Summertime and the living is easy...

Samson celebrated the first official day of summer at his friend Christopher's house, where the guys swam, snacked, and apparently knocked back quite a few apple juices.


Not exactly the Swimmer, but I bet if Cheever had written children's books, they'd have ended something like this...

The only thing we have to fear...

For those of you keeping score at home, Samson has found a new thing to be afraid of.

In addition to religious icons and birdhouses [did I mention he's afraid of birdhouses?], he's also afraid of mannequins.

Especially the ones with no heads in the children's section of Old Navy.

To be perfectly honest, I think he's got a point. It's pretty creepy to see a headless, toddler-sized humanoid in overalls and a ringer tee. In an action pose, no less.

[Sidenote: as a kid of 11 or 12, I was obsessed with "rearranging" the mannequins on those seemingly interminable trips to J.C. Penney with my family. While my parents browsed for school clothes for me and my sister, I switched hands, pulled wigs, etc. Which leads me, today, to question what kind of security that store had, since I was never caught. And for some reason, a bald, left/right-switched mannequin, arms akimbo, still kind of cracks me up.]

As with Samson's other fears, this one poses no particular life-altering threat. I mean, it sort of complicates the obvious, liberal arts degree-retail fallback option (a proud legacy both his parents carried on during and after college).

And I'd bet his mother, as a dyed-in-the-wool Andrew McCarthy fan is probably a little sad. [Sorry, Vicki, your secret is out.]

But I think, otherwise, he'll be just fine.

Sam on the Isle of Sodor

For Father's Day, Vicki got us tickets to see Thomas at the Strasburg Railroad.

I'm not sure how I can best describe the scene. Remember in Highlander, when the "gathering" takes place and the immortals converge on New York City...

It was sort of like that, except without swords (and music from Queen) and with hundreds upon hundreds of little boys (and some girls) decked out in conductor's hats and blowing train whistles.

Did I mention it hit 94 degrees yesterday? That lent the whole thing a nice pilgrims-headed-toward-the-Ganges kind of feel (and smell).

Hordes of sweaty kids, their parents, and a caravan of strollers all stumbling forward in the heat to see the big blue train with the fixed smile on his face. The juice box to person ratio must have been seven to one. If you don't have kids, this probably sounds dreadful. Heck, even if you do, it might. But it was actually a lot of fun.

The look on Samson's face as he saw Thomas approaching made the whole thing worth it. His eyes got really wide and a smile spread slowly across his face; you could practically hear the little synapses firing away in his head, sounding the alarm, "Thomas! Thomas! Thomas! Life-sized! Coming closer! Thomas!"

I'm not sure how into the actual train ride he was, but we did get to see some of the surrounding area's farms and livestock. Cows and horses were duly noted.

And at one of the crossings, there were three Amish kids sitting in the grass waving and looking like they'd jumped right from Dorothea Lange's viewfinder.

Since we didn't get to spend the day with my Dad, who was visiting my sister for the afternoon, we called as we were on our way to Thomas-palooza.

I should preface by saying that we were on a cell phone and that my Dad's hearing is not as good as it once was. And since he'll be 80 in October, we should probably give him a break.

Anyway, after wishing him a happy Father's day, I told him our plans for the day and heard him relay to my mother: "It's your son. They're taking the baby for a ride on the hummus train. That sounds great."

At which point I could hear my sister laughing and correcting him. Unfazed, my Dad said, "Oh, Thomas, that makes sense. Hummus is that stuff you put on crackers, right?"

What's remarkable about this is not that my Dad thought we were taking Samson on a train made of chick-peas and tahini but that he was so unconditionally supportive of our plans for the day.

Somewhere in his mind he was probably thinking, "I knew they fed that child tofu, but a Middle Eastern dip/train ride? Well, whatareyougonnado?"

Thanks, Dad. I can always count on you. I hope Samson can say the same when he's my age.

Colorblind

A noble goal for any society, particularly those that claim to be democracies.

Colorblindness on a personal level, however, is a pain in the bum. I have what they call red-green deficiency, which makes no sense to me, since I can spot those colors a mile away.

It's the blue/purple divide that gives me trouble [I can't even tell you how many light purple dress shirts I've almost bought, thinking they were blue].

Why am I telling you this? Because Samson, for reasons known only to him, is obsessed with taking the paper/wrappers off his crayons.

Which is funny, in a way, because he is so industrious about it and will sit quietly for minutes at a time completely engrossed in this task.

Unfortunately, it means that I have no reliable guide for the colors he's using. Obviously not a big deal when it's a brown or yellow crayon, but yesterday morning he was using a red crayon to color some trucks in his coloring book. He then reached for another crayon and started to color. The following exchange ensued:

Me: You draw very nicely. What color is that crayon?

Samson: Red.

Me: Very good. What about the other crayon?

Samson: Blue.

Me: No, I think it's actually purple.

Samson: [not looking up] Blue.

Me: Purple. Can you say "purple"?

Samson: Blue.

I let it go, figuring there was no point in arguing with a toddler who was quietly coloring. Besides, I was only half-sure I was right.

As we readied to head out for our Father's Day outing, I asked Samson if he wanted to bring some of his Thomas trains with him.

Me: Do you want to bring some of your Thomas trains with you?

Samson: Yeah.

Me: How about that green one, Percy?

Samson: Yeah.

Me: And Thomas? What color is Thomas?

Samson: Blue.

Me: How about the purple one, Fergus?

Vicki: [Laughing] Fergus is blue.

Me: Ok, bring the "blue" train, Fergus.

Absent the prescriptive Crayola wrapper, I'm willing to let the crayon conundrum be, but I'm pretty sure that Fergus is, indeed, purple.

Can I get a little help here? I think Vicki may be Gaslight-ing me.

Any given Sunday

For the past few weeks, whenever Samson has seen a dump truck [which is a lot more often than you'd expect, trust me], he has exclaimed, in a tiny voice brimming with excitement: "Dumbf---." Which was sort of an improvement over the word's earlier incarnation but still required immediate subtitle/translation to keep people from thinking he was being raised by Hell's Angels.

Put simply, we have been working on "tr" for months with no appreciable results.

In any event, on Sunday we were sitting in church and Samson was being preternaturally good (i.e., sitting still, not trying to tickle the people in front of us, quietly munching his goldfish), when he opened one of the books we'd brought for him to read. It's called "The Road Builders" and is his new favorite book.

There, on the first page, is a list with pictures of all the trucks it takes to build a road. And in that list, of course, is a big old dump truck. He sat scanning the page, quietly naming the trucks he knows: digger, loader, backhoe [which always gets a big shout-out and ends up sounding like PAKHOE], roller, bulldozer (bulldozer)...

Time slowed down as he moved his finger toward the dump truck.

I should note at this point that sitting in front of us was an old colleague of mine from my previous job. Really nice guy, with a very nice wife and three nice kids, the youngest of whom is a few months younger than Samson.

How nice are these folks? Former Maryknoll missioner nice. Their little boy was reading a board book on the story of Daniel in the lion's den. So you can imagine the chill then ran up my spine as young Samson moved his little pointer finger in the direction of the dump truck.

And there, in the quiet of the church, a small miracle.

From somewhere in that little mouth, the "tr" sound appeared, and it was like the chorus of Beethoven's Ode to Joy, as he proudly proclaimed "DUMP TRUCK."

Obviously, this was no big deal to him. He probably thought he'd been saying that all along. But I was pretty excited about the whole thing.

If ever there was a time when it would have been appropriate for church ushers to dump a cooler of water/Gatorade on someone in the pews, this was such an event.

Didn't happen, of course, but if I ever make a movie about my life, I'm adding that scene.

Toddlers of the world unite!

Of late, young Samson has become obsessed with ownership. I don't know if this is some kind of developmental stage, wherein a young child recognizes the potential for possession or if it's in some way related to the broken-record admonitions we provide him in the supermarket, bookstore, library, etc [e.g., "Be gentle with that, it's not ours," or, "Samson, that's not ours, please put it back.]

Or maybe it's that new kids' book we got from the library, about Uncle Karl and his Busy Day at the Factory.

Whatever it is, Samson is on a mission to classify everything he sees and determine whether or not it's ours.

And I mean everything, from the lake we hiked around on Saturday to the train tracks and train we saw, to the cookies he couldn't have for breakfast.

This last one was particularly difficult for him, because after I said no, he kept pleading in these plaintive tones, saying "ours? ours?"

I could see the little wheels turning in his head, thinking, "Hey, what's the problem? If those are ours, why can't I eat them?"

I dread the day he finds his mother's box of Cookie Crisp among the cereals. I'm not even going to try to explain that to him...

Rapprochement

There has been a seismic shift in La-La relations.

Those of you who know Samson know what a big deal this is. He now recognizes La-La #2 as a full member of his nap and nighttime contingent and has even been seen carrying both of them around the house. [Sidenote: La-La #3 has not been seen for months, and I fear the worst.]

He calls them each "La-La" and seems to show no preference for one over the other.

There is no way to understate the signal importance of this event. In our little world, this is the equivalent of Hamas recognizing Israel and then offering to go half on a vacation place in Nantucket. Seriously, it's a big deal.

Of course, Vicki and I are affecting a casual attitude toward the whole situation. If we've learned anything from our friends who are grizzled veterans of the model U.N., it's that it's best to allow former foes the space to work things out on their own.

Sleepless in South America

Samson's nightmares continue apace. He woke up last night around 12:30, and we just couldn't get him settled. So we brought him into our bed, which almost always means that Vicki is in for a lousy night's sleep.

Not so last night; he was all about my side.

We have a king-sized bed, so space is not usually a problem. But apparently Samson is a restless and roaming sleeper.

What does this mean? Put it this way: If our bed was a map of South America, he'd be Brazil. And Peru. Also, Ecuador.

Vicki, also known as Argentina, slept soundly --- all snug and comfy on the east coast, her dreams of Patagonia set to soothing tangos.

Sadly, I was Chile --- barely holding on along the western edge and in constant danger of simply falling off into the Pacific/onto the floor, dreams of Pinochet dancing in my head.

Needless to say, I'm a little sleepy this morning. The kind of sleepy where you get out of the shower only to realize that you still have shampoo in your hair.

When I woke, Samson had his little face just a few inches from mine, and I started my day by watching those big blue eyes open and was greeted with a big "hi."

Actually a pretty nice way to start the day, all things considered.

Even so, I'm going to bed early tonight. And I'm totally grabbing the Bolivia spot...

On the farm

On Saturday, we headed to Elmer, NJ for the annual Appel Farm Arts & Music festival.

This was our second time at the festival, and it was well worth the trip. Lots of great acts on the bill --- including a reunited Toad the Wet Sprocket, who were terrific, and a really loud and rocking Richard Thompson.

I'd forgotten that last year at this time, Samson was a really little guy. See for yourself:


In fact, last year at this time, he was still a few months away from walking. What a difference a year makes.

The photo at the top of the post and the one below are the only documented photos of Samson not in motion.

He and his buddy, Jacob, had a blast running all over the fields and just generally being crazy.

This last photo was taken toward the end of the day, hence Samson in his pajamas.

PJs and bare feet notwithstanding, when we let him out of the stroller, he was off like a shot.

I like his odds more and more these days for the summer season of church races.

Iconophobia

Also known as fear of statues and/or graven images.

Young Samson has it and has it bad. It started last weekend at his Uncle Ben's wedding rehearsal. The church, St. Anthony's, is an old-style brick building with a small grotto outside the sacristy. In the grotto, behind wrought-iron gates and surrounded by candles, is a life-sized statue of St. Anthony holding the infant Jesus.

[How all these saints who lived centuries after Christ got to hold the toddler messiah, I don't know, but I digress.]

For some reason --- actually, for the reason that a wrought iron cage filled with candles and a life-sized cement man is really spooky --- Samson was terrified.

It's not like he's unfamiliar with life-sized statues of religious figures, but he's had nightmares since. [Sidenote: I'm glad he never got to see my grandmother's dresser; she had a complete set of New Testament statuettes. My sister and I used to call it the "Jesus action figure set."]

Of course, Samson has no idea that this statue of St. Anthony is different from the other statue he's familiar with. He just knows he scared. He's woken up almost every night this week whimpering "Pope, Pope, scared."

And while I know this is the age where the imagination starts to develop and that nightmares are normal, if not common, it still breaks my heart to see him standing in the half-light of his room, shaking in his PJs from a dream. As someone who has always had very vivid dreams and even more vivid (vivider?) nightmares, I can relate.

I wonder if right now, somewhere in suburban Calcutta, there's a Dad talking his child out of a nightmare based on a statue of Kali that he saw at his uncle's wedding. The odds have to be pretty good, no?

Sand and water

It's pretty incredible to think that all over the world, regardless of religion, race, or political system, when the weather gets nice, people flock to the ocean's edge.

I'm not even going to attempt to cover the same ground that Melville so eloquently wrote of in the early chapters of Ishmael's narration, but there is something almost mystical about standing at the water's edge and looking out.

One of the greatest things about going home to see my folks in New York is that they only live a few miles from the ocean, and so we try, whenever time and weather permit (sometimes, even when weather doesn't permit) to get to the beach when we're in town.

This was Samson's first experience of the beach during actual beach weather. And while we were there for a picnic dinner [as a family, we're not melanin-equipped for the beach at mid-day], I think he had a really good time.

I know I did.

Destruction of property

I'm not sure what kind of fine the library will levy against us for returning a book that has no pages left. Obviously, we'll need to buy them a new book. Also obviously, we'll need to remember that Samson can't be left alone in his crib with books that 1) aren't ours and 2) have pages made of anything but cardboard. Or titanium.

Vicki had put him down for a nap yesterday, and he was fussing and crying and then got really quiet. Which, she assumed, meant he'd fallen asleep. Alas, no. He had merely found a project that required total concentration. And, apparently, ninja-like silence.

There are few sights sadder than the shredded remains of a children's book, its brightly illustrated pages ripped from the binding and lying scattered on the floor like so many downed trees after a hurricane.

Worse yet, this book was in the "A" rotation for bedtime reading...

Crouching tiger, hidden Samson

Samson spends a lot of time thinking (and talking) about jumping. He picked this up from his swim class, where they line the kids up on the edge of the pool and have them jump into their parents' arms. Which is cute and fun and a good way to teach him not to be afraid of the water. And from the way he flails around in the tub, it has clearly worked.

But he has quickly transferred this skill out of the pool (and our arms) into the wider world and now scouts every new location with this one intention.

As you can see, he doesn't get very far. But he's got focus and drive.

Back in blog

We're back from a week in NY, so I've got lots to catch up on at work before I can do any posting here, but it was a packed six days: the beach, a parade, a barbecue, a wedding. I hope Samson doesn't expect that kind of excitement every time we go to visit the family. Anyway, it's good to be home, despite the fact that the cool spring we were enjoying is gone and it's now Africa hot here.

Lots of photos and news to report. Stay tuned...

Reading (it's fundamental)

Have you ever read something and thought "Wow, this author is really speaking to me. He totally gets it." I can distinctly recall reading certain books as a kid and just really connecting with what the author was saying or what the character was feeling. I'm no reading specialist (although I'm related to two), but I'd bet that that kind of connection is what gets kids hooked on reading.

Obviously Samson can't read yet, but I think he's already had that experience. If you don't have kids, reading No, David! is a pretty good primer on life with a toddler. If you do have them, almost every page is recognizable.

As Vicki read the book to him, Samson was looking at the pictures and you could just see his little mind working away, going "man, this guys totally gets it. It's like why can't I put my cars in the toilet? And let's be honest, it is funny when I stick lo-mein in my hair. Stand strong, David. There are millions of us out here, and we're all drawing on the walls with you, brother..."

Slick

It's when the house gets quiet that you know Samson is up to something.

Almost everything he could possibly get into has been out of reach for months now. I say almost, because we obviously forgot to put the tub of vaseline back with his diaper stuff and out of his reach.

Vicki said she found him rubbing it on his pants and saying "lotion." You can see from the photo that his head and neck were almost glossy from the stuff. He may be baby smooth until his 20s...

For those of you who haven't had the joy of finding your child covered in petroleum jelly, nothing short of sandblasting gets it off.

We ended up throwing all of his clothes into the tub, where we made a half-hearted effort to clean them. This stuff is sort of like napalm --- it just doesn't come off.

Ultimately, we decided to say the heck with it and just throw his viscous little outfit away.

Interestingly, the more people I tell this story to, the more people tell me of similar experiences from their own childhood. This must be some kind of toddler rite-of-passage I missed when I was his age.

I'm just glad the cat was asleep in the basement when all of this happened.

Strawberry fields

Although it's still early in the season, we took Samson strawberry picking on Saturday. If you haven't done this recently, do yourself a favor and get out there.

Is there anything sweeter than a strawberry just picked?

I don't want to get all Thoreau on you, but there is something elementally satisfying about eating food at the source. The taste of a strawberry --- slightly warm from the sun's rays and full of a sweetness that could only be organic --- had a kind of Proustian effect, transporting me back to when I was a child and my sister and I would go picking with our parents, eating far more than we put in the little baskets we had in our red wagon.

As I stood in the mid-morning sunlight, with a cool May breeze blowing and the leaves of the strawberry plants rippling like tiny waves on a great green lake, I listened to Samson chattering "strawberries, strawberries" as he searched for spots of red on the ground.

The sky above seemed infinite and impossibly blue, and for just a few moments, the whole world compressed into that quarter-acre patch of little red berries.

Get on the bus

In the tradition of Kerouac and Cassady, Guevara and Granado, another classic road trip is born.

Sort of like "On the Road" but with more of an "in the living room" vibe.

Samson and Jacob are lighting out for the territories. Or at least the kitchen.

Because that's where the snacks are, man.

Boogie mornings

Young Samson has a wicked headcold. I spent almost 10 minutes this morning trying to clean his nose off before we went downstairs for breakfast. The poor little guy was so stuffed up and crusted over, he could barely protest with his customary "No. No like it!"

On the plus side, we got a break from N this morning as his dad stayed home from work to go pick his brother up from the airport.

Good deed; good deed; good deed...

Partly sunny, with a chance of Greg

Part of our nightly routine with Samson includes singing. He's totally over "Down at the station" [that was so 6 months ago], but he still likes "You are my sunshine" a lot.

And as I've noted before, he sings along at the end of each line. However, for some reason, the line "you make me happy when skies are gray" has turned into "when skies are Greg."

Why this is, I don't know. But it's pretty funny.

Occasionally, he then branches off from the song and just starts some kind of free association listing of friends and relatives, starting with Mo-Mo [Uncle Greg's wife, and my sister] and then moving through Gram, Papa, Nana, Papi, and the litany of his friends and friends' parents.

Sometimes we even get a shout-out for the neighbors' dog before he circles back to Vicki and me. And while I'd like to think this means something, sometimes he ends with "tractor," so I'm not going to read too much into it. Either way, it's really sweet to hear him chronicle the population of his world before laying his head down for the night.

Secret handshake

Happy Mother's Day!

I usually take weekends off, but I thought I'd post a special Mother's Day edition of the blog, since it's not yet time for the Sopranos and all the nightly chores are finished. [Sidenote: I wish there was something like a time bank where we could get credit for the 15 minutes Vicki and I spend at the end of every night picking up toys. Each year, we could check our balance and then be given that time back to sleep in or go to the movies or just have extra time to take Samson out someplace fun. The Mayas had something like this, but I think they used their extra days for fasting and mourning. I'll keep my penance to the nightly corralling of Thomas and all his friends, who somehow are always in between the couch cushions. I know Samson and his whole crew really, really like Thomas, but I'll be honest, trains with fixed smiles kind of creep me out.]

In any event, the weekend passed like my year in fifth grade. Basically, under a threat that never quite materialized. In this instance it was bad weather (in the other, it was military school). Despite said threat's failure to pan out, my behavior was shaped accordingly, which meant I ditched the weekend plans I'd made for us to go biking and have a picnic. [For anyone interested, I also learned to raise my hand to speak in class and stopped trying to "bring a little comedy" to Mr. D's class.]

Even so, it was a nice, laid-back weekend. On Saturday, we checked out a local park we hadn't been to in a while and just generally hung out. Lots of fun stuff for Samson to climb.

This morning, I thought we'd let Vicki sleep in and go get her some flowers from the farmer's market. Samson is big on pink flowers [I'm pretty sure he thinks it's one word], and so we got some fresh mini-donuts from the mini-donut guy and made our way leisurely around the market. Of course, to do this meant we were skipping church, which little Sammy Superego noted a few times by looking up at me and questioning "Church? Church?" The market is also near a huge Lutheran cathedral, so the sound of their bells tolling at 9 only reinforced our dereliction of Sabbath observing. But we did have fun, and there was even a guy there playing guitar [curiously, he dedicated "No Woman, No Cry" to all the mothers at the market].

And we did get those pink flowers.

Later in the day we hit the spring carnival at the zoo and got to catch up with our old friends the penguins and giraffes.

Samson Davis, Jr.

As Samson hurtles toward two, with all the concomitant quirks of this developmental stage, he's really started asserting himself.

Put another way, we get a lot of "no" in our house these days.

Which is obviously normal---and sometimes quite funny.

He's also developed a sound for when he's frustrated. It's kind of an "oew" sound and usually includes him swinging his arms, and occasionally hitting something, or someone. [Despite my continued assertions to the contrary, apparently we do hit people in our house. More accurately, one of us (hint: it's not me or Vicki) hits people in our house. It's a work in progress.]

In any event, his little "oew" sound is sort of like the sound Sammy Davis, Jr. used to make when he was, well, doing whatever it was that SDJ did. (Riffing? Scatting?)

In any event, the sound makes me laugh. Which, in turn, tends to frustrate Samson even more [see: hitting, above].

Is there a solution in sight?

Well, calendrically speaking, he'll be three in just 16 more months. And we could always teach him the lyrics to "The Candyman." It would be a much better outlet for his frustrations than hitting.

Of course, we'd have to de-program him before sending him out into the world.

I mean, I definitely don't want Samson to be that guy in high school who hits people. I always (quietly) hated that guy.

At the same time, I don't want him to be that guy in college whose computer just crashed and is overheard in his dorm room singing: "Who can take a sunrise? Sprinkle it with dew. Cover it in chocolate and a miracle or two..."

Short-term memory loss

Lately, Samson's bedtime ritual has included throwing La-La [a sort of hybrid lamb doll/dishrag that smells like the day of judgment no matter how many times we wash it] and his sippy cup out of the crib.

Upon completion of this action---which, if you're present, he narrates by looking you square in the eye and saying "throwing"---he then begins screaming for said discarded items to be returned to him. Immediately.

I was never a big fan of the Road Runner vs. Wile E. Coyote cartoons, and this runs along the same script. Which is to say that once is kind of annoying. But after the first 11 times, it gets to be really tiresome. Particularly since this is now becoming a bookend activity, with him not only closing out the day with it but beginning it in this fashion as well.

At 5:38 this morning, we heard "La-La. La-La! MOM-EEE. MOM-MEEEEEE." Roughly translated, this is the 19-month-old's version of "Good God. What have I done? Oh the humanity!" Good times.

In other early morning news, N arrived this morning wearing cologne.

The reason? He has a field trip today.

Because Samcrankypants needed a little downtime this morning, Vicki took him up to his room to read some stories. Which meant I had breakfast with N. By myself.

It wasn't exactly My Dinner with Andre, but it had its moments.

This is an actual exchange from the breakfast table this morning:

N: "How old is your cat?"

Me: "We got him in 1997, when he was probably already a year, so I think he's almost 10."

N: "Wow, how old are you?"

Me: "I'm 33; I'll be 34 in June."

N: "How old were you in 1998? That's when I was born."

Me: "I was 26."

N: "I knew that. You know how I knew that? I counted backwards from 2006 to 1998."

Me: "That's really good. How old are you?"

N: "I'm supposed to be 8, but my mom says I'm 7."

Me: "Oh."

Caption contest

In the spirit of true web collaboration and interactivity (or blatant laziness, your choice), I hereby invite you to provide a caption for this photo.

It's sort of like the New Yorker contest, but less urbane and with no prize.

Entries will be judged for their originality and wit and should be less than 20 words. Good luck!

FAQs:

Q: Do spelling and grammar count?

A: Is English your first language?

Q: Do you provide my e-mail information to third party organizations?

A: Yes. They are known as list brokers, and this is how I will pay for Samson's college.

Q: Shouldn't you be working right now?

A: Probably.

Q: What if no one enters the contest?

A: I will be sad.

Q: What if no one is funny?

A: I will be sadder.

Q: How will I know if I've won?

A: You'll receive a call in the middle of the night. Just like the Nobel laureates. Except this call will be from Samson. And he'll probably be saying something along the lines of "No. No like it! Sleeping!"

From father to son, pt. 2

Now it looks like we've both been practicing for photos of our band.

Maybe we could put this photo on the cd itself...

Brave, brave Sir Robin

On Saturday, we went to the Annual Sheep and Wool Festival. Where we saw some sheep.

And wool.

It was actually pretty cool; there were lots of different things going on, from fly-tying workshops to weaving exhibits and livestock judging.

There was also, in keeping with my theory, the requisite Incan music band. And we saw some llamas, alpacas, rabbits, and various other wool-providing animals. The crowd was a mix of renaissance festival types, back-to-the-land Whole Foods types, and never-left-the-land bib-overalls types. Plus legions of knitters eagerly seeking out, er, whatever it is they seek out. High-fives all around.

We spent a lot of time checking out the animals. At one point, we came upon a trio of lambs who were nuzzling at the bars of their pen. They were bleating, as they do, but one of the three had less of a baa and more of a "blaaa" going on.

Which, for some reason, I found funny. Samson stood silently studying these guys for a while, and then the one let out a loud "blaaa" and Samson (aka, brave, brave Sir Robin) cried.

Not right away, to his credit. Indeed, you can see in the picture that he's trying to keep it together.

But in the end, he could not. Maybe instead of "no like it," I should teach him to say "run away! run away!"

Lamb-induced trauma aside, he had a good time. And I was content to be out walking around on a nice day (and avoiding yard work).

Although I wondered how the lambs felt, being in their pens and only a few hundred yards away from the kebab stand. They must have smelled the grill and thought, "you know, that really smells familiar, but I can't quite place it."

I hope I never know.

Gotchoo

I'll post more later, but I wanted to get this picture up while I had time.

It's actually from last week, and I'd just forgotten about it. Anyway, it's a nice action shot of the ever-popular "I'm gonna get you" game, which Samson requests by running and yelling out "GOTCHOO! GOTCHOO!"

Nightmare

Samson has been having nightmares lately. So far, we've been unable to figure out what they're about, because he has simply been waking up either crying or saying "no. no like it!" Which is both funny and sad at the same time.

But sometime around 4:30 this morning, when he woke up crying and I went in, he said "gog."

Gog is his word for dog. We don't have one, but our next door neighbors have a good-sized dog that barks a lot. I have no idea what breed he is, but he's brown (does that help?). And he's a pretty nice dog, I guess. [Although I can't figure out why he barks when I am in my yard. If I was walking into his yard, I'd get it. I digress.]

In any event, I guess Samson is afraid of this dog. He's been skittish around other dogs as well, including some that probably weigh less than our cat, so maybe that's just his thing. [As a child I was afraid of Sasquatch. Seriously.]

Of course, he could really be saying "Gog," which is one half of the duo Gog and Magog found in the Bible. This idea occurred to me last night as I stood rocking him in the early morning quiet of his room.

Maybe he's having dreams about the apocalypse.

I mean he does read "Thomas the Tank Engine Witnesses the Rapture" a lot, not to mention "Richard Scarry's Great Big Book of Armageddon."

And now that I think about it, maybe that mobile I made for him out of old Iron Maiden cds wasn't such a great idea.

Anyway, he eventually fell peacefully back to sleep. And when he woke, he was his usual smiling self. Of course, I'm a zombie this morning from dreaming about the end of days, but that's my own fault...

Double-wide

Samson's friend, Jacob, came by to play yesterday, and we decided to try out the converter kit that turns our bike trailer into a stroller.

It was surprisingly easy to do. [Having spent my formative years watching Voltron, I always expect technical transformations to involve fire, stilted dialogue, and 80s-style synthesizer music. But this was a snap.]

Of course, it's not exactly the world's smoothest ride [think high-end wheelbarrow with safety harnesses], but I think the boys had fun. Photographic evidence [that's "ocular proof" for you Shakespeare fans out there], notwithstanding...

This last shot makes me wonder if they haven't secretly formed a band and started practicing their cool/disinterested looks for publicity stills.

Guess who's coming to breakfast?

Not much to report of late. My semester ends tonight, so now I really have no excuse for skipping the gym. Or at least getting outside and running before or after work.

We've started watching our neighbor's eight-year-old in the morning. His brother, who usually watches him before heading out to work, is inexplicably out of the country for the next three weeks [in fairness, they're Bosnian nationals, and he is alleged to be in Bosnia visiting his alleged grandmother]. So we now have "N" from about 6:50 each morning until he gets on the bus at 8:10.

[Sidenote: I'm not trying to recreate the 19th-century fiction writer's convention of naming characters by letters; I just honestly don't know how to spell the child's name. I only found out recently I'd been pronouncing it wrong for the three years we've been living next door to him.]

Anyway, I'm sure you're thinking this is no big deal. And all things considered, it's not. He's a sweet kid, and our neighbors are good, kind people and would certainly help us out were we in the same situation.

But for those of you who don't get to spend the first hour and a half of your day each morning with someone else's eight-year-old, count your blessings.

I spend a lot of time each morning repeating to myself the mantra: "good deed; good deed; good deed."

Samson, of course, loves having this early morning playdate. He is obsessed with big kids, and every morning he gets to have a real, live one in his living room. The only thing that would make it better would be if "N" rode a tractor up our front steps while playing guitar.

It's actually sweet to watch this little guy get on the bus and to watch our even littler guy waving at him and all the kids on their way to school.

It would be a lot sweeter if it wasn't every day, but still...

[good deed; good deed; good deed]

On the waterfront

We went down to the harbor yesterday for the annual waterfront festival. This year it was coupled with the Volvo Ocean Race (formerly the Whitbread Race, which always struck me as curiously close to "whitebread" --- not the best analog for a sport that already has an image only slightly less elite than polo. But I digress.)

The combination of the events meant that in addition to the usual weekend crowd of tourists with fanny packs strapped to their jorts, there were knots of people in quasi-nautical attire (topsiders, plaid shorts, belts with whales, or flags on them). Then there were the people who are actually part of the whole ocean race thing; they were easier to spot because they were wearing nautical anorak versions of NASCAR suits and they usually had a leathery look and either really expensive sunglasses or a preternaturally squinty expression [from all those years before the mast, presumably].

All of which meant it was really, really crowded. But the weather was perfect, and we had a great time. We did lose a hat and a sippy cup along the way. I can guess that each was pitched out at some point when we were navigating the crowds on our way back to the car. He'd tested my reflexes more than once with his little matchbox trucks, but they must have made sufficient noise to attract my attention as I pushed the stroller.

The hat, I can only imagine, landed with little more than a cottony flop, like a lone maple leaf falling in the Catskills. Or something.

In fact, I probably wouldn't have noticed as soon as I did except for the fact that we were heading west back to our car, and I could hear a little voice crying out "Bright. No like it."

I don't even have a theory on the cup; it's made of plastic, so I should have heard some kind of small thud. There were hordes of college-agers wandering around, so it was probably picked up, emptied of its contents, and promptly made into a bong by a guy whose name is Steve but whose friends call him Turtle. So the karmic wheel spins...

Speaking of "no like it," Samson got his first taste of the formerly novel and now ubiquitous Incan pan flute music. Since he's so crazy for guitars, I thought he might get into it. Nothing doing. He listened for about four seconds before offering up a summary judgment of: "Leaving. No like it. Sam." Which is probably not a good sign for the genre, given that kids Samson's age are about the only ones at this point that haven't heard these Zamfirs of the Andes.

Items lost but not found aside, it was a terrific day. And while I can't say Samson was all that interested in the sailboats, there was a Volvo pavilion that featured all manners of Volvo products, including the BL 70. Sadly, there was no test drive offer on this particular vehicle.

Unsolved mysteries?

Yesterday Vicki called me, laughing, because Samson had walked into the kitchen, said "glasses? garbage" and then toddled on his way back into the living room.

When she looked in our garbage can, indeed, there was her glasses case. When she asked him if he'd put the glasses case in the garbage, Samson nodded his head and said "yes, good."

Vicki and I have each lost of pair of sunglasses in the past few weeks, and since we used to leave them on the table by the door (the same place the glasses case was), I think that little mystery has been solved.

But the larger mystery of Samson's phantom word also appears to be solved [although there is no consensus on this in our house. I say yes, but Vicki is not convinced.]

So, what could Buk-uh-nay-nay mean?

I'm pretty sure it's his way of saying "Berkner," which refers to Laurie Berkner. [Vicki is not disputing this fact, but she thinks the chronology doesn't match up --- i.e., he was saying "buk-uh-nay-nay" around the house before we had any "buk-uh-nay-nay" in the house. As you can tell, we lead very full lives.]

For those of you without kids, Laurie Berkner (pace Sam Anderson) is like the Liz Phair of the under-5 set.

Samson attends to her DVD with all the reverence of a pilgrim at Mecca or Woodstock. He knows most of the words, readily sings along, and occasionally does some free dancing. Which, of course, is my favorite.

And really, what's not to like? Buk-uh-nay-nay has smart songs, catchy melodies, and just a hint of world-weariness as she uses her acoustic guitar to chronicle the lonely crowd that is modern America.

Ok, that last part's not true, but I really do like her music.

In fact, her song about dinosaurs has been playing on a loop in my head for months now.

Yet another installation of gratuitous Sam pics

Samson and his friend, Anna, had a little post-Easter egg hunt yesterday at the park.



Until he discovered the bulldozer (bulldozer).

Erudition

At last, a word to describe what we learn when we watch the garbagemen in our neighborhood hauling away everyone's junk.

I can just picture Samson working on his anthropology thesis while hanging from the back of a big, green truck. Live the dream, son. Live the dream...

The prize winner of defiance

I have known for some time now that Samson James has a bit of a willful streak. Genetically speaking, he was probably predisposed to this. For sure, the quickest way to get Vicki not to do something is to tell her to do it. Likewise, I have a reputation in my family for avoiding confrontation not by carrying out the requested action but simply by nodding and then quietly going my own way.

But this put Vicki and me to shame.

On Sunday, while protesting the removal of his diaper, he hit my arm. Nothing more than a little swipe, to be sure, but it was meant to say: "hey, buddy, I prefer to stay in this poop diaper."

Or something along those lines.

In any event, I reacted by saying "Samson! We don't hit in this house. When you're angry you don't hit people. Say you're sorry."

To which he solemnly responded, "people."

But he definitely knew he'd done something wrong, and he also knew that I was unhappy. How do I know? Because he immediately started saying "hi" and smiling and trying to change the subject by observing that the cat was "funny" and offering up a host of other non sequiturs.

Obviously, I didn't want to make a huge deal out of this, but since he's closing in on 2 [at least chronologically; psychologically, I think he's already there], I know he's testing the limits of what he can get away with. So again, I said, "Samson, say you're sorry."

Nothing doing. He flat out refused to say it. Which is not to say he clammed up. Indeed, he was as chatty as he always is, but he was just not giving in on that word.

Since it was the end of the day, this standoff continued through the donning of pjs, the washing of the face, the traditional getting of a cup of water for the crib, etc.

I could feel myself actually getting angry at this intransigence, which, of course, was ridiculous.

But a small part of me was also proud in a weird way. I could see in his eyes that flicker of recognition of free will, looking right back at me as if to say: "I know what you'd like me to do; it's just that I prefer not to."

In the end---and after I had given him some hugs (stern, disapproving hugs, to be sure) and put him to bed---he did say "sorry."

And I'm not sorry to say, I was relieved. That kid is tough.

Which, in and of itself is not a bad quality for lawyers and Army assassins. But it's less cool when it's somebody you need to hold still while you change his diaper.

Vicarious living, sponsored by Samson

I meant to post this on Friday, but I couldn't get the photos to load. On Thursday, Sam & Co. went to a new park. This is apparently the greatest park ever, and the boys were having a grand old time exploring all the cool slides and climby things.

But then the construction guys on the site next to the park finished their lunch break, and all bets were off.

We took a walk Sunday morning and spent almost 20 minutes watching some guy in a small, green backhoe dig up corroded PVC piping in front of the bank. The look on Samson's face was one of pure rapture: He kept pointing and asking me, "see that? see that?"

It must be funny to be a construction worker/fireman/truck driver/garbageman and know that you are essentially a rock star for kids Samson's age (and older). And let's be honest, would you rather watch some guy move big things with a crane or bear witness to a well crafted e-mail being sent? I'm not looking to switch jobs or anything; I'm just saying is all.

I can just picture Sam and his buddies lined up along the fence at a job site waiting for the guys to get off work and sign their toy tractors and diggers.

Lawnmower man

Now that the weather is nice, Samson can finally get outside and get some yard work done.

This was a gift from his Uncle Greg and Aunt Maura, and it actually shoots bubbles out the side as you "mow." At least it does on lawns that are reasonably level. Ours is more like an artillery practice ground, so although Samson can still mow, he ends up watering the lawn with bubble solution.

By the way, all he'd need to complete the 70-year-old-man-mowing-lawn look would be dark socks instead of the white ones. If it's still warm in October, this would be a great Halloween costume. We could even get him a tiny shirt that said something like "#1 Grandpa" or something.