The Gospel according to Saint Veruca

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Veritas

We made a quick trip to the library last night to return some books and check out some new ones. Samson got to play at the train table for a little bit, but he kept taking the train and banging it on the table, which drew some stern looks from the children's librarian so we moved on.

The gated toddler room, scene of previous strange encounters, did not disappoint last night. Although there were no feral two-year-olds or random outbursts of book licking. Last night's encounter came courtesy of the other adult in the area. This dad was sitting watching his son play on the slide and struck up a conversation with me about how great it was that the library had this area for kids, etc. All of which I replied to politely, but I'll be honest, I'm not really big on talking to strangers. Particularly strange men in rooms with little kids. I know, I know, he was the kid's dad, but even so.

I've long wished there were some universal hand sign for "please stop talking to me, you're making me uncomfortable." Kind of like the choking sign but infinitely more useful on a daily basis.

In any event, there was no way out of conversation with this guy, who looked like a combination of Buddy Holly and Michael Douglas in "Falling Down." He asked how old Samson was, and I said 13 months. He said his son was 2. He asked if Samson could walk, and I replied no. He then asked about crawling, and I said yes. Then, in what was a capstone to an already awkward conversation, he took out a picture of his son from his wallet to show me what his son looked like at 13 months. Mind you, this was the same son who was standing not four feet from us.

At this point, Samson is getting hungry and tired, and I'm just trying to grab some books without looking like I'm obviously trying to get away from this guy. I'm sure a more careful selection would not have yielded a book about vegetable soup, but it does have lots of bright colors. And besides, it could have been worse.

So we're finally ready to go, and the guy asks me what Sam's name is. For the briefest of moments, I actually thought about saying "Diego" because the guy was just so weird. But I could just picture Vicki at the library in the near future and this guy coming up to her and saying "oh, you must be Diego's mom."

So I told the truth, and damn the luck, his son's name is Sam as well. So we got to talk about that, and Samson versus Samuel [no contest, it's Samson in a walk every time].

If not for Vicki, I'm almost sure I would have lied. I once spent a year at my old gym answering to the name "Chris" because I'd missed the window of opportunity to inform a guy who worked out there that my name was not, in fact, Chris. I would actually sign up for the cardio machine with the name "Christian." [For some reason, I never felt like a Christopher].

But, of course, it might also have confused Samson. There's no telling what he recalls at this point. Which is not good, because in the middle of singing the "Itsy Bitsy Spider" in the car yesterday this Chevy Gigundo (or whatever their school-bus sized SUV is called) cut us off. Without thinking, and in mid-song, I said "hey thanks, assface." Let's hope that's not something he thinks is part of the song.

In any event, we finally got through the gate and to the check out counter. I felt like Andy Dufresne.

Profiles in Ridiculousness

With the exception of the birth of a child, very little that is good happens at 3:41 in the morning. So it was with some dread that I awoke two nights ago to hear our garbage pail being rummaged through. My first thought was "Damn those hobos!"

But then I shook out the cobwebs and realized I had been given the chance to finally confront my nemesis: The raccoon that has been going through our garbage on a regular basis and making a general mess of things.

So I crept downstairs, peeked out the front window, and there --- tucking in to the remainder of Samson's chocolate birthday cake --- was a raccoon easily as big as dachshund. I tapped on the window and gave him my best "Hey, WTF" face. No response.

I got a flashlight, opened the window, and shone it in his face. No response.

My next move was to open the door and chase him away, at which point I remembered that the house alarm was set. For some reason, disarming the alarm (which entails pushing buttons that beep) always wakes up one or both of the kids.

This happens when I slip out around 6 to go the gym, which isn't great but is manageable (at least I tell myself this as I imagine Vicki rolling over and cursing me under breath and into her pillow). But at quarter of 4 in the morning, the idea was untenable. So I resigned myself to letting the raccoon have his cake and eat it too, while I tried my best to be menacing from the front window.

[Sidenote: I'm not particularly menacing close-up, much less from behind a window, so you can imagine how successful I was at scaring the raccoon straight.]

Last night, however, time was on my side. It was just before 11 o'clock, and I was in bed reading when I heard the familiar thud of our pail being turned on its side. I headed downstairs and opened the door to find the bandit sitting on our porch railing, getting ready to hop into the pail.

It was at this point that I realized I had nothing with which to scare the raccoon. My "hey get out of here" was met with a blank stare, so I went back in the house to look for something to throw at him. And there, next to the door, standing like a mute witness to my earlier dereliction of garbage duty was one of Jane's pee diapers in a little blue bag. Heavy enough that if I hit him he'd get the message, but not so heavy that I'd be required to remove an unconscious scavenger from the property. [I had to remove a dead cat from our road last winter, and it was pretty unpleasant, to put it mildly.]

So I stepped out onto the porch into the chilly night air.

And there, in the glare of the front porch light, in the half shadows made by the rising moon, under the cold fire of the stars burning in silent galaxies, I threw a pee diaper at a raccoon.

My aim was a little high, and it actually sailed over its head. But it fled, grumbling, into the shadows past the reach of the porch light. And I was victorious. Also, ridiculous.

Postscript: It came back later (sometime around 4, I think), but before I went to bed I put a brick on top of the lid to keep it secure. Advantage mine.

Big top Samson

Not quite the greatest show on earth. Probably like the 7th most interesting way to spend 2 hours in the greater metro area today. And only because it was cold and raining outside.

Even so, I think Samson had fun. We got there about 15 minutes early and were surprised to find we had beaten the bus from his school. They arrived 10 minutes into the show with stories about a bus driver who couldn't find downtown and took them north on the beltway instead of south. Reason #22 I'm glad we drove.

So I don't know if he had a great time or an OK time or if he could even focus on all the stuff that was going on. I am certain of this: He really enjoyed the 47 lb. box of popcorn we bought from a vendor. Anytime you can fit your whole arm into a container and still come out with some popcorn, you've hit good times.

The circus itself was really, well, weird. And not weird in a sort of cool but quasi-pretentious way (like Cirque du Soleil).

This was more weird in a "gosh those dancers look like strippers" and "why would you want to drive a Jeep over a guy's stomach?" sort of way. The whole concept behind the show was the "circus of dreams," so it started with a "family" being "picked from the audience." Which made me smile because the best thing about the circus is that it's still got that P.T. Barnum vibe to it. The whole thing is a con, so you might as well enjoy the ride.

"Dad" had always dreamt of becoming a ringmaster. Luckily for him, he had anchorman hair and a radio voice. "Mom" harbored secret dreams of becoming an aerialist. In an outfit and a pair of glasses probably bought from a Van Halen garage sale, she was up in the air in no time. If anyone didn't get that it was a set up, by the time they saw Mom they figured it out. [Except for the guy in our section who kept cheering her on. More on this later]. The big sister, Jan, had dreams of becoming an assistant to the strongman. Way to dream big, sis.

But Dan, the little brother, in addition to being a 35-year-old Chinese national, had no idea what he wanted to be. So began the journey...

There was some cool tumbling and lots of clowns, and the usual death-defying stuff with trapezes and the like. But there was also this weird sideshow video thing with three elephants talking to the audience.

One sounded like the mom from Good Times, one sounded like I imagine Woody Allen's mom has sounded in his head all these years, and one had the voice of a child. They kept going on and on about training humans and how the circus is good for showing what humans can do. Every once in a while they'd also put in a plug about how much Ringling Bros. do for conservation.

I'm not sure if it was some kind of weird circus Jedi mind trick to keep us from worrying about the elephants who were being made to do handstands for us or if they focused-grouped a whole bunch of "ethnic" sounding elephants and these polled highest. Either way, Samson was confused. And quite frankly, so was I.

Weirder still was the trained tiger part of the show. Anytime you hear a live instrumental arrangement of Bow Wow Wow's "Aprhodisiac," that should be a signal that something is amiss.

But it's late, and I'm beat, and Jane's still not asleep. So I'll have to get to that tomorrow.

E.R.

Jane continued vomiting throughout the weekend and so yesterday our usually laid-back pediatrician suggested we take her to the Emergency Room. I stayed with Samson while Vicki took sweet Jane to the E.R.

I should note here that I'm not a big fan of hospital/medical dramas. I've spent more than my fair share of time in hospitals and am not exactly in awe of Hippocrates' descendants. [My Dad has battled one form of cancer or another off and on since I was 19, so the proverbial shine is well worn off that apple.] Which is not to say that doctors and nurses (who do the lion's share of the work, in my experience) don't do great work; it's just that I don't see them as heroes the way TV would like me to.

For one, everyone on a show like Grey's Anatomy talks like the people on West Wing, had they majored in biology instead of poli sci and gone to med school instead of law school. Anyone who has ever watched a doctor checking the chart so he remembers the patient's name/illness will be quickly disabused of that fantasy. Not to mention that the whole brooding physician fighting the system thing is as tired as, well, the whole brooding cop/teacher/private eye fighting the system.

In any event, this is relevant because Vicki was sitting with Jane in one of the treatment rooms and was approached by an intern. Said intern asked how Vicki knew Jane's stomach was upset, as in, and I quote: "Did she tell you she doesn't feel well?"

Now I like to think that both my children are, as the man says, above average, but am I the only one who finds it silly than an intern assigned to a pediatric E.R. would ask if a 13-month-old --- who, incidentally, is not exactly "big for her age" --- can not only talk but locate and articulate discomfort? Really?

Vicki is a lot kinder than I am, because I would have said something like "She didn't say it exactly, but I think the haiku she left me on her highchair this morning was pretty unambiguous. [Or at least I like to think I would have said that. I probably would have just stared blankly.]

Anyway, Jane is OK, but she's got a really nasty virus and will just need to continue on a diet of Pedialyte until she stops throwing up, which is hopefully soon. She's already feeling a little bit lighter when I hold her, and it's awfully hard to look into those big blue eyes and see so little of the spark that is usually there.

Did Dewey Decimal have kids?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big weekend, part I

This was a very busy weekend, and I am really tired so I'll have to serialize our adventures over the next few posts. Friday night we picked up my sister and brother-in-law at the airport, which gave Samson a chance to see some planes taking off. He was more interested, however, in playing with Vicki's cell phone --- which, after a p.m. nap strike and traffic on the beltway, was fine with us. Like most infants, once he gets into the overtired zone, it's only a matter of time before you see the face Bill Bixby used to make just before he turned into Lou Ferrigno. And then it's all over.

Saturday we went to the zoo. It really is all happening at the zoo. The weather was perfect, and all the animals were out and doing their thing. Samson hadn't seen Aunt Mo in a few months, so this was a great chance for Sam to spend some time with his godmother. It was also, as it turned out, a great chance for Samson to test Aunt Mo's restraining skills. I've mentioned before that young Samson is not afraid of the water; he's also not afraid of penguins. In fact, this total lack of fear makes him want to launch himself out of the arms of whoever is holding him and into the penguin pool. Aunt Mo passed the test with flying colors, but we spent a while watching the little guys swim back and forth and then line up on the cement ledge like commuters at a bus stop. It was great.

A side note, since it came up more than once at the zoo. Does anyone really think it's appropriate to smoke at the zoo? I mean, does the sight of polar bears and signage about global warming stress you out so much that you need a Marlboro Red? Does the Serengeti tableau with rhinos and zebra lead you to believe that the one thing missing for everyone is some second-hand smoke? Or is it just a way to complete the whole camouflage trucker hat, NASCAR/WWE t-shirt, jorts ensemble? I know this is an issue people get very 2nd amendmenty about, and I'm not trying to seize some moral high-ground. Smoke all you want; they'll make more.

But I honestly can't get my head around why anyone would feel the need to light up while looking at/learning about animals, many of whom are endangered because of human avarice, gluttony, and other deadly sins.

In any event, lots of good stuff going on at the zoo. We got to see various big cats, lots of cool primates, and learned way too much about elephant menstruation from a well meaning but over-informative docent at the elephant pavilion.

Unplugged

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

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

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

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

An unfortunate series of events

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Field of dreams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Vicki the ninja

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diminished capacity

Yesterday afternoon we went to the park near our house. It's amazing to see how much more agile Samson has become in just a few months' time; things he needed help climbing in spring he can how race to the top of. [Yes, I did just end that sentence with a preposition. And you know what? I don't even feel bad about it. In fact, I might even do it again. OK, probably not right now though.]

In any event, yesterday Samson was showing off his new found agility on the monkey bars. He can get himself all the way across with almost no help at all, and he's great at scrambling onto the platform at the end. So, emboldened by his playground prowess, I decided to test out my simian skills. Which I am happy to inform are pretty good. I too was able to swing arm over arm across the bars without touching the ground.

Unfortunately, my spatial relation skills are not so good. I thought I'd cleared the last bar when I pulled myself up onto the platform. Sadly, I had not. On the upside, I managed not to scream (or cry) any expletives. But it hurt. A lot.

Samson sweetly looked down on his broken old dad from the platform and planted a kiss on the top of my head, saying "There. That will help you feel better."

Which it did. Sort of, but it took me a bit to shake the cobwebs. And I discovered last night, in addition to the Adam Rich-sized knot on my head, that I actually broke the skin.

Pathetic. Skinned knees, sure. Barked shins, of course. But scraped scalp? Ridiculous.

That said, I may try to slip out of work early today. I've already started "losing my train of thought" in conversations, and I think I just need to call one more person "Vicki," and I'll be home-free...

Sam crosses the wine-dark sea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks Homer!

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.

What would Sir Edmund Hillary do?

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

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

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

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

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

Bad idea.

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

Even so, he cried. A lot.

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

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

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

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

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

Stay tuned...

House of pain

What a difference a day makes. Yesterday, as you can see from the pictures of Samson and Jane below, all was sweetness and light. Today was a completely different story. As I type this, Jane is sprawled out on our bed like a tiny chalk outline, which is probably the best response to the day.

I'll begin at the beginning. When Vicki went in to get Jane this morning, she found her sound asleep in her crib and covered in vomit. And when I say covered, this was like the final scene from a "Behind the Music" special.

Samson was feeling fine and so went to school to collect his Valentines [more on this later]. And while neither Vicki nor I felt great, we figured we could split the day, work-wise, and tend to sweet Jane. I got home from the office before noon, and Jane spent the bulk of our time together throwing up, sleeping, or looking wan. [It was like spending the afternoon with a more articulate version of a contestant on America's Next Top Model.]

Anyway, the poor thing rested most of the day and into the evening, but we're afraid to leave her in her crib for fear she might end up getting sick again in the night. Hence the chalk outline.

So tonight, as Vicki was settling Jane down into our bed, I was telling Samson stories and getting ready to tuck him in. We had just finished up one of our epic tales about Sam and his adventures with the Super Friends when he asked: "If I pick my nose, will it bleed?"

Now I should note here that Vicki and I spend a lot of time reminding Samson to get his finger out of his nose. And indeed, one of the reasons we give when the inevitable "why" is raised is that he'll give himself a bloody nose. This is not a scare tactic as he has done this before.

Back to our story: No sooner had he asked this then a veritable torrent of blood came streaming out of his left nostril. Honestly, I've never seen so much blood in person. It poured out and onto everything --- La La, the comforter, the floor, his pajamas, me.

And despite my best attempts to stanch the bloodflow, we went through three washcloths.

His mouth kept filling up with blood, at which point he would spit, so I had a spatter pattern on me worthy of a Manson family member. Honestly, we could have written all the words to Helter Skelter on the wall with all the blood that was flowing.

So Samson is crying and screaming, I'm doing my best to calm him down, and Jane --- who you'll remember is with Vicki in our bed --- has resumed throwing up. Even by our standards, this was a weird Friday night.

Never in my life have I wished more fervently for a visit from an LDS missionary or Jehovah's Witness. Honestly, wouldn't you love to be able to answer the door with a screaming toddler in your arms and blood sprayed across your face? You would forever be on their "do not call" list.

Ultimately, I got the bleeding to stop and was able to calm Samson down. Vicki did likewise for Jane, except with vomit. Everyone changed clothes and sheets, and the laundry was set on "boil" in the washer.

Boy am I glad tomorrow is Saturday...

Proud

My father has been sick for the past few days with a kidney infection. He's 81 and not in great health, so I try not to keep Samson apprised of Papa's condition every time he gets sick. Vicki mentioned it, however, and Samson thought a care package and card might help cheer his grandfather up.

So he asked Vicki for some supplies and set to work making my dad his own La-La and a get well card.

Those tasks completed, he was a little worried that there wasn't a toy for Papa. So he went through his stuff and picked out one of his superheroes. [Samson already had a Batman figure when he got this other Batman, so he decided this new guy was "Ra," Batman's brother. Full disclosure: In the hierarchy of Sam's superheroes, Ra is pretty much near the bottom. I don't think an act of Congress could have induced Samson to send his Papa The Flash.]

The package was already on its way by the time I got home from work, but Vicki was kind enough to take pictures so I could see what my boy had done. Occasionally words fail me, and this is one of those times.

Suffice to say, young Samson has a very big heart. And I am both humbled and extremely proud.

The Equalizer

Samson is not a particularly aggressive child. And, as I'm sure I've mentioned before, he's got a pretty firm grasp on the whole "we-don't-hit-people" thing. Which is great, of course, but there are times when I wish he was a little, well, morally flexible.

There's a kid at his school, whose name is Ruddy (short for Rutherford, so you've already guessed what his parents are like), and Ruddy is a hitter. He is in the twos, so they only interact on the playground, but Samson has come home more than a few times telling us about Ruddy hitting him. We've kept the party line --- tell him to stop, move away from him, tell a teacher --- and it has worked pretty well.

However, on Friday, as I was dropping Samson off and all the kids were playing, Ruddy walked up behind us and hit me. Now I realize I'm not particularly intimidating, but I think most two-year-olds don't even talk to adults they don't know much less assault them. He kept on walking, and once I got over the shock of "did that kid just hit me?" I sprang into action.

I said, loudly, "Hey you. What's your name?" Obviously, I know the kid's name, but if I learned anything by being raised by two teachers, it's that you immediately assert your authority by demanding at least a name (if not a hall pass).

I then told him to go sit in the corner. At which point his teacher, who was in the room, asked "Did he just hit you?" and gave him a time-out over by her. Samson was a little confused by all of this but must have figured it out because I left him with a huge smile on his face.

Vicki thought it was hilarious that I gave someone else's child a time-out, in school no less, but I just kind of reacted. It didn't occur to me not to give him one. I felt like Edward Woodward (see below).

Anyway, I told Samson that if Ruddy hits him again, he might think about hitting him back. Hard. Just once. I told him he could expect to get in trouble at school but that I would not punish him. [Heck, I might take him out for ice cream.]

That said, I think Samson is a better person than I am. Plus school's out in two weeks...

Sunshine state

There's no way I'll get to all the stuff that transpired last week in just one post, but I wanted to get something written before heading off to bed.

We got back yesterday morning at around 11 am, which was great except that it necessitated being on a 7:50 am flight, which necessitated being at the airport at 5:30 to return the rental car, get the kids and ourselves through security [and in case you're wondering, we did have to take Jane's shoes off], and settle our traveling circus of two kids, three carry-ons, a stroller and a carseat at the gate.

A quick tip for anyone traveling with kids: If your child uses a white noise machine to sleep, check it with your big bags. We inadvertently gave rise to a Homeland Security seminar yesterday when the "device with a motor" --- as they called it --- was discovered. I had to explain to three different people, who displayed varying degrees of being convinced, what the device was and what it does.

Supervisors were called, other supervisors were called, the machine was x-rayed, swabbed, and the bag it had been in was re-scanned, searched, and then I was patted down. Which was, well, weird. Especially since they never even looked Vicki's way. Not that I wanted her to get patted down, but it was interesting that they saw me as the potential ringleader. I guess I should have been flattered.

Through it all, everyone was very nice and quite professional, but my favorite question was from Officer Diaz [not his real name], who asked "So does it work?" Not understanding what he was asking, I replied that it needed to be plugged in. To which he replied, "No, I mean does it work? I have a six-month old daughter, and we've tried everything to get her to sleep." I guess I should be glad he didn't confiscate it for further examination.

So good times at the check-in. Other than that [oh, and the baby seat bag that was supposed to be checked through splitting its seams at the counter and vomiting out the seat and about 83 diapers we'd clearly overpacked], the airport experience was fairly uneventful. And because we'd been up so early, Sam and Jane slept most of the way home.

The not so great (or even ripe) pumpkin

Samson's school took a field trip to a pumpkin farm last week. In addition to a petting zoo --- which he loved (surprisingly, given his track record) --- and a hayride, which, for reasons known only to him, he keeps referring to as "the ride in a cage," each child got to pick his or her very own pumpkin.

I have no idea if this thing is some special breed of heirloom pumpkin that's supposed to be green or if we'll have to wait until Easter for it to ripen.

Either way, he is very proud of his pick.