The kids are all right

Usually we're on full alert to keep the kids from jumping on the couch (and each other in the process), but there's something so darn sweet about this picture. I think it lasted about 15 seconds, but luckily for us, Vicki is quick with the camera.

This is another favorite of mine. They were outside playing when a helicopter flew overhead.

And these are just some random ones that I really like and that remind me how lucky I am.

Silent partner

Samson had a bowling birthday party to attend on Sunday, which left sweet Jane and I with a few hours to kill. She spent a good portion of our time together napping, which was fine by me --- I actually read the Sunday paper on Sunday --- and then we headed to the mall on our never-ending search for hair clips that will stay in her hair and won't get lost.

OK, I guess we can't expect the clips to cover that second order of business, but it was 90 degrees outside, and we needed something to do. Plus, the mall on Sunday morning is a nice, relatively empty place for Jane to practice walking. Which she resolutely refused to do. Jane is a girl of few words, but "no" is a contender for her favorite. That and "happy," which she pronounces kind of like a native French speaker: app-EEE.

About a half-hour into our little field trip, it occurred to me that Jane is a really quiet child. I mean, I knew this already. And some of this is probably a function of her not being able to get a word in edgewise with her chatterbox brother around. But as we were wandering around, and I was pointing things out to her and telling her what this or that sign meant, I realized she was probably wondering when I'd stop talking [the source of Sam's chattiness is not a mystery].

So I did. We walked along for a few minutes saying nothing, and I watched her big blue eyes just taking in the sights. Occasionally she'd crane her neck around to see something of particular interest, like the line of people at the Apple store waiting for iPhones. But mostly she was just content to be held and observe life as it happened.

I'm sure there's a Zen parable in this story or something, but I expect that once she gets a critical mass of words, she won't be nearly as quiet.

Indeed, by the time we got home (minus the sought-after clips, just fyi), Samson and Vicki had returned with tales of bowling and video games, and Jane was pretty adamant that Sam's goody bag be shared. As in, she grabbed for it and insisted: "Me. MEEEE." Then she did a kind of spin move and yanked the bag away in one swift motion.

Maybe her quietude is less about observation and reflection and more about her secret plan to become a ninja?

Not-quite instant karma

I never see my father so happy as when he's watching Samson spin the karmic wheel of wise-guy-ness in my direction. I'll have to call him with these two stories:

Story 1: At the dinner table. Samson, who is a good eater when he wants to be (unlike Jane, around whom you could lose a finger if you weren't careful) decided to turn a spoonful of applesauce upside down.

Me: "What are you doing?"

Samson: "Hey! I have applesauce on my shorts!"

Me: "What were you thinking?"

Samson: "Well, I am an astronaut. I don't have any gravity."

Story 2: Last night, around 8 pm. Samson, already put to bed, post-stories, post-glass of water, post-discussion about monsters and their potential hiding places, is heard on the stairs. Vicki and I are in the kitchen, and there he is, in the living room. In a cape.

Vicki: "You're supposed to be in bed. What are you doing?"

Samson: "I'm not sleepy, and I wanted to come downstairs, but I didn't want you to see me. So I'm in disguise."

Luke channels Bartleby (and the Buddha) at the beach

While Samson played in the sand, and Jane charged the waves, cousin Luke exercised his right not to get his toes wet.

Look at this little guy: Calm, determined. Heck, he's almost in a full-lotus position.

Gidget

At the beach

We made a quick trip to NY this weekend for baby Emily's christening. We also finally got the kids to the beach. This little jaunt probably lasted all of an hour, and that's a generous estimate, but it was worth pushing Jane past her bedtime.

To be honest, she'd probably still be there if we let her. Our first encounter with the water involved a wave that broke a little bigger than I expected.

Which sent Samson back to the towel, declaring "I don't like the ocean. I just like pool water." And that was that for him.

Jane, on the other hand, had to be physically restrained from pulling a King Canute.

Seriously, I walked her back up to our towel at least three separate times only to have her turn around and toddle back down to the shore. The girl is fearless.

That's really super, SuperGirl

Speaking of secret identities, Sweet Jane has discovered the joy of wearing a cape around the house. Good times...

Alter ego

Samson's attention has turned back to superheroes, and so once again we are having lots of conversations about secret identities.

For some reason the topic comes up a lot at dinner, and we'll go through the litany of guys [it's only guys] and their respective alter egos: Clark Kent, Barry Allen, Peter Parker, the Bruces: Wayne and Banner, and John Stewart [this one, not that one].

So I guess it shouldn't be surprising that Samson has now assumed his own alter ego. He's been doing a lot of role-playing lately, as in: "I'm Daddy and you're Samson. Come on, Samson, let's go play baseball" or "I'm not Samson; I'm Daddy. Hey Vick? Do you want coffee?"

But he's also apparently married the love of role play with his rock star ambitions. We were in the kids' section at Barnes & Noble over the weekend, where they have a little stage. Samson got up on the stage and announced, not too loudly and to no one in particular, that he was ready for the show.

Two children actually came and sat down and waited patiently. What they expected he was going to do, I don't know. But in less than a minute, the kid had mustered an audience. Forget the Little Einstein books and videos, we need to get to work on a Little P.T. Barnum series.

When one of their mothers asked him what he was going to do, he said he had a band: Oregon Ridge Manhole. Now Oregon Ridge is a nature center near our house. Where the manhole comes from, I just don't know, but it made me laugh out loud.

He then told her his name was Brian Mexico.

I like to think I have a good imagination. And I'm pretty certain that some of Samson's talents for straight-faced fibbing comes from me (although Vicki did tell her third-grade class that she had lunch with Queen Elizabeth), but I think he's rapidly approaching the end of his Grasshopper phase...

No spitting

As a kid, the "no spitting" signs on the NYC subway cars always made me laugh. Now I wish I had one of them for our house.

For a while now, Samson has been spitting. More properly, he's been giving raspberries [I don't want you to think he walks around the house like a minor leaguer with a jaw full of chew or anything].

He's particularly convinced that the way to combat bugs (mosquitoes, flies) that make it into our house is by spitting at them. You can guess how well that works. Basically we end up with saliva dots on the bug's last known place of residence and a wet, wobbly flying insect still making the rounds of our house.

Anyway, operating on the monkey see principle, Jane is now spitting. And laughing about it. It's driving Vicki insane.

Independence Day

For a change, it wasn't 300 degrees on July 4th, and so the parade was less of an endurance test than usual. For heat anyway, there was still the usual coterie of election-year floats and other oddities to be endured.

On that front, this year's winner by a mile was a float that featured kids dressed as robots and had a woman speaking into a megaphone about America embracing God again and getting the country's business back on track. I need to go back to my New Testament to figure out which of the Beatitudes dealt with macroeconomics...

We had the Ace of Cakes guy as the parade's honorary grand marshall, which meant that he and his tattooed band of merry men (and women) were pulled down the street on a flatbed to the wild cheers of food nerds and people who like girls with sleeve tattoos and tube dresses. Which covered everyone (except maybe the robot Reagan/Jesus people).

Jane (for whom every day is independence day) decided the sidewalk would be the ideal place to really practice walking. To her credit, she didn't complain about the scraped knees that resulted, and she actually did a pretty good job.

Amazingly, she can only really walk when she's holding something. Usually said object needs to be either a choking hazard or an object that could render her a cyclops, but she settled for a bag of crackers while we were at the parade.

Later in the day our friends had their annual 4th of July party, immediately preceded by the annual thunderstorm. Even so, the tents were up, the beer was cold, the grill was going, and Samson got a chance to jam (and stay up late enough to see a firework or two).

Life with Sam(son) Beckett

There are times when I wish I had a camera rolling in my car. This morning was one of those times. Samson has already discovered the theater of the absurd.

Scene: Saturday morning, in the car. Samson and Daddy, returning home after playing soccer at the gym and getting a pretzel at the mall.

Samson: Where are we going?

Daddy: Home.

Samson: Why?

Daddy: You said you wanted to go home, didn't you?

Samson: When?

Daddy: At the gym when we were playing soccer. And at the mall after we got our pretzel.

Samson: I know. But where are we going?

Daddy: We're going home, buddy.

Samson: Why?

Fear and loathing at the ice cream parlor

For some reason, Samson was obsessed with going out for ice cream yesterday. Since it was a nice day, we'd planned on taking a walk after dinner to an ice cream place right in our neighborhood. Unfortunately, Jane never took an afternoon nap, and by the time I got home from work she looked ready for a three-state killing spree.

So it became a Sam and Daddy trip. Which was fine. Until we got to the ice cream place. I had forgotten (how, I don't know) that Samson still has a black eye. Which, given his complexion, looks about a thousand times worse under fluorescent lighting.

So here I am with my wounded child buying him ice cream and it felt like everyone there was silently making out a report to Child Protective Services. He, of course, was totally oblivious to all of this and was just focused on getting some Crazy Vanilla, which is basically French vanilla ice cream with food coloring.

An interesting thing about getting ice cream with Samson is that he picks based on color. It makes sense when you think about it. Chocolate may be delicious, but it's just, well, brown. That electric yellow and green stuff on the other hand. That sure looks interesting.

We've thrown away more than a few cones of sour apple, electric mango, and the like because they didn't quite meet his taste expectations [and it seems silly to make a child eat ice cream; green beans, sure, but turbo watermelon chunk?]. All of this has taught me to approach vivid ice cream colors the way that nature uses them on wild animals: essentially as warnings to stay away.

Anyway, Crazy Vanilla is actually pretty good, and we managed to make it out of the shop without anyone asking him what happened. Which is good as that would only have made things worse. I know what happened, but when a friend of ours asked him yesterday, he said: "Um, I fell on the floor. Right Daddy?"

Thanks, Luka.

Sweet Jane: A (very brief) photoessay

Shiner

My poor guy...

Samson started "Space Camp" today at his school, and apparently it's a lot tougher than we expected. The kids were playing outside --- taking a break from their discussion of the Big Bang Theory --- to run around under a sprinkler when Samson and one of the twins, either Ethan or Noah, collided.

I say one of the twins because when he told Vicki the story, it was Ethan. When he told me the story, it was Noah. Whichever one it was, I assume they've got a good sized knot on their head; I've collided with Samson before, and that boy's head is hard.


He's fine now, but I think it put a bit of a damper on the first day of space camp [he wore his NASA hat and everything].

Selfishly, this is at least good timing. The last two times he's gotten a black eye have been the day or two before big family get-togethers. He'll probably still look slightly UFC for our friends' barbecue on the 4th, but by then it should be faded. I hope.

Toothbrush

I struggled to find a more clever title for this post, but in the end, I decided just to go basic.

The story, in a nutshell, is that on Thursday, through no fault of his own, Samson ended up watching his toothbrush follow his poo down a flushing toilet. To her credit (and chagrin), Vicki made a valiant effort to stop the toothbrush's fantastic voyage, but alas, to no avail. That night, a friend of ours came over to help me try and locate the errant brush. And by locate, I mean unscrew and lift the toilet off its base.

Of course, you can't just pick a toilet up and put it on its side. I mean, I guess you could. But you probably wouldn't want to.

In any event, our friend, Patrick, helped do all the things needful prior to setting a toilet and tank on its side, and I then attempted to midwife Sam's missing toothbrush. No luck. Vicki gave it a shot. As did Patrick's wife, Noelle. Nothing doing. I suggested, given that his hands are much smaller, that Samson should try, but he seemed to have no interest in sticking his hand up into the toilet bowl.

So, having given it the old college try, we realized there was nothing more to do but hope. It was possible, Patrick said, that the toothbrush had gone all the way through and was even now being picked up at a treatment facility. More likely, however, was that it was stuck somewhere in the serpentine innards of the base of the bowl, never to be seen again. Eventually, he said, it will clog and you'll need to replace the toilet.

Apparently, "eventually" meant "tomorrow." Because I got home on Friday to find the toilet not working. So we had a big old family trip to Home Depot to pick out our new bowl and tank. And a seat with a lid that could only be opened by combination lock.

On Friday night, Vicki and I got to work removing our old toilet (again) and installing the new one. Had we not just seen the whole thing done the night before, we'd probably still be up there working on it. But we managed to do the entire job ourselves. Which --- laugh if you want --- felt pretty good. Especially as I'm sure a plumber would have charged us a good bit for the work involved.

On Saturday morning, Samson and I made a trip to the dump. I didn't want to have an old toilet sitting by our garbage pails for any longer than absolutely necessary, and (more the point) I was pretty excited to hurl this thing to its doom and watch it shatter. Sort of like the old Letterman stunts from way back in the early days.

So there Sam and I stood, the back of the minivan pulled up to the lip of the dump's, er, dumping area. It was already hot and fairly smelly at the dump, but this felt like an event --- like something significant Samson and I were sharing. Not necessarily on the order of Abraham and Isaac on Mount Moriah, but a moment nonetheless.

And lo, did I lift the old toilet up. And yea did I hurl it into the depths to watch it smash a hundredfold. And it smashed with the roar of a thousand toilets.

"Look," cried out young Samson. "There's my toothbrush."

And so it was. And it was good. [Actually, it was gross. It was twisted with enough toilet paper to qualify as a Christo installation. Also, there was poo.]

Dada strikes back

Samson's foray into the world of Star Wars figures is about to take a time out. For about two weeks now, he's been playing with all the guys and ships and generally doing a good job. However, he's probably still just a little too young to play with these things and not, well, break them.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not this guy.

But I'd still like to keep these toys, some of which were first played with during the Carter administration, in tact. Not perfect. Certainly not in their original boxes (which I never saw the point of). But with wings working, wheels functioning, and heads firmly atop shoulders.

Which brings me to the decision to put the toys back in the attic for a bit. The other morning Sam decided to drum out a beat on the floor using Princess Leia. Remember that scene in Clash of the Titans when Perseus (years before he made it big as lawyer in L.A.) sheared off Medusa's head? It was sort of like that. Just a clean pop and some rolling.

Not a huge deal, and he didn't get in trouble. But perhaps we were a little hasty with the whole "hey, why don't you play with these old (and apparently) fragile toys" thing. I did pick him up a few figures of his own [Boba Fett, natch, and a cool Stormtrooper] so he wouldn't be bereft of all action figure, er, action. And I imagine that by this time next week he'll have moved on to something else. He's been carrying his little doctor's bag around the house for the past few days, so we may already be on the verge of a new thing.

Also, I'm also pretty sure that the Leia figure was my sister's. Don't tell her; we'll send a card...

Bikes and tykes

I had a day between when we returned from New York and when I had to go back to work, so we (finally) dusted off the bikes and gave Jane her first ride in the bike trailer.

I got Vicki a bike for Mother's Day two years ago and had planned a long bike ride and picnic for our then-three member family. That morning, however, Vicki gave me the good news that she was pregnant. And really tired. And not at all up for a bike ride. Anyway, we've been vowing to get back on the trail ever since.

Of course, after getting everything ready (checking tires, assembling trailer to make sure all parts were there and working, wrestling with bike rack) and loaded, I discovered that my rear wheel was flat. So I pumped it up again, but I could hear a leak. Which meant a side trip to REI, where --- and I really do need to write them a letter --- they took care of my bike (new inner tube + labor, $10) and had me on my way in 15 minutes. Good people at that store.

Once we reached our destination, a decommissioned railroad trail that runs north into Pennsylvania, we were ready to go. Jane, however, was not at all interested in her helmet. Even when we called it a hat. Even when Samson told her she had to. So we decided she was probably safe enough sitting in the trailer and with her harness buckled.

We probably rode all of three miles before various factions in our party professed to be tired and in need of a horna potty [for some reason, Sam just cannot grasp the idea that it's a porta potty]. In truth, three miles of pulling 50 pounds of kids was probably good for the first time out anyway.

At one point, a mother deer and her fawn crossed about 100 yards in front of us. Both Samson and Jane saw it because I heard a kind of combined "hey" and "ooh" from directly behind me. It's hard to explain, but whenever I'm out hiking or biking and see something like that, I always get this feeling like I've been let in on a really cool secret.

Sort of a reminder that the world goes on even when you're not there to see it.

The beautiful game

We were in New York with my parents for a few days last week. The weather was unseasonably nice, and so we spent a lot of time in the back yard.

As a teenager, I hated that yard because I had to mow it. As the father of two small children, I loved it like I've loved no other lawn before. We were out more than we were in. Jane got to do her thing (walking/stumbling/falling/repeat) and Samson now has a new favorite sport: soccer.

And so we played. And played. And played some more. We may actually qualify for membership in FIFA at this point.



In any event, it was great to have so much room to run around. And he's already got better ball control than I did during my one inauspicious season playing youth soccer. It's not a good sign when you're a sub on the 7- and 8-year-old team. (Ironically enough, that's me holding the ball.)

Breakfast in Eden?

We bought Samson a kids' Bible a few months back, and he really seems to enjoy some of the stories. [You can guess which one is his favorite.] Of course, Samson is also a pretty literal guy --- he is 3 after all --- and so I think we miss some of what he's picking up.

This morning he didn't finish his breakfast and didn't clear his place. When he went in to the dining room later, the milk that was in his bowl had been absorbed by the cereal he'd left. The following was relayed to me by Vicki a few minutes ago:

[Scene: dining room; Dramatis personae: Samson, Vicki]

Vicki: Samson, you didn't clear your place.

Samson: I'm not finished. I still want to eat my cereal.

Vicki: Well, we need to get you fresh cereal and milk.

Samson: (looking in the bowl) Hey, where did the milk go?

Vicki: Where do you think it went?

Samson: Did God drink it?

Father's Day

For Father's Day, Vicki and the kids took me hiking. It's been a while since we've been on any kind of trail, and I was a little worried that Jane would protest being in the backpack. Clearly my fears were unfounded.

Vicki and I hiked this place years ago, but I didn't remember it until we'd gotten about a half-mile into the trails. The place is a nature preserve, and at one point we were in some kind of grove surrounded by honey suckle bushes. When the wind blew, the sweetness in the air was almost overpowering. Seriously, it was almost Arthurian (minus all the chain mail and wizardy stuff). It's not hard to see how years ago people thought of forests as enchanted.

At one point, Vicki and Samson went on ahead to explore, and Jane and I just stood still. The sun was warm on my face, a slight breeze rose off the water, and the stillness was broken only by the sound of a cricket or two in the tall grass.

Of course, this little transcendental reverie was broken when Sam tested out his "sword" on Vicki's leg [clearly he too was feeling Arthurian], but it was nice while it lasted.

Acoustic breakfast

Monday started very early [like 5:25 early], and Vicki wisely decided to go to the gym. After breakfast someone (not me) decided it was time for a concert.

In truth it was mostly sound-check. Still, nothing says good morning like acoustic John Jacob Jingleheimer (?) Schmidt. [His name being my name too, and all.]

Farm fresh

We got up early on Saturday (surprise, surprise) and headed out to pick some strawberries. It was still relatively cool and not too crowded at the farm. Unfortunately, Jane took no morning nap and so was really cranky. This, combined with her still-wobbly walking skills, meant that everyone ended up looking like they'd been to a dinner party at Spahn Ranch. Which was fine for everyone except Vicki. Strawberries on shirt, OK; strawberries on seat of pants, not so much.

I'm not sure what happens, but whenever we go picking [apples, strawberries, peaches], I get all hunter-gathery. Seriously, we had five pounds of strawberries and I was pulling the "five more minutes" thing with everyone. Of course, all those cut-and-runners are enjoying the jam I made last night.

Our neighborhood grocery store just underwent a complete renovation, so they've taken to posting a sullen teenager by the door with store maps and mumbled offers of assistance to help everyone adjust. When I asked "Justin" [has anyone cool ever had that name?] where the pectin was, I might as well have been asking for a copy of the Gilgamesh.

Anyway, I did find it --- and no, Justin, it's not in the same aisle as the jelly --- but it turns out I didn't need it.

Here's a quick and easy recipe. [Remember to sterilize your jars before putting anything in them; nothing ruins fresh strawberry jam on toast like botulism. And once you give people food poisoning, they never let you live it down.]

3 lbs strawberries, hulled

3 cups sugar

1 1/3 cup fresh lemon juice

Mash the strawberries and simmer for 10 minutes. Add sugar and lemon juice, stirring to ensure the sugar fully dissolves (approximately 2 minutes). Boil for 10 - 20 minutes, stirring occasionally and ladling off any foam. Pour while still hot into jars, leaving 1/4 inch at the top.

A new hope

With the end of the school year, Vicki had to close down her office. Which meant she had to find and turn in her office key. Which led to a search for her winter coat, which was packed away in the attic for the summer. Which meant that yesterday, while it was 98 degrees outside, our Vicki was in the attic rummaging through down jackets and wool coats.



On the plus side, she decided that it would be a good time to introduce Samson to his patrimony: a gently used and nearly complete set of Star Wars figures.

I'm not sure which one of us was more excited to play with this stuff. [Sidenote: for those of you keeping score at home: that's an original X-wing fighter, the plastic part of the Jawa sandcrawler set, the Hoth battle station, and Jabba the Hutt, who Samson thought looked "like a poop with eyes."]

Journal of the plague week

We had a wild stomach virus roar through our house last week, so sorry for the dearth of posts, but it was ugly at our house.

Interestingly, Jane got it first, so she wins the Typhoid Mary vector award for least likely carrier in the house. Honestly, we just naturally (and almost always correctly) assume that Samson is the bringer of germs, but this time Jane threw us a curve. A wicked, wicked curve.

All is well now, so I've got to play catch up. More to come soon.

Quick sticks

Samson's obsession with baseball has been tempered by a new found interest in lacrosse. It doesn't hurt that we live in the Fertile Crescent of laxdom. So now after dinner we're in the backyard with our sticks.

One of Samson's favorite things to do is "scramble" for the loose ball. Which means each night I am basically getting the crap beat out of me as he yells things "I'm the defenseman, and I'm mean" or "I'm Hopkins and you're The Syracuse; I have to check you."

I have to say, however, he can throw pretty well. Where last year at this time he was struggling to keep the ball in the pocket, now he's all about trying to knock it out of mine. So I suppose that's progress.

Sleepover

Aunt Maura and Uncle Greg were in town for their 10-year college reunion [translation: they are old], so we got to hang out with Luke for a while and have a full-on sleepover.

The kids had fun, and we had a ball with them. These are post-bath pre-bed pictures. And yes, we had the television on to keep them all relatively still so we could take some pictures.

Two years from now, these sleepovers are really going to be something. I can't wait.

Jane says

Compared to her chatty brother, Jane is practically a Benedictine monk. But she's got quite a few words now. And while she doesn't usually talk unless she's got something to say, she's starting to pick it up in the conversation department. What follows is a tally, so far, of what Jane says:

baby (much to Sam's consternation, as she often points to him and says it)

Daddy (still my favorite)

Mama

water

pee (that's right; our girl says "pee"; want to guess where she learned it?)

flower

milk

banana

Papa

NO!

dog

With an article or two and maybe a verb and/or a pronoun, we could probably make a haiku out of her lexicon. More to come, for sure. Stay tuned...

Bright eyes

Jane, you are a vision of loveliness...

Freckles

It's official: Samson James has his first freckles. We spent a lot of time over the past few days playing outside, and well, it's not like he's going to tan. Truth be told, I feel like this is one of those "from father to son" moments.

Melanin, the gift that keeps on giving.