Foiled again

Samson is obsessed with climbing into his little toy box. I, however, am equally obsessed that he not do this as he almost always ends up falling over onto his head. For some reason, last night I decided that enough was enough. Concussion or no, I would let him get into the toy box. He'd bump his head and realize it wasn't worth it, and we'd all go on our merry way with toys in the toy box and Sam outside the toy box.

As you can see, it didn't quite work out that way. Which is not to say I was rooting for him to fall on his head, but you have to admit this makes it a lot harder to be credible the next time I try to persuade him to stay out of the laundry basket, recycled paper bin, etc.

And no, you're not imagining things: that is the same shirt he was wearing on Sunday at the aquarium. I can say that he really likes that shirt. I can also say that I was at work when said shirt was put on him. When I left in the morning, he was wearing pjs. I'm not pointing any fingers, I'm just saying is all...

Another installment of gratuitous Samson pics

The Age of Aquarium

A classmate of mine works for the National Aquarium and got us passes for Sunday. They have a no-stroller policy, so we had to break out the backpack, which was actually fine (although Samson is definitely heavier than I remember from last time).

There are several areas where visitors can stand and look up into the water, and I could see his little face reflected on the glass, staring up at the sharks as they conducted their silent patrols. Spooky. [I was thinking about it as we walked around, how even the fiercest mammalian predators still retain something recognizable in them that speaks to a capacity for more than just killing. But watching the lidless sharks knife their way through the water filled me with equal parts dread and wonder.]

The aquarium also features an Amazon rainforest exhibit and an Australia section. For some reason, this last exhibit was practically empty, so we liberated young Samson from the pack and let him wander around. I think being able to press his nose against the glass and look at the sleeping freshwater crocodiles was the highlight of his day.



Again, kind of a spooky juxtaposition.

Lunch special

This is what happens when Samson takes a long nap before lunch and I'm left with a little too much time on my hands.

Uncanny

When I opened the letter from my parents and saw this photo, I had to look closely for a second.

This is from Christmas 1973. Cool, huh?

Is there a nicer word for schadenfreude?

I certainly did not take any joy in Vicki's being sick today, but it meant that I got to stay home and hang out with Samson all day. We started the morning playing in the kitchen in the basement. He has toy food and carried the toy pickles and cookies with him for the next several hours. God, I would love to get inside that little head.

The whole spring in winter thing continues, so we took a nice walk this morning to get Vicki some cold/flu stuff from the drug store. It's like there's a whole world I miss by being at work all day. We chatted with senior citizens out for their morning constitutional, exchanged pleasantries with the guy at the coffee place, smiled at the lady waiting for the bus, and came really close to belting out the chorus of "People in Your Neighborhood" as we waited for the light to change. At least I did. Maybe next time.

Thursday is gym day for Samson, so I got to take him to his 45-minute play session. It was awesome. I'm amazed at how much more relaxed he is since I went with him in October. And the teachers and some of the moms [there was only one other dad there, and he looked vaguely witness-protection-programish] knew Samson --- which was both cool and weird.

The class is crowded, and one of the mothers confided to me how many "new people" there were. Something in her tone made me think she was trying to sound vaguely like an Edith Wharton character descrying the horde of arrivistes at the opera. Which of course is just ridiculous, so I looked at her and said "well, our family has been coming to this playgroup since the early 1700s..." People are so weird.

Perhaps the best thing about the gym is this thing they call "turtle time." Essentially, they take a big plastic turtle (probably a sandbox in its outdoor incarnation) and fill it with wiffle balls and other toys and let the kids just play for a few minutes by themselves. It was so amazing to watch my little guy playing --- if not exactly with, then at least around --- other kids and just totally doing his thing. He walked right into the middle of things, took a ball from a kid wearing a CBGB t-shirt [an unwise move, I thought], had it taken back, and found something else to play with.

After the gym we went to Baja Fresh for lunch. This is a weekly ritual for Samson and Vicki, and so all the people behind the counter wanted to know where she was. I told our cashier, Oscar, that she was sick, and he asked that I convey my condolences. I'm not kidding.

And then I felt weird being like "it's just a cold, man. I mean, it's not like she has Guinea Worm or something. Also, I think we'll have the kid's chicken quesadilla and a burrito mexicano for me." Actually, it was very nice of him to be concerned.

The line got very long after we'd already been served, and one woman called from her table to her friend in line "Hey Nancy? Nancy, I've got cash, just get me what you're having. Thanks, Nance." No sooner was she finished than I heard from the high-chair at my left "Nan-cee. Nan-cee. Nan-cee..." I don't think the woman heard him. She didn't look like she would have been amused if she had.

Anyway, it was a nice break in the week. Vicki's already feeling better. And I've got too much to do to miss another day of work. Besides it's supposed to rain tomorrow.

Found in translation

I realize Samson is an early talker. And I appreciate it, honestly. There is nothing in the world I love more than hearing his little voice saying "hi" or trying out a new word ["blessyou" after we sneeze is the latest addition].

With that said, I feel like I'm his walking subtitler/interpreter whenever we're out. Particularly whenever there are truck sightings. Which is way more often than you'd imagine.

When Samson says truck, he replaces the first consonant with the last, skips the 'r' and goes right to the final phoneme. Essentially, every time he sees a truck he calls out "kok," which always prompts my half of the call-and-response: "I see that truck, Samson. That's a [insert truck type here, usually garbage or dump]. Can you say TR-uck? TRrrrrrruck?"

Clearly this is how he will learn (I hope), and I do think it's kind of funny. But I can also feel strangers giving us the fish eye, as if to say: "what are you teaching this kid at home?" I expect this will only occur more frequently now that he's started saying "fire truck."

Sam's pretty good with the "f" sound but the rest gets blended in with the hard consonant sound at the end of the second word.

Can you guess what that sounds like?

Also, can you guess how much faster I am with the subtitles?

When that fails, I look apologetically at the offended stranger, smile slightly, and gravely intone: "his mother just got out of prison."

Which is even funnier when Vicki is somewhere in the vicinity and comes back while said offended stranger is still nearby.

Decisions, decisions

The garbagemen came at exactly the same time that Steve on Blue's Clues starting singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" this morning. You've never seen such a conflicted 16-month-old in your life.

He was standing on our bed by the window and trying to angle his little body so that half of him could watch Steve while the other half watched the men crush our garbage in the big, green truck. I think he pulled it off.

"Spider" is his favorite song, and he not only sings it, but he also does a variation of the gestures that go along with it. For some reason, he's most likely to break out into this song when he's in his high-chair, so we get a kind of seated interpretive dance version of "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" with our meals.

The best part, however, and he's been doing this for months now, is that at the end he claps. Whether he sings it, you sing it, or it's on the radio, at the song's conclusion, Samson applauds.

I have no idea where this comes from, and it's the only song he does it for [although he occasionally claps at the end of "Happy Birthday"], but I can remember singing him to sleep over the summer with the spider song. He was totally wiped out, head on my shoulder, barely awake, but as I finished singing, his little head popped up, and I heard the faintest of claps from over my shoulder. Then he put his head back down and fell asleep.

Speaking of kids' songs, Slate had a good article on Friday about children's music. When Samson was first born, and Vicki would have kids' music on, I always noticed and was sure to turn it off as soon as young Samson went for a nap or a bath or whatever.

I have now come to terms with the fact that more often than not, I don't even notice this new soundtrack to our lives --- unless it's something really egregious like the Wiggles singing Copacabana or something. I just can't get into those guys...

Sam can cook

Don't tell Samson, but I've been having just as much fun with his new kitchen as he has. (He's probably already figured it out...)

Not quite Maxwell's silver hammer

File under: do not try this at home. Samson has a little toy hammer, which makes silly "bonk" and "woop" noises when you hit the head of the hammer against an object.

Last weekend, in what can be charitably described as a lapse of judgment, I took the hammer and gently tapped my head with it, eliciting the "bonks" and "woops" from said hammer and a gale of giggles from young Samson. Unfortunately, he has taken to trying this on me (eliciting more cries of "gentle, gentle" than "bonks" or "woops"), and this morning I caught him hammering his own head. Even sadder, the hammer noises were turned off, so I found him sitting in the living room hitting himself and accompanied by only the sound of semi-hard plastic on his head. So much for me and my Buster Keaton routines...

In somewhat related news, the night before last I juggled some tennis balls for him [I know, is there no end to my skills?] and then invited him to try. Can you guess what happened next?

I can't wait to try this in the produce section the next time we go grocery shopping.

The karmic wheel spins

I don't think my parents are Buddhists, but I know they get some kind of vicarious karmic pleasure from seeing me tell Samson not to do something and then seeing him give me this look.

In this instance, I was reminding him, yet again, to use both hands when climbing the stairs. He's obsessed with keeping a truck with him at all times --- it's like he expects a tiny construction project to break out somewhere in the house. [Which actually would be kind of cool if all of a sudden there was a tiny site with a bunch of tiny guys in hard hats building something and waiting for Samson to bring the front-loader. There'd be a tiny coffee cart pulled alongside them, and you'd hear tiny whistles every time Vicki walked by...]

Anyway, I've now lost count of how many times I've said: "Don't give me that face. I invented that face!"

Honestly, could you give that little face a time-out?

What would Sir Edmund Hillary do?

The weekend weather made it feel more like early March than mid-January. We promised ourselves that we'd spend as much time as we could outside, enjoying the spring-like weather. Unfortunately, the exigencies of Saturday errands and the vagaries of Samson's nap schedule left us with less time than we planned. Also, there was a grand opening at a bookstore at the market in our neighborhood. But we did have lunch outside. Under an awning, but still.

[And Vicki did find time to put on her dirndl and rock out Alpine-style in celebration of the good weather. Amazing how much she looks like a young Julie Andrews isn't it?]

But this left me on Sunday feeling like it was some kind of moral imperative that we get outside. I didn't quite reach Clark-Griswold-at-the-gates-of-Wally-World status, but I was close.

Accordingly, I thought we could go hiking. It's been a while, however, since Sam has been in the backpack, so I figured we could do a trial run in the house. [Sidenote: I hate being the guy at the trailhead trying to mollify the screaming toddler in his backpack while acknowledging the various concerned/horrified looks of other trail users. It makes me feel all Mile Zero. And I'm pretty sure that Samson actually enjoys being out in the woods in the pack; it's just getting him into it that he's not crazy about.]

Anyway, I had Vicki help me get Samson situated in the backpack, but, for some reason, I decided to lift it differently than I usually do.

Bad idea.

The metal legs that support the pack when not in use moved in as I picked the pack up --- which they are supposed to do --- but I hadn't tightened my shoulder strap enough and Samson slid back fast. I caught him before he hit the floor, but I imagine the experience of being trapped in a falling object and hearing your parents simultaneously yelling "whoa, whoa, whoa!" is fairly stressful. Mind you, I was kneeling at this point, so he was only about six inches off the ground.

Even so, he cried. A lot.

To be fair, he probably needed a nap anyway. He'd been up early and had yet to submit to our entreaties to get him in his crib. But I felt like a heel. What made it worse was that he kept looking at the pack, shaking his head, and saying "no, no, bye-bye, bye-bye."

In any event, we ended up bagging the whole hiking idea. He never did nap, but we hit the playground later, where we played with some trucks in the sandbox and shared (mostly) with a few other Tonka enthusiasts. So the day wasn't a total wash.

Hopefully, I haven't instilled in him a mortal fear of the backpack. Or created some kind of rosebud fixation that he'll carry with him for decades to come. Citizen Samson, indeed.

I mean, it's not like I'm this guy (rest his soul) or that I'm going to get all Great Santini on Samson to turn him into one of these guys. But it would be nice when spring finally does arrive to be able to hit the trail without a) terrifying my son or b) giving him an object lesson in physics.

Part of me thinks that by now he's probably forgotten all about it. The other part of me (the part which has yet to put the pack away) watched him give it a wide berth tonight as he made his way from the living room to the kitchen.

Stay tuned...

Ducks + pins = awesome.

For those unfamiliar with duckpin bowling, click here. The rest of you already know how much fun it is. We went bowling on Sunday, and while Aunt Mo "won," [see below], a good time was had by all.


Note Vicki's form (with a babe in arms, no less); clearly somebody took lessons as a child...

Sam in a box

Two photos from the weekend. Samson got a beanbag for Christmas from Aunt Mo and Uncle Greg, and while he likes it, I think he really likes the box. I'll post some bowling pics tomorrow...

Vicki the ninja

Aunt Mo and Uncle G spent the weekend with us, and we had two full days of good times --- eating cheeseburgers, playing with trucks, bowling, playing with trucks, going to church and playing with trucks [this was more me than Samson].

Anyway, it was a great weekend (photos to follow), but yesterday, with just Vicki and I, was kind of a letdown for young Samson. Aside from looking for "Mo" and "Kah" [let's hope for Greg's sake that this is not one of those baby-invented names that sticks into later years; I have relatives in the south who referred, as grown adults, to their grandparents as Mamoo and Papoo], he was just kind of cranky.

At one point he eyed up a would-be gangsta teen who was clearly just a local Catholic college student trying to look tough and said "Listen, Brendan, you're not fooling anybody. Least of all that girl from your Intro to Western Lit class. Ease up, wouldja?"

You don't want to be around Samson when he's cranky. He gets like this guy.

Anyway, a somewhat restless day gave way to a night of fitful sleep. Which may or may not have had anything to do with the fact that we'd forgotten to do his laundry and so tripled him up on light cotton pajamas (two with feet) instead of our usual pj layer and then fleece feety sleeper.

We could hear him stirring on the monitor, and I went up to check on him. He was fine, but it just seemed like he wasn't falling into a deep sleep. So when his laundry finished (and before the second hour of "24" started), we formed a strike team to go up and change Samson. Our mission: switch the pjs and sleeper while keeping the target asleep. Or at least not wide awake and screaming.

I opened the door and waved Vicki in when I thought the coast was clear.

From there, I played so little a role in the actual maneuver that if this was a movie, I'd be listed in the credits as "Tall Man in Hat."

She not only managed to change him without incident, but all the while she was rubbing his back and singing "You are my sunshine." In Portugese.

Ok that last part isn't true. She sang in English. But this in no way diminishes the achievement. Seriously.

He awoke this morning after a sound eight hours of sleep and with less of an idea of what had happened than the Manchurian candidate.

Ben Stein, philosopher

I'm not normally given to quoting Ben Stein (although I remember being 15 and thinking I was hilarious in imitating his deadpan "Bueller, Bueller, Bueller..." when a teacher would be taking attendance and someone was absent but not immediately noted as such). Anyway, this column --- from the NYT business section, of all places --- really moved me.

Sure, he kind of shoehorns some economic forecasting into the piece (it is a business column after all), and free registration may be required to access the article, but it's well worth the effort. Let me know what you think.

The poor man's zoo

Vicki was getting her hair done tonight, so I picked Samson up after work at his friend Jake's house. And since we needed cat food and litter, I figured we'd go do some shopping at Petsmart. He was thrilled with the wall of fishes that is their aquarium section. He's started saying "cool" when he sees things he likes, and these fish were definitely cool.

Not so cool was our next stop: the birds. Now I love to see birds in the wild, and nothing makes me happier than waking up in the morning and seeing a Cardinal on our deck or hearing the birds in the tree outside our window. But the satisfaction to be derived from birds as pets seems to fall somewhere between snakes (at least you can watch the big ones digesting things) and sea-monkeys. I just don't get the appeal.

In any event, we were watching the birds when one of the parakeets came right up to the bars on the cage and squawked and flapped his wings. For some reason this scared Samson, but he stopped himself from crying. It was weird. He had the bottom lip sticking out, and the eyes were starting to squint, but no tears. I took this as a cue to move on to get what we had actually come for and then go see the cats at the adoption center.

He showed way more interest in these cats, who were behind a plate glass window, than he ever shows in ours. Maybe we need to put a big Plexiglas screen between the two of them, and then Samson will take notice. It's not that he doesn't like Ishmael, it's just that, at times, it's almost as if he doesn't see him. He walked right over him yesterday. And as for the cat, while it's true that he had seven years of uninterrupted lolling around, you'd think the presence of an unsteady 20-pound, close-to-the ground walker would engender some kind of behavior modification. Not so; he remains as fixed (and inscrutable) as the Sphinx.

Somehow, among all this errand running and animal kingdom excitement, I didn't notice that Samson was only wearing one shoe. I realized this when I saw the other one on his carseat as we were headed home. Which was fine, since it wasn't lost, and it was warm tonight. Plus he had socks on.

But I'm sure more than one person saw me walking around, still in my suit from work, with my one-shoed son and thought: "typical oblivious dad." [They might actually be right because I put him down at one point to pick up this big container of litter and wondered why he was walking sort of funny.]

Sentencing

Samson has started putting two words together to form mini sentences. Which is cool not only because it's another milestone, but because he says them with an almost Charlton-Heston-as-Moses-like conviction.

When I got home from work Tuesday night, I walked into the dining room, where he was sitting in his high-chair, not eating his dinner. When he saw me, he looked at Vicki with a smile and said, "dada home." I wonder if he'll ever know the joy he brings us.

In another developmental milestone, I have been trying to teach Samson to beatbox. If you don't know what this is, you are old. Oh, I mean click here.

You can imagine how funny it is 1) for me to do this and 2) to see him try to do it.

I started this the other day when trying to distract him while Vicki cajoled him into eating dinner. For some reason this meal is a struggle; breakfast and lunch he's fine with --- usually --- but come dinner time, he gets all Bobby Sands on us (sorry Dad).

He not only thought the whole beatbox thing was funny, but right away he started to imitate me.

I can't wait until the next time we're on line at the grocery store and Sam E. Fresh busts out some Slick Rick rhythms. You're never too young to be old school.

Down at the station...

The B&O Railroad Museum offered dollar admission this weekend, so we took Samson to see some cool old trains on Sunday. For those of you who don't know, this is a child who loves trains. Also buses, trucks, and lately, bicycles. But he really loves trains. And while he no longer has any interest in singing "Down at the Station" --- indeed, just singing the opening lines gets you a firm "no" and then a dismissive "buh-bye" --- he still insists on calling the trains puff-puffs. Needless to say, in a museum situated on the site where the famed Baltimore & Ohio railroad was built in the 1820s, he spent a lot of time looking around, pointing excitedly, and alerting us to yet another puff-puff.

It was crowded and a little cold for some of the outside exhibits, but we had a great time. The museum is a really interesting place for non-Lionel aficionados --- people like me who, while not anti-train, have probably only thought about trains when riding them (if then).


That said, this is also a place for those guys who have rooms in their homes devoted to model railroad routes and all the bells and whistles (pun intended) that come with them.

It's also a really interesting place to people watch. There were more than a few couples where one (usually the man) was a train enthusiast and was painstakingly explaining to his wife/girlfriend/blind date(!) the significance of this or that piece of equipment and eyeing the trains with a kind of familiarity and respect. There was even one guy, who I'm pretty sure was not an employee or volunteer, in overalls and an engineer's cap.

Part of me wanted to go up and thank him for helping me learn an important part of speech when I was a kid. But I thought better of it.

Attack of the clones

Linus had his blanket; Calvin his tiger. Samson has lovey lamb. It's kind of a small white blanket with a lamb's head, which sounds weird and vaguely pagan, but it's the one thing needful to settle young Samson down.

Known in our house as "LL" or "La-La" (Samson's preferred term), this little lamb is the sine qua non of bedtime, naptime, and times of stress.

In good times, La-La gets ditched like yesterday's paper in favor of trucks, cars, cookies, the cat, and just about anything else that moves, rolls, crunches, or purrs.

But when the chips are down, it's La-La time.

At the recommendation of several friends, we realized that having only one La-La brought forth the very real possibility of a crisis should said lamb go missing. Unfortunately, the store we bought La-La in was out of stock. Not to fear, however, because Vicki is a champion web researcher and promptly had not one but two La-Las en route to our house.

And not a moment too soon, because La-La number 1 is looking pretty rough. It's actually crunchy in parts, and while it seems like it would be easy to remember to simply throw it into the wash, we only seem to remember its general nastiness just as he's reaching for it for comfort.

In any event, La-Las 2 and 3 arrived the other day, and I expected a scene similar to what his friend Oliver experienced upon seeing his ducky in duplicate. It was, as his Dad (official legal counsel of dada and all-around good guy) explained, nothing less than a rending in the time-space continuum.

Samson was far less Philip K. Dick about it; he grabbed all three in some kind of La-La bacchanal, but then segregated the clones from the original and went on his merry way.

That Vicki and I actually had a conversation last night about a plot to integrate one of the new La-Las into the rotation should give anyone without children some small insight into how things change with their arrival. Which is not to say that before Samson we would have been discussing the relative merits of European-style progressive socialism over the more market-oriented U.S. system of governance, but we would probably would not have had a 20-minute confab about cloth lamb clones while doing the dishes.

The ladies' man

Just got a call from Vicki, who is in the car with young Samson running errands. They were stopped at a light, when Vicki noticed a teenaged girl in the car next to them waving somewhat frantically.

Did she know this girl?

A neighbor? No.

A former student?

She ran through the list of white students she'd had from when she was a school counselor (roughly equivalent to the number of NHL players with all their own teeth).

No again.

She then began to scan the rearview mirror for signs of a door ajar or something that might be hanging out of the trunk.

Nothing.

At that point, and just before the light changed, she heard a "hiiiii" from behind her, and realized that the girl was waving at Sam, who was waving, smiling, and generally flirting from his little rear-facing throne.

The Ocean

We got a chance to take Samson to the beach a few days before Christmas. He had never seen the ocean before, and I would have given anything to know what he was thinking as he looked out across the water.

Having just that day finished my annual reading of Moby-Dick [a yearly Christmas gift I give myself], I guess I was feeling particularly philosophical. But there was an almost perfect Melvillean apposition of the blind, vast ocean --- rolling on as it has for millennia --- and the wondrous eyes of our 15-month-old squinting into the sun as the white caps stretched away to the horizon.

This nifty little reverie lasted all of a minute as young Samson put his hand to the ground, felt the cold, wet sand, and then proceeded to frantically try and rid his hands of this new (and unwelcome) substance. A moment later, we chased a seagull that had landed nearby and all was right with the world again.



Meditation and water are wedded for ever --- Herman Melville

Happy New Year!

Ok, so I'm a few days late. We spent New Year's Eve at our friends' house. In what was surely the last miracle of 2005, Samson managed to stay asleep until after the ball dropped and we woke him to head home.



This was not the case with his buddy, Jacob, who hung out until the bitter end. He was smiling and running around in circles and getting the most out of every last minute of 2005. (Note the time on the clock behind him and his mom).



Now before you start feeling badly for his parents, I should note that we got a call on New Year's Day that Jake slept until 10:30. Samson, for all his goodness about sleeping in a strange room, gifted us with an extra 45 minutes. Which meant we weren't up until 7:15 instead of his usual. Not that it wasn't appreciated, but I don't think he'd sleep an extra three hours even if we moved to Brazil.

We spent the extra day I had off cleaning/reorganizing the basement. Most of the work was done while Samson was in his little jail, alternately watching us and TV. It was not necessarily our proudest moment as parents, but it allowed us to clean up the laundry room area and get rid of enough stuff that the garbagemen probably wondered if we'd been evicted as they carted it all away this morning.

In any event, happy new year. Here's to health, happiness, and peace in 2006.

Worst...state...ever

We're back from our little vacation in NY, and while I don't have a lot of time to write right now, I did want to note that we had a great time and even managed to avoid the tie-ups associated with the NYC transit strike.

Unfortunately, what we couldn't avoid on the way home was Delaware. "Small wonder" indeed.

It took nearly two hours on Monday night for us to travel south on 95 through Delaware. For reference, that's 2 hours to travel about 30 miles. Once we crossed into Maryland, traffic again resumed cruising speed. Which prompted Vicki to mutter "*&@%**!!! Delaware"

Mercifully, Samson slept almost the entire trip [although at one point, during the half hour we spent trying to merge from the rest stop back onto 95, we saw his little head pop up and heard "BUSSSSSSSSSS"]

Now, I'm sure there are lots of people out there with good things to say about Delaware --- beaches and tax-free shopping, and oh the skyline of Dover in springtime.

And I realize the state is more than the small (and costly) stretch of 95 I travel heading north or heading home.

Even so, if Delaware was a kid, his name would be Kyle.

Christmas break

Taking a break to visit the family in New York. I'll be back online some time next week.

Time to ditch the shirt and tie and enjoy some time off...

Don't believe the hype

Sure, in the movie "Barbershop," everybody has a good time. Joking and laughing and sharing some life lessons along the way.

In real life, at our neighborhood barbershop, there are no life lessons being shared. There's no playful playing of the dozens, or witty repartee between old-school razormen and young new jacks on the make. Just some faded wood paneling, a weird pastel crayon portrait of Nancy Reagan, a few old copies of Field & Stream, and one really unhappy 15-month-old.

Ice Cube: you sir, sit in an adjustable revolving faux-leather chair of lies...

I took Samson for his second haircut today; we hadn't even passed the rotating barber pole meridian when he started to protest. Loudly. He was already crying while I was taking his jacket off, and by the time we settled into the chair, he was screaming.

A lot.

Mr. Garry (two "R's" for some reason) was a pro, however, and managed not only to give Sam a really nice haircut, but to keep his cool the whole time.

No idea why this child gets so agitated about haircuts.

And yes, we did get the Samson joke today. Hilarious. You know, Samson also killed a thousand Philistines with the jawbone of a donkey, but nobody ever brings that up.

Actually, this might be a good thing. (The world is full of Philistines; no sense in making them mad.)

Anyhow, if I'd paid closer attention in Dr. Keener's 17th- and 18th-century British literature class years ago, I could probably make some clever reference to Alexander Pope's "Rape of the Lock."

Sadly, I did not, so insert your own erudite joke about haircuts here.

An unfortunate series of events

Bath time in our house is a time of great excitement. Get Samson anywhere near the bathroom at the end of the day and he starts crying out "bath, bath" with a look of pure joy on his little face.

I give all credit to the swimming classes that Vicki and Samson have taken, because he is not only unafraid to have water on his face, but he actively seeks out putting his face in the water to blow bubbles. Lately, he's been lying down on his belly in the tub and kicking his legs like Miss Annie has shown them in class.

He loves splashing around and particularly enjoys knocking the various shampoo bottles lined up on the tub perimeter into the bath/onto the floor. All of which is to say that young Samson is pretty relaxed in the tub. It is also to say that I was not immediately able to put things together in my mind last night when he made a face I knew I recognized. A nanosecond later, there was poo in the tub.

Luckily, we were at the end of the bath, and so I scooped him up deftly and handed him to Vicki --- who by this point had sprinted into the bathroom after hearing my cries of alarm.

As I was handing him over to his mother and a waiting, warm towel, I pulled the bath plug. In retrospect, not a good idea --- poo moves fast, and I only managed to get two of the three bath time interlopers.

Yes, by hand. And yes, Vicki was completely grossed out, but as the tub was draining (my fault), I was not about to begin casting about for suggestions on what we could use to "skim" the tub. Monday-morning quarterback this all you want, but in the absense of a Zapruder film, I'm sticking by my actions.

[Sidenote: in high school, we had a chemistry sub who had been in the Peace Corps in Africa. How she went from that meaningful task to teaching a bunch of snot-nosed suburban kids on a part-time basis, I never found out. She was a somewhat regular sub in the school, however, and word got around from a biology class that during her time in Mozambique (or Malawi, I can't remember and probably couldn't have found either on a map at age 15) she had attended a birth that occurred far more rapidly than anticipated. Long story short, there was nothing with which to cut the mother's umbilical cord, and in a bid to preserve the health of mother and child, she bit through it. Gripping stuff, and I think now of what brilliant instincts this woman had to simply jump in and do what needed to be done. This was not, however, what we thought in Mr. Kohler's 3rd period chem class, and I can remember asking if she had really done something so gross. To which she responded, putting me (rightly) in my place: "what would you have done? Let the baby die?" Suitably chastened, I'm sure I mumbled something exculpatory and then spent the rest of class concentrating on balancing chemical equations.]

All of which is to say, I too did what needed to be done. However, my actions were neither heroic, nor (sadly) completely effective.

And yes, they were gross. Also, we now need to go buy a plumber's snake because the tub is not draining properly.

So there you have it. Poo in tub: 1 Dada: 0.

Crafty

The boys were at our house yesterday making handprint Christmas trees and sugar cookies.

You'll note that Oliver is a neat baker, and Jake is a messy one.

While Samson skips the baking all together and just eats the dough...

Good times.

Giant steps

Guard your Christmas trees! Samson James is walking. Now don't get too excited. He's not strolling around the house or taking leisurely turns around the coffee table yet. But he's taking eight or 10 consecutive steps and relying less and less on finding things to hold on to. And while he looks sort of like an unfrozen caveman, he's our little unfrozen caveman, so it's just fine.

We had his 15-month checkup yesterday, and slim Sam is finally 20 lbs. I was starting to wonder if we'd be packing him off to college in his carseat, facing backwards.

He also, and we found this out before the checkup, is apparently one of those kids who gets nosebleeds. I went in to get him from his crib yesterday morning, to find my smiling son with a Hitler mustache of crusted, dried blood and spots of dried blood on his crib sheets and lovey lamb.

Needless to say, this was not the greatest way to start the morning. Vicki and I remained calm, reasoning that it was probably owing to his headcold and the fact that we hadn't run the vaporizer in his room the night before. He seemed completely unfazed about having one of the four humours all over his face. And indeed, the pediatrician noted that one of his children has a similar thing happen when he's got a bad headcold.

Even so, he might as well have had Helter Skelter written on the walls for the way it made my heart leap into my throat.

When we first found out that Vicki was pregnant, I can remember the doctor showing us on the ultrasound the tiny little blinking light that was Sam's heart. Vicki saw it, and the doctor wanted to make sure I saw it too, but I couldn't seem to find it and told the doctor it was ok and that I believed him.

He turned to me, with all seriousness, and said "Look again. That little heartbeat is going to keep you up nights for the rest of your life."

A good doctor and wise man.

Yet more gratuitous Samson pics

Above are photos of Samson and his friend, Ryan, playing in the snow early last week.

Below: a photo that is sure to embarrass both Sam and his buddy, Jake. We had pizza at Jake's house Friday night; while Jake's Dad and I were out getting beer and pizza, the moms decided to bathe the little guys. I'm already looking forward to meeting Sam's prom date and showing her this...

Excuse me

I blame myself for this; I really do. Samson, when he burps, laughs and says "whoa."

I should explain. He's still probably teetering at the 20-lb. mark, but for some reason, when he burps it's like we have John Madden sitting in the highchair. [Note to Mr. Madden: I'm sure you're a nice guy, but I had to guess at which large celebrity would be a loud burper and you were top of mind. All apologies].

Now, all along, I should have been gently reminding him (as I have of late) "Samson, say 'excuse me.'" But, and it caught me totally unaware the first time I heard him say it, I guess I've been voicing my surprise/wonder/admiration lo these many months.

Hence the big burp and little voice that says "whoa."

We'll have to work on this before he goes to school. There was a kid in my elementary school who could burp the alphabet. Loudly. He was like a rock star. Unfortunately, he was still doing it in high school (and may still be doing it now as he finishes out his sentence for assault --- I wish I was kidding about that last part).

The Perception of Doors

I have class on Wednesday nights, so I don't usually get home until 8 or 8:30. Most Wednesdays, I'm able to resist the temptation to look in on Samson for fear of waking him up. If I've learned anything in 15 months, it's this: "You don't wake a sleeping baby."

Can you guess what happened tonight? In my defense, he seems to have caught my head cold, and he just sounded so full of pathos (not to mention snot) wheezing away in there that I had to go in and check on him.

Sure enough, my eyes had barely adjusted to the light when up he popped. Apparently the vaporizer, in addition to helping him breathe, gives him crazy hair. He looked like a little blonde Tina Turner in feety PJs. I actually thought about trying to get a picture, but it seemed like waking him out of a sound sleep was enough for one night.

So there we are, Sam with his head on my shoulder and me, rasping out songs in my best stuffy head/trying to be quiet Tom Waits voice, when he sees the door. Suddenly, and unsurprisingly, all bets are off. He cries "doh, doh, doh" until I open it and we walk through, both of us blinking in the light of the hallway. We went through our nightly routine of saying goodnight to all the rooms and turning out the lights and got settled back in his room, where I spent the next hour trying to rock him back to sleep. Poor little guy. [Selfishly, I liked the extra time with him, but I'm sure he'd have been better served by simply sleeping without interruption.]

A footnote: Since Samson is still not walking, he likes to be picked up and carried around. This preference, coupled with this daily increasing vocabulary, makes me feel a little like the Blaster half of the Mad Max duo Master Blaster. He points a direction and issues a command, and I carry it out expeditiously. With a deal like this, why walk?

Busy, busy, busy

Got some additional photos yesterday from Thanksgiving. Samson and Lucas spent a good deal of time being very busy --- taking things out of boxes, putting them in other boxes, and generally rearranging things. Seriously, they spent Rainman amounts of time sorting crayons.

And of course, we all sat around watching them like it was a show. Every once in a while (see below), one of them would notice and give us a little shout-out, but for the most part, it was all busy-ness...

From father to son

When we moved into our house a few years ago, my parents had a kind of fire sale, delivering all of my old junk here with such urgency you'd have thought they were taking in boarders. It all went immediately from their basement to our attic. Which, to be honest, makes sense. What were they going to do with all my Star Wars figures? Now that I have ready access to said figures, what will I do?

Two words: Nativity scene.

[I don't have the photo anymore, but my roommate and I actually did this in our senior year of college. You'd be surprised at how many people find Yoda in swaddling clothes offensive. And you don't want to get them started on Greedo as one of the three kings.]

For some reason, among the boxes of ornaments was a box full of my old Matchbox cars. These are old school, die-cast, late 1970s (probably running on leaded gasoline) cars --- the real deal. Samson is just starting to appreciate the joy of rolling tiny cars across wooden floors, and it was really fun to watch him wrap his little hands around my old cars and send them flying across the floor.

There is apparently some kind of trans-house, inter-floor road rally going on, because in just two days time, we now have Matchbox cars in every room and on all floors. It's pretty cool (we have races at breakfast).

Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I should note that there are some Hot Wheels in the collection, but I was always more of a Matchbox guy myself. I always felt like it was kind of a Beatles vs. Stones thing.

Trees: lit, cut, and otherwise observed

So we missed the actual "lighting of the tree" part of Friday night's tree lighting, but we had fun anyway. And besides it was at least marginally warmer in the pizza place where we had dinner beforehand.

Poor Sam and his friend, O, had probably had it with us by the end of the night, which came about 45 minutes after the start of the night. Cold, tired, and (probably still) hungry is no way to spend a night out. Add to that the din of chainsaws from the Christmas tree sale, and it's not exactly good times for the 14-month-old crowd.

Even so, it was nice to be out on a Friday night, even if it was Siberia cold, and to smell the freshly cut trees and drink some hot coffee drinks.

We went yesterday to get our tree, and if I hadn't picked up on it on Friday night, Samson was kind enough to point out again his discomfort with the sound of a chainsaw. I was holding him as the guy made a fresh cut on our tree, and Sam's little body started to quake from the soles of his feet on up --- sort of like that guy in the "Beat It" video.

Poor little guy; once the saw stopped --- and with the not unwelcome distraction of a bus heading downtown--- he was fine. We got the tree tied to the car's roof rack and made it home without further incident. [Not that it was on anyone's short list for young Samson, but just in case: this is definitely not the way to go this year.]

Vicki and I sat up last night decorating it and trying our best to keep the holiday music station on --- does anyone honestly hear Barry Manilow's "Jingle Bells" and think "At last, now I'm in the Christmas mood."

And is there a soul alive who hears "Frosty the Snowman" by The Ronettes and doesn't picture all the Goodfellas guys from the airport heist getting whacked shortly after Christmas?

I'm not trying to be a grinch here, but really...

Feed the world

Now that we've traumatized our child with a compulsory visit to a large bearded stranger in a red felt leisure suit, I guess the Christmas season is officially upon us.

I heard the "Do They Know It's Christmas?" for the first time this year in the car this morning. There's something about that song that takes me back to childhood and the first time I got some inkling of suffering in the world.

Never mind that the famine was engineered by a murderous Ethiopian government, made worse by U.S. policies aimed at strangling the Marxist regime, and that of course they knew it was Christmas --- Ethiopia was a Christian nation hundreds of years before parts of Europe were. The song still moves me.

It's kind of a time capsule, and I bet there aren't a lot of people in the much-hyped and so-called slacker generation who don't feel a little twinge of something when they hear the song. At least the first time they hear it each season. By time 50, it ranks up there with that staple of Christmas store tapes, "Christmas Wrapping."

Anyway, it's a catchy song and a sentiment that needs attention all year, not just between Thanksgiving and Boxing Day [shameless bid to appeal to the one Canadian reader I have].

Tonight is the Christmas tree lighting at our church, so if we can keep Samson up past his bedtime without turning into a bear and keep him warm enough to stand outside for a bit [we are scheduled for light snow this weekend], it should be really nice.

We'll go and get our tree tomorrow, and I can only imagine what decorating it will be like. Last year, I had him on my shoulder, sleeping, as I put the star atop the tree. This year will probably not work like that...

Santa: bringer of fear

We took Samson to the mall tonight to get his picture taken with Santa. Yikes!

We might as well have tried to sit him on Darth Vader's lap. He started almost immediately with a quivering lip as I tried to hand him over to jolly old St. Nick --- who, truth be told, looked less like Santa and more like an unholy combination of this guy and these guys.

I mean, I get that Santa's supposed to be "husky" [side note: even now the sting of that term haunts me; damn you J.C. Penney's Boys' Section; damn you to hell].

Sorry, where was I? Oh yeah, I mean, I understand that Santa is a big guy, but this Santa looked like a mudslide with a beard. He was leaned way back in the chair and nearly immobile --- it looked like they poured him into the seat at the beginning of the day and then poured him back out at quitting time.

I think it was the sheer breadth of this man that scared Sam, not the Jerry Garcia hair, beard, and glasses.

In any event, Santa suggested that Vicki and I sit on either side of him to make Samson feel more comfortable and allow for the picture to be taken. And here I have to say that in a side-by-side comparison, the patience of shopping mall Santas would make Job seem like a whiner. [There's a sociology dissertation in that topic somewhere, I just know it.]

Now, I'll be honest, I like having my picture taken less than some South American Indian tribes, but I duly sat by Santa's side, and we got our photo. This is not, I should add, an act worthy of praise or admiration. I didn't see the terror in young Samson's eyes and decide to fix things by sitting in on the little photo shoot. Nothing of the kind: I did it because Vicki threatened me, and I'm afraid of her.

The photo actually came out pretty well, although if you look closely, behind Samson's smile is the tiniest hint of unease. Sort of like the look on schoolkids' faces when Gov. Schwarzenegger visits their class.

At least the evening ended on a positive note: We looked at the massive train set that was set up in the middle of the mall [and successfully dodged an onslaught of Hannas, Caitlyns, Conors, and Joshes, who were all three times Samson's size and racing for the toy train with the same intensity as morning commuters] and then picked up some chicken and fried yucca for dinner on the way home.

Any day that ends with yucca is a good day in my book.

Death of the cool

Slowly but surely, I am crossing over to talking like a Dad even when I'm not talking to Samson. Not in a do-your-homework-and-clean-up-your-room sort of way, though.

This is more like the who-wants-a-cookie? voice.

I have a colleague who has three kids, and I always tease him for explaining everything in such deliberate terms that it sounds as if he's talking to a 10-year-old. Want to guess how old his oldest child is?

I was walking with said colleague today, and a garbage truck passed us on the street.

Like some kind of Pavlovian freak, I raised my hand to point out the truck.

Luckily, I caught myself before saying something like: "Do you see that truck there? Oh, my goodness, it's a garbage truck! Can you wave to the men on the back of the truck? Good job, buddy."

I mean, it's not like I was Miles Davis before Sam was born, but this is just sad...

More gratuitous Samson pics

Some shots from Sam's Aunt Mo's house in Connecticut.

Where the middle "C" is silent

We left Woodstock on Friday for my sister's in Connecticut. The trip was easy enough, and I sat in back with Samson to help keep him occupied (and serve as a sunblocker because I broke the little shade in a fit of pique when it wouldn't retract properly, thereby leaving no question as to where young Samson gets his temper [or predilection for throwing things] from).

Sam got to take the inaugural bath in Aunt Mo and Uncle Greg's newly remodeled bathroom, and we had a nice quiet Friday night with Chinese food and a movie and Samson sleeping soundly by seven [how's that for alliteration?].

Kind of a nice break after the crowds at Thanksgiving. It really was great to see everyone, but all the attention and stimulation had Samson spinning like a top at the end of the day.

On Saturday we went to Duchess for lunch [trust me, the Big D cheeseburger is the way to go] and then to the nicest library on the planet. Their kids' section is bigger than our house, and it is probably nicer than half of the children's museums we've been to (it is certainly nicer than our house).

In keeping with our track record at the library, disaster struck. Maybe it was the Duchess, or perhaps some cosmic confluence of post-Thanksgiving dining and too many snacky things, but Samson took the mother of all poos in the "Little Farm" section of the kids area.

Little Farm, indeed.

Sadly, and I'm amazed that this hasn't happened before, neither of us checked the diaper bag before leaving the house, and so in actuality, the bag was a lie. No diapers. Just bag. Lots of snacks, two wallets, two cell phones, a sippy cup, a fleet of matchbox cars, and other assorted toys/distractions, but nary a diaper or wipe to be found. I felt a little like Richard III, except with Huggies, not horses.

Vicki and my sister headed out on foot to the nearest pharmacy [there were no other kids of similar size to Samson from whose parents we could "borrow" a diaper], while Greg and I played with King Stinky.

I'm not sure if the various people who crossed our path as we played thought that Sam had "two daddies" or were considering reporting us for child abuse because of Samson's Bhopal-like sillage, but just about everybody gave us a wide berth during those 20 or so minutes before the cavalry arrived and we could change the little man.

Interestingly enough, he was totally unfazed by the whole thing.

Which is either really Zen or really gross. I'm just not sure which.

On the bus

Sometime around the middle of last week, Samson started saying "bus." But he doesn't just say it, he cries it out from the depths of his soul. He's like a little Paul Revere warning his countrymen of an impending British attack. Except it's just Vicki and me. And buses on our street.

The last letter gets extra emphasis and sibilance so that what you hear is more like "BUSSSSSSS."

Of course he can't say "truck," so basically anything bigger than our Subaru gets tagged with the bus moniker. You can imagine how often we heard this from the backseat while traveling on I-95. Strangely enough, it never gets old.

We drove home on Saturday night, figuring that he could sleep the whole way since we'd be on the road in the dark and during his normal bedtime hours.

Somewhere in southern Connecticut, we passed a bus depot. Thank God Sam was sleeping or he might have exploded.

Early snow

On Thursday morning, we awoke to find three inches of snow on the ground. I don't know that Samson had any idea what was going on, but he definitely got caught up in how excited his mom and I were at the sight of snow. And then we remembered: We have not yet bought him snow boots. Or mittens. The mittens was a total oversight, and I take full responsibility. As for the boots, he's not walking yet, so we thought we could wait a bit.

I mean, it's not like we'd planned a snowshoeing trek and forgotten his boots.

In any event, we were able to borrow mittens (thank you, Lucas). And Vicki improvised with some plastic bags and rubber bands over his snow pants. Hardly the stuff of Norman Rockwell prints or L.L. Bean catalogue shots, but effective nonetheless.

As it turned out, he was much too happy in his cousin Lucas' sled to want to even try walking in the snow. You can't see from this picture, but he's smiling.


Uncle Greg tried to get Sam to taste some snow, but he was more interested in the plow coming up the road.

Truckin'

We hit the road tomorrow morning for the annual feast and family get-together in Woodstock, NY.

Always a crowd at the table, and always a great time. Except for the brown acid.

This will be Samson's first trip to Woodstock as we were at my sister's in Connecticut last year. It's good to get back to the tradition, and I know Samson will have fun with his cousin Lucas.

There are few things as entertaining as watching two toddlers play around each other. The degree of busy-ness is unparalleled; they're like little beavers --- minus the engineering skills.

The blog has been light on photos lately, so I'll try to get some pics to post after the holiday.

What would Michael Landon do?

When the time comes, I fear we may need to send Samson to school with two lunches and double milk money. He's like a magnet for toddler bullies. At Madelyn's party, I had noticed that while Samson was playing with some Sesame Street toy, a particular little girl was watching and waiting for the right moment to move in. You know how on those National Geographic specials, when you get that bucolic image of a zebra peacefully munching some grass and then the camera pans and you see a lion standing by patiently? It was sort of like that, except the zebra was wearing overalls and the lion was in a princess dress. Anyway, she made quick work of Samson, despite my best, measured Dad voice saying: "Can you both play with that toy? Can you share that with him?" Clearly she could not.

There's not much you can do in those situations --- especially when it's a kid you don't know. Because this little girl was Hitler-youth blonde and had icy blue eyes, I was reminded of Nellie Olsen. [Side note: I spent hours as a kid being forced to watch Little House on the Prairie; it didn't quite rise to the level of the Ludavico technique, but it has obviously had some lasting (and possibly unintended) consequences.]

In any event, I thought about how Pa would always counsel his kids to be good and kind and not fight with the Olsen kids, because even though they (the Ingalls) were just poor farmers and couldn't afford fancy calico clothes or vacations in Mancato, they still had dignity and were good, God-fearing people.

[Second side note: I have always been slightly suspicious of kids who are too blonde and blue-eyed. And no this is not an ironic statement. For the record, we are strawberry blondes in our house, and Samson's eyes are cerulean].

In any event, I maneuvered Samson away from Nellie in search of toys she didn't want to play/hit my child with. And I thought about how funny it is that parenthood gives one such a personal stake in interactions between kids that they themselves probably remember for only a few seconds and then totally forget. I also thought of the wisdom of Pa Ingalls in trying to keep his family above the fray.

Later on, when Samson was playing in the basement, he was standing and holding on to a keyboard toy Nellie was seated at and playing with. He wasn't trying to touch the toy or take over, he just needs something to hold onto for support while standing. I stood off to the side and watched Samson smile at her. And then I watched Nellie look at him and put her hand to his little shoulder and give him a good, hard shove.

He made his way over to me, not happy but not in tears. I picked him up and walked back over to the toy and Nellie. And I thought "What would Michael Landon do?"

So I leaned down and said, in my best Dad voice: "You know you really should share that toy. He wasn't trying to take it from you; he's just not as big as you are, and he needs help to stand up. Also, Santa's dead."

Ok, I didn't really say that last part.

At least, as far as you know.

Side effects may include...

Samson is on a course of Motrin and amoxicillin for his ear infection. So far, so good. Sleeping just fine; back to his old chipper self.

We were at Samson's friend Madelyn's 2nd birthday party on Saturday. They live about an hour and a half away, and we figured it would be a good test run for the Thanksgiving trip to NY later this week. He slept most of the way, which was great, and awoke ready to play with the legion of toddlers assembled to honor Madelyn.

He was having a grand old time, although I can tell that the no-walking thing is starting to frustrate him --- especially in a room full of "big kids," all of whom can walk. I took him upstairs to change his diaper and noticed a big pink spot. Now I am not one of those dads with hard and fast rules on pink and boys, but pink in the diaper, regardless of gender, is never a good thing.

So we called his pediatrician, who indicated that indeed, discolored pee can be a side effect of either motrin or amoxicillin. Why this wouldn't be on the label, I can't imagine.

Pills designed to help you sleep come with warnings not to take them before driving or operating heavy machinery, but medicine for infants that could make them pee in Wonka colors somehow doesn't merit a line?

Weird.

Up all night

Work has been busy; I had a paper due; I had a fractured molar that needed a crown (and required several visits to the dentist); and Samson has an ear infection.

Just wanted to get that all out there as a way of letting you know I haven't forgotten the blog; I just haven't had much time.

First things first: our usual Monday night trip to the library was totally uneventful until we got to the parking gate and I realized I had no cash in my wallet. The fee was 75 cents, and I had 35 in the ashtray of the car. The attendant gave me one of those "I can't help you" looks, and so I backed up the car, parked, got Samson back out of his carseat, and walked a few blocks to a 7-Eleven to use the ATM.

Mind you, it was a nice night out [this was before the cold front moved in], and it was totally my fault for not checking my wallet before using the library's garage. That said, did the guy in the booth really think I was trying to game him out of 40 cents? He probably that in coins on the floor of the booth. Not to mention the fact that he had to break a twenty, and I probably cleaned him out of all of his small bills. The moral of the story, of course, is this: park on the street. Also, the library may lend you its books, but make no mistake, parking is not free.

Truthfully, Samson and I kind of enjoyed the additional adventure; he was pretty mesmerized by the whirling slurpee machine.

Fast forward to the end of the week. The night before last, Samson woke up at 3:30 or so and was crying and totally listless. He couldn't get settled, and when Vicki brought him into bed with us he just lay on her like a little rag doll. Totally out of character.

Last night, he was running a fever and woke up at 2. He hadn't eaten much, and we thought, in addition to some Tylenol, we'd give him some food. So off we go to the kitchen at 2:30, and of course, he totally perks up. Not just eating but naming and taking inventory of everything in the kitchen ---the clock, apples, my nose, the tea kettle...

A long time ago, I read Bruce Chatwin's book the Songlines, which chronicles his walk across the Australian Outback following the ancient Aboriginal dreaming tracks. In the Aboriginal creation myth, in the dreamtime the ancestors walked across the land and sang the things they saw, thereby bringing them into being. I don't completely get it either, but Samson was in total Aboriginal mode last night, which was actually really sweet.

In any event, Vicki took him to the doctor this morning, and indeed the cold he was getting over has turned into an ear infection. So he'll need some rest and have to take some antibiotics, but he should be right as rain in a few days.

I'm glad we got the diagnosis. For one, because it breaks my heart to see him hurting. Also, given his behavior lately --- alternately crying and happy, withdrawn and clingy, hungry and fasting, obsessed with the phone and uninterested in communicating with us --- I was afraid he'd become possessed by the spirit of a teenage girl.

I'm really glad it's not that.

And yes, I've probably just pushed some karmic envelope that guarantees no more XY chromosome carriers born into our house, but it's good to know he's ok and on the mend.

Saturday in the park with Sam

Way better than Sunday in the park with George. Trust me.

There was an arts festival at Quiet Waters State Park yesterday, and we got to hear some music and check out some local artists' work. The park extends down to the South River, so we were able to take Samson down there to look at the sailboats and, in what would be the highlight of his day, climb the hill that overlooks the dog beach.

Mind you, he still can't walk on his own, but something about this hill made him want to climb. And climb. And climb again. He would get to the top and simply turn around and start back down, walking in a kind of Mr. Magoo-like frenzy until we reached the trail's edge --- at which point he probably would have kept right on walking into the river had Vicki or I not been holding his hands.

Today we figured that it might be a good idea, since he's really starting to want to walk, to get him a real pair of shoes. Those Robeez are cute and all, but they're more like slippers than shoes. Slippers with dumptrucks on them, sure, but still no hard sole. So we went today and learned that young Samson has a wide foot. This news came just moments after I wondered aloud why a kids' store would stock wide sizes, as noted on their display. Apparently our little guy has Fred Flintstone feet.

In any event, he's now got these cool brown boots, size 3 1/2. Wide.

He's also got a new game to play while in his carseat. We'll have to start double-knotting.

ps: I almost forgot: It never got above 55 degrees yesterday, and while we were with Samson and enjoying his forced march, there were only a few dogs playing in the water.

There was also a kid, probably nine years old, who was soaked from jumping into the water after these dogs --- none of whom, it turned out, were his.

When the beach emptied of its canine cohort, just this kid and his dad and sister were left, and I heard the Dad say, "C'mon Kyle, you're soaked. Let's head back to the car and get you warmed up."

Vicki doesn't believe me, but I know what I heard.

Coffee shops vs toddlers

Thought I'd pass this along. I'm not sure what to think about the article [you'll need to complete free registration at NYTimes.com to read it], but it's worth reading.

On the one hand, I agree with the business owners and patrons who are frustrated by parents who seem to feel that the price of coffee and a muffin entitles them to community daycare (i.e., Here's my ill-mannered progeny, mind watching him while I drink this latte and read the paper? I'll be in the back). Even worse, in my mind, are the sit-down correcters --- those parents who call in plays from the sidelines rather than actually getting up from their coffee and paper to stop their child from kindling a small fire near the magazine rack.

On the other hand, some of the incidents recounted in the piece, particularly the one from the self-described feminist bookstore that asked a breastfeeding mother to leave, seem to defy both belief and common-sense.

Of course it's no fun to have to listen to a toddler crying while you drink your coffee. But it's also no fun to have to listen to some middle management investment banker master-of-the-universe-type declaim how drunk he was the night before on his cell phone. However, nobody seems to be putting up signs about this.

I worked for a while at a coffee bar, which is a great spot for observing the human condition. Among the more pernicious effects of the show Friends --- aside from the apparent nosferatu nature of the Joey character [this guy has been on TV almost as long as Cronkite at this point] --- would have to be the idea that coffee shops are places to spend a whole day.

In the world of television, this is pretty benign because it means a bunch of telegenic twenty-somethings hanging out and essentially extending dorm life into the "real world."

In the actual "real world," as anyone who has ever worn an apron and made espresso drinks for 8-hour shifts can tell you, what this translates to is a kind of day camp for the socially retarded, who come, spend $1.50 on coffee, dismantle the entire Sunday Times without purchasing it, and generally prove Newton's first law.

I'll take unruly toddlers over these people any day.

Science!

I spent half of my day yesterday at the dentist re-enacting scenes from Marathon Man (actually, not really, my dentist is very nice, but she still managed to leave me in a good deal of pain for the next 12 hours).

I got back to the office only to find that my parking lot was full, which left me on my own to find parking on the street. Frustrating, to say the least. Not to mention the fact that there are a dozen or so spots that remain empty and reserved for God knows who. I pointed this out to the parking lot attendant, but, as I learned, it's extremely difficult to convey sarcasm when half of your face is paralyzed by novocaine.

In any event, Samson continues to produce enough snot to merit his own Garbage Pail Kid card, but he is otherwise doing just fine. Yesterday he and his crew went to the Science Center. I haven't had much time to write lately, so I wanted to at least post some photos from their little field trip.

And yes, I'm jealous. The most interesting thing that happened at my office yesterday was a fire drill. Don't get me wrong, it was nice to be outside in the autumn sunshine, but I would much rather have been playing in the water tables with Sam and co.

The song (unfortunately) remains the same

Samson has some kind of stomach bug. Poor little guy; I came home to find him curled up on Vicki looking absolutely pathetic. And yet, despite his low-grade fever and general malaise, he still felt compelled to point out the cat to me and gravely intone: "tatt." Even when he's not sick, he's not even close to walking. I think he's focusing all of his energy on acting as our in-house narrator.

Vicki has class on Monday nights, and I knew Samson was pretty much ready for bed by 5:30, so we went into his room to read some books and sing a few songs. He's pretty good about sitting still and reading, but there are times when only a song seems to have the power to calm him down. Especially when he is overtired or sick. Then, nothing seems to settle him like a good refrain of the "Down by the station" song. Unfortunately, it's a two-verse song, which means that on a night like this, I could conceivably sing it over 100 times. Which, especially when he's not feeling well, is the least I can do. And he has started singing along during the "puff, puff, toot, toot" part. I wish you could hear his little voice and see the look on his face as he waits for the line to come around. Absolutely priceless.

Even so, as I was singing to him, I was thinking tonight of an interview I'd heard with Robert Plant and Jimmy Page. They were talking about how they'd stand backstage before a show and try to convince each other to play "Stairway to Heaven" reggae-style just to mix things up a bit.

They never did, of course.

And a reggae-version of "Down by the station" is just too ridiculous to even consider, but I think you understand what I'm saying.

Advice from the homefront

File this under "found art." I got an e-mail from Vicki this morning with the subject line: Advice.

Samson pooped.
A lot.
We are unexpectedly out of wipes.
Toilet paper doesn't work well on sticky poo stuck to bottom.
Spit doesn't moisten toilet paper enough.
Antibacterial gel makes his bottom cold.
Aquaphor makes his bottom sticky.
Holding him over the sink half-naked to wash him clean makes both of us
very unhappy.

Advice: don't ever run out of wipes.

Lexicon

Samson has added a new word to his repertoire: baby.

This is probably the first word that doesn't require being related to him to interpret, and as you can imagine, we're very proud. It is hilarious to watch him, as I did last night, point to a child who is roughly his age, give a kind of sideways wave, and proclaim "bay-bee."

Guys night out

Vicki is a little under the weather, so I skipped class tonight to come home and help out. What she really needed was some rest, so Samson and I went out to eat. It was awesome; we had Chipotle, and miracle of miracles, no food ended up on the floor. Maybe we just need to eat all our meals there. I bet Uncle Greg would join us...

I want very much to teach my son to be kind, to be compassionate and patient. I bring this up because the woman in front of us on line, when placing her order, was offered a choice of pinto or black beans, and she asked which ones were which. The guy behind the counter, to his credit, simply pointed to the pintos, identified them as such, and then pointed to the black beans and did likewise. Now, I know that pinto is not among Crayola's chosen 64, but it seems like the black bean identification would be somewhat intuitive.

In any event, I resisted the temptation to be "helpful," for Samson's sake, so high fives all around. What do I mean by helpful, you ask?

When I was still working downtown, I got in an elevator one evening and pressed the button for the first floor. On the next floor, someone I didn't know got in and pressed the same button (which was already lit from my having pressed it) several times. He did so after a stop on the next floor, when nobody got on, and the door had closed again. I offered --- helpfully I thought --- this observation: "that button doesn't get any brighter." No response, but a half-scowl for my elevator tip.

I think it's worth noting that my father's joy at becoming a grandfather was probably matched only by the prospect of watching the karmic wise guy wheel begin a new revolution.

Halloween recap

I convinced Vicki to cut her class last night so we could take Samson trick-or-treating with his friends Jake and O, the giraffe and frog, respectively. Our little plush menagerie hit all of three houses before the boys collectively gave up, but I think given the circumstances (time change, strangers in their faces, not being able to eat what they got), we did just fine.

Poor Samson is probably glad to see Halloween come and go; he's worn that lion costume more than he's worn some of his pajamas at this point.

And the fact that he hated wearing the lion headpiece might actually be a blessing in disguise. His feline headgear antipathy might just save us a voice mail like this in the future: "Hi Mom and Dad. Just wanted to call with some good news: I've gotten the lead in a dinner theater revival of Cats! I'm Rum-Tum-Tugger. Isn't that fantastic? I'll send you guys comp tickets once we're out of rehearsal. Also, when you come you should try the prime rib --- it's very good."