Lewis and Clark: the early years?

Samson and Jacob did a little exploring on Friday. This is a nature trail that is slowly being deforested by the city government in the name of improving the health of the stream.

I can't wait until they burn my street to save our neighborhood...

Sam and Jay are lucky. They don't know about the foolish adult world. Not yet anyway.

For now, they can enjoy a shady trail, a slow-running (and apparently deathly ill) stream, and the cool splash sound a rock makes when it hits the water.

And, of course, snacks.

From the Dept. of Mixed messages

Samson's favorite video right now is Dan Zanes' "All Around the Kitchen." To be honest, Vicki and I really like it as well. For one, it's got good music on it. Updated and kind of rock and rootsy versions of songs like the "Hokey Pokey" and "Polly Wolly Doodle," plus some old classics like "Sidewalks of New York."

We also like it because it's almost the polar opposite of these guys. Something about grown men in coordinated quasi-Star Trek regalia doing the box step just leaves me cold. [Not that Samson doesn't love them too, because he surely does, but it is really nice to have music we can all listen to without gritting our teeth. In the Wiggles' world indeed...]

Of course, Samson's other favorite video right now is a Thomas sing-along that he got from Vicki's dad. This is a bunch of songs about Thomas and his friends. Lots of songs about being dependable and modest and useful and other stiff upper lip virtues. In between songs are stories, most of which concern Thomas or one of the other trains being asked to do something by Sir Topham Hatt.

Apparently, Hatt is the grandee of Sodor and owns everything. You know you're in trouble when Sir T.H. gets "cross." Like the time that Thomas was tasked with bringing a brass band across the island for Mrs. Hatt's birthday party and he lost a tuba player. The errant musician was later found in Sodor's red light district, drunk and penniless.

Ok, that's not true. He actually hitched a ride on a tractor and all was well.

But what's interesting is that Samson moves from watching Dan Zanes and singing along with songs like "Pay Me My Money Down" [he was singing it this weekend when my parents were visiting, and I think they wondered if we were raising their grandson as a red diaper baby] to tales from the Isle of Sodor about making a speedy delivery of eggs so Sir Topham Hatt can have his breakfast.

Mostly, I think Samson just likes trains and singing. And really, who can blame him?

But this gives me something to wonder about when we're watching these things.

And if at some point he asks me why Gordon, Percy, and the others don't organize, I'll know where it's coming from...

School Daze

Samson has now completed his first official week of school. Since Vicki works on Mondays and Tuesdays, his school week is only two days long, but I think it still counts. He did really well. At least as far as I know. His teacher leaves at 4, and we don't pick him up until 4:30, so when I got him today she had left a note that simply covered the basics.

Samson ate well; He took a nap; had a hard time and cried a little. Kind of like a daycare haiku. I'm not sure what I was expecting from a woman charged with caring for five two-year-olds and who probably wrote the note in the nanosecond she wasn't comforting or correcting one of her little charges.

Even so, I'll admit I was a little underwhelmed. I mean, we got a more detailed note from the guy who watched our cat a few years back when we went on vacation. Granted, Dan the Cat Man was a little overzealous in his care for our cat, but still.

Anyway, Samson survived and so did we. It wasn't in the note, but apparently he doesn't like when his teacher, Miss Jacki, takes a bathroom break. He told Vicki tonight: "Miss Jacki bathroom. Crying. Samson stay right there..."


What I would give to be a fly on the wall of his classroom...

Samsonpalooza

Samson's party on Saturday was a blast.



There was running and jumping, singing and dancing, spinning and falling, some crying, and at least one incident of peeing that we know about. Apparently the ball pit is a very relaxing environment. [It was funny to see how quickly the hazmat team sprang into action closing said pit and disinfecting everything in a 10-yard range.]

There was a cool parachute and lots of stuff to climb on, and nobody had to use their indoor voice. What more could you want at age 2?


We gave out recorders as favors, so there are probably a few friends' parents who are either not speaking to us or not hearing much of anything.


Even so, I think all the kids had fun; I know Samson did. Thanks everyone for a great time!

Silence of the lamb

We had a busy weekend: Sam's second birthday party, a trip to the farmers' market, a visit to the railroad museum, but I'll get to all of that later. What I need to tell you right now concerns the cookout we didn't go to. And, as will become apparent, I'm using the word cookout in a literal, if ancient, sense.

On Saturday night, at around 9:30 pm, I heard a knock at the door. It was our next door neighbors. All of them. Ok, just three of the five family members. But they do tend to travel in twos and threes. This is probably because the parents speak very little English and rely on the kids to translate. So the middle son, "A" (older brother to N) tells me his father wants to invite us to their house tomorrow for a cookout. Since my parents were still in town, I told him we'd try to make it but that we had plans to visit Annapolis.

This was true enough and left us an option if we needed it. [Full disclosure: our neighbors are wonderful people, and their friends are all really nice. That said, going to events at their house can be difficult as most of the guests speak very little English, and we don't speak any Bosnian.]

In any event, the next day N came by to invite Vicki to come see what his mom was cooking in their yard.

It was a lamb. Not leg of lamb. Not one of those inscrutable cylinders they carve gyros off of. But lamb.

A whole one, slow-roasting over a bed of open coals in much the same way I imagine Abraham's sacrifice was prepared.

How do I know? Because Samson and I went over and checked it out. Surprisingly, he kept his own counsel on the matter, but he does count La-La among his dearest friends and was probably just trying to play it cool. Or not be traumatized by the spinning animal carcass slowly cooking in front of him.

In any event, we ended up skipping Annapolis in favor of the train museum and dinner out at an Italian place. By the time we got home, it looked like things were all over next door. Which was probably for the best. I don't think Vicki (or my parents) could have stomached the whole thing. Literally.

Of course we didn't get away totally clean. Later that night there was a knock at the door, and two of our neighbors were there with a plate of lamb they'd saved for us. Did I mention our neighbors are wonderful people?

It wasn't fresh off the spit, but it was actually pretty good.

Almost two

Samson turns two on Thursday, and while he's still getting the hang of the whole holding up two fingers thing, I am still amazed at just how quickly our little man is growing up.

[Sidenote: I'm being generous when I say "still getting the hang of" --- his version looks less like a little peace sign and more like a crooked "W." Basically, he's flashing gang signs from his high chair.]

In any event, just thought I'd share a few highlights from the past 12 months.

Happy birthday, Samson James. I hope you always know how much you are loved.

At the zoo

We spent Sunday at the National Zoo. If you've never been, it's worth the trip. [Unless you live in California or Texas or someplace far from DC; in that case you should probably just go to your local zoo.]

In any event, the day was full of discoveries for Samson. We got to see free-range tamarins, watched a pair of seals race around their, er, habitat, and we even saw the famed pandas.

We stood in a tightly packed crowd in the midday heat watching the baby panda lick honey from a plastic milk crate (plastic milk crates being second only to bamboo in a panda's diet).

For his part, Samson was nonplussed. He was pretty interested, however, in the ladder some workers had left on a part of the exhibit still under construction. Our exchange went something like this:

Me: Do you see the baby panda? He's playing.

Samson: Yeah.

Me: Do you see his mommy back by that tree?

Samson: (looking in opposite direction) Ladder. I see a ladder. Climb it? Pandas climb ladder.

Even so, it was a good day. As we made our way around the park and caught snippets of other peoples' conversations, I couldn't help but wonder: Is Jeremy the new Kyle?

On more than one occasion and in different locales involving different families, I head a Jeremy being told to stop doing that, to get down off of there, or to watch his attitude.

And then I thought that while everybody knows that Kyles are bad news, maybe Jeremy is a kind of sleeper cell name for a kid.

I mean, it's got three syllables and is a kind of a nice mix between Jerry/Gerry (minus the cartoon/Gus Van Sant baggage) and Jeremiah (a cool enough name but sadly and forever linked with Three Dog Night).

I bet you never thought about it. But consider some famous Jeremys: Jeremy Andretti, a late addition to the Bradford family on Eight is Enough. The troubled cousin went on to get the bejesus beat out of him by a bunch of spoiled rich kids (led, no less, by the incomparable Billy Zabka), win the All-Valley Karate Championship (and the love of a young Elisabeth Shue), and then somehow lose everything and have to start all over again. In Okinawa.

Next up is Jeremy the homicidal kid from the Pearl Jam song. Enough said there.

I'll grant you that Jeremy Bentham kind of complicates things as far as my theory is concerned. I mean, who doesn't love utilitarianism? But I'm pretty sure most of his friends called him Sandy.

Last, and probably least, is Jeremy Shockey of the NY Giants. Good ballplayer, but not somebody you'd want to go to the zoo with...

Unsafe at any speed

These boots? Definitely not made for walking, but we needed some kind of diversion while the smoke (and smell) dissipated from the baking experiment.

Vicki tends to leave her shoes by the door, and Samson just couldn't resist the giant pink wellies.



Good grief, he looks like he's ready to head out for the Lollipop Woods to do some fly-fishing.


[It's probably for the best that I keep my Paul Stanley boots hidden away.]

Cake

I got home from work last night to find Vicki and Samson in the kitchen baking.

As you can see, Samson is an eager apprentice and definitely not afraid to get a little flour on himself.

Unfortunately, something went awry in the process. We were all in the living room reading a Clifford book (which Samson calls, in UB40 fashion, "Red Red Dog") when Vicki noticed the kitchen was filling with smoke. Not a good sign for the cake.

About 10 seconds later the smoke alarms in the kitchen and the upstairs hallway went off. The kitchen one is no big deal; we usually disconnect it when we've got something on the stove because it's so sensitive.

But the upstairs hallway one has a creepy robot voice that barks out "Warning. Smoke has been detected in the hallway. Evacuate immediately."

Which is great in the event we ever need it, but it must have been really weird for Sam as he smelled burning batter, heard some man issuing commands from a box on the ceiling upstairs, and watched his parents spring into action.

Secondhand

I didn't get there until after it happened, but apparently Samson has discovered --- unfortunately in public, and doubly unfortunately with guacamole --- the power of the fork catapult.

He's getting good with utensils, and we are sure to encourage his use of them whenever possible. But this is something neither of us had even thought to guard against [although the lunchtime juice box geyser yesterday now seems like part of a pattern instead of a random occurrence]. In any event, Vicki said he picked the fork up, put some guacamole on it, and then like a mini-Belushi sent a big gob of the green goo flying.

You should know that Vicki is not a person given to hyperbole, so when she tells me time stood still as she watched this little green meteor head for deep impact on the sweater of the woman seated behind (?!) Samson, I believe her.

The funniest part, and the reason I'm really sorry I missed it, is that nobody else seemed to notice. Vicki sprang into action with a wet napkin but had to first introduce herself and explain why she was trying to wipe this total stranger's arm with a damp square of paper.

Good times, Samson. Good times.

Nirvana

I'm home with Samson today, and we had a very exciting morning. With his birthday coming up, I've been trying to find some cool (and not too expensive) instruments for him to play. Specifically, I've been looking for those little hand percussion instruments that drummers usually carry around in a bag with them (cow bell, claves, that crickety-sounding thing). So yesterday, I did a search online for music stores near us. Wouldn't you know it, there's a huge one just a few miles away.

It has been pouring all morning, but I think both Samson and I were ready for a little time outside, so we headed out around 10 to find this place. I didn't tell him where we were going, given how our last guitar store field trip went, but when we pulled up I knew we were safe.

The place is the size and shape of a Toys R Us, but with huge pictures of the Jimmys (Page and Hendrix) in their display windows. Inside was a wall of electric guitars that stretched about 14 feet high and easily 50 yards long. Samson looked up, blinked, and then smiled.

Seriously, it was like that scene in Wayne's World, complete with a guy trying out a guitar/playing a Zeppelin song. It was not, mercifully, "Stairway to Heaven," but was (I think) "The Rain Song." The staff all looked like superannuated (or never annuated) rock stars --- tattooed, pierced, black-leather-clad, and otherwise rock star-y. Very metal indeed.

I asked the guy at the security gate [Sidenote: is there a real threat of someone smuggling out a bass guitar in his pants?] if they had drums, and he pointed me to the back.

In the percussion room, we got to see all sorts of stuff [and I got to fast-forward a few years and calculate just how expensive this fascination with drums is going to be]. We played some maracas and a cabasa, but Samson was way more interested in the various drum kits that were set up on the sales floor. Even so, I picked up a pair of claves that I thought would be fun.

When I mentioned to the guy behind the counter that I was looking for a small pair of drumsticks so Samson would stop using rulers, chopsticks, pencils, crayons, etc, he had just the thing. And then he offered to let Samson try them out.

I wish I had a camera with me. The sight of Samson sitting on the stool behind a huge drum kit and banging away at the different drums and cymbals must have been something else.

I say must have been because I was behind him making sure he didn't fall off the stool as he reached his little arms across the kit to hit the crash cymbal. [Sidenote: one cool thing about drum stores is that they really don't mind if you make a lot of noise. And we made a lot of noise.]

When he was done, he turned around --- sticks still in hand --- and smiled the way the Buddha must have that morning under the Bodhi tree when he finally figured it all out.

Samson and Jacob's excellent adventure

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

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

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

Apparently, the boys had juice boxes during their roadtrip.

Dada in the rye

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

In the mall.

On a carousel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sort of like the technicolor dreamcoat

Random Samson

Samson has discovered Halle Berry.

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

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

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

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

Naps, rugs, and rock and roll

It's a pretty good life, no?

Corny

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

Clearly I struck a chord with young Samson.

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

The persistence of memory

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

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

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

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

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



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

Field trip, take two

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

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

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

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

Worst field trip ever

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

Which, as it turns out, was unfortunate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The adventure begins...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Big brother

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taskmaster

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wiseguy

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

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

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

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

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

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

Samson: "Laying back." [laughs]

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

The night of living dangerously

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

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

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

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

And you know what? We totally did.

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

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

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

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

Here comes the sun

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just the facts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In training

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

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

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

Paging Dr. Jung

Have I mentioned how much Samson likes music?

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

Again with the gratuitous Samson photos

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

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

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

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

First things first

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

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

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

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

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

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

More to come later today...