. This may be the first storm that has actually lived up to its pre-precip hype. I'll have pictures later (if I can convince Sam and Jane to leave the house).

Stay warm, everyone.

Recommended viewing

2010-02-05T15:06:00.000-05:00

I don't get to the movies often, and so I'm more than three years behind the curve on this one, but it's a compelling and, ultimately pretty haunting film.

I'd read about the race in a book not long ago and just happened to find the movie available on Netflix. I think what I found so interesting is how ordinary the protagonist seemed. Thirty-five years old, four kids, pretty regular life in late-60s England. And yet there was something wanting for him, and so he went to sea.

As I watched it, I was reminded of one of my favorite lines from Moby Dick when Ishmael describes what happens to one of the crew (Pip) who jumps from a whale boat fast to a whale and is left behind: "in calm weather, to swim in the open ocean is as easy to the practised swimmer as to ride in a spring-carriage ashore. But the awful lonesomeness is intolerable. The intense concentration of self in the middle of such a heartless immensity, my God! who can tell it?"

Milestone

2010-01-31T22:19:00.000-05:00

First words, first step, first spray of milk through the nose.

Tonight was a milestone night in our house. Jane made Samson laugh so hard that milk came out his nose. I was reminded of all the times I did that to my sister, and it made me glad to see the tradition carrying on.

I have to say, however, that I was surprised that Jane was the instigator and not the recipient. Although, to be fair, what she lacks in vocabulary (she is only three), she makes up for in comedic timing. Sam had just taken a bite of cookie and some milk, and Jane looked him dead in the eye and said, in her sweet little voice: "poopie." Gets him every time.

Snow

2010-01-31T21:59:00.000-05:00

The forecast called for just a dusting, but by the time the snow stopped falling on Saturday night we had about six or seven inches on the ground. Which meant that Sunday, which bloomed cold but sunny, was perfect for getting out into the backyard and building a snow fort.

What we actually built was more like a snow wall that looked like it had been through the siege of Sarajevo. If career predilections/abilities are inherited, my two are in no danger of becoming architects or engineers.

Still, we had lots of fun throwing snow around and keeping Jane from unleashing her inner Godzilla on our sad little snow structure.

Concerning the issue of who exactly is the rapper and who is the dj

2010-01-26T21:04:00.001-05:00

The jury is still out actually.

The one and only thing Samson asked Santa for this year was a dj keyboard. The man in red delivered, and our house has since been turned into a kind of beat factory.

Seriously, for a kid's toy, it is pretty impressive. It comes with dozens of beats, loops, and preset songs, as well as a mini recording device, headphones, and a microphone.

Hours (and I do mean hours) of entertainment.

Space issues

2010-01-26T20:42:00.001-05:00

I have written before on my name theory, and the new boy in Sam's class is doing his best to confirm it. It all started at the beginning of the school year, when we were introduced to K. [Because it's a small school, and because it combines actual school, i.e., instruction, with daycare, there tends to be low turnover and a pretty long waiting list. Not to mention the whole "legacy" thing: There are at least a half dozen kids in Jane's class who are the younger siblings of kids in Samson's.]

Anyway, K is new to the school. During orientation I met his mom, who encouraged the boys to talk about about what they'd done that summer as a way of getting acquainted. Samson mentioned his trips to see family in New York and Connecticut, and he talked about how much fun he had going to the beach. K's family had also gone to the beach (somewhere in Georgia maybe?) for a family vacation at some resort. The highlight of this, according to K, was "shooting guns." Which I assumed meant at some kind of amusement park arcade. Nope. Real guns. At a range. K is four. I'm pretty sure even the Al Qaeda webelos wait until five for target practice.

[Now I should state right here that I'm cool with the second amendment. I don't own a gun but don't begrudge anyone the legal right. And while I think maybe a few laws could be strengthened [do you really need hollow-tipped bullets to hunt turkeys?], I am not someone who is anti-gun. Indeed, I'm in line with Flannery O'Connor on the utility of shooting people (or at least threatening to) to get them to mind their manners. I digress. As usual.]

So whatever. This is his family, and as long as he doesn't bring a gun to school, it's really none of my business. What is my business is his inability to stay out of my children's faces. Literally. And not in a mean, bullying way, but in a really, really excited-to-see-you sort of way. Sort of like an Irish setter. But without all the self-control.

Samson just sort of freezes. I think if he could, he'd fake death just to get the kid to leave him alone. Again, it's not a mean thing, it's just, well, a lot to handle at the start of the day. Imagine if you showed up to the office and a coworker whom you were friendly toward but not friends with was all of a sudden close enough for you to count his pores and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he'd had hazelnut coffee with breakfast. I usually try to stay out of it (it's good for Samson to figure this stuff out on his own), but it has become a staple of his morning drop-off. Arrive, take off coat, get barnacled.

With Jane, however, I can't stand idly by. For one, because she's my little girl. And while I realize it isn't very Free-To-Be-You-and-Me of me to say so, I'm being honest. Mostly, though, it's because K isn't content simply to be in her face, but he feels compelled to put his hands on her face. Which she is not a fan of. In fact, she confided to me one day that she didn't like it because she thought he might rub her freckles off. I told her he might just and that she should hit him square in the nose the next time he touched her.

OK, I didn't really tell her that, but I probably should have. For now, I'm just keeping a close eye on the lone gunman. Stay tuned...

Bisquick(er)

2010-01-23T23:08:00.000-05:00

If you tell Jane you're making pancakes, you'd better be at the griddle.

Because she's not fooling around about breakfast. And she will just go to the box looking for the cakes she expects to find inside.

Failing that, she'll just eat the mix.

For real.

Airplane(s)!

2010-01-23T22:45:00.000-05:00

Today was build your own Lego aircraft day at the aviation museum down in College Park. It's a great little museum --- right next to a working airport, ridiculously reasonable, and almost entirely hands-on.

It was also packed today because of the aforementioned Lego festival. And by festival I mean half a dozen bins of lego pieces, a few sets of instructions, and more socially awkward middle schoolers than a spelling bee between the Mathletes and the student council.

We've been there two or three times before, but only in summer and usually during the week. Which means that in the past we've had the place to ourselves. Today the place was besieged by brick-building hordes and air/space enthusiasts. And one Abraham Lincoln impersonator. In street clothes. I recongized him as he'd spoken at a staff retreat I attended a few years ago in Gettysburg. [It's a long story, but even if I'd never seen him before I would have guessed his hobby. He really looks like Lincoln, even in a sweatshirt and jeans. I digress.]

Despite the crowds, the kids had fun checking out the different exhibits, and of course, Samson is all for anything that lets him dress up in clothes worn by thousands of other kids before him.

As for the building activities...that went as well as could be expected. Actually, I can't honestly report on how Samson's endeavors went. I took the easy way out and went with Jane over to the little kid area. She and I had a great time building towers on wheels and making patterns with the different colored bricks. [Sidebar: Duplo blocks are totally my speed when it comes to Lego and building. Even when I was a kid, I had little interest in spending hours following directions and diagrams. And no amount of marketing was going to convince me that such activities were "play." Vicki, on the other hand, has read all the owner's manuals we have ever received and was right there with Sam to help him build his miniature Apache gunship (and to keep the bigger kids from taking the pieces he needed to complete it).]

And although the kit was missing a piece, and the pilot wouldn't sit right, he rallied (eventually) and was able to spend some quality time virtually crashing planes for the old Aeropostale.

Really, what more could you ask of a Saturday afternoon in January?

Belated

2010-01-23T21:59:00.000-05:00

Because I've only started blogging again, I missed being able to post a shot of Jane from her birthday a few weeks back. I still can't believe she's already three. Cliche though it is, it seems like only yesterday that she arrived.

Happy belated birthday Sweet Jane (although only on the blog; it's not like I'm three weeks late with presents or anything).

Transcript

2010-01-19T10:15:00.002-05:00

The following are pieces of conversations I've had in the last month or two. I realize that hearing the "darnedest" thing that somebody else's kid said is the aural equivalent of being forced to watch vacation slides, so you are duly forewarned...

In the grocery store:

Samson (pointing to a bag of Doritos): Can we get those?

Me: No. They make your hands turn orange.

Samson: I know. That's why I like them. I love orange.

At home:

Samson: Did they have bathrooms on the Death Star?

Me: I don't know. I mean, I guess so.

Samson: It would be weird to walk into the bathroom and see Darth Vader peeing.

Me: [silence]

In the car:

Jane: STOP!

Me: What's the matter?

Jane: The sun is bothering me.

Me: Is the sun in your eyes? Turn your head.

Jane: No. The sun keeps looking at me.

Nevermore (at least until next year)

2010-01-18T09:42:00.000-05:00

As a treat, on Saturday night Samson got to stay up late and watch his hometown team get their collective head handed to them by the Colts. In truth, he didn't make it past halftime. Also, he was more excited at having wings and celery (mostly celery) and getting in on something his sister was missing than the "big game."

Which is just as well. In explaining the post-season to him, I boiled it down to "the team that wins keeps playing, and the team that loses goes home." So Sunday morning, when I informed him that the Ravens lost, he said: "That's ok. Now they can be with their families."

I'm glad he's a silver lining kind of kid. [He's going to need it when baseball season starts.]

The wages of sloth

2010-01-15T15:06:00.007-05:00

My good friend Jen over at Clever Title TK was kind enough to give me a year-end prod about getting back to blogging. I stopped, without truly meaning to, toward the end of the summer as Vicki was headed back to work, Jane was starting school for the first time, Sam was starting school full-time, and I was getting into the core of training for the marathon. So I'm not saying I have an excuse for these many months of silence, but...

In any event, I'm back. Mostly because I'm afraid of Jen. Not really. (But a little.)

If this were a family sitcom --- especially one from my childhood --- four months away would have been enough of a time lapse to have Samson now in college (but still living at home), Jane in middle school, and introduce a new member of the family (like the late season additions of Jeremy to the Bradfords or Luke to the Seavers). Before my mother-in-law reads this and thinks I'm sending a coded message that Vicki is pregnant, let me say this: We are not having a baby. Also, we have not adopted Leonardo DiCaprio. Sorry Vicki.

Still, four months is a fair amount of time. And while it would be tedious (for me as well as you, dear reader) to go through the litany of what happened since the end of the summer, I think I can best sum it up in the following formats: movie trailer, haiku, interpretive dance, and tweet.

September

[Scene opens on the second floor of our house, camera goes from room to room; toys are strewn about and children are sleeping soundly. Suddenly, a curtain opens and daylight fills the room. Sam sits up, blinking, then buries his head back into the pillow.] Voiceover begins: In a world... where mom's out of the house by 6:15 a.m., where beds don't make themselves and kids have a sense of time that borders on the Aboriginal, one man stands between order and chaos. [Jump cut to me, Matrix-style, serving up waffles; fixing Jane's ponytails, and diving through the air with a toothbrush in each hand toward Samson and Jane.] Coming this fall: "Weekday Mornings at My House."

October

Oh, did I mention?

I ran 26.2

Miles (in a row!)

[And yes, that is a gratuitous shot of me post-marathon. Despite the fact that the race was in October, I'm milking it for all it's worth.]

November

Sorry, I couldn't get the video link to work. Trust me, it's better this way.

December

@dada-ism: Looking back on this year and the decade. Lots to be thankful for (Vicki, Sam, Jane, sandwiches). Here's to 2010 and beyond.

Crossing the Rubicon

2009-08-25T15:39:00.000-04:00

Vicki started back to work yesterday. This is not her first time back, obviously, but she hasn't worked full-time since Samson was born, nearly five(!) years ago. Which means that our schedules will begin a grand, if somewhat gradual, readjustment over the next several days. Earlier to bed, and much, much earlier to rise.

The kids (plural) start school next week, so Vicki's mom has graciously offered to help out with both Samson and Jane a few days this week, and I'll be taking two days this week and one day next to make sure we're covered. Truly summer's almost gone.

But there's something exciting and hopeful about all of this. And I don't just mean the second full paycheck coming in (although that really will be nice). But it's like our little family has reached a kind of milestone. Starting Monday, Sam and Jane will go to school together three days a week.

Jane has already starting referring to "my school," which Samson --- ever the Martinet --- never fails to correct her on, as he doesn't think it's her school until she actually attends. [He's apparently a real stickler for matriculation.]

Still, we're ready with supplies (how many glue sticks can one child possibly need?) and lunch bags and crib sheets and spare clothes and all the other things one can possibly fit into a 3-foot high by 18-inch-wide cubby.

So there's no true point to this post other than to mark the passage of time, the impending fall ritual that we are all now part of , and to wonder --- albeit in a not very original way --- where all the time has gone. Not just the summer, which is always fleeting, but the years. How is it possible that sweet Jane is ready for school? And when did Samson become a "big kid"? I can still clearly remember his first day in this brave new preschool world.

The godson of soul?

2009-08-22T17:10:00.004-04:00

I don't know that there's anything I could really add to this. Samson has discovered James Brown (and also, apparently, his bad self).

American idyll

2009-08-10T12:49:00.012-04:00

Admittedly, I have not been good at keeping this site up lately. Heck, I even missed my own bloggiversary (4 years on August 8). It's not like there's nothing going on these days. To the contrary, there's too much going on. I am training for my first marathon, so that is taking up some time.

Of course, longer summer days means later nights, and by the time the stories have been read, the backs rubbed, the cups of water gotten or refused, I'm kind of worn out. And to be honest, it seems silly to hustle the kids off to bed early so I can sit in the warm glow of my laptop and write about them.

So I make no promises as to regularity moving forward, but I'm not ready to call it a day with this blog just yet. I guess I would just ask that you stay tuned...

Here are some pictures of the most perfect night we've had this summer. I was just about to start a week off from work, and the movie Wall-E was showing on campus. We had no idea if the kids would even last until the movie started much less make it to the end. But it was one of those nights when the stars just seemed to align.

Samson and Jane were amazing; the night turned chilly enough to require sweatshirts (always a bonus in July); and we got to watch the whole movie under a beautiful, clear summer sky while munching on popcorn and enjoying the breeze. And not only was the movie free, but they had a guy there doing balloon animals and flowers (also balloon light sabers, but only by request).

Seriously, what more could you ask for?

Sam crosses the wine-dark sea

2009-07-24T10:02:00.004-04:00

Because Samson loves to hear stories at bedtime, and because I love to tell them but am not always at the ready with a new one, he's gotten some exposure to a few of the classics (like Beowulf, Sir Gawain, Icarus and Daedalus).

I usually switch him in for the protagonist. So he'll either feel totally prepared or unbelievably cheated when he hits that first Western Lit class and realizes how many of his bedtime stories were plagiarized. [Actually, he already knows because our local library has a great collection of kids-adapted versions of these stories, which we also read.]

Anyway, of late Samson is obsessed with the story of Odysseus. [Tip of the hat to my friend Rebecca for putting me wise to this clip.]

This came about innocently enough. Vicki was trying to get some painting done in the basement and found a late 90s kids movie called "The Trojan Horse" on our cable system. It's exactly what you'd expect from the time and genre: Bad jokes, fluffy hair, and more precocity than you can shake a stick at. But it presents the story in a way that's exciting and has been edited enough to keep it from being too violent while still keeping the story moving. And despite it's cheese factor, it's still a far cry from the dreck of movies like Cars, which insist on salting the dialogue with "grown-up" jokes to keep the adults interested.

[Note to the Disney executives: You've already rigged it so I have to watch the movie; don't do me any favors by trying to make it funny for me. You'll fail, and it will feel longer than it already does. Just get it over with quickly and go on with peddling your merchandise tie-ins. I digress.]

Anyway, this Trojan Horse movie has it all. Swords and spears, archers, a giant wooden horse, even a musical number (which, and he's watched it at least a dozen times now, Sam always asks to fast-forward through). Seriously, and I know this about my son, when he likes something he really likes it. So we're in the basement watching it and he's studying the thing like it's the Zapruder film. Afterwards he's out in the yard or running around the house fighting Trojans, battling a Cyclopes, etc.

Which can be dicey --- luckily, Jane has excellent reflexes --- but I love that he's connecting with this story that's thousands of years old. And his enthusiasm inspired me to re-read The Odyssey, something I hadn't done since I had to teach it years ago to a group of decidedly unenthusiastic first-year engineering students fulfilling their humanities requirement.

Not to mention that this new found fascinating with all things Hellenic has afforded us some leverage with day to day stuff. Like most boys, he's not big on washing his hands before eating or after using the bathroom, but since I've told him that the Greeks were big on cleanliness, he's scrubbing in like a surgeon. Likewise, at dinner we've talked about how the Greek soldiers always ate everything on their plate (especially when camped for 10 years outside Troy), so he's been a champ at the table.

Thanks Homer!

Unplugged

2009-07-22T23:02:00.000-04:00

So it's been a while, and while normally I'd make some attempt at apologizing, it's actually been nice to be disconnected for a bit. I took last week off from work and had a great week home. We took a few day trips and actually got a couple of things done around the house.

I have lots of photos to post and a few stories to tell, but I was determined that I would refrain from logging on at all (for work e-mails, personal e-mails, Facebook, etc) while I was off. It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be (which probably says something about my work ethic), and I kind of enjoyed not being in the loop for a while. I'm not saying that I'll be shopping for abandoned buses in the Alaskan outback anytime soon, but it really was nice --- for a little while --- to be able to view the laptop as just another appliance and to turn off my BlackBerry without worrying that I might miss something. [Of course, I did miss something, but it all got sorted out in the end. And it's not like I'm a surgeon for crying out loud.]

Anyway, some good stuff to catch up on, including Jane's newfound interest in using the toilet and Samson's complete obsession with the story of Odysseus. More on both later, but right now it's off to bed for me. I've decided, for reasons I still can't fully explain, that I'm going to run a marathon in October. So three weekday mornings and Saturdays I am up at 6 to do my running. Good times. Actually, I'm really enjoying it.

Jane on the other hand? Not so much. I thought I was out the door undetected this morning, but Vicki said right after I left Jane was at our bedroom window [she is still coming into our bed in the middle of the night] and said "Daddy! He's running away from me!" My poor sweet Jane...

Fourth of July

2009-07-05T22:17:00.003-04:00

We had a barbeque to attend in the evening but decided to spend the early part of the day at Ft. McHenry, a local attraction and the scene of the battle with the British during the War of 1812 that inspired Francis Scott Key to write what would become our national anthem.

One of the coolest things about the fort, in addition to the cannons they fire, is the fact that they have a replica of the original star-spangled banner (30 feet x42 feet) and enlist (no pun intended) vistors in helping them unfurl it. Sam and I were picked to help for the morning display, and it was pretty neat to listen to the park ranger tell us the story of the Battle of Baltimore, how 1,000 men fought off an attack from British naval ships lobbing 200-lb bombs at them for 25 hours. The citizens of Baltimore, fearful that the British would burn the city the way they had Washington, DC, were looking to the fort for a sign of hope. The sight of the flag still flying let them know the fort had not surrendered and the city --- at least for the time being --- was safe.

I admit I'm something of a history buff (not on the order of the fanny-packed, reenactor groupie who almost ran Jane over to get nearer to the munitions exhibit, but I love learning about how people used to live). And I love the connection visiting a place like Fort McHenry can foster, particularly on a day like Independence Day. Yes, I know the 4th is about burgers and beer and not very bright teenagers losing digits. But I want my kids to know it's also a very important part of their nation's complicated, imperfect, and fascinating history.

At noon, the rangers asked all the visitors to gather for another unfurling of the flag and a singing of the national anthem. We stood up on one of the grassy ramparts that allowed us to look out to the bay or in to the fort. Two gigantic flags were unfurled, and the master of ceremonies led us all in singing the national anthem. Now I don't sing much in public. Not even in church. Not even when the priest (or worse yet, my mother) looks at me like "hey man, what's the problem?" But I sang. And it was really something to see all these people gathered and to hear them singing together.

When it was over, the most amazing thing happened. Out of nowhere, a guy in the crowd started singing the second verse. This was amazing to me for two reasons. First, because I had no idea there was a second verse. So that was nice to learn. But there this guy stood, unabashed and not looking for praise or attention, just somehow moved to sing there in this place where people had fought hard, not for a flag but for an idea and a way of life that may not even have been available to some of them. The guy was probably in his sixties, wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt that read NAVY on it. The look on the man's face reminded me of Norman Rockwell's Freedom of Speech painting. Completely unselfconscious and right there in the moment.

As I stood there, holding Samson's hand and watching this man, I thought of the men in that fort during the battle. How they must have been afraid and exhausted. Victory certainly wasn't guaranteed, but they fought because they believed in their country. I thought of my dad, who spent the end of his teenage years in the navy in the Pacific theater of World War II. I thought of my brother-in-law, who is serving in Iraq right now, away from his wife and baby daughter.

And I was profoundly grateful for them and for people like them. Not because they are heroes (although they may be). And not because they are perfect (they are not). But because they serve. And they sacrifice. And in so doing, in a very real way, they stake their lives on the very promise articulated with the sentence that begins "We hold these truths to be self-evident..."

Spanish-language optometry?

2009-07-04T21:21:00.004-04:00

No matter how many times we correct him, I still find it hilarious that Samson thinks the Star-Spangled Banner's first line is "O Jose, can you see?"

Happy Independence Day everyone!

Game on!

2009-06-30T10:00:00.001-04:00

Thanks Uncle Tim! Vicki's uncle (and Sam's great-uncle) Tim treated us to an O's vs. Nats game on Friday night at the Yard. For good measure, Papi, Samson's grandpa, was also with us. That smile you see on Sam's face was there the whole night.

The night was humid, and for a while it looked like we might be treated to a spectacular thunderstorm. But the rain held off, the Orioles prevailed (11-1 over the Nationals), and it was a great night.

And although Samson didn't make it through the whole game, he went eight strong innings (better than the starters for either team).

Some things I learned at the ballpark:

1. 24 ounces of Gatorade plus Samson equals a trip the restroom every inning. The price of proper hydration, I guess.

2. Eating peanuts and dropping the shells on the floor never gets old. Seriously, I think I was as excited about it as he was.

3. Apparently I am doomed to be seated next to incredibly scrupulous ticket-holders. This was not a sold-out game (surprise, surprise), but for some reason, the large man to my right (in full Nats gear, no less) never moved even a seat away to take advantage of the four empty ones directly to his right. Seriously, he got up to get food more than once and came back right next to me each time. [I had a similar experience on a flight to Kenya years ago. I had the end seat of a five-seat row, and there was a guy on the other end. Our third row-mate arrived and sat in his assigned seat, right next to me. Fair enough, but once the plane was in the air and we could be certain no latecomers were going to materialize, I suggested to him he might move to the middle so we'd all have some space. To which he replied "no" and then went to sleep. Good times.]

4. Samson is not totally clear on girls versus boys. As we drove toward the parking lot, we passed two 20-something blond girls in player jerseys and denim micro minis. We could see only their backs, but Samson wanted to know if we'd be seeing them on the field. I told him I was pretty sure we wouldn't.

5. The whole crowd dancing thing escapes my son (as it does me, if I'm being honest). When people got up to dance to the YMCA, Samson looked at me and said, with a serious-bordering-on-concerned look on his face, "Why are they doing that?" To which I gave the most honest answer I could: "Sammy, I don't know."

6. Although he has yet to crack 40 lbs, Samson when asleep is serious dead weight. He fell asleep on my shoulder as we walked to the car, parked about a mile away in the lot next to Ravens Stadium, and I walked the whole way with a smile that probably looked a lot like his.

Life skills

2009-06-29T11:39:00.000-04:00

There were lots of things I hoped to learn to do when I became a father. And I'll be honest, starting off with a boy was kind of a soft landing as I'd already been a little boy and so could figure most of that stuff out. This is not to say there weren't any surprises, but Jane's arrival two and half year ago (!) opened up a whole new world.

One of the best things I've learned is how to do Jane's hair. This was borne as much out of necessity as anything, because without tails (pony or pig) Jane looks like 1970 Ozzy.

Our mornings now have a little ritual built in, where Jane will say "Can I have a ponytail?" and I'll go get the little rubber bands (we have millions of them) from their box on her dresser and let the day begin.

I've been getting more ambitious lately and going for the pigtails option. You'd think this would simply be twice as much work. You'd be wrong. Still, most mornings I get it right and feel confident that she won't get asked "Is Mommy out of town?" by strangers when we're in the supermarket.

In the fall, Vicki goes back to work full time, which means that I'll soon be on tap for getting both kids up, dressed, fed, and out the door. Mind you, the space between "fed" and "out the door" is the trickiest time as it involves the washing of faces, the brushing of teeth, the combing of hair, and invariable wardbrode changes. Lately Samson is obsessed with wearing only shirts and shorts that are the same color and tucking in his shirt in a way that would make Steve Urkel wince. And Jane is developing her own, er, look, which involves a layer or two of pajamas and whatever else is handy.

Nothing I can't handle, mind you, but come the fall I think I'll need to be pretty specific on the "you'll-wear-what-I've-put-out-for-you" front...

Gratuitous Sam and Jane pics, beach edition

2009-06-25T10:00:00.006-04:00

Whistle a happy tune

2009-06-25T09:16:00.002-04:00

I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but Samson can whistle.

And when I say he can whistle, I don't mean in just the occasional serendipitous note-producing way. That's how it started, of course. But over time he has kept at it, and so his whistling is now more like when Woodstock channels Madame Butterfly or the marching scene with the guys in Bridge on the River Kwai.

One the one hand, we always know where he is in the house. Unfortunately, he seems to have inherited my predisposition for ohrwurm, which I find hilarious and Vicki finds less than endearing.

In any event, for the longest time (and I'm talking years), I had a piece of a song that would intermittently pop into my head. It came out when I was in junior high, and while I knew the band, I couldn't locate the track. Of course, the magic of iTunes changed all that, and as soon as I found it, I downloaded it.

I then shared it with Vicki to prove to her that I was not imagining the song's existence. [If not for Wikipedia I would never have convinced her that Barbapapa was real; another one of those things from childhood that I couldn't find/prove existed until the Internet. Thanks Al Gore!]

Anyway, the keyboard part [the video below is not much of a video, but it's the best way I know of to share music via this site] is really catchy and is what was stuck in my head. It is now stuck in Sam's, and he happily whistles it around the house. All. Day. Long.

It's actually a really good song. Not on 24-hour repeat, mind you. But still...

Enjoy.

Fever (real and dance varieties)

2009-06-15T10:44:00.007-04:00

We had plans to go to visit friends in Virginia for a pool party on Saturday.

And by "plans" I mean we had bags packed --- new beach towels, new bathing suits for the kids, a fresh thing of sunblock [we buy in bulk, as you can imagine if you've see our family] --- and were ready to head out the door. But Jane seemed a bit listless when she got up from her nap and just wasn't interested in doing much beyond being held.

A quick scan with the thermometer revealed she was at 101. Not critical, but certainly not pool-friendly either. [Sidenote: It's nice to have Fahrenheit readings back; at some point last year one of us hit some hidden button and we were only getting Celsius temperatures. Having a child with a fever is stressful enough without also having to do math.]

Anyway, we called and canceled, which Samson took about as well as you'd expect.

After a dose of Children's Motrin and another nap, Jane perked up a bit. Our dinner plans now scuttled, we decided to go grab some ribs at a local barbecue joint. Some things I learned:

1. Samson will not eat ribs with his fingers. He will, however, eat coleslaw with them.
2. My children do not like corn bread. At all.
3. Apparently soul (blue-eyed and otherwise) and R&B make Samson want to dance.

This last point fascinates me because Samson has never been a particularly dancy kind of kid.

Lots of people have home movies of their kids grooving away, completely unaware that they are being surveilled. Sam is more of a head nodder. But for some reason, a succession of songs by James Brown, Aretha Franklin, and Hall & Oates (?!) flipped some inner switch. The last song, in his defense, was "She's Gone," so it's not like he was wiggling around to "Private Eyes" or something.

Anyway --- and I say this often, but I really wish I had video of this --- Samson was just completely oblivious to the fact that we were watching him. We were outside the restaurant at a picnic table, and he just got down. Sort like a combination of David Byrne, Rerun, and Grover. It was magic. He ate almost none of his dinner (except the aforementioned cole slaw), but he was having a blast.

Unfortunately, Jane crashed. We hadn't been out for more than 30 minutes when she just shut down. Her whole body was hot. And not warm-let's-run-a-tepid-bath, but hot. The kind of hot that a laptop gets on the underside. Just before it catches fire.

We quickly decamped for home, where we checked her temperature again and saw she was now running 103.

My first thought was "Oh God, she's got West Nile virus." Vicki's first thought was "She needs more Motrin and probably a cool bath and some rest." We met in the middle with a call to the doctor and spent the night keeping tabs on her.

According to our pediatrician, there is some weird virus going around that causes kids to have this fever spike. It lasts a day or two and is then gone. It's cliche, but I think just about any parent would rather be sick than watch their child in pain.

And while this was a relatively quick episode [she was laid low all day Sunday too], it struck me how blessed we've been that both Sam and Jane have been generally healthy. It's easy to get caught up in the daily craziness (who put this diaper in the washing machine? why are you wearing a snowsuit?), but sitting by Jane's bed and watching her as she slept put things in perspective.

Anyway, I'm not trying to get all afterschool special on you. Jane woke this morning feeling much better. I think she's trying to make up for having taken the weekend off because Samson was bothering her by getting in her face and she hit him square in the nose.

As we were scolding her, I could see the wheels turning in her head as she contemplated pretending to still be sick. Our Jane is back.

Four out of five dentists...

2009-06-11T12:35:00.004-04:00

Are not as cool as the one my kids go to.

Samson and Jane had a dentist's appointment today. And despite some initial fear (from Sam) and loathing (from both), I think they had a pretty good time. The dentist only works with kids and gives out all sorts of goodies and even offers rides in the chair. Good times in proper oral hygiene.

I won't get to hear all about their adventures until dinner tonight, but thanks to Vicki and her handy camera phone, I got at least a glimpse of how things went.

I don't think I've ever seen such nonchalance in "the chair" before. It's certainly not how I roll...

The kindness of strangers

2009-06-09T11:57:00.003-04:00

For my birthday, Vicki got us tickets to see the York Revolution play. The team is an independent league team, and the stadium is only a year or two old. Like many minor league parks, the atmosphere is really festive. Lots of silly contests and promotions, which is great for keeping the kids at least sort of interested. When all else fails, there's also a carousel.

Perhaps my favorite promotion was the Velcro wall home run challenge, where one fan agrees to be velcroed to a wall outside the right field fence in the hopes that a ball is hit his way. If he catches it, he gets $5,000.

The coolest thing that didn't involve fabric adhesive was the pre-game catch on the field. Fans are invited into center field to have a catch for 20 minutes or so before the game starts. It was, as you can imagine, pretty awesome. Bright sun, super-springy grass, and Sam throwing heat.

Our seats were right on the left field foul line halfway between third base and the outfield. In any park, that's a pretty good seat. In this one, we were just a row behind the guys in the "bullpen." We were also on the alert for any foul balls slicing our way. [Indeed, I spent a good portion of the game intently watching each pitch for fear of being inattentive and having Jane be forever tattooed (literally and figuratively) as "Janie Foul Ball."]

The opposing team, the Long Island Ducks, were warming up as we took our seats, and so the starting pitcher and catcher were just on the other side of the fence from us. Sam was watching them pretty intently and was impressed by the sound of the pop each time the ball hit the catcher's mitt.

He watched for about five or 10 minutes, only turning his attention when Vicki (and the food) arrived. As he was facing away from the field, the pitcher and catcher finished warming up, and the catcher walked over to our seats, reached through the fence and tapped Samson on the shoulder to give him the ball.

I wish I had a photograph of the look on Sam's face. I have to imagine that ballplayers recognize themselves in young, wide-eyed kids at the ballpark. But I also have to imagine that given the length of the season, the wear and tear on your body, the annoying fans [we had one in our seats when we arrived hectoring the players for autographs], and the prospect that you might never make the big leagues, could turn you a little, well, pessimistic. Or at the very least it could make you aloof since it's really just another day at the office, so to speak.

I don't know anything more about John Pachot than what's stated in his team bio, but I can tell you that his singular act of kindness not only made my son's day, but it made mine as well.

Samson and Jane

2009-06-08T23:56:00.000-04:00

I'll write about this later, but here's a shot from our trip to a local nature center/preserve. Something about the symmetry of my two moving up the big grassy hill just struck me.

The (pretty) good earth

2009-06-08T23:46:00.003-04:00

With all the rain we've had lately, I was starting to wonder if we'd ever get the chance to go strawberry picking or if we should look for some terraced rice paddies and offer to help.

This trip has become something of an annual ritual for our little family, and it's something I really look forward to. I have such fond memories of our first trip with Samson, who seemed to cotton to it right away.

Jane still seems unsure about the whole farm-labor-as-family-outing thing, but the kids definitely enjoyed being able to eat as they went.

And they really liked being able to eat and not having to work for it.

The crop this year was not overly abundant, so there was a little more work involved than usual, but we left with more than five pounds of fresh strawberries and made a terrific (and easy to prepare) salad. The recipe, adapted from one I found at epicurious, calls for the following:

3C sliced, hulled strawberries

3 navel oranges, peeled and sliced [you want these to be about the same size as the strawberry pieces]

1T brown sugar [it calls for more, but you won't need it]

2T finely chopped mint leaves

You mix everything together in a bowl and you're ready to go. It suggests letting it stand for 30 minutes before serving, but I'm never on the ball enough to have an extra half hour before meal time. In any event, it's delicious and really light.

I didn't make jam this year, but if we can get our act together and get out once more, I may still try. See here for an easy recipe for that too.

Overdue

2009-06-08T23:13:00.002-04:00

My posts, like my library books (sorry Dad) are overdue. So to the three of you still reading this, I apologize. When I look at the archives of this site and see how much I posted in years past, a few things occur to me:

1. Vicki takes some great photos
2. It probably shouldn't have taken me 18 months to write my thesis
3. In addition to being a wonderful procrastination enabler, this site has helped me to keep some precious memories.

So once again, dear reader, I will do my best to keep up to date. Lately work has been all, um, work-y, but if you really want someone to blame for the radio silence, I think the obvious choice is Jane.

OK, not really. But I did need an excuse to share this picture from the weekend.

Good to be back. Lots more to come. Stay tuned...

Pressing matters

2009-05-27T12:24:00.003-04:00

I caught a rebroadcast of Everton versus West Ham Utd. last night while doing some laundry. [I'm nothing if not a multitasker.] If you haven't watched English Premier League football (or soccer), it's worth it if only for the commentary. At one point, the announcer --- and there was only one for this game --- noted a player's "impudent" move at the corner.

Beyond the high-level play-by-play (I'm sure the EPL has its own Tim McCarver somewhere), I am always amazed at just how big the playing field is. Seriously, it is absolutely enormous, and despite the complaints often invoked about low scores or lack of scoring, the game is constant motion. Which brings me to the following.

With the Chelsea/A.C. Milan friendly coming to town in July, and with it a heightened attention locally to soccer, I think the time has come for Samson and I to pick a team. Bill Simmons (patron saint of office worker procrastination) wrote a nice column a few years ago about his quest to pick an EPL team. And while I appreciate his thoughtful analysis, I feel the need to strike out on my own in this endeavor.

I'm agnostic when it comes to hockey and basketball [indeed, I find myself amazed that both of those seasons are still going on], so Samson is on his own for those sports. And I'm not an "enforcer" type of Dad who mandates his kids root for "his" team. Indeed, I grew up rooting for the Yankees (albeit in a house that was the sports equivalent of CAPE [figure it out] Catholics), but I think it's important for him to support the O's --- even if they break his heart every year for the next 20.

The Ravens, despite their awful purple and tawdry history, are, as he says "our homemade team" [I'm guessing he means hometown], so he's free to root for them heartily. Again, I tepidly rooted for the Jets but am starting to wonder if even they root for the Jets anymore.

For lacrosse, which matters more here than most places, we root for Hopkins. Or at least, I root for Hopkins and hope Samson will too. He picked Syracuse for the championship this past weekend, earning the right to pick his victory dinner. And his favorite color is orange, so we'll see.

Which brings us to soccer. Or football, if you like. He played last year and keeps talking about how excited he is for the new season in the fall. I suspect this has a lot to do with my promise of cleats, but still, he's excited so I'm excited.

Any thoughts on our rooting interest? My inclination, despite warnings from a colleague who lives in England against it, is to go with Arsenal. I get that there's a bandwagon element to it, but they have a cannon on their team shield (perhaps the only thing Samson would like more on a soccer shirt would be Boba Fett), and I like that their team is owned by its fans. Or at least some of its fans. OK, some of its wealthier fans. Still.

We've got two months before the EPL starts up again. Any and all suggestions are welcome.

Art (that may lead to) therapy

2009-05-19T14:35:00.001-04:00

We visited the newly build National Harbor on Sunday. If you didn't know we had a "national" harbor, you're not alone. And it's not finished yet, but there's a cool beta version of a children's museum and a nice waterfront area, complete with a sculpture that is both climbable and terrifying.

The piece is called "Awakening" and is the work of sculptor J. Seward Johnson Jr.

Jane, who is afraid only of Cookie Monster [I'm not kidding], headed right toward the giant hand. And from there, of course, she headed for the water. That girl is crazy for the sea (or in this case, the Potomac).

Samson required a little more coaxing to check the giant out. He wanted to know why it was there and if the giant used to be real but was now dead. To which I answered "I don't know" and "Yes, and legend has it that one day he'll rise again from the sand and devour those who played on his grave." OK, I didn't really say that last part, but I can only imagine the look on Sam's face if I had.

Johnson, in addition to scaring small children with his work, is the guy who created one of my all-time favorite statues, The Hitchhiker, which happens to be located on the campus of my alma mater and made me smile every time I headed past it on a road trip.

If you're in the area, you should totally check out the museum. It's free, easy to get to, and you can do it in an hour or two and then go climb on the scary giant down the road. Good times.

Field of dreams

2009-05-17T23:14:00.003-04:00

I work for a large and fairly complex organization, so I'm used to occasionally missing a directive and having to run to catch up. I did not think the same would hold true for coaching tee ball. Sadly, I was mistaken.

Apparently, we were supposed to introduce pitching to the kids at some point a few weeks back. I did not, as they say, get the memo. So we started during our last game. Which is great, as some of the kids (mine included) are used to being pitched to by their parents anyway and find the tee a little confusing.

Mind you, it also puts a lot more pressure on the coach not to strike out the side. We do three pitches and then switch to the tee. The kids don't seem to mind, but it's killing me to look into all those little smiling faces as they stand waiting for the pitch --- feet apart, hands together, back elbow up, eye on the ball --- and either swing late/early/above/below or, worse yet, get an unhittable pitch from me or the other coach.

Of course it is only tee ball, and they are only four and five years old, but as I stood on the mound looking at my son's shining face --- watching him dig in and take his practice cuts [he's nothing if not an expert mimic of what he sees on TV, right down to the batting gloves] --- I could feel the entire universe contract for a second so that there was only a narrow corridor of light by which to see and the rest faded away.

A slight breeze crossed the infield, and I could smell someone's newly cut lawn, somebody's flowering dogwood tree. I asked him: "ready?" and he nodded, tongue out, feet scuffing the dirt slightly.

I threw an arcing underhand pitch that seemed to float on the mid-May air, spinning slowly toward him. His eyes narrowed as his hands gripped the bat a little tighter. Moving his left foot up, he brought the too-heavy bat forward with a nice level swing, and I watched the ball slip just half an inch under the barrel of the bat.

The next two pitches didn't go any better, and we switched to the tee, from which he promptly hit a nice bouncer between the four infielders standing between first and second base [I did mention this was tee ball, right?].

There's no moral to this story, and I remain resolutely against vicarious living through my son. Or at least I'm trying to remain resolutely against it. But man, there are times when it feels like the whole world hangs on hearing the ping of the bat.

Crack of the bat would be cooler, I know, but we use aluminum, so it's more of a ping or a clang. Possibly a ding...

Darth Vader's theme song

2009-05-11T10:04:00.001-04:00

Samson, as I've mentioned before, is all about the Empire. I only just remembered that I've got the Star Wars soundtrack on CD [did you ever doubt my nerd bona fides?]. So I put it in my car's CD changer for our rides to school in the morning.

There's nothing quite like looking in the rear-view mirror at your four-year-old as he rocks out to the "Darth Vader song" in preparation for his arrival at preschool. And he's very specific: I am not to start the music until the car is in motion.

Of course, Samson being Samson, he wanted to know what the words to the song are. I tried to explain to him that there are none, but he wasn't buying it. So I made some up. Feel free to use these should a similar situation arise.

I'm Darth Vader and this is my song
I'm Darth Vader won't you sing along?
Bad guys, we're really really
Bad guys, we're really really
Bad guys
In cool uniforms
Uniforms

Clearly I'm no Lennon in need of a McCartney (or even a Seals in need of a Crofts), but it's not half bad for something made up on the spot.

Fish (not the TV show)

2009-05-07T09:13:00.001-04:00

No, this is not a post about Abe Vigoda, although his name has been invoked on this site from time to time. Yesterday Samson and Jane got a pet fish. When Vicki asked the kids what they wanted to name it, Samson answered before she'd even finished asking the question: SAMUEL.

Perfect. So Samuel the Beta fish (or the Sammyfish as Jane calls him) is now swimming in a little square bowl on the sideboard in our dining room. As far as pets go, this one promises to be a lot less work than our late, er Santa-visiting, cat.

Although it's not as easy to play with him as it was with Ishmael. And, while it seems unfair to compare our new pet to our old one, Ishmael was way better at laying on the couch with me while I read the paper. Samuel's sort of floppy and frantic in that kind of annoying pay-attention-to-me-I'm-rapidly-losing-oxygen kind of way.

I guess it will just take us a little time to get used to each other.

A day at the yard

2009-05-05T22:30:00.002-04:00

Last Sunday was Little League Day at Oriole Park. All little league teams from the metro area were invited for a parade around the warning track. Unfortunately, it was 96 degrees in the shade that day.

Fortunately, the chance to be on the field (but not on the grass; the O's management was very specific about that) and get high fives from a few players (thank you Brian Roberts, Nick Markakis, Adam Jones, and others) made Samson forget about how hot he was.

That and a special appearance from the Oriole bird and a giant lemonade when we got to our seats.

I'm not sure why this picture looks so pixelated; maybe it was the heat waves rising from the concrete in the upper deck playing with the camera's lens?

Jane learns a life lesson

2009-04-23T09:15:00.002-04:00

Vicki had a school meeting last night, so it was dinner for three. While I was in the kitchen getting some pineapple cut up for dessert, Jane decided --- it being taco night and all --- to reach into the bowl of shredded cheddar and put a few pieces up her nose.

I can usually count on Samson to give a running commentary of what Jane is doing if she even thinks about doing something she's not supposed to. Last night? Not so much.

I arrived back in the dining room, after a minute's absence (two at the most), to find Jane's eyes watering. She was looking up at me, pointing to her nose and saying, "Nose, Nose, Nose."

After about a minute of this, it became apparent what she had done, and we worked all six (!) little pieces out of her nose. Good grief.

Lightning round

2009-04-22T08:46:00.001-04:00

I am really proud of the kids on our tee ball team. Because we could all see that a big storm was coming, the coaches from both teams agreed we'd skip the "clinic" part of the evening and just jump into the "game." Which meant that everyone got a chance to bat.

But it was far from the leisurely pace we usually move at. This was more like speed chess. With bats. And toddlers.

Our side batted first [sidenote: Sam laced a shot that nearly made it out of the infield], and by the time we'd taken the field, the sky was an angry color gray.

The other team got three quarters of the way through their lineup before the first rain drops fell. Amazingly, nobody left the field. Our guys stayed put; they did, of course, notice the rain. And they let me know that it was raining. Repeatedly. But Team A did itself proud by letting all the kids on the other team have the same incredibly hurried chance to bat that they got.

As the last player on Team E rounded third base, we heard the first crack of thunder, and the skies opened. Perfect timing.

Interestingly, all the parents headed for their cars only to find their kids headed for the moms who were on snack duty. What's a little lightning when there's Capri Sun to be had?

Did Dewey Decimal have kids?

2009-04-21T22:44:00.000-04:00

I'm guessing he did not. Why, you ask. Because this morning I took a little field with Samson and Jane to the library and got to see the dark side of his system.

Vicki was proctoring an exam, so I took the morning off and got to spend a sunny Tuesday morning with my guys. [Note: This Tuesday morning is not to be confused with the other Tuesday Morning, which somehow manages to combine all the warmth of a Soviet era DMV with the charm and selection of a post-tornado yard sale. I digress.]

Anyway, there's a new library not far from our house, so we happy few packed up our stuff (everyone is carrying a bag and wearing sunglasses these days) and headed out for an hour of play and reading. So far so good.

Samson and Jane had a great time in the kids' area, which is full of kitchen toys and costumes and the like, and they also enjoyed picking out a few books to check out and read at home.

Foolishly, I decided I'd try to find something for myself. We were nearing an hour and fifteen minutes on-site, and Jane was definitely ready for lunch and a nap. But for some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to take a quick spin in the travel section to look for a book [I've been hunting high and low for David Grann's "Lost City of Z"]. No luck.

But I did learn that the travel section, in addition to including narratives and guidebooks, is in the same aisle as graphic novel compilations (that's bound comic books for those of you who weren't in Mathletes) and Spanish-language kids' books. All of which were helpfully placed at around the 3-foot level.

So after a quick scan of what was there, I spent the next 10 minutes trying to wrestle the Batman version of Encyclopedia Brittanica away from Samson only to then find Jane clutching Dora's big book of buenas noches. She was not happy, to say the least, to be told she couldn't bring the book with her and threw herself on the floor.

After asking her nicely to get up, I pulled the "OK then, bye" move. At which point Sammy Superego jumped in with: "Daddy! What are you doing? Jane is part of our family. We don't leave our family behind."

She, of course, was unfazed. But it made me smile to see Samson sticking up for Jane's right to lie on the floor of the public library.

Montessori league

2009-04-20T21:04:00.003-04:00

So we finally had weather that was baseball-friendly, and the kids were thrilled not to be shivering while waiting to bat. They were also thrilled at the fresh shoots of grass and dandelions in the infield. So much to see and play with. And none of it remotely related to tee ball.

Which means I need to get some better ideas for fielding drills pretty fast.

We played the light blue team (team E), and at one point, six of their players were sitting on the pitcher's mound. I think I actually saw two of their guys thumb wrestling.

It really is a great time of year...

Hide and seek

2009-04-20T20:41:00.003-04:00

Jane tells her first joke

2009-04-17T09:14:00.002-04:00

Last night at dinner, Jane was looking out the window into the backyard. What follows is almost verbatim.

Me: "What do you see out there Jane?"

J: "I see a squirrel." [It actually sounded like "EYESEEUHSKWURREL"]

Me: "Oh yeah, what's he doing?"

J: [pause, smile]: "He's pooping!"

I wish you could have seen the twinkle in her eye just before she said it and heard the huge laugh that followed.

I almost choked on my dinner, but I was enormously proud.

The silence of the Peeps

2009-04-09T12:02:00.004-04:00

Lock up your Easter baskets, Jane is on the loose...

And yes, that is X-wing pilot Luke holding up the row of mangled Peeps. I needed some way to hold them still, and he just happened to be sitting (minding his own business) at Sam's place on the dining room table.

My girl

2009-04-05T20:47:00.000-04:00

"Daddy, I play soccer."

Jane is really starting to put words together, and despite the uber-chattiness of her big brother, she manages to get more than a few words in edgewise.

And I'll be honest, watching her take the world in with those big blue eyes and put her ideas into words is equal parts awe-inspiring and humbling. There's never been a doubt (not since day one) that Jane is her own person, but it's so apparent now as she tells us what she's thinking and feeling.

She and I went to the zoo today, and as I was buckling her into the car seat, she looked at me and said "I had fun."

Not a girl of many words, but boy she sure makes them count. Thanks for making my day Sweet Jane.

Opening day

2009-03-30T22:04:00.000-04:00

So Team A had its first practice/game tonight, and I think it went pretty well. Samson, who is usually brutally honest, told me he had fun.

I don't really have anything to report. Other than the fact that for reasons I can't even begin to fathom, our team has me for a coach while Team B has a guy who used to play minor league ball and who has no kid in the program. Weird. We were running the bases while his squad was working on sacrifice bunts.

OK, not really, but I wondered if this was some kind of little league community service for parents who get ornery in the stands at the upper age levels.

Anyway, Vicki and Jane braved a cold and windy night to watch their guys on the field, and Vicki got a perfect photo of our team.

I wish I could take credit for lining them up at that well, but at that point, I was in the infield making sure our runners advanced from first to second base and so on. It's not as easy as it sounds...

Paging Morris Buttermaker

2009-03-29T20:44:00.002-04:00

I mentioned in my last post that we'd signed Samson up for tee ball and that it would be starting soon. Apparently it starts tomorrow night. The league coordinator is not, um, coordinated about schedules and stuff like that.

Also, apparently, I am the coach. [Where's Walter Matthau when you need him?] It started innocently enough: We got an e-mail from the league coordinator with a roster and a note that said the team needed some parents to help out and be "assistant" coaches. Sure, I thought. Why not?

Now I never played tee ball as a kid [see: parents; see also: sports agnostics], but I love playing ball outside with Samson. And while I can't take any credit for his good hand-eye coordination and solid swing, there is almost nothing I'd rather do than be part of his tee ball experience. So I e-mailed the league guy to say I'd be happy to help and was told to show up last Thursday night for "coaches clinic" at 6:30 pm.

I came right from work and arrived about 15 minutes early. So I headed into the elementary school gym, which the school custodian kindly told me was where the meeting would be. So far so good.

Finding myself alone and with some time to kill [an occurrence almost as rare as Halley's Comet], I figured I'd take a seat and get some reading done. Since I'm no longer in school, I've been trying to challenge myself with books I should have read by now and was some 600 pages into Ulysses and struggling to finish before it was due back to the library. By the time I realized no one had shown up, it was 6:40. So now, I was not only late, but I was lost.

The meeting was in full swing --- outside --- when I arrived, still in my suit and with a copy of Ulysses with me. Nothing like starting off on the right foot.

I'm guessing the first order of business was picking team colors, because by the time I got there, all that was left was lime green or brown. And I'll be honest, I went for the brown first. One of the head guys there said: "You're really going for brown?" To which I replied, "Sure, why not?"

His answer: "In all the years I've been doing this, no one has ever picked brown."

So we'll be wearing lime green. And black hats. Which, to be honest, is fine. I'm sure the kids won't care, and we'll know where each of them is at all times.

It's a good thing I did show, late or not, because I was the only one from our team there, hence my rapid promotion from guy willing to help to guy with equipment bag full of balls, bases, hats, shirts, and a brand-new tee that smells like the plumbing section of Home Depot. [Seriously, what kind of rubber do they use for those things?]

Samson and I got out today and practiced a bit with the tee (a perq of being the coach's kid). And although the bat is a little heavy for him, I think he'll be just fine. Half the kids on the team are friends of his, which is nice because it means I can enlist lots of help from the parents who are there. I think this is going to be good.

Stay tuned...

Custom of the country

2009-03-24T12:25:00.002-04:00

I grew up on Long Island, and lacrosse is sort of a big deal there. But here in Maryland, it's pretty much a religion. And Samson has already caught the fever.

[That said, we signed him up for tee-ball for this spring. He's still too young for youth lax here, and while he likes playing in the backyard with me, something tells me that baseball --- in all its pastoral glory --- may be a little more his speed. I mean, he liked soccer (keep your eye on #5 in the photos), but I think he's really temperamentally suited for the dugout.]

Still, we take the sticks out and play at the park. Jane has shown little interest so far, which makes sense. For one, she's only just learned to walk a few months ago.

And for two, it involves her brother running around (sometimes at her) with a big stick in his hand.

But she really liked throwing to him.

Jane's Vanilla Sky

2009-03-23T21:18:00.000-04:00

On the weekends, the reservoir near our house is closed to traffic. Which means it's a perfect place for biking, running, and walking.

It also means you really need to give people context before sharing your pictures...

Redshirt Sammy

2009-03-23T20:59:00.000-04:00

Because this is Samson's second go in the three-year-old class, some of the things he is doing are repeats from last year. Like the class play.

[I should explain: He's got a late birthday, and since we knew he'd need to repeat one year somewhere along the way, we figured it might as well be this one. He'll be five about to turn six when he enters kindergarten, which I'm ok with. I've yet to go on a job interview where they asked if I was a "true kindergartener." And let's be honest, it's not like he's a giant, aggressive kid or anything. His class was learning about weight for their science lesson last week, and so everyone got weighed. Despite being one of the oldest kids in his class, he was still on the light end of the chart. I digress.]

Unlike last year (when he was a flower), this year he had a "lead" role: Baby Bear. Of course after a few minutes of wearing the mask, he decided to put it up it like a visor. I'm pretty sure this was so he could more easily pick his nose, but let's give him the benefit of the doubt and assume this is the early mark of a Method actor. [Seriously, Brando wouldn't use a bear mask, right?]

Interestingly enough, their music teacher --- in addition to being the director, narrator and having the patience of Job --- has a fairly thick Russian accent. Which leant a little extra something special to the story of "Goldeelux" and the bears.

All in all, a terrific way to start the morning.

My two

2009-03-23T10:25:00.002-04:00

We were at the reservoir yesterday (more pics to follow). It was a crisp spring day, and even as Vicki was taking this picture, I knew it would be a keeper.

I have no idea what they were talking about, and I'm sure they forgot 10 minutes after themselves. But there is something (at least for me) profoundly special in the capturing of this very ordinary moment in time.

Madness (not the band)

2009-03-18T21:05:00.003-04:00

It's the time of year again when I care about college basketball. This year, rather than simply leaving my bracket picks up to what little hoops knowledge I have, I thought I'd outsource the job. Enter Samson.

Tonight after dinner, we sat at the table, and I explained the idea of the tournament and then asked him to make his picks. I have to say, for a child who has watched less than 3 minutes of college basketball, he did a great job. To be perfectly honest, I was impressed that he sat still with me for that long.

I read each match-up and then asked him to make a choice. I'm pretty sure he based each pick on name alone (which would explain his faith in American to reach the Sweet 16). And while I'm not terribly optimistic about his Robert Morris pick over the Spartans, I think he's right about local favorites Morgan St. might pulling the upset over Oklahoma.

I've now just about exhausted all the tourney talk I'm capable of, and if I could figure out how to put his bracket up as a file I'd gladly share it with you.

That said, I can give you his final four: Kansas, Washington [which Jane kept calling "WashyerHANDS" every time we said the name], Duke, and Western Kentucky.

He's got the final as a match-up between Washington and Duke, with Duke winning the whole thing.

So there you have it. Let the games begin...

The wearing of the green

2009-03-17T21:41:00.005-04:00

So I've been far too busy doing actual work at work to be able to post. And at night, well, if I don't fall asleep while reading Samson a story, I've been falling asleep shortly thereafter while trying to get through Ulysses.

But I'm back, and on a night I would --- in years gone by --- have been out until the wee small hours of the morning, I find myself blogging. It's nice to be back. As my good friend Jared once said: "19-year-old you would hate mid-thirties you." He's probably right, but I'm just as glad to be here on the couch and feel like the fact that I'm awake is a minor St. Patrick's miracle. I lead a very full life.

Lots has transpired in the past few weeks: Jane is now speaking in full sentences; Samson has discovered Tom and Jerry; and we finally got a fix for what was a really frustrating inability to download photos from our camera.

I'll do my best to be on top of this again, and I figured I'd get back in the swing with a few pics of the kiddoes. Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Mea culpa, a haiku

2009-03-16T06:22:00.001-04:00

All apologies
New job and freelance project

I will post more soon...

Because I do not hope to turn again

2009-02-25T12:20:00.003-05:00

Today is Ash Wednesday. And aside from being pretentious and quoting T.S. Eliot, I'm thinking about Lent. Also, I'm eating a giant ham and bacon sandwich. OK, not really; just putting that out there in the (very) off chance my folks are reading this.

No, I'm thinking about Lent because, as I've noted earlier, I expect this Easter is going to require a LOT of explaining. I mentioned to Samson last night that today is the start of Lent and that it's the time we spend getting ready for Easter. So far so good.

I then said, since he goes to an Episcopal school and might see folks showing up for services, that today is a day many people put ashes on their foreheads as a reminder that we're just sort of passing through this life on our way to the next one. Heady stuff, I know, but it's not like I'm making it up.

And unfortunately, he's not old enough yet for me to refer him to the catechism of Eddie Izzard.

Cousins

2009-02-24T15:06:00.005-05:00

When I was a kid, my favorite cousins were a year and two years older, respectively, than me. Which meant that getting together with them was always a lot of fun. Unfortunately, they lived in Montreal, so seeing them was kind of an event.

It's possible that this made our times together (vacations, family occasions) all the more special, but I remember always wishing we lived nearer to each other. And I still treasure those memories from my childhood.

I don't have any interest in moving, but watching Samson and Jane play with Luke certainly made me wish our families lived closer. And it not only brought back lots of good memories from my own childhood but made me happy at the prospect of my children creating their own memories with Luke and Nate in years to come....

Road trip

2009-02-23T12:28:00.006-05:00

We took a trip up to Connecticut this weekend to meet my new nephew, Nathan. For a baby weighing more than 9 pounds(!) at birth, he was smaller than I'd expected. I think it's probably just been a long time since I've held a newborn.

What a sweet little guy he is. And big brother Luke is doing very well. He still seems a bit confused about it all. Which makes sense. I think Samson is still wondering what hit him, and Jane is now 2.

Anyway, we went up Saturday morning and returned Sunday night. You're probably thinking: "wow, that's a lot of time in the car with two small children." You know what? I KNOW!

Trip highlights include:

* Sam's discovery that the words "pee-pee bottom" make Jane laugh this terrific belly laugh. Every time. Seriously. Every. Time.

* Jane's slow transformation into Michael Winslow. We're not big beepers in our family, but occasionally, you just need to beep. Every horn honk (ours or others) was met with Jane's approximation of the sound.

* Samson has been paying more attention in chapel than we may have realized. On the turnpike going home (somewhere near Cherry Hill), we heard him having a duel with two Playmobil guys. Guy one: "You can't defeat me." Guy two: "I can. I'm a bad guy." Guy one: "You'll never defeat the ISRAELITES!!!"

Also, apparently the kids have unionized. On our trip up (somewhere near the Amboys; God I love New Jersey!), I suggested, for about the 11th time, that they might want to put their heads down and take a nap.

To which Jane said "Noway." And then Sam chimed in: "No. We're not napping. We'll never take a nap." And then they both laughed this weird conspiratorial laugh and started up again with a round of "pee-pee bottom."

Good times in minivan nation.

The taste of victory

2009-02-09T14:52:00.000-05:00

If you have a heart condition, diabetes, or take cholesterol medication, stop reading now.

OK, everyone else: You were warned.

Last week, in the spirit of Super Bowl XLIII, Samson and I made a friendly wager on the outcome of the game. [Sidenote: For a nation with a collectively dwindling interest in foreign languages, why does the NFL make us all remember how to use Roman numerals every winter?]

With the big game approaching, I asked Samson whether he wanted the Pittsburgh Steelers or the Arizona Cardinals to win. Because much of our life these days seems to revolve around the events from a galaxy far, far away, Samson picked Arizona. Why, you ask.

Because the Steelers made him think of bad guys (i.e., people who steal, not the blue collar pride of western PA). From the bad guys link it was just a degree of separation connecting them to these guys. And nobody wants them to win.

So the bet was set. It took a while to figure out what the stakes would be, but we settled on the loser having to make the winner a "victory dinner" the following Saturday night.

To be perfectly frank: I was kind of hoping to lose. Not out of any animus toward Pittsburgh (although it would be funny to see Tuskens in the huddle), but because I thought it would be fun to let Samson revel in winning a bet by dictating the terms of dinner.

And but for that last minute catch by Santonio Holmes, he would have gotten the chance. That said, I never really planned to have him make me dinner. And good thing, too. When I woke him up last Monday to inform him that I'd won the bet, he offered to make me "boogies and poo."

I politely declined. His second choice was a little more all-American: mini cheeseburgers, hot dogs, french fries, and milk shakes.

So on Saturday night, I fired up the barbecue, and Vicki and Samson made little burger patties. Jane "helped" with the milk shakes. [Fun parenting tip: Toddlers and blenders are not a natural combination. Still, Jane liked pushing the "pulse" button. Perhaps a little too much.]

All in all, it was fantastic. And probably double the caloric intake either Vicki or I needed for the week. But delicious nonetheless.

Time delay

2009-02-03T10:04:00.000-05:00

It's snowing this morning, which reminded me that I'd forgotten to post these from our first snowfall a week or so ago. We had about three or four inches, and the kids were going bonkers.

Sam taught his sister all about eating snow. Sadly, none of us could convince her to keep her mittens on, so her time outside was short-lived.

But the guys hung outside and worked on our snowfighting skills...

Sam works the refs

2009-02-02T22:59:00.000-05:00

Now that Samson and Jane are old enough to play together (or at least near each other), there are the inevitable squabbles that arise between siblings. Which is not a big deal, and Vicki and I are usually content to let them sort things out amongst themselves.

Unfortunately, Jane is a bit, um, feisty, and (like Terminator X) lets her hands do the talking.

Luckily for Jane, her brother is not particularly aggressive and has a strong enough moral compass not to push or hit her back. Usually.

But he has figured out how to work the system, and so more than once now I've caught him getting in her face and bothering her, only to report out "Jane hit me" or "She pushed me." Which, of course, she has, but not without provocation.

At which point sweet Jane will look at me and say: "mime owt" and go sit herself on the time-out step. If there's a sight more pathetic than my two-fisted little girl putting herself in time out, I don't want to see it. It just about breaks my heart to see her sitting there, thumb in mouth, looking up with those big blue eyes.

I'm sure at some point she'll figure the whole self-reporting thing out [her brother sure has] and either hit him more quietly or deny everything once Vicki or I arrive on the scene. Just like her brother does now.

Ah progress...

A New Hope

2009-01-26T13:59:00.001-05:00

What this video lacks in clarity, it more than makes up for in nostalgia. I didn't have this toy, but I definitely remember the commercial.

After a six-month hiatus, the Star Wars figures are back in circulation. Yesterday was a typical midwinter Sunday, and Samson and I made the best of Jane's marathon nap [almost 3 hours] by playing Star Wars in the basement. I say "playing," but this was like the Bataan Death March of action figure play.

If my attention wandered for even a moment, I was reprimanded with "Daddy! You're not playing." In fairness, he did let me leave the room for bathroom breaks. But he also followed me to ensure my swift return. [Sidenote: Vicki was out at a craft/business conference, which was for the best because Sam is suspicious of her ability to "play right" with the Star Wars figures. Poor Vicki tries, but I think Samson knows she spent her youth with Barbie and not Boba.]

Sam's surveillance notwithstanding, it was good to see the guys again. As is his wont lately, he immediately laid claim to the bad guys and consigned me to the clearly inferior "good guy team."

Again, I'm pretty sure it's all costume-based. Seriously, who looks cooler than Boba Fett? Not pasty Luke Skywalker in his weird bathrobe and leggings get-up, that's for sure. And apparently, when I was about six or seven, my favorite figure was Darth Vader. This couldn't possibly be genetic, could it?

I blame the parents

2009-01-23T10:57:00.000-05:00

Aaaaaaaaaand we're back. Long time between posts, I know. Sorry. Oh like you've been waiting by the monitor all this time...

So the other night, we're having dinner and Samson starts another round of "questions that don't really have answers." What follows is close to verbatim:

Samson: "Was God around when there were superheroes?"

Me: "What do you mean?"

Samson: "I mean, are they friends?"

Vicki: "Superheroes aren't real. They're stories."

Samson: "I know. But is God their friend?"

Me (to Vicki): "Hey did you see his school is running a 'Superheroes of the Bible' camp this summer?"

Jane: "APPELJOOOS"

Samson: "I could be a Bible hero. Maybe I could be Daniel."

Me: "That would be pretty cool. Or you could be Samson..."

Samson: "Or maybe I could be one of the Roman soldiers that got Jesus dead."

[Silence.]

Me: "Really? You'd want to be a Roman soldier? I don't think they were very nice; you know, they hurt Jesus."

Samson: "But they have cool weapons. And helmets."

Vicki: "I am really not looking forward to Easter."

Needless to say, Samson's interest in his kids' Bible and continuing affection for chapel is kind of a double-edged sword. [And yes, I intended that pun. I intended the hell out of it.]

I overheard him telling Jane the other day about how after David beat Goliath, he cut his head off. Which I'm pretty sure is not what happened (although it does give the story a cool Braveheart kind of denouement).

Either way, this Pascal Season is going to really interesting.

By the way, I thought it was OK to let his misuse of "got" go in this case. As much as I'd like him to be using transitive verbs when needed, somehow our conversation didn't need the addition of the word "kill."

My girl

2009-01-12T22:45:00.004-05:00

Cookie crumbs and all, you are a beauty sweet Jane.

Dada on the roof

2009-01-12T22:27:00.005-05:00

With the winter now hard upon us, finding things to do on the weekends is critical. There's only so much time we can all spend together in our little house before, well, let's just say it's good to get out into the world.

We've been fans of the train museum for a few years now, and it's fun to watch Jane exploring alongside her brother. She can climb into and onto most of the trains now (even the ones marked "Do not climb"), and we had a great time strolling around the roundhouse.

What struck me when I looked at this picture later was just how grown-up Samson looks in this photo. I don't want to get all Tevye on you, but where did the time go?

In a somewhat related vein, we ran into Samson's best friend (and fellow train enthusiast) Jacob during on our visit. The boys played, and Jane sort of followed along a bit.

As we drove home, I asked Sam and Jane what their favorite thing at the museum was. Samson's answer was the crane used to fix the wrecks (I'm sure there's a technical term for this, but as my knowledge of trains comes almost exclusively from the Island of Sodor, I'm calling it the break-down train).

Jane's answer: "Jacob."

Good grief.

Samson James: Zen master

2009-01-05T13:37:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, I was sitting at the dining room table playing with Play-Doh [the kids were playing too], when Samson, apropos of nothing, asked me the following:

"Isn't jumping just like falling up?"

I still have no idea how to answer that question.

Almost two

2009-01-05T10:09:00.001-05:00

Sweet Jane turns two tomorrow. Hard to believe how big she's getting.

So what have we learned in the past year? Jane likes capes. And swinging. And the ocean. She's pretty fast but usually tips you off before making a move by announcing: "running, running."

Jane likes to eat. A lot. And she's not shy about asking for seconds. Or thirds.

She would also rather not wear socks or shoes. Even in winter.

Jane loves her brother, but she is not afraid of him. At all.

She loves her nana. And dogs. Usually in that order. Also, she likes to play and watch TV (all day).

She is sweet and strong and funny and full of surprises. Here are a few of my favorite pictures from the past year. Happy last day of being one Sweet Jane.

Beauty and grace

2009-01-02T14:26:00.000-05:00

I'm not big on "inspirational quotes." I steadfastly refuse chicken soup (or any other soup, consomme, or chowder) for my soul. And I avoid movies that have been called "life-affirming" like the plague.

But a few months back when I was reading Annie Dillard's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek," I was struck by a line she had written about walking in the woods and, well, paying attention:

"Beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there."

I thought about this line quite a bit and thought it applied as much to raising children as to walking in the woods.

This morning, as I was trying to get ready for work (late, as usual), as Vicki and Samson were haggling about who should remove his pull-up and whether or not there would be TV before breakfast (there would not), sweet Jane walked into the room and counted to 10.

I should point out that Jane is not yet two (not until next week, anyway), and while she has lately become more chatty, she's never been a "hey look at me" kind of kid, particularly when it comes to verbal feats. She counted out loud in a voice barely above a whisper, as if doing it only for herself. But we immediately stopped, each of us, and looked at the other as if to say "did you know she could do that?"

At which point she realized she had an audience and gave us this big, beatific smile. Beauty and grace, indeed.

Sweet Jane, you are a wonder.

School concert

2008-12-29T21:42:00.001-05:00

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

2008-12-29T21:11:00.001-05:00

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

2008-12-19T13:08:00.003-05:00

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

2008-12-18T12:50:00.000-05:00

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

2008-12-10T12:10:00.006-05:00

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

2008-12-07T19:26:00.003-05:00

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

2008-12-06T21:10:00.004-05:00

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

2008-12-06T20:52:00.003-05:00

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

2008-12-05T09:50:00.000-05:00

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?

2008-12-02T10:14:00.002-05:00

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

2008-12-01T06:36:00.006-05:00

Cream cheese and plastic

2008-11-30T21:32:00.000-05:00

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

2008-11-30T21:08:00.003-05:00

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

2008-11-28T21:42:00.001-05:00

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

2008-11-20T10:42:00.004-05:00

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

2008-11-12T08:59:00.002-05:00

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

2008-11-11T15:49:00.001-05:00

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

2008-11-09T20:44:00.006-05:00

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

2008-11-09T20:33:00.002-05:00

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

2008-11-09T19:49:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-11-02T20:32:00.000-05:00

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

2008-10-31T22:51:00.000-04:00

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

2008-10-27T22:55:00.004-04:00

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

2008-10-27T22:42:00.003-04:00

Season's end

2008-10-27T20:59:00.010-04:00

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

2008-10-24T22:54:00.002-04:00

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.