All apologies

Sorry for the dearth of posts in the past few days. Samson is still getting over his cold, and Vicki has been sick all week. She actually "took a sick day" on Wednesday, and I stayed home to help out. Which was probably the best non-sick sick day I've ever had. I got to take Samson to his swim class and just generally spend the day hanging out with him.

I had to take Ish to the vet tonight for his yearly checkup. He's not big on car trips, and he's really not big on strangers examining him/giving him shots. We had thought about all going, like a little field trip so Sam could see the vet's office. I'm really glad we didn't.

It got ugly. Pet Sematary ugly. He actually bit the vet and drew blood. And this was before the vaccinations. I'm pretty sure we're off their Christmas card list. It was all I could do not to intone, in my best down-east accent "sometimes, dead is better." Somehow, I don't think the doctor would have been amused.

In any event, we've got a big weekend ahead of us. Two birthday parties, the Fells' Point festival, and --- if we're feeling particularly brave --- Samson's first haircut. Stay tuned...

Paging Corey Hart

Suddenly, diaper changing has become a time for asserting one's independence. Samson is now fully against having diapers --- which clearly need changing --- changed. I can't say it's a full on protest. I mean we don't have people marching around the changing table with oversized puppets of me and Vicki; and there is no one shouting "the whole world is watching" as I try to make the diaper switch, but it's still pretty intense.

In case you're wondering what form this resistance could take: He wriggles and writhes like Iggy Pop circa 1975 [note to self: try very hard to keep Sam from becoming the next Iggy Pop].

Usually we give him something (a book, a hairbrush, Piggy's conch) to keep him occupied. Lately, however, he is too smart for this, and so I've come up with a new plan. It's ingenuity is overshadowed only by its complete and utter ridiculousness.

For some reason, Samson finds it funny when I wear sunglasses. Whenever I put them on, he laughs. So I have taken to changing his diapers while wearing sunglasses (sometimes at night). It keeps him still for a few minutes, and it lets me get the job done. Laugh if you want, but it works.

I may just keep them on and see what else they help with (dinner? bedtime? baths?).

I bet this is how Roy Orbison started out.

The Great Pumpkin (gratuitous Sam pics)

Clap your hands say yeah

Another milestone reached: Samson can now clap. And he really seems to be getting into the whole clapping thing.

We went pumpkin picking on Sunday at an orchard near our house, and they had a bluegrass band playing as part of their Johnny Appleseed festival. I don't know if it was the music or some chance moment of synchronicity, but Sam put his hands together and that was that.

Again, not a life skill, but we're still very proud.

Confessional

Two-thirds of the family is sick, so yesterday I decided to give Vicki a break and take young Samson to the early (8:00 am) Mass. I figured she could get at least an hour's worth of rest with two of us out of the house.

I packed all the requisite church/distraction necessities and off we went. By the way, I love having Cheerios and goldfish in church. I mean, I feed most of them to Samson, but it is nice sometimes to have a little pre-body-of-Christ snack.

Did I mention Sam was sick? His nose continues to run. And run. But instead of a constant flow, it's now like electricity in Baghdad. Hours of nothing and then bursts of power.

We got through the second reading before I realized that the one thing lacking in my backpack was tissues. By this point, it was either use the hymnal (probably blasphemous, definitely uncomfortable for Samson) or go to plan B.

We went with plan B, wherein I do the third-grade hand wipe of the nose and surreptitiously insert said hand into my pocket to wipe it off. I know, EEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWW. Luckily, by the time the sign of peace came around, we were already standing in the back because Samson kept trying to grab the head of the guy in the pew in front of us.

We made it through Mass without further incident. Let's just say those jeans went into the wash post haste after church.

Third person singular

Samson got a dancing Elmo doll for his birthday. It's probably his favorite toy right now, and when the music plays, Sam gets this huge smile and dances along. The song Elmo sings, a variation of the "YMCA" by the Village People, could be the biggest earworm since "Kokomo," "I've Got My Mind Set on You," and/or "West End Girls."

Good luck getting those songs out of your head today. You're welcome.

There is little I could say (read: complain) about Elmo that would be original. Yes, the voice is like nails on a chalkboard, but he's a muppet. It would be pretty unsettling if he sounded like Robert Goulet. Likewise, the laugh is really annoying, but I'd still take it over Fran Drescher's any day.

I may be showing my age here, but I remember when Elmo was introduced as a character. I still feel like he's an interloper on "The Street," like when sitcoms need to extend their run a few more seasons and add a new, young, ostensibly cute kid to the mix. Oliver on the Brady's, Jeremy on "Eight is Enough," Scrappy-Doo; the list is a sad and endless litany of shark jumping.

I'll take the old episodes, when Snuffleupagus [yes, I looked up the correct spelling] was still invisible and Mr. Hooper was out sweeping in front of his store. Now everyone sees Snuffy, and Mr. Hooper is long gone. And Hooper's store has been turned into a Starbucks.

Ok, that last part isn't true.

Yet.

All that aside, I think my biggest complaint with Elmo is that he speaks of himself in the third person. If Sesame Street is still an educational show and not just the best marketing campaign ever, why would they want to teach kids to speak like professional athletes?

Do I really want to hear young Samson say, "Samson loves the zoo." Or, "Samson is hungry and wants some milk and cookies." Worse yet: "Count on Samson to step up when the game is on the line. Samson is at his best under pressure that would crack mortal men."

PS: This message was brought to you by the letter V and the number 9.

First word, revisited

I was thinking, when I got home last night, that it's actually pretty incredible that Samson's first word was cat.

Not because it's a difficult word or a foreign concept for him, but because every time he goes near our cat [and by go near, I mean lunges at with his mouth open], I hear myself saying "Samson, gentle; be gentle with Ishmael." So for all he knows, the cat's name is Samsongentle.

That probably would have been a mouthful for a first word, however.

This photo is a few months old, but the story remains the same. We assumed, in all our parental wisdom, that if we let him "bite" the cat once or twice --- in addition to keeping Ishmael on notice --- it would serve young Samson well to learn that biting the cat is gross and lands you with a mouthful of fur.

Sadly, he has ignored this lesson. Although it does still work to keep the cat on his toes.

First word

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a first word: Cat.

Lately Samson has been pointing to Ishmael and saying "caaht." So we were pretty sure about the whole first word thing, but we now have independent confirmation.

Yesterday, while he was at his friend O's house, one of their cats wandered into the room, and Samson pointed to it and proclaimed, proudly, "caaht." All the moms present heard it, and Vicki had their statements duly notarized.

So there you have it.

Cat. It's a nice start, no?

A boy and his wagon

If it ever stops being summer, we can hop in our red wagon and do some pumpkin picking. And apple picking. And other kinds of picking (acorns? squash? acorn squash?).

The autumnal equinox is tomorrow, for crying out loud, and it's still 85 degrees outside. Could we get a little fall around here?

It's not like I want to send Samson out in a little druid outfit to mark the victory of the god of darkness over the god of light or anything.

But it would be nice if he (and dada) could start wearing corduroys. Maybe a light sweater. Is that too much to ask for?

The Age of Discovery

I thought it was a fluke when it happened the other night, but after tonight's bath, I can draw no other conclusion. Samson has figured out that the drain plug, when removed, makes a cool sound. I think he'd also like to eat it, but I've been able to thwart his attempts so far [is there anything this child won't put in his mouth?].

Bathtime has morphed from a cute nightly ritual of laughter and splashing to something more like the trash compactor scene in Star Wars. Lots of futile attempts at climbing the walls mixed with a fair amount of yelling and despair. Friends who have kids who are a little older say this is a phase and that bathtime will soon be fun again.

Maybe so, but I still wish we had a droid to help us out of our nightly jam.

Let them eat cake

What would a first birthday be without the traditional wearing of the cake?

This is when Samson was still relatively clean. He ended up looking like Tomme in the Emerald Forest. Vicki made the cake (see below for the "before" picture) and the chocolate animal decorations. Sam (and dada) are lucky, to say the least.



This was easily the best birthday cake (or unbirthday cake, for that matter) that I've ever eaten. Aside from its obvious artistic merit, it tasted so good I was thinking: "If I ever have to go to the electric chair, I'd definitely want this for my last meal." [Am I the only one who rates food on a Dead Man Walking scale?]

Anyway, I'm guessing some other people enjoyed the cake too. We have a piece left. And it could probably be most accurately measured in angstroms.

So far we've observed a kind of tacit detente about who gets the last piece, but Vicki is at class tonight. By the time she reads this post...

Recap

Good grief, it's been a long time since my last post. Lots of planning and errand-running for this past Saturday, when we celebrated Samson's first birthday by making 30 people try to stand comfortably in our 1200-square-foot house.

Samson has inherited his mother's looks and temperament (a good thing on both counts) but unfortunately has inherited my propensity to be sick on his birthday. I've been sick for at least half of mine --- including a weeklong bout of chicken pox for my 20th --- and so far Samson is one for one.

Actually, he was fine on his birthday, but he woke up the day of the party with snot that can only be described as tenacious clinging to his nose. Is there any sound more pathetic than a one-year-old who is too stuffy to handle his sippy cup? Just shallow sipping sounds and then a whimper. It breaks your heart, really.

Samson was a trooper, though, and fared pretty well on the day. We had lots of kids around, and set up the basement as a kind of free-trade zone for toddlers, so I think that worked out well for everyone. And he seemed content while down there with people his size. Among the adults, however, it was a different story. He was adamant about staying in either Vicki's arms or mine. Every once in a while he'd relent and go to one of his grandparents, but he wasn't his usual gregarious self.

Of course, the last time he was around this many people was the party after his christening, and he got passed around like the brown acid at Woodstock. Maybe his long-term memory is better than we know...

Happy birthday

One year ago today, your mom and I finally got to meet you. We couldn't get over how cute you were (and how loud). And we were immediately impressed with your tan. Particularly given the genes you inherited. We discovered later it was jaundice, and that you were not tan but, in fact, orange.

So began a year of discoveries.

You will probably never know how very much your mom and I love you. And anyone who knows us knows that we waited a lot longer than 9 months for you to come into our lives.

Now you are one, little man. Happy birthday. You make dada (and mama) proud.

364

Samson James turns one tomorrow.

Here are some GSPs (gratuitous Sam pics) from the first year. I look back in wonder...

Every day is not like Sunday

No, every day is not like Sunday. Which is too bad, because we went to the reservoir yesterday and had a picnic. The weather continues to be perfect, and we have been taking every chance we get to be outside.

In what was probably the greatest mixed message to date, I stood with Samson on the shore of the reservoir and pitched goldfish crackers to the ducks and geese. For some reason, he thought this was hilarious and laughed the way he does when his mom tickles him. I wonder if he was thinking "see it is too funny to throw food" or if he just liked watching the gulls swoop down as they looked for the orange, fish-shaped, smiling crackers.

Someone was kind enough to leave about six feet of fishing line on the ground near our blanket, so Samson and I got to play a lightning round version of cat's cradle as I desperately tried to untangle him and he desperately tried to make one of his hands match Jerry Garcia's.

I won, by the way.

Base camp

I imagine Hillary and Norgay had to start somewhere, right?

Blonde Buddha

I don't think he's the twelfth incarnation of the Panchen Lama or anything, but you've got to admit, there's an enviable serenity in that little face...

Sam vs the bully

I guess the library is where all the bullies hang out. We were at the library, in the kids section, minding our own business and alternately climbing things and eating books, when all of a sudden a low growl from the entrance to the kid's section rang out. Sam's friend Jake, who we ran into (with his parents, obviously) was standing at the gate to the kids' area. On the other side of the gate was a kid who looked like a combination of Scott Farkus and the Master Blaster, with the personality of a young Charlie Manson. He growled through the gate something about people touching his stuff and then proceeded to open the gate on young Jacob.

At which point, Mrs. Bully calls out "Ethan, honey, wait until the little boy moves." Now Jake's Dad is there and has things well in hand, but I think all four of us (and probably Jake and Sam) are thinking: "hey lady, how about not allowing your crazy toddler to run over other kids?!"

It was pretty much downhill from there as Ethan/Manson came in, sized up the competition, and knew he could run the place. A total mismatch, like the bounty hunter from Raising Arizona meets the Lollipop Guild.

Samson, because he's not yet one (three more days) and a trusting little soul, gave the kid this huge "hi, I'm Sam, want my lunch money?" smile and promptly got his hand stepped on. Jake, to his credit, stayed a little farther afield. In any event, for the next five minutes or so, we essentially hovered over our kids as E/M cut a swathe through the play area, declaring (and I'm not exaggerating when I say his voice rang out like Regan's) what was his and, as such, off-limits.

Figuring discretion was the better part of valor in this instance, we opted to go elsewhere and let the boys play in blissful ignorance of the cruel, cruel world, where bullies command libraries and smiles go unreturned. They'll know soon enough.

I think if we had stuck around, things would have gotten ugly. I'm not kidding. I've never met a child before and thought "hey, I wonder if his head turns completely around." Spooky.

Fear and loathing in the kitchen

The vacuum no longer holds the title of most feared object in the house. That dubious honor now goes to the kitchen exhaust fan. Our house was built in the 1950s, and we've got one of those old-school fans built right into the south wall above the window. We don't use it very often, but for some reason young Samson is obsessed with it.

If I'm holding him, he points at it and makes a serious of "k" and "t" sounds. The first time he did that, I figured I'd show him what the fan does. Big mistake. He literally trembled with fear and tried to climb behind me for cover. Remember that scene in the Blair Witch Project where Heather tells the camera how scared she is? It was like that. But worse and more compelling [in the movie, I was rooting for the witch; I'm definitely rooting for Samson against the fan.]

Unfortunately, what terrifies him also seems to fascinate him, so now every time we're in the kitchen he points at it, tries to reach for it, and then recoils in fear at the silent, inert fan.

Of course, in the long run this could save us lots of money on trips to Six Flags. Roller coasters, schmoller coasters. We've got everything we need in our kitchen.

We could set up a rope line and one of those "you must be this tall" signs by the kitchen entrance, sell crappy souvenir t-shirts ["I survived the Fan and now I'm Exhausted!], hire a sullen teenager to take tickets and look alternately bored and annoyed, and let Sam scare himself over and over and over.

Silence of the Sams(on)

No early morning wake-up call from young Samson today. In fact, by 6:45, although we thought we'd heard him stirring, there was no noise from his room. Vicki went in to wake him up and found him already awake, sitting in the corner of his crib "reading."

The nighttime ritual of a story before bed is pretty well established. And we knew Sam was a big fan of Spot. He also loves pop-up books (in a Godzilla in downtown Tokyo way), but this silent reading thing is new.

Aside from its manifest cuteness, it meant an extra half hour of sleep for dada (and mama). Talk about win-win. And this is just from a 10-page board book.

I bet we could sleep until noon if we left a copy of Moby-Dick in his crib...

Self-reliance

Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist --- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Vicki sent me a few pictures of Samson's first foray into feeding himself. Words fail me...

Jailbreak?

I don't know what he's planning, but we've discovered that young Samson has been stashing food in his highchair. We're still working on the throwing food thing [and by working, I mean trying not to laugh when I hear myself say "Samson, no; we don't throw pineapple, we eat it." or "Samson James, stop dropping cheese on the floor."]

But this squirreling away of supplies is new. He was eating a string cheese, and I looked away to change the radio station. When I looked back, the cheese was gone. Assuming he'd thrown/dropped it, I checked the floor. Nothing.

Now he can't fit a whole string cheese in his mouth (this is not for lack of trying), so I knew it wasn't there. I figured it would turn up eventually --- everything does, except for that one kid from the Little People bus (Timmy, where are you?!). When I lifted him out of his chair to get him cleaned up, I saw the cheese sticking out ever so slightly from under the highchair cushion. There were also a few strawberry pieces and part of a cracker.

And a shiv.

Ok, there wasn't really a shiv, but I don't get to use that word very often and I just thought I'd throw it in there.

I'll have to keep an eye on his friends to see if they've got similar MOs. What I really need, though, is a 12-month-old Huggy Bear to give me the lowdown on what's happening in the playgroup. I'm looking at you, Jake. What's the word on the street, little man?

Something big is coming, I just know it...

Thoreau in pampers

When not trying to eat nature (and test my reaction time), he really seems to enjoy himself.

We took a nice long walk today on an old decommissioned railroad trail. Another perfect day weatherwise, and it was great to watch him taking in all the sights and sounds of the trail. We watched the sun hit water as it flowed over rocks near a bend in the river. And we listened to the cicadas calling back and forth from the trees.

I can't remember where I heard it, but I think there's an Afrikaans phrase that translates roughly to "gathering wood." What it refers to is taking specific notice of an instance, kind of like mentally photographing something, in the knowledge that years from now (in life's winter?) the memory of the event will keep you warm. The batteries died in the camera as we hit the trail, but I did my best to pay attention as Samson watched a butterfly that flew up near his face and then alighted in some nearby wildflowers.

How I spent my summer vacation

With summer officially over, I tried to take stock of what I'd done. This picture kind of says it all. We went hiking on Sunday with Samson's friend Oliver (pictured here with his mom) and finished up our three hour tour of the woods at a park. The park uses old tires and woodchips and is, I guess, safe and eco-friendly. It is not, however, edible --- a point lost on young Samson.

At a conservative estimate, he put enough wood chips in or near his mouth to rebuild an oak tree and a swing to hang on it. He was less into the rubber bits, but I'd guess we could probably have outfitted a go-cart with the amount of rubber he tried to consume. To the best of my knowledge, he was foiled in all attempts. But I can't be 100 percent sure. He is fast. And determined.

Math

Samson + cake (just a little, from his friend Ethan's 1st birthday party) - afternoon nap + 5 o'clock Mass = lots of people turning around in church to see who is causing the ruckus.

He was crazy, and not just garden-variety crazy, but cray-zhay (think the pronunciation of the singer from Fine Young Cannibals). If I were his teacher and had to write a note home, I'd say "he was experimenting with acoustics." Since I'm his dad, I can be honest and just say it: he was yelling in church. A lot. And really loudly.

We always sit in the back --- Samson usually needs a break at some point during Mass --- so I get a good view of the congregation and am always amazed at the number of kids who are sound asleep on their parents' shoulders. I like to think their parents have drugged them on the car ride over, but I know I'm just kidding myself. Maybe we should load him up on turkey beforehand.

If nothing else, he keeps the ushers on their toes (no close calls this week, but he made a pretty good grab at the collection basket last Sunday).

The people in our neighborhood

Samson loves garbage trucks. And garbagemen, apparently. We were coming back from a walk this morning and spotted the truck halfway down the block. We waited, somewhat patiently (ok, I waited patiently, Sam was practically airborne) as the truck made its way to our house. As they pulled up, he gave his happiest barbaric yawp and waved at the guys.

Now I try not to be one of those people who thinks 1) that everyone loves or should love my child; and/or 2) that everything Samson does is brilliant and worthy of the world's praise and astonishment. But it did my heart good to see the driver and the other two guys all perk up when they saw him waving and give him big smiles and wave back. I bet they don't get that kind of reception at too many houses.

I don't want to idealize infancy --- let's face it, you're really small, you fall down a lot, and you end up, more than once a day, with poo in your pants. But to be able to experience the kind of pure and uncomplicated joy from everyday things like garbage trucks and streetlights. What would you give for just a minute of that? I get close holding/watching Samson, but it's still one degree removed. Even so, I'll take it.

After the storm

I can't even imagine what the people in the Gulf States are going through right now. And I wonder at the strength so many of them have shown as they take what little they have left and try to move on. Holding Samson and watching the news this morning, I was hit with how blessed we are and how much our family has to be thankful for. And this is not just because our house isn't flooded or people aren't shooting in the streets [we live in Baltimore, people are always shooting in the streets here]. But because we've got family and friends we could turn to if we ever needed help. I'm not going to get all Tiny Tim on you, but it means a lot to us.

Part of me is furious at the images I've seen of looting and wanton lawlessness --- and I'm not talking about people taking food and water. At this point, that qualifies as survival. But part of me is also deeply sad and utterly incredulous at the seeming lack of infrastructure and safety nets that New Orleans has for its most vulnerable citizens. If a third of your population lives below the poverty line, that means almost all of those folks have no car. Which, and I'm no city planner, would lead me to believe that they'd need some assistance leaving the city, or at least getting to higher ground as the storm approached. And this is not even taking into account those who are elderly, ill, or require other special assistance.

While I'm on my soapbox, I'm also sick of only seeing black faces when the networks show looters; I understand that the city is 67% African-American, but I refuse to believe that all the white folks stuck in the city somehow managed to avoid temptation and the ubiquitous news media presence. Jack Shafer had a great piece on this in Slate today.

In any event, I always give Sam a big hug when I get home from work. But I've been holding him extra tight these last few days. Those folks in the gulf are going to need a lot of support. And the real work will begin, as always, once CNN, the Today Show, and others head back to NYC to cover shark attacks, diet tips, and celebrity marriages on the rocks.

If you want to help, the usual suspects are on the ground and working:

American Red Cross
Catholic Charities USA
The Salvation Army

Me versus the sippy cup

Samson likes the idea of drinking more than he actually likes drinking, so inevitably we wind up with a sippy cup only slightly less full than it started out. Which is no big deal, since I think we'd all be a little worried if he could actually drain a whole cup of milk, water, etc.

Last night, after we put young Samson to bed, I went in to clean up the after-dinner debris in, on, and around his highchair. Under his chair was the little green sippy, lying like a wounded soldier and still full of milk. Since it had been sitting out for a half hour or so, I figured I should just dump it. No deal. The lid had somehow become stuck, and of course the entire cup was slick with whatever food had been on Sam's hands while he was eating (a nice potpourri of fish, cheese, yogurt, and mango).

In any event, I washed the cup off, hoping that would provide the necessary traction. Again, no deal. So now I've got a cup full of milk that I can't open. The smart thing would have been to leave it and deal with it later (Vicki's suggestion).

Never one to do the smart thing when other options remain unexplored, I ventured on. I decided that maybe by emptying the cup it would release whatever pressure had built up around the seal of the lid [apparently now I'm an engineer].

How did I do this, you ask? I milked the cup. Let me say it again: I milked the sippy cup.

And you know what: it worked! Once I finished the milking (probably the only time I'll ever have cause to write that phrase), the lid came off pretty easily.

Laugh if you want, but if Mr. Wizard did this, you'd think it was cool.