Samson and Jacob's excellent adventure

No, this isn't a new episode in a Talmudic comic book series. And unfortunately, I missed out on all the fun [somebody has to work on Thursdays], but apparently Sam and Jake had the best day ever.

A trip to the mall, a ride on the carousel (sans yelling), and a visit to the state fair.

At home that night, when I asked Samson what he liked best he replied, with terrific enthusiasm, "APPLEJOOS."

Apparently, the boys had juice boxes during their roadtrip.

Dada in the rye

If you haven't already, you can remove my name from your short list for "man of the year." On Saturday I yelled at a kid.

In the mall.

On a carousel.

Here's the deal: Samson loves to ride the carousel, and one of the malls near us has one. So he and I got on the carousel while Vicki sat on a bench and prepared to wave to us as we made our way around and around and around.

Unfortunately, behind us in line (and subsequently on horseback) were a 12-year-old boy and his sister --- who was probably six or seven. He was annoyed about having to chaperone his sister on the carousel while his mother went into Starbucks, and he was making no bones about it.

Even before we got on the ride, he kept saying --- in a voice that was just the right volume for "hey listen to me everyone and witness my coolness"--- how much the ride was going to suck and how he might throw up from going around and around.

As we started our ride, I was focused on Samson, who was all smiles, enjoying the leisurely pace and looking for his next opportunity to wave to Vicki. However, as we continued our circuit, said kid behind us became progressively louder and more annoying, attempting at one point to knock his sister off her horse. So at about the 50th protestation of "I think I'm going to throw up," I lost it and tersely offered this appraisal:

"You know it wasn't funny the first 50 times you said it. If you're going to throw up, go ahead and do it already. Otherwise, just shut up."

At this point I was immediately annoyed with myself for letting some stupid kid ruin my ride with Samson, who of course, was oblivious to anything but the music and the chance to see mommy once every 360 degrees.

A more conciliatory tone would almost certainly have been better, and while I am not sure I should have told the boy to "shut up," those two words were better than the ones that instantly sprang to mind.

In any event, this kid is apparently the ACLU representative for the sixth grade, because he immediately began whining: "You can't talk to me like that. You have no right to talk to me like that."

By then I had at least regained my composure and merely offered a Zen-like: "I just did."

Did he have a point? Absolutely, and I doubt I'd want some stranger telling my child to shut up. [By the same token, I wouldn't want my child to be trying to unseat his sister on a carousel either, and I think if a stranger had to correct my son, I'd be more mad at Sam for needing it than the stranger for offering it.]

Anyway, as Vicki gently noted on the ride home, I could have probably achieved my purpose without being rude to this kid. There's a reason she's a school counselor, no?

But, and maybe it's my inner Holden Caulfield rising to the surface as we prepare to send Samson to school, I didn't want to be genial or nonconfrontational. I wanted to shame this kid into not being a jerk. [Of course, this required my being a jerk, so I guess I bombed his village to save it.]

All the same, I hate big kids who ruin things for little kids. Rather than sulking in silence, this kid decided to try to bring everyone else around him (first and foremost [and almost literally] his sister) down. And it made me mad.

Although it only lasted a minute, at most, poor Samson didn't know what to make of this. And for a few moments, he kept glancing backward to look at the boy and his sister as if they were somehow gaining on us.

But then he went back to smiling and waving at Vicki as the carousel spun and spun and spun again.

Sort of like the technicolor dreamcoat

Random Samson

Samson has discovered Halle Berry.

There's a picture of her in the latest Self magazine, which Vicki was reading the other day. I have no idea what the article is about, but there's a photo collage of famous women, with the largest photo being that of Ms. Berry in an orange bikini (I think it's a shot from the movie Swordfish).

In any event, Vicki told me (and I subsequently confirmed with my own independent research) that when he saw her picture he got this wicked little grin on his face and said "See belly."

What does it mean? I have no idea. I'm not worried, but even if I was, I'm pretty sure there's no chapter for this in any of the parenting guides.

Maybe the good folks at the Brazelton Institute would be interested in a long-term study on the effects of exposure to Halle Berry on toddlers. I bet I could get an NIH grant for it...

Naps, rugs, and rock and roll

It's a pretty good life, no?

Corny

I may have mentioned off-handedly to Samson that being home during the week with him gave me a chance to see what it's like to be in mommy's shoes.

Clearly I struck a chord with young Samson.

And no, I didn't wear those to the park. Although I hear they're quite comfortable...

The persistence of memory

Among Samson's more endearing traits is his uncanny memory. I don't know where he gets it from [ok, I can guess], but he remembers just about everything.

Unfortunately, he also gets kind of RainMan about it. So if he associates something with a person, he'll remember it --- and reference it --- every time that person's name is mentioned until something else memorable happens and takes its place. Which can take a while.

For example, we were at a barbecue at a friend's house where we met another friend's fiance for the first time. The poor guy got shanghaied into grill duty, and so when Samson and I walked over to meet him, he associated this guy, Mike, with my earlier warning about the barbecue being hot. For days afterwards, he would say "member Mike? Barbecue hot."

This is not something new, but it has reached an almost sublime level of ridiculousness in the past week. Apparently, when Samson and his buddy Jacob were playing last week, Jacob stepped in dog poo. Barefoot. As we walked past Jay's house today to go to the park, I heard a little voice calling up from the stroller: "Jacob. Poop. Sad."

Which, you have to admit, is funny. But also weird. Jacob is Samson's oldest friend. They were born two days apart and have known each other since way back in the day.



Let's hope Jacob wrestles an angel or something cool like that the next time the boys get together or the poor kid will be reminded from now until high school of the time he stepped in dog poo.

Field trip, take two

At least today's afternoon outing made up for yesterday's crazy Grecophile guitar man [or as I like to call him, "load on a Grecian Urn."]

Samson and I had a busy morning: a walk to the park, a stop at the bank, and a trip to the barber, where, miracle of miracles, there was no screaming or crying.

After a short nap (for Sam, not me, but only because I didn't think of it until it was too late), we spent the afternoon blowing bubbles, eating apples, kicking a ball around, and just generally enjoying a late summer day at one of the city's public gardens.

I'll miss this tomorrow when I am in my office catching up on e-mail.

Worst field trip ever

In keeping with my idea of keeping Samson busy yesterday, I planned a little field trip to a guitar store I'd seen in one of the neighborhoods downtown. My office does some work with an internet design firm in the neighborhood, so I'd passed by the store but never really had the chance to peek inside.

Which, as it turns out, was unfortunate.

We cruised down to the store and entered only to find a really bad garage sale in a retail space. There were guitars, about 11 of them, scattered around the place in various stages of repair and/or sale. Likewise, there was a bass fiddle being worked on, a violin being restrung, and a big electric keyboard. And then just lots of random crap --- everything from framed pictures of Johnny Cash ($65) to used paperback editions of Greek tragedies.

Of course, I had Samson in one arm and his guitar (which is really a ukelele) in the other and so waited for someone to appear from the back. She did, eventually, only to inform me that the owner was across the street at the 7-Eleven getting something to drink. Mind you, I'd hyped this trip up with Samson as a "big surprise," and while I was technically correct, I was still hoping to salvage something out of it.

The man who arrived looked like a cross between a middle-aged Marlon Brando and George Steele. I asked him to tune the ukelele, which he did, and he then played Samson a song on it, which I thought was cool.

Unfortunately, that was not the end of it. He then reached, somewhat absent-mindedly into the bookshelf and pulled out a play and asked me if I'd read it. It was at this point where Brando, particularly as Kurtz with his copy of the Golden Bough handy, really came out.

Apropos of nothing, he began to talk about his career in community theater and his love of Greek plays. I'm not sure I can stress this enough: This guy loves Greek plays. And he was obsessed with demonstrating to me that despite the fact that he'd dropped out of school in the 10th grade, he was a scholar of Greek literature and was leagues ahead of the "so-called intelligentsia" who consistently mispronounce names like Agammemnon, Achilles, etc.

I endured, because there is no other word for it, a full fifteen minute disquisition on the idiocy of public school teachers and college professors, the folly of reading Chapman's translation of Homer instead of Pope's, and a whole lot of other stuff I can't even begin to describe, all of it dealing with ancient Greek poetry and drama. With a 23-month-old on my arm. And a now in-tune ukelele. In a store with no air conditioning.

In my movie life [note to anyone making a film of my existence, here's an episode where you can stretch the truth], I would have said "Look Herodotus, thanks for the tune-up, but can I go? You're making me want to drink hemlock."

Of course, I said nothing of the kind. Nope, instead I just gamely smiled and sought an exit with all the stealth of Theseus. Our moment came when somebody stopped to ask him a question, and I turned and practically flew like Daedalus (which I'm undoubtedly mispronouncing) down the hot sidewalk to our car.

Curiously enough, Samson didn't say a word the whole time. It wasn't until we got to the car that he said "Man. Talking. Loud." And then he sat back in his carseat and played his guitar as we drove away.

The adventure begins...

I was supposed to post this yesterday, but the day got away from me.

Yesterday was Vicki's first day back to work, and since Samson's school won't take him until he turns two --- and we were disinclined to go fake I.D. shopping [although I think he could pass for Josh Williams from Ft. Lee, NJ] --- we're short on childcare for a few days.

She's only working Mondays and Tuesdays, so this week I got a four-day weekend and a chance to spend some extra time with my guy. Which suits me just fine.

I wasn't sure how he'd handle Vicki leaving in the morning, so I tried to schedule a few things to keep us busy.

First and foremost, we took our old license plates to the motor vehicles office.

More about our new car later [and yes, we have joined minivanation], but I should note here that our trusted Saturn (a vintage 93 wagon with 178,000 miles on it) was duly donated last week to charity. I won't miss riding so low to the ground, and I certainly won't miss the non-functioning air conditioning (which just started in July when the record highs came), but it was a good car.

And after all those years and all those miles, it didn't owe us anything. Be well, Old Blue, I'll miss you.


Onward: After our trip to MVA, we went to visit Samson's school, which I had yet to see, and meet his teacher, whom I had yet to meet. The school is affiliated with the Episcopalian church just up the road from us and was recommended by a colleague of mine. It's really cute, and Samson walked right up to some kids who were playing and just kind of joined in.

So that was nice. His teacher, Miss Jackie, seems kind and was excited to meet Samson. And we took a tour of the school: the lunchroom, the playground, the chapel. Did I mention they have chapel on Tuesdays? What would you give to see a class of two-year-olds in chapel?

All in all, I think he'll have less trouble adjusting than Vicki and I will.

And here's the rub: I've been anticipating Vicki having to adjust to letting him go, since she's been home with him for his whole life. Literally. But I hadn't even considered how I might feel. After all, I leave every day to go to work, so while I know what I'm missing each day, there isn't much choice in the matter for me.

But the sight of him just walking around among all those kids and doing his thing suddenly hit me. And I got a little, well, verklempt.

Like I said, the school is nice, the teacher is nice, and the kids were really cute and (mostly) friendly. But I may need Jackie O glasses as I leave from dropping him off on that first day.

Big brother

Rock star. Train enthusiast. Truck-whisperer. Cat chaser.

To all these titles, young Samson will soon add big brother. Vicki is pregnant and due in January. We had the ultrasound done on Wednesday, and it looks like we're having a girl. I say "looks like" because it's not as apparent as the ultrasound for a boy.

[I should also note here that for me, watching an ultrasound is like watching scrambled cable; every once in a while something recognizable would flash on screen. Most of the time, however, I was just watching a shimmering field of grays, blacks, and whites. Of course, Vicki and the ultrasound technician had a grand old time talking about what they were seeing --- "yup, there are the toes" and "see the femur here?" or "look at those cute little fingers..."]

As you can imagine, we are over the moon about this. Vicki is already planning some kind of pink revolution in the nursery, and we are slowly but surely working on Samson about how great it is to be a big brother and how much fun a baby sister will be. As someone who has a baby sister, I usually add, parenthetically, "eventually."

But I think it's going to be great; and I wouldn't trade my sister for anything. I can only hope Samson and this little one grow up as close.

So big news, for sure, and some big changes in store as Vicki goes back to work part-time next week and Samson starts "school" right after his second birthday next month.

On the logistics front, we have slowly started the grand rearrangement in our house. What was the computer room will soon be Samson's room, complete with big-boy bed (suggestions on that front are welcome).

And of course Samson's current room will be turned over to the baby (and presumably de-truckified). Stay tuned...

Taskmaster

It's been far too long since we've done this, but Samson and I went out for a run this morning.

How long has it been? I'm not sure exactly, but long enough that he thought I was going to carry him while "we" ran. So that probably tells you something. And boy was he disappointed for those first few blocks.

In any event, in the intervening months between our last run, Samson has apparently become Bela Karolyi.

I stopped at a traffic light and heard, from the comfy comfines of the jogging stroller: "RUN!"

A few minutes later, as I slowed to take a drink of water [did I mention it's been a while since I've run with him?], I was again exhorted to "RUN!"

It was pretty humid this morning, and so we did a mile and a half at most [and that's a generous estimate] before heading to get some coffee and a muffin.

He eyed me carefully as I sat down with my coffee and asked "run home?"

I expect a memo from him about my eating habits and lack of commitment to training when I get home from work today.

Wiseguy

Big weekend; lots to catch up on, but I want to file this little dispatch now as I've got much to do and not much time.

Yesterday was a no-nap day. Why, I don't know. Because Samson was clearly tired.

But we put him in his crib, and he just played and played and played. Which on some level was fine because a) he wasn't screaming and b) we were painting our new bookshelves and really needed the time to get them done.

However, after an hour of listening to him playing, I wondered if he was unable to fall asleep because he needed his diaper changed. So, I went up and found him lying on his back in the crib, looking at the ceiling, a train in each hand.

What follows is the first recorded incident of Samson cracking wise.

Me: "Hey buddy, I thought you were supposed to be napping. What are you doing?"

Samson: "Laying back." [laughs]

Me: "Son, I'm proud of you."

The night of living dangerously

We've been working a lot on redoing our living room (painting, installing new bookshelves, razor-scraping the paint I've dripped on the floor in defiance of the dropcloth) and so are behind on our laundry.

Which meant that last night, which was cool enough to sleep with the a/c off, saw us left without pj shorts for Samson.

We tried this the other night --- why, I don't know, since there was no shorts-shortage then --- and the results were not pretty.

But as I checked the pajama drawer and then the other drawers [I don't always remember to put things where they "go"] and came up empty, I knew we had to go for it.

And you know what? We totally did.

Not exactly a Kipling moment there in the nursery, but I bet he had all sorts of governesses and ayahs taking care of his kids.

Anyway, before we went to bed, Vicki checked in on Samson. He was sleeping soundly, his little body sprawled across the crib mattress, La-La tucked securely under his arm. So far, so good.

This morning dawned cool and clear and, most importantly, clean-cribbedly. It really is the little victories in life that mean the most.

This also means I'll probably procrastinate on laundry for at least one more day. [We've got enough onesies to outfit a small (a very small) army.]

Here comes the sun

For those of you keeping score at home, today is the one-year anniversary of this blog.

So I wanted to say thanks for reading, and I look forward to helping you procrastinate at work for a long time to come.

Samson must have been feeling nostalgic this morning because he was up at 5:15 and could not settle back down. We took him into bed with us in an attempt to get him back to sleep, but he was up and ready for the day.

He has clearly figured out who to go to in the morning, because he kept putting his head close to mine and saying "walk? get coffee?"

It was actually pretty nice out this morning, and we had a really nice walk and got to see the sun rising over the trees on our street. And we did, indeed, get coffee (at least one of us did).

Unfortunately I'm now ready for a nap, but it was worth it to be out in the early morning air and hear Sam's little voice chirping: "Sun coming. Here comes sun."

Just the facts

I am almost at a loss for words to describe how the day started, so I thought I might try filing this like an AP story.

[Sidenote: I took AP's news-writing test years ago and passed it, but there were no jobs at the time. I think that was probably for the best.]

Samson's room, Aug. 6 --- Chaos ensued this morning after it was discovered that young Samson had removed his diaper at some point during the night and pooped in the crib. The toddler's mother, Vicki, was first on the scene. The situation, however, was not immediately apparent due to the early hour of Samson's waking (6:30 AM, EDT) and to the fact that, by her own admission, his mother sees poorly without her glasses on.

"I heard him calling me, and when I went in I could tell he needed his diaper changed," said Vicki. "But then I picked up La-La, and she was soaking wet, so I thought 'oh, I guess he's spilled his water from his cup.'"

Closer inspection revealed that La-La was soaked in the boy's urine. This revelation quickly led way to Vicki squinting in the room's half-light at what appeared to be "two cookies" in the crib and rapidly discovering that they were not, in fact, baked goods.

Sources close to Samson report that he was put to bed with a properly taped diaper and in a fully snapped onesie. There had also, according to these sources, been no prior indication of the boy's ability to escape the baby-sized cotton unitard.

Speculation concerning a timeline for the unsnapping and subsequent dediapering and pooping point to the early morning hours, but the room is only under audio and not video surveillance.

Reached for comment later that morning, a seemingly unphased Samson was quoted as saying: "Poopah; crib. Sam!" Items in the crib --- including a second La-La (at press time it was unclear if it was #2 or the mysterious and rarely seen #3), several Thomas trains, assorted board books, and a still-full sippy cup --- were summarily bleached and boiled.

Privately, at least one source inside the house is questioning the timing of the event. According to the source --- who spoke on condition of anonymity --- the previous night marked the inaugural reading of a book extolling the virtues of toilet training, which was followed by an earnest discussion on the benefits of underpants.

In training

Vicki made Samson a little Play-Doh baby to play with.

He gave it some hugs, changed its diaper, and gave it some water.

Then he tore it in half. We're still working on the "gentle, gentle" thing...

Paging Dr. Jung

Have I mentioned how much Samson likes music?

We, or more specifically he, got to join the Woodstock Earth drum circle this past Sunday. Apparently it starts at 4, so we were about a half hour late, but young Samson spent almost an hour and fifteen minutes drumming his little heart out.


He takes a little while to warm up to new things, so we spent a few minutes across the street just listening and watching. There was a woman who looked like an extra from the movie 10,000 B.C. who served as the leader (I guess). She had a huge drum that had been wheeled in on a hand truck and was playing it with this giant mallet that was covered with what I assume was wooly mammoth hide.

Next to her was a guy with a cowbell who would intermittently blow into a conch-shell. I made the obvious Piggy joke to Samson, but he was way too into the drumming to care.

Which made me think of Jung and his whole idea of the collective unconscious. As I stood there with Samson in my arms, both of us feeling the primal rhythm as it resonated from 15 or 20 drums in the circle, I began to wonder what ancient doors were opening in his little mind. His blue eyes were unblinkingly watchful, the slightest nod of his head as the drummers sped up or slowed down. It was almost eerie.

I asked him if he was ready to move closer, and he whispered "yeah," and we walked over to the circle. As luck would have it, they put out a box of drums and other percussion instruments (tambourines, cow bells, etc) for interested passerby. You'd be surprised how many casual Sunday strollers pick something up and sit in for a little while.


Again, it all felt very Jungy, very primal, and --- truth be told --- very cool.

I know people always say that having children exposes you to new things, but I'm not sure this is what they meant. Twenty years from now, as Samson embarks on an ethnomusicology expedition to the Amazon (or calls to tell us he's dropped out of college to make hemp bracelets and live on a beet farm and by the way, could we please call him "Darkstar,") this may seem like a seminal point in his life.

Again with the gratuitous Samson photos

The point of our little trip north was to attend my aunt and uncle's 40th wedding celebration in Woodstock, where they live.

It was a great party, and we got to see family and friends from all over the country.

As he is wont to do (and he may have felt vindicated in this as he looked around town over the weekend), Samson brought his guitar with him.

If Highlights magazine had a Page Six, I'm pretty sure this is what it would look like.

First things first

It's good to be back. We had a great long weekend in Woodstock and even got to spend a night at Aunt Maura and Uncle Greg's in Connecticut.

I've got lots of stories and photos, but it will take me a few days to get everything up on the blog.

I can tell you, however, that you'll notice Samson has a black eye in all the photos. On the day before we left, he fell --- from a standing position --- onto a small air pump he was holding/playing with.

The point of the pump barely missed his eye, but it caught him full in the cheek and he had a nice bruise to greet all our relatives with.

In any event, he was quickly ok. It took us a little while longer, but the shiner is almost gone and the scab is almost completely healed.

And, as everyone at the party with kids hastened to tell me, this probably won't be the last time.

More to come later today...

Going up the country

We head to Woodstock (insert brown acid joke here) tomorrow for a family party and a mini-vacation in the Catskills.

So no posts for a few days, but I'm sure I'll have lots of photos and stories to share when we return.

Until next week...

Just-woke-up blues

Samson woke from his nap this afternoon in a musical mood.

As you can see, he takes a lot of stuff in the crib with him.

Young Sam takes kind of a pharoanic approach to going to bed, so there's usually a menagerie of stuffed animals, trucks and trains, books, an instrument or two, and, as documented in the first photo, snacks.

Pretzels, to be precise. Somehow, they help him get to sleep.

And if we've learned anything in 22 months, it's to go with what works. Besides, it would be ridiculous to put a turkey dinner in there with him.



What I can't figure out is why he's afraid of religious statues and mannequins and not that creepy, fixed-smile, frog in overalls looming in the background.

Inside voice

It's official: I have now had to ask Samson, in public, to use his "inside voice."

I felt so stereotypically dad-like. Almost like Fred MacMurray, but without the pipe.

Samson has discovered, in recent weeks, the concept of volume. Prior to that, he thought he was yelling by saying words really fast. Which was hilarious.

If he wanted me to come get him from his crib in the morning, I'd hear "daddeh; dadeh," with each syllable getting more clipped as he got impatient.

No more.

It's now: "DADDEH; DADEH"

We are not a particularly loud-talking family, so he's got a solid frame of reference for what "inside" volume should be. But boy, he bring the noise when he wants to.

Speaking of which, Vicki bought him a toy microphone yesterday. I hope he still remembers how to beatbox.

Rock star

I was not fast enough with the camera yesterday, but I finally figured out why Samson keeps going into our bedroom and putting his mouth on the bedknob at the foot of our bed.

I should explain: For our tenth anniversary, Vicki and I decided to treat ourselves to a new bed.

So far, Samson has yet to figure out that the footboard(?) could double as a ladder.

He has, however, been spending an awful lot of time standing next to the bed with his mouth on --- or very close to --- the bedknob. Weird, right?

So I've kept after him whenever I see this, and we've had some talks about how we don't lick furniture in our house [I'm not taking responsibility for what you do in yours]. But all to no avail.

Until last night during naked time (Samson's clothes-free, five-minute, post-dinner, pre-pjs and bedtime stories break), when he grabbed his guitar, ran into the bedroom, and proceeded to sing into the bedknob.

While strumming his guitar.

Like I said, I need to get a photo of this to really do it justice.

Ode to joy

This past weekend was Artscape, the city's annual festival of the arts. It usually doubles as a heat and humidity endurance test, and this year was no different.

Normally, I try to avoid giant crowds of sweaty strangers whenever possible.

But we had seen on the news that morning that the BSO was hosting a musical petting zoo for kids. So we were ready to brave even a plague of locusts to let young Samson get his hands on some orchestra instruments.

And given the kind of day we had, I think I would have faced even the locusts.

Of course, he was a little overwhelmed at first. But once he got over being shy, he dove right in.

And he was all business. No goofing around or making funny sounds; he was (as you can see) quite intent on making some music. He seemed to like the strings the best.

He also seems to have figured out that musicians get to flirt with girls without being obvious about it. He kept returning to this one girl, extending his hands and smiling, saying "playit? please. thenkyu."

Mama's (much less witty) banter

Guest blog:

Samson went to the movies for the first time with his pals yesterday. They saw Cifford the Big Red Dog and ate a LOT of popcorn...

About 30 minutes into the movie, they were out of their seats playing driving games in the lobby...



Afterwards, we went to one of our favorite local book stores, Greetings and Readings, for storytime. We three moms made a quicker-than-usual exit when our storyteller started berating some of the toddlers for making noise and touching her books while she was reading.

All the better because we left to go have lunch and do some shopping at Wegman's.

And that was all before nap time. Whew!

-V

From the people who brought you candy cigarettes

It's with some trepidation that I enter the "who are the ad wizards that came up with this one?" territory.

But this product (made by a company called Munchkin, no less, and which we have in our house), bears comment.

Of all the things you quickly learn to become un-squeamish about as a parent, poop ranks pretty high on the list. Sure, you deal --- especially in the early months --- with spit up and lots and lots of snot, but poop remains the constant. Day in and day out, as the seasons cycle by and the milestones become fond (if fuzzy) memories.

All this poop, of course, needs a repository. In the early months of Samson's life we relied on that staple of baby shower registries: the Diaper Genie. But several months back, we got tired of having a giant cylinder of baby poo standing sentry in the corner of his room.

So we decided to simply haul the dirty diapers away on an a-la-carte basis. Which, unless it's raining or snowing heavily, is really no trouble at all. The big thing to remember, however, is to keep a good supply of plastic, disposal bags handy.

But not too handy.

Hence the dispenser Vicki picked up at Target. Which is terrific, except for the fact that it's shaped like something Samson uses every time he takes a bath.

Also, it looks like the subject of a song by one of his favorite Sesame Street characters. Why not scent it like chocolate chip cookies, for crying out loud? It's hard enough to keep Samson away from things that don't look like toys and can hurt him.

I imagine right now that the good people at Munchkin are hard at work on a line of Teletubby-shaped used needle holders and Elmo-themed bleach dispensers.

I mean, who are the ad wiz... Woops, sorry.

Did I mention it looks like a toy he plays with in the bath?

So now, hidden in a basket he won't be able to reach until he's in high school, there is a duck full of plastic bags.

And every time I reach for one, he sees it [who can miss the bright yellow duck with a blue bag dangling from his underside?] and clamors "Play! Bath! Play!"

Good grief.

In the summertime, when the weather is fine(?)

Ok, the weather is not exactly fine. In fact, it's pretty awful outside.

I just got a voice mail from Samson telling me to "Check e-mail."

Looks like somebody had a little pool party this afternoon. Man, I wish I worked from home...

Ne plus ultra

What could be better than playing with a fire truck while sitting in a fire truck?



















Sitting in a fire truck with your friends. Barefoot.

[Sidenote: How does he get his shoes off so quickly? And how come everybody else seems to observe the "no shirt, no shoes, no service" rule. Even Jeff Spicoli wore shoes in public buildings...]

Everybody loves a fireman

Guess who visited the Fire Museum yesterday?

This is Samson and his buddy, Ryan. More pictures to follow...

Marginalia

Samson (with some coaching) has lately taken to demonstrating how strong he is by flexing, gritting his teeth, and growling "strronnng."

He has also picked up some new phrases, including the uber-casual "oh, hiiii," which is how I was greeted yesterday morning when I went in to get him from his crib. It's like he's all of a sudden decided his room is the center square.

In the category of unintended consequences, young Samson has taken my phrase of encouragement --- "great job"--- and decided that since he hears it when he's completed some onerous task (e.g., having his teeth brushed, face/hands washed, diaper changed), he could end those tasks sooner if he said it himself. So I now get the toothbrush near his mouth only to have him say "gretjob" and start ducking and weaving.

More importantly, however, he has become Jackie Chan fast in getting to his feet from his back, and so I really have to be vigilant now when it's diaper time. By the time I hear "gretjob," it's already too late...

One week later

I forgot to post these pictures earlier. It was about 95 degrees on the 4th of July and probably slightly more humid than the jungles of Burma (or Myanmar, if you prefer). Just absolutely gross. Added to this was the equally gross opportunism that manifested itself in the parade's floats.

Nearly every other float was somebody running for office; we had both candidates for governor, several for the vacant senate seat, too many to count for various state and county positions, and one for assistant reference librarian.

Ok, I made that last one up, but there sure were lots of people in convertibles wearing fixed smiles and trying to look pleased about being in the kind of sun that would keep French foreign legionnaires indoors.

There were some bands, of course, and various veterans and patriots' groups, including a revolutionary war re-enactment group that featured a guy who looked like he went to school with Nathan Hale. I'm not kidding. What would possess a man who probably voted for Coolidge to think that woolen breeches and a worsted great coat are a good idea in July is beyond me. But he toughed it out, and the crowd gave him a huge round of applause. [I'm sure the echoes of our clapping comforted him as he was rehydrated in the ambulance we saw racing by 20 minutes later.]

Was it a good parade? I have no idea. But Samson and his buddy, Jacob, had a blast watching the trucks, eating goldfish, and just generally commandeering a small strip of sidewalk.

The importance of being Thomas

One of the least surprising things about the Thomas the Tank Engine series is that it was started by an Anglican vicar. I have watched very little of the one video we have, but the few books in Samson's collection are replete with the kinds of language and moral instruction that you'd expect from World War II-era Britain.

We've got one story where Thomas arrives at a surprise party being held in his honor for being "really useful." I keep waiting for "Thomas saves the Raj" or "Thomas explains to a particularly low sort of chap about the importance of keeping one's voice down."

Even the little character cards that come with the wooden train toys feel like something out of a headmaster's ledger. The descriptions include things like "rather pleased with himself but means well" or "always looking for ways to avoid doing his duty."

Of course, all of this is lost on young Samson and his friends, who just enjoy pushing the different colored trains around the track on our coffee table.

And I guess a toy world that is predicated on behaving and being responsible is hardly the worst thing in the world.

Still, it is funny to hear Sam in his toddler voice going through the litany of trains on the track. Reminds me of the roll call scene in "Meaning of Life." Gordon, James, Thomas, Toby, Percy, Neville...

Oh, Susanna. Oh the humanity.

My parents were kind enough to buy Samson a CD with 914 of the most annoying songs ever recorded, by children who I can only guess studied at the Osmond/Brady/Partridge school of vocal training.

So we've got that going for us on car trips now.

Of course, there is only one song from the whole compilation that Samson wants to hear: Oh, Susanna. He can (and unfortunately, does) listen to it over and over and over again.

Let me explain: It all started --- as so much does in our house --- with Laurie Berkner. On her DVD, they do a version of Oh, Susanna. Fair enough, but somehow this became Samson's musical obsession.

[I should note here that I bear no small responsibility for this turn of events. One morning, in a fit of what I can only describe as "look-ma-no-hands-ism," I put young Samson wise to the fact that the one and only song I can play on harmonica is Oh, Susanna. He looked at me with the kind of adoration usually reserved for dump trucks and bulldozers (bulldozers). And I loved every second of it. This fact will not keep me from complaining, but I felt like I should be honest with you.]

Anyway, the song on the CD is 1 minute and 15 seconds long. Which means that on those trips that he remembers the CD is in the car (which is essentially every car trip), we get to measure time and distance in 1:15 increments.

The unit is called, appropriately enough, a Susanna. For instance, it's about 3 Susannas from our house to the park if we hit all the lights right. It's probably only two to Jacob's house (which means we should be walking). I haven't clocked it, but I'd bet it's about 8 or 9 Susannas to my office.

At the end of the month we head up to the Catskills for a long weekend and a family party. I'm going to start lobbying Vicki now about "misplacing" the disc. That's easily a 250-Susanna trip.

And for the life of me, I can't figure out what the song means.

Sloth

Sloth: Probably my favorite of the big seven. Almost no effort required at all.

It's also a handy excuse for the dearth of posts lately.

I've been on vacation for the past week, catching up on some odd jobs around the house, taking lots of walks with Samson for coffee, and just generally doing as little as possible. Ok, that last part isn't exactly true. We had visits from my folks and Vicki's mom and stepdad, and these came right on the heels of a visit from her dad. Which was terrific for Samson while it lasted, but left a little grandparent withdrawal to deal with when everyone headed back home.

In any event, it's been a nice week off, and I've got lots of stories and pictures to share. More to come later today...

Samson: Behind the music

What do you need for a morning walk to get coffee with Samson?

A stroller, a sippy with milk, some wipes, a banana, and oh yes, a guitar.

People think I'm exaggerating when I say he takes it everywhere with him. These people have never been interrupted in the bathroom by Sam doing his toddler Pete Townshend routine.

And while technically, it doesn't go everywhere --- it hasn't made it into the tub yet --- this is not for lack of trying.

All that said, over the course of the past few months, something has changed.

Whereas before he carried the guitar around the house, occasionally strumming but mostly banging into things and menacing the cat, he is now starting to make music.

Not music in the stage-mother, Suzuki-method, prodigy sense (which is fine by me; I find those kids unsettling), but in the sense of just sitting and singing words that pop into his head.

Like the "thank you" song he was rocking out to this morning. Or the "I love you, Mr. Gary" song that followed. Mr. Gary, by the way, is his friend Oliver's dad.

There's also a Mr. Garry who cuts Samson's hair, but given his track record, I have a hard time believing the song was for him.

Bonnie and Sam?

I'm not sure if you've noticed, but there seems to be a pattern in photos taken of Samson "driving."

At least he's wearing clothes in this picture. But I am starting to worry he's practicing for a career as the Clyde half of a Bonnie-and team...

Raindance

Sam got to spend some quality time among the trains at the B&O Railroad Museum today. And while most of the exhibits are outside, he didn't let our unexpected monsoon season get in the way of having a good time.

Miscellaneous

Salon has a great article on kids' music and the fact that more and more former rockers are getting in on the act. Which, for those of us with children, is great news. I mean, I guess there are some adults who genuinely enjoy Barney, but I haven't met any. And I'm not sure I want to.

Vicki's dad is visiting for a few days; we hadn't seen him since Thanksgiving, but he arrived bearing all sorts of Thomas swag and Samson very quickly warmed to "Grimpa."

Which is good, because he got a little extra time with Grandpa yesterday while Vicki visited the school she'll be at in the fall when she returns to work.

I came home at lunch to see how things were going and to put Sam down for his nap. Safe to say young Samson had worn the poor man out. There had apparently been numerous train wrecks involving Thomas and others. And several of his little animal toys were laid out on the floor, presumably awaiting the changing of their diapers. [I'm not kidding; this is his new thing. We were in Borders last week and he lined up a half dozen Bert and Ernie dolls and announced "change diapers!"]

In any event, during the three hours they were alone together, Samson had somehow convinced his grandfather that climbing the coffee table is something that is allowed in our house. What's more, he had perfected a two-step ninja-like ascent.

I have to say I was impressed with his technique. Very fluid.

Even so, I couldn't let it go. Once he's summitted the coffee table, the expedition to the dining room can't be too far off. And I can picture him planning to conquer the dresser in our room, a band of sherpas camping in our hallway, drinking yak butter tea and waiting for the weather to break.

So, like a thousand times before, I was reduced to the role of straight-man when I asked him, with as much earnestness as I could muster, "Samson, do we climb tables in our house?"

The reply, as ever, a smiling "yes."