Christmas Card: The Director's Cut

Here's the card you won't be getting this Christmas. Wiser heads (i.e., Vicki's) prevailed in this decision.

And really, it's probably for the best. But it sure would have been funny to hear the confused voice mail from my parents after they got their card...

A Christmas carol (actually several)

In addition to being a grace Nazi, Samson has also become a Christmas carol fascist. Don't get me wrong: I like Christmas carols as much as the next guy. OK, if the next guy's name is Nasrullah Ali Hussein.

I mean, who can resist a classy version of "Hark the Herald" by Nat King Cole?

Especially when it's been carefully chosen for your listening pleasure by the good people at Williams-Sonoma. And Crate & Barrel. And Pottery Barn, J. Crew, Ann Taylor, and every other place that takes Visa. Except for the gas station, where they're too busy piping out "Jingle Bell Rock" and "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" to fit old Nat into the mix. I digress, but you get my point.

[Full disclosure: In college, I worked as seasonal help at Radio City Music Hall, first as an usher and then as house security. Which means that from Thanksgiving until after New Year's, I spent a couple of years surrounded by Christmas music for 10-hour shifts. Sort of like the Ludovico technique. Except with Rockettes. Also, I got paid. Pretty well, actually.]

Well, young Samson is crazy for "Jingle Bells" and "Frosty the Snowman." So now, in addition to the three books we ritually read before bed, we've also got a set list of carols we need to sing. Which, in truth, is really sweet. And I would use my last breath to sing carols with him before revealing my inner Grinch.

But man, if you're not careful, Jingle Bells can last longer than "Light My Fire." And for the life of me, I can't remember all the words to Frosty. So we usually just cut to where he heads off into the hills. [Sidenote: Vicki pointed out the eerie similarity between this verse and the final days of Guy Waterman. We'll hold off on letting Samson know about this for a few more years.]

Saturday night lights

On 34th Street (natch), the people of one block all decorate their houses in a fashion that makes Mardi Gras look restrained. Lots of lights; more dancing Santas than you can imagine; and lots and lots of plastic Magi. Samson was particularly taken by the manger scene on the roof of one house. Nothing says Christmas like a two-year-old looking up with wonder into the cold December night and proclaiming "Look. On the roof: It's baby Jesus!"

We took him to this block last year, but I think this time he got a little more out of it. Certainly he enjoyed seeing all the Frostys and Rudolphs. He was less taken with the Grinch.

And neither of us could understand why unblinking dolls holding candles have anything to do with Christmas.

Even if they are in little velvet dresses. Creepy.

My favorite story of the night is one I wish was mine. Our friends took their daughter, Sara, to see the lights, and at one of the houses was a guy nominally dressed as Santa [slight paunch, white beard, red shirt]. This Santa was standing on his steps, smoking, and called down to my friend's daughter: "Hey Shorty, here's a candy cane."

I'm paraphrasing here; the important part of this is that Sara's encounter with Santa involved smoking and the term "hey, shorty." And yes, I'm jealous. We visited the same house, and this Santa was neither smoking nor tossing out nicknames like George W at a barbecue.

He did, however, give Samson a candy cane.

School Days

I've been trying to figure out just how to write about this, so here goes.

Last week, after Vicki picked Samson up on Tuesday, the director of the school, Bev, called Vicki into her office. Never a good sign. Sam's teacher, the much beloved Miss Jackie, had been out on Monday and Tuesday and so Miss Melissa was filling in.

On Monday night, when I asked him about her, Samson offered a terse assessment: "She's not pretty."

So I wasn't entirely surprised that she said something to the director of the school about him. But what she said was that Samson is having too much trouble adjusting (i.e., crying too much and preferring to be in point A when it's time to go to point B, etc).

The upshot of it was that the director wanted to know a) if we were aware of this [we were not; each day, his little sheet tells us if and what he ate, whether he napped, etc --- it does not provide any information on existential crises during playtime] and b) what we wanted to do.

Once Vicki explained to the director that she could not leave work early [this was after she'd already told her she worked at an elementary school] and could not "bring work home with her" [even for a school counselor this would constitute kidnapping], they arrived at the idea that maybe he just needs some more time at school to establish a routine.

Fair enough, since he goes on Monday and Tuesday and then has five days off. Not quite as sweet a deal as a NYC fireman, but pretty damn close. Of course, when Vicki asked Bev what Sam's teacher thought, she told her that she hadn't discussed it with Jackie since she'd been out for the past two days.

So essentially she'd called Vicki in for a conference based on the recommendation of a "not pretty" substitute. Super.

In case you're wondering, it's not a good idea to upset an eight-month-pregnant lady. I don't know if Bev has any idea how close she came to being beaten up with a Thomas the Tank Engine backpack, but believe me, she came pretty close.

I followed up with Miss Jackie the next day, and we will indeed send him for a half-day on Fridays to help him get more into the groove. Literally, since Friday is music class day, and Jackie noted how Samson seems to be able to turn anything in the classroom into an instrument. I couldn't tell if she said this with admiration or exasperation, but if he's making didgeridoos out of paper towel tubes in her class, it's a good sign. [More on this in a later post.]

We're fine with giving him an extra half-day, but I wonder why this couldn't simply have been suggested in the first place. I had a short but somewhat frustrating conversation with the director in which she explained to me --- in a tone usually reserved for giving foreign tourists directions --- that two-year-olds enjoy routines and need them. To which I duly replied "I understand, and I think your idea about an extra half-day will help him." And that was that.

What I wanted to say was "Thanks, Piaget. I've been reading the same three books every night to him for four months now. I think I'm pretty well apprised of this toddler's love of repetition. Any other insights you want to share?"

In any event, I do think this will help him adjust a little more. Especially since we're about a month out from the arrival of the baby.

Which, and I'm no early childhood expert, I imagine will give Samson pause. [Perhaps I should call Bev up and get her thoughts on the matter...]

Underage

Because we strive to be green in our house, there are three allegedly empty Sam Adams bottles sitting in the little carry carton next to the trash. They are supposed to go out tonight with the bottles and cans for the recycling pickup tomorrow.

I say allegedly because last night, while I was calling home to say I'd be late, I heard Vicki say "Samson, put that down" followed by Samson's little voice in the background saying: "Mm. That's good. It's salty."

I assume, and I can't say for sure, that they were rinsed before they were placed there. My sister, Greg, and I each had a beer with dinner the other night, but I was doing dishes, not clearing the table. So I have no idea if it was a sip of three-day-old beer or a three-day-old beer/water rinse-out cocktail.

Either way, he slept really soundly last night.

At the movies

Have I mentioned Samson's new thing is watching movies and eating popcorn? Here he is with Aunt Maura and Go-Go Greg watching "Mary Poppins."

The Godfather

My sister and brother-in-law visited this past weekend. Aunt Maura, who is my little sister and Samson's godmother, threw a "sprinkle" for Vicki. Being a second child herself, Maura is keenly attuned to the fact that the second kid gets a lot less pre-game attention (like showers, day-by-day diary entries, etc). Hence, the sprinkle. Not a full-on shower, but a... well, you get the idea.

Which meant that Samson's godfather, Uncle Greg (or, as Samson calls him "Go-Go Greg"), and I got to spend Saturday at the train museum.

Three-Gs is easily Samson's favorite person. His arrival at our house is something like the Beatles deplaning at Kennedy that first time.

Seriously. The poor guy can't go to the bathroom without Samson calling after him, making sure he's coming right back to play.

We had lots of fun at the museum and got to hang out with some of the other sprinkle non-attendees (Jacob and Oliver and their respective dads).

It was pretty cold out, so a few of us took the complimentary train ride to nowhere that the museum offers.

I think there must be some historical significance to the track itself. Someone mentioned it was the original mile of track laid down for the B&O railroad. I sure hope so, because the sights along this trip included a lot of rusting, graffitoed cars; the remains of a modern-day Hooverville; and a guy standing with an enormous pitbull waiting to cross the tracks.

Not to mention the fact that the train itself is museum-quality only in the sense that it's a decommissioned 1980s-era Washington, DC commuter train. I couldn't help but wonder if the toddlers lined up and slowly proceeding from the platform onto the train weren't getting some eerie sense that the future wasn't all it is cracked up to be.

Regardless, we had a good time.

These shots of Samson and his friend, Jacob, from the little guy train ride kind of say it all...

We don't even have Yoko to blame...

It's official: Greg Wiggle (the yellow one) has left the band. Of course the show will go on, and apparently the new Yellow Wiggle's name is Sam... so that should lend plenty of confusion to things around our house.

I should say right off the bat that while I'm not a fan of the Wiggles' music, I certainly wouldn't want to see any harm come to them. OK, maybe I'd like to see Captain Feathersword keelhauled, but Greg always seemed harmless enough.

And of course, not being a fan of their music is no guard against it being stuck in my head from time to time. I actually found myself whistling the "Lights, Camera, Action" song as I walked to my car after work last night. If you don't know the song, consider yourself lucky.

If you do, it's probably now just starting to play in your head.

You're welcome.

Also, am I the only one amazed to learn that the Yellow Wiggle is 34 years old? I can't say I had any idea how old I thought he was, but the fact that he is my age is just weird. The fact that he founded this band at 19 is even weirder still.

All of this being said, I feel the need to offer full disclosure: We do owe a huge debt of gratitude to the Wiggles. Where we live, their show comes on at 7 am every morning.

Which means that at least three or four mornings a week, those guys in polyester shirts and matching trousers allow Vicki and I to get a little extra sleep while Samson sits joyfully between us on the bed, singing along and laughing uproariously at the show.

It's almost a morning ritual: He calls me in to get him in the morning [he hasn't yet figured out he can just climb out of the triple-B, and I'm sure not going to tell him], and I bring him into bed so he can snuggle down with Vicki, and we "watch a little Wiggles" as he puts it.

Good luck to you, Greg. And thanks for those extra 15 or 20 minutes of sleep each morning.

Hot dog hat

I don't know what I could write that would do justice to this, so I'll just let the pictures speak for themselves.

Special thanks to Oliver's parents for getting Samson the frankfurter lid. Sorry Strunk & White, but this hat is the awesomest.

Calvin and Sam?

Somehow, Samson's time at an Episcopalian preschool has turned him into a Calvinist.

OK, this is not strictly true. I mean, it's not like he comes home and goes on and on about election. And to be fair, he shows no interest at all in the "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" coloring book I got him. But lately, he is obsessed with grace.

Our family goes to church. Not every Sunday. And not always every other Sunday. And we're definitely not that family sitting with "father" before Mass having coffee and bagels. But we go more than we don't.

At least as far as you know.

Anyway, my point is that Samson has some familiarity with organized religion. Even if it does seem to revolve around Cheerios and footraces. So it's not like this is some totally new concept for him.

Apparently at his school, in addition to chapel on Mondays [what would you give to be a fly on the wall of the two-year-old chapel session?] they say grace before lunch. Which I think is really sweet. And we have always said grace before dinner at our house. I think it's important for us to remember to be thankful for what we've got. This is honestly one of the things I hope to teach Samson as he grows.

But within reason. Right now, I can't so much as grab an apple without getting a stern "Daddy, fold your hands" rebuke from the grace Nazi.

While my parents were visiting, each time a new person sat down for breakfast, we had to say grace all over again or risk the wrath of Cotton Mather in feety pjs. I can't wait until the next time we eat out somewhere and he starts patrolling the other diners. Good times...

Riding that train...

Not only did we see Santa at the railroad museum on Friday, but we also got to see a miniature Dick Cheney at the model railroad town.


Strange, no?

Samson also got to try his first candy cane. It was a big hit.


The weather was perfect, and there were lots of families wandering around the train gardens outside.


As we walked around, and I overheard some of the dads talking to their kids about the finer points of railroad models ("See that one? That's an 1880 Shea; you can tell by the pistons."), I realized how little I know about trains.

This realization did not in any way make me sad.

[Sidenote: I have nothing against train guys; I just don't aspire to be one. It's a level of enthusiasm that escapes me. To me, they inhabit the same universe as Civil War reenactors and those guys who sit at the ballpark listening to the play-by-play on headphones while watching the game (and keeping score). I say this knowing full well the glazed-eye look I get from Vicki when I start talking about Moby-Dick.]

Overdue

This is from a few weeks' ago at Madelyn's birthday party. Remember when I mentioned the best party favors ever?

All Samson needs for Halloween next year is a John 3:16 sign. [We've already lost the nose.]

Leftovers

Here's my lame-o, catchall post-Thanksgiving recap post.

My folks visited for several days, which was fun. Sort of.

My Dad, through no fault of his own, caught some kind of crazy 48-hour stomach virus, which pretty much took care of him for Wednesday night, Thanksgiving Day, and the day after.

Oh, and we got to take him to the emergency room on Thanksgiving to fend off dehydration/keep him from going into diabetic shock. So that was fun. He's fine now and at home (of course). And he actually rallied on Friday night in time to play with Samson before leaving on Saturday.

But Thanksgiving at our house wasn't exactly Rockwell.

It was more like Gericault. Not exactly, of course, but you get the idea.

Even so, it was good to see my parents, and I know Samson had fun with them. He always does.

Ad astra

Samson's room continues to be a work in progress, but as we continue to decorate the triple-B, we are going with a kind of rocket ship/planets and stars theme.

So we've put some cool glow-in-the-dark stickers up on his ceiling (including the constellation Orion).

Each night when we turn out the lights, he lays back and looks up at the stars. Tonight, as he fought going to sleep with every fiber of his being, I was lying on his floor looking up at the ceiling.

Every once in a while I'd give a soft admonishment about it being time for bed. But in between sleep patrol duties, I just looked up at the stars.

And then it hit me, the ceiling looked a little like a lot of dorm rooms I remember from college.

Needless to say, I'm going to be very watchful to see if he asks for a black light for Christmas.

Good thing Pink Floyd doesn't put out children's albums. Oh, wait.

Far out, Samson. Far out...

*%!!#$@!!!!

Cover your ears kids: Dada is doing some home improvement.

Until today, Samson's big-boy-room --- despite it's Sodor Island splendor --- was really unfinished. No pictures hung, no curtains, etc. It is now slightly less unfinished. And it only took me an hour and lots of muttered curses to get the curtain rods in place and the curtains hung.

Which is good, because it's hard enough to get him to sleep in the BBB when it's dark. In broad daylight, well let's just say that today we took one of those drives to nowhere in the hope that he'd fall asleep. Which he did at about mile 3 to nowhere. Unfortunately, once the drive is started, we can't just pull into a parking lot somewhere because he'll wake up. Rule number 1 is: you don't wake up a sleeping toddler.

We almost made it to Pennsylvania before deciding it was safe to turn around. [No-nap Sam is no joke. Way worse than angry fire-throwing Sam. Seriously.]

Anyway, for the life of me I can't understand why curtain rods can't be made with some kind of detachable part for the rod to rest in. It's almost impossible to screw the hardware in and work around that thing.

I don't even know what the stupid thing is called, which somehow is only more infuriating. [Sidenote: Please feel free to educate me if you know. I like to call it the *!$~!!#; the tilde in the middle lets you know it's a Portuguese swear word].

I used to think that Muammar Gaddafi lived in a tent to stay true to his Bedouin roots. Kind of a pan-Arabist way of keeping it real. I bet it's not the case at all. He's probably just wise to the fact that nobody would take a leader (especially a dictator) seriously who hung crooked curtains in his kid's room.

Think about it. Would you take direction from a guy who spends ten minutes looking for a drill bit only to remember it's in his shirt pocket?

Lucky for me Samson was downstairs eating dinner.

Under the influence

Each day at Samson's school, all the kids play together outside. It's usually in the late afternoon in the hour or so before parents start picking their kids up. I guess the prevailing wisdom is that at the end of a long day of singing, snacking, making crafts, and napping, the kids need some Lord of the Flies time.

Samson is certainly getting it. Last night every time he got angry, he would point an open hand at Vicki or me and say "FI-YUR."

I'm pretty sure he's not the next Beavis --- in fact, I'm pretty sure he doesn't know exactly what he's saying. Even so, it's a little unsettling.

Obviously, not nearly as unsettling as if he was actually able to conjure up "FI-YUR," to go with his anger, but still...

When I asked him if he learned it at school, he said yes. I figured they didn't cover it in chapel, so I pressed him further about who says it on the playground.

Bobby and Drew say it. I don't know who Bobby and Drew are, but something tells me they are "big boys."

Ok, Samson tells me they are "big boys," which at his school could mean 3- or 4-year-olds. We've heard about Bobby before. Usually in the context of "Bobby is cool." I wish I was kidding.

No idea who Drew is. Presumably, he too is cool. [What, I wonder, makes one toddler cool to another?]

Regardless of their coolness, we now have a toddler who is shooting fire at us.

To her credit, Vicki has decided to try the oversaturation/desensitization route, using "fire" repeatedly in all sorts of contexts. [Perhaps I should send a warning to the local "Mommy and Me" movie club]

Of course, I chose the classic: "Hey Sam, could you stop saying that, please?"

One of these times that approach has to work, right?

More to come...

For some reason, this new version of Blogger is not letting me upload any photos from Samson's friend Madelyn's birthday party. Except for this one.

Which tells you a little of what you need to know about the party [it was a lot of fun] but doesn't provide much context. Like the moonbounce in Madelyn's basement, which is roughly the size of The Gambia (but far less humid).

Or the photos of the greatest kids' party favors ever. I'm not even going to ruin it by telling you what they were. You'll just have to wait for the photo to appear. Hopefully soon.

Ok, you want a hint? Think John 3:16.

Also, since I'm complaining, our internet at home is still not working.

Apparently, the good people at Verizon DSL have taken Brezhnev-era bread lines as their customer service model. If you want to see Vicki mad, mess with her internet connection. Seriously.

So, as they used to say in Moscow, "vee vait."

Sucko.

The light, the way, the crumbly cheese

We made Greek salad with grilled chicken and flatbread for dinner last night and were pleasantly surprised at how much Sam liked the feta cheese.

His new favorite song is "Jesus Loves Me," which is apparently in heavy rotation at school during sing-along time.

Why am I telling you this? Read on.

Scene: Our bathroom, 8:15 AM. Sam and Daddy brushing teeth and getting ready for school.

D: "Hey Samson, today for lunch, you're going to have some more of that yummy Greek salad from last night."

S: "Yeah."

D: "Remember? With tomatoes, and cucumbers, and lettuce. And chicken and feta cheese. Do you like feta cheese?"

S: "Yeah."

D: "It's good right. Delicious feta cheese."

S: "Feta cheese. [louder] Feta CHEESE. [pause] Feta Cheesus loves me. [singing] Feta Cheesus loves me."

There are times when I wish we had surveillance cameras in our house.

Movin' on up

Samson is indeed moving on up.

Not as far as the east side, but all the way across the hall into his big-boy room (BBR).

More importantly, into his big-boy bed (BBB).

Vicki had off on Tuesday for Election Day, so I took the day and we sent Samson to school for the morning, which allowed us to paint what was our computer room/office/guest room and is now --- and will forever be known as --- the BBR.

Interestingly, the color we painted it is almost exactly the same color as the nursery (the little-boy room?). Which, being kind of color-blind, I take no blame for.

And besides, I've always liked the color we painted the nursery. I'm pretty sure it's blue.

In any event, the room isn't fully set up yet, but it's got a train table, a bookshelf, some toys, and the chair from his old room. [Sidenote: We are slowly but surely starting to refer to his old room as "the baby's room." We'll see how long he plays along with this. For now, he's all about the BBR.]

Even better, he's all about the BBB. He has now slept in the triple-B twice --- all night Friday and all-night last night. We skipped Saturday as we were in Virginia staying with friends. More on this later...

Naps are still a whole other issue, which makes sense. Despite the guard rail on the triple-B, he can certainly get out, and all the fun stuff in his room is just a short walk away. Still, I'm trying to plant the idea that once he's in bed, he can't come back out.

On Friday night, we were pretending his bed was a castle, and I likened the rail to the castle gates. But I just didn't have the heart to tell him the floor was a crocodile-filled moat. (And I totally left out the part about dropping cauldrons of hot oil onto would-be invaders.)

Still, we're moving forward. Which, really, is all you can ask for.

Excuses, excuses

Our home internet connection went down last night, and it may be a few days until it's up and running again. I've got lots to post but no time right now. Be back soon...

The five stages of sleep

Samson's school sends a little note home after each day with some basic info checked off. I had a good day/bad day; I ate/I didn't eat; I was happy/sad/resigned to the existential loneliness that the sandbox symbolizes. You know, the usual stuff.

Last Tuesday, and I remember it now because it's been going on all week at our house, Samson's note read: "I had a hard time staying on my cot." Apparently, not only would young Samson not take his nap, but he kept talking to the other kids as they were trying to sleep.

Lately, Samson has been taking longer and longer to get to sleep. We put him down last night at 7:15, and it took him nearly an hour to finally put head to pillow and head for the land of Nod.

Those of you without children are wondering, "why not just put him to bed later?"

The answer, of course, is because he's really tired (and totally crazy) by bedtime and keeping him up an extra hour would only prolong things.

So here, without further preamble, are the five stages of sleep as played out on a nightly basis at our house.

1. Denial --- This is the first and almost always follows the announcement of bedtime's imminence. Usually accompanied by bald-faced lies, like "No, it's not bedtime" and "I'm not tired," and my new favorite (especially since we've gone to daylight savings time) "It's not dark out."

2. Anger --- Depending on the night, this can involve a general surliness about getting pajamas on or more targeted announcements like "I don't want Daddy to read a story" and "I don't want to go in my crib." [Sidenote: I'm not sure that the twos are "terrible" so much as preferential. We are treated daily to a litany of things he wants or doesn't want.]

3. Bargaining --- Samson, by this point, begins the charm offensive. It's not unusual, amidst the pleas for "one more book" or claims of being hungry to catch a "Mommy's so pretty" being floated like a test balloon. It never works.

4. Depression --- It's been a while since we hit stage 4, but lately it's back, and it's usually just some crying. Occasionally, he'll also sing songs by the Smiths, but mostly it's just crying. And usually (and mercifully), it's brief.

5. Acceptance --- Slowly, and almost never without a few follow-up visits from one of us to fix the blanket, pick up a fallen La-La, or bring a desperately needed toy, Samson reaches this stage.

At which point, Vicki and I are exhausted --- the other reason we don't keep him up for the extra hour.

Halloween recap

What a difference a year makes. The boys met at Oliver's house for dinner and some trick or treating.

Unlike last year, however, the guys were a little more on the ball about the whole getting candy thing. This is the best we could do for a group photo.

Also, I made the mistake of teaching Samson the noun "loot," as in, "Hey buddy, do you want me to hold your pumpkin? I don't want you to lose all your loot."

Big mistake: The entire drive home from Oliver's (all seven minutes of it) was a lamentation on the fact that he could not hold his "loot" and that he very much wanted to.

Even so, the boys had a great time visiting houses and digging in for some free candy. I'm not sure they got the "only one" rule, but they all remembered to say thank you at each house.

Kudos to Vicki for getting this shot at the end of the night. It lasted about three seconds before all the sugar kicked back in and they were off and running again. Hence the wailing and gnashing of teeth about "my looooot."

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.

Trucks, trucks, and more trucks

We went to the "Touch a Truck" event on Saturday morning. It was a fundraising event benefiting the Junior League. I have no idea who these people are or what they do, but I had always thought they were like a kind of Superfriends type group made up of people named after their more famous fathers. You know, like Hank Williams, Jr.; Frank Sinatra, Jr.; Jr. Pac-Man. And I figured they helped other, less famous people who also bore their father's names.

[I'm like 95 percent sure that this is not this group. I reserve the right to believe such a group exists, however.]

This was one of the best events I've ever been to. It was like Lollapalooza for the pull-ups crowd. There's really no way I could do justice to the kind of time Samson and his friends had at this thing.

Suffice to say that every Saturday between now and Christmas will pale in comparison, and we're really going to have to upsell the whole come-be-my-helper-at-the-grocery-store thing for a while...

Kal-El marks a milestone

Here's a little Halloween preview. I made the mistake of letting him try his costume on just before bed, which meant that getting him into his pajamas was a process along the order of the six-party nuclear talks with North Korea.

Unlike Kim Jong-Il, however, Samson was ultimately willing to work with us. We offered him some naked time in exchange for ditching the costume. [I wonder if the delegates from those six nations tried this...]

Anyway, during Samson's mini Age of Aquarius, he announced that he had to pee. He said this as he was leaning against his train table. So, intent on saving the good people (and trains) of Sodor, I sprang into action and brought to him his potty --- which has been sitting in the corner of our bathroom literally collecting dust for want of use. But he sat right down and indeed, peed in the potty.

In case you're wondering, this is a very big deal. To date he has shown almost no interest at all in potty training. Since he's only two, neither Vicki nor I are inclined toward the hard-sell. But I think one of his classmates is no longer among the diapered masses, so there may be a little peer pressure at work.

I also think said classmate gets walked to the bathroom by the new teacher's aide, Miss Rasheeda, who Samson clearly has a crush on. [When Vicki picked him up from school the other day, all the kids were playing in the gym. Except Samson. He was standing at one end of the room watching "Misheeda," as he calls her.]

Sam Kenobi?

I knew this day would come, but I was hoping it would be later rather than sooner. Samson's teacher, Miss Jackie, is home sick today.

He was already unhappy about going to school. Actually, that's not true. We talked the whole ride there about what he'd do today (sing songs, make crafts, take a nap, play) and who he'd see (Miss Jackie, Jordan, Maeve, Charlie --- which he pronounces "Cholly," kind of like a cross between Brando and Dave Chapelle imitating Rick James).

In any event, when we turned the corner, it was like a light switched on that all this talk about school was not theoretical but actual. We were, in fact, at school. And so began the chorus of "nos."

Even so, he was fine until we got into the big room, at which point he lost it.

Usually when this happens, Miss Jackie takes him from me and they stand by the window to wave to me as I go to my car. He seemed to figure out before I did that MJ wasn't there today.

I don't know if he pulled an Obi-wan and sensed a disturbance in the force or just scanned the room faster than I did, but it was bad times.

On a more positive note, I did see that his class got pets: two goldfish. I asked Samson their names, and he told me "girls and boys." I think I'll ask again tonight.

Socks

So we're trying to get out of the house Saturday morning, and I'm trying to get Samson to simultaneously keep his clothes on and gather up the required quorum of Thomas trains for our big trip to the barber --- all while keeping him quiet so Vicki could get a little extra sleep.

I was brushing my teeth, looking for his shoes, and trying put some things in a bag in the event we went anywhere after he got his haircut. [If I've learned anything, it's that not carrying a diaper and wipes all but ensures a torrent of poo at the least convenient time.]

By now, Vicki had her head under her pillow as Samson kept breaking out into choruses of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" that would have made Joey Ramone proud.

So I figured, in all my wisdom, that the best option was to give Samson a job. "Samson," I said, with all the seriousness I could muster, "I'm almost ready to go; I just need to get some socks. Can you do me a favor and clean up a few toys while I do that?"

He looked up and headed into his room, closing the door halfway, at which point a low rumble of noises ensued. I couldn't see him, but I could hear him --- and besides, I was only a room away. [Sidenote: We live in a small house; everything is essentially only a room away, including the neighbors.]

I was now ready, and I called in: "Ok, Sam, time to go." No response.

"Samson? C'mon, buddy. Time to go see Mr. Garry and get a haircut."

Still no response beyond the rumbling of things definitely not being put away.

"Sam, you need to start listening. Come out here now!"

And there, in the doorway of a room positively bestrewn with toys and books and clothes, stood Samson, holding a pair of his red socks out for me.

Don't worry, I'm not going to get all Readers Digest/Darnedest Kids on you, but it was a nice corrective to my impatience.

No tears at the barber, by the way.

Although I think Samson felt insufficiently recognized for his bravery, because at one point while Mr. Garry and I were talking, he piped up: "I'm doing a great job!"

Up all night

For some reason this week is nightmare/separation anxiety/wide awake at 3 a.m. week in our house.

Last night was the third or fourth [I've lost count] night in a row that I was summoned to Samson's room by the plaintive cries of "Daddy; come a door, pleeese."

Each night it takes a little while to settle him down, but he's back up an hour or so later. So last night, I decided I'd just sleep on the floor next to his crib as a way of helping him stay asleep. As I put him back in his crib, much to his very vocal dismay, I went to get a pillow.

Of course, as I was doing all this, I was telling him what I was doing: "Ok, Sam, I'm going to stay in here with you. I just need to get a pillow. I'll be right back. Don't panic." [When he's really upset now, he'll sometimes say "I'm panicking," which always makes me laugh, not because he's "panicking" but because he's telling me that he's "panicking."]

So I got my pillow, got him settled down, lay down on the floor and closed my eyes only to hear "Daddy: get a blanket." This kid has all the angles covered.

It was actually good advice; I think I would have been cold.

In any event, it worked. He woke a few times during the night, but he didn't get up until 7:25 this morning. So it was totally worth it, but I may need to start going to bed at 8 o'clock to be able to handle this new routine.

Vive la diference

The French take a lot of heat in America for being so, well, French.

But I think they are definitely on to something when it comes to helping working families (mothers in particular).

Interesting story about France's national system of daycare and benefits from today's Washington Post.

Driving that train...

We went to pick pumpkins on Saturday at this place we used to go to years ago. Apparently word is out: It was so crowded that we opted just to let Samson play on their playground for a bit and then went and had an early dinner at the farm stand/restaurant a few miles down the road.

I don't think Samson minded. As long as he can drive a train, the trip is worth it. Although I don't know how excited his passengers were. He was kind of a wheel hog; and he kept announcing that he was taking them "to the bookstore."

You can take it with you

Samson has become a hoarder. I don't know when it started, but he now grabs as many trains as he (and I) can hold before embarking on any journey. This can include going to school or going upstairs to his room for a diaper change.

It's like he's got separation anxiety with Thomas and friends. Actually, it's not just his trains; he was panicking tonight as we headed up for bed because he didn't have his trucks (fire and garbage) with him. Wacky.

I hear Jacob is doing this too. So maybe it's a two-year-old thing.

David Plotz is dead to me

Ok, not really. But I think he missed the boat with his latest post. For those of you who are not readers of his, Plotz has spent the last few months Blogging the Bible for Slate. It's a great series, and I am terribly jealous of a paying gig that allows one to read the Bible and then post opinions about it.

In any event, I've been looking forward to him getting to the Book of Judges, and in particular to the chapters on Samson. When I made my first communion, friends of my parents gave me an illustrated children's Bible, and the story (and images) from Samson always stayed with me. I did some work in grad school on Milton's Samson Agonistes, which only sealed the deal for me regarding Samson as a hero. And also a pretty cool name.

All of which leads me to think that Plotz is off-base in his analysis. Inasmuch as Samson is a violent and feckless character, I think Plotz is right on. But I'm not sure Samson is bad to the bitter end.

And I wondered how much junior high lunchroom baggage was brought to bear on the description of the biblical Samson as proto-"hockey goon" or "fraternity rush chair." [Full disclosure: I hated junior high, especially the lunch room, because of hockey (and football and lacrosse) goons; and while I was never rush chair of my fraternity, I was its pledgemaster for a semester. What does this all mean? I don't know.]

Plotz offers up Samson's shortcomings [he does tend to kill a lot of people out of rage] as a way of denying Samson hero status. But I think the prologue of his life is what makes his heroic transformation possible.

Simply put, Samson was a flawed character who ultimately recognized the error of his ways and made amends. What more can you ask of someone? Especially in an Old Testament context. Not exactly a parade of G-rated happenings. [Sidenote: If you don't believe me, check out this site. The Legos don't lie.]

That said, I hope for a much different life trajectory for my Samson. And he's already my hero.

Getting better all the time

This morning was a red-letter morning: It was the first time since Samson started school that he didn't cry when I left him.

And if you think this isn't a big deal, you try starting your day prying your toddler's fingers from your shoulders as he wails "Don't leave me. Daddeeeee."

[Thank God Vicki only works part-time; I don't think I could do it every day.]

But today he was ok. We walked around his school a bit; I got a little tour of his classroom --- "this is my cubby; that's my cot." --- and then he was off to play in the big room. Before 9, all the kids play together in one big room [think GenPop on Oz, minus all the stabbing] and then they break out into their respective classes.

There are, as best as I can tell, only four other children in Samson's class. And there are only two who merit any mention: Jordan and Maeve. When I say they merit mention, I mean that according to Samson, Jordan makes a high-pitched noise when he eats. And he runs inside and gets a timeout. Maeve, well, I think she's got a temper. That's all we know.

I see other names on the cubbies, but these kids just don't make the highlight reel. To be honest, the Dalai Lama could show up as a guest speaker in his class and we'd never know.

We are, however, apprised on a near-daily basis of the fact that Samson's teacher, Miss Jackie "is a woman." He's big on that. Still.

Curiously, Samson has developed a slight accent since he started school. It's only on a few words, and I can't imagine where it's coming from, but Vicki has noticed it too. When he says "outside" now he sounds Dutch and it sounds like "outsoid." When you ask him where he naps at school, he'll tell you "on a cot" but he sounds almost Punjabi and so it comes out "onnakott" with the final "t" sound really pronounced.

I have no theories on the provenance of his newfound cosmopolitan polyglot mash-up. But it's pretty funny.

Navel-gazing

With Vicki closing in on her final trimester and getting bigger by the day, there's a lot of talk in our house lately about bellies. Specifically, what's in them.

We know what --- I should say who --- is in Mommy's belly. But the larger question of other people's bellies remains.

We've rented a Stork Radio, so we can listen to the baby's heartbeat without having to wait for the monthly trip to the doctor. I highly recommend this; it's terrific for peace of mind. We did it when Vicki was pregnant with Sam, and it really was great. This baby is a lot more active than he was, so Vicki is feeling her bump and wiggle all day long, but I still appreciate the chance to hear that little heart beating away...

It's also been fun for us to watch Samson listening to his own belly. He remains unconvinced about the absence of a baby in there.

Unfortunately, he is also under the impression that everyone in the wider world [no pun intended] with a big belly is pregnant.

You can guess the kind of excitement this lends to trips to the store, the mall, the park, etc.

I know the NIH and others keep writing about this, but I can confirm it from a nonscientific, non-evidence-based, research perspective: there's a lot of big bellies out there.

Yet another gratuitous Samson pic

Something is not letting me upload photos today. I managed, however, to get this one through. More later...

Incomprehensible

The great time we had at my Dad's party this weekend comes tinged with sadness. My mother called me yesterday to let me know that one of the guests, who has been a friend of our family for years, was murdered the night after the party by her mentally ill son.

To say that I'm in disbelief would be an understatement. This was a woman who had raised five kids on her own and who was the essence of patience and kindness. My folks are shattered, as is everyone who knew her.

I don't know what comes after this, but I have to believe that she went someplace good. And I'm doing my best to keep everyone in her family (and I do mean every one) in my prayers. It's not easy.

In memoriam: Sue Carlson, 1936-2006. You will be missed.

Let them eat cake

No nap. No lunch. No problem.

Object lesson

Ok, I've got lots of photos to share and some good stories, but I'm just too busy right now to post much.

I will, however, share a cautionary tale about being tired and not paying attention when dressing your child for bed. Stare at this photo for a minute and it will become clear.

Road trip

Today is Samson's Papa's 80th birthday, so we're heading up to New York tonight to spend a long weekend with him.

We've got a big party planned for him on Saturday, so Samson will get to see some family and friends and generally run around a restaurant for a few hours.

Should be fun. See you in a few days...

Elvis with a tail?

Sorry for the lack of posts lately. I've gotten very busy at work, and I'm getting buried by things I need to read before I can begin my thesis proposal. [By the way, if you've got any great ideas about military recruitment messaging and the ways in which it is informed by and seeks to counteract the impact of a wartime environment, feel free to pass them along. I digress.]

Before we visited the farm on Saturday, we went to Samson's friend Emma's birthday party, where we had lunch with a huge anthropomorphic mouse. No, not that one.

This one.

It was crazy. And kind of fun, in a toddler "Lord of the Flies" sort of way.

Lots of games and blinking lights and kids running around, into, and over one another. But the highlight was the animatronic band on stage that would play every 10 or 15 minutes. You've probably already guessed that Samson spent a lot of time standing by the quiet, unlit stage waiting for the drummer to blink those giant staring eyes and move his weirdly suspended hands.

In any event, at some pre-appointed time, Chuck himself came out. He was flanked on either side by bored looking teenage girls who served as his backup singers/bodyguards. I'm not kidding. They announced his presence, gave a set list --- "If You're Happy and You Know It" and "Happy Birthday," natch --- and set the ground rules [e.g., "when we say Happy, you say Birthday" or "Chuck E. is leaving now; say goodbye everyone!"].

It was like Elvis in his late, fat period. Shuffle on, muddle through a tune or two, throw a scarf, and exit stage left. Ok, Chuck didn't throw any scarves. And he actually was available for a few hugs, which Samson bravely stepped up for. The fact that there was pizza and cake and other goodies was completely lost on him.

But he did get to go on some cool rides. And he was clearly proud of his bravery in the face of a 6-foot-tall rodent. He spent the rest of the day saying "I hugged the mouse! I did it!"

Sometimes it's the little victories in life that matter most. Now if only he wasn't afraid to hug Emma...

Life imitating art

Have I mentioned that Samson loves to draw? With crayons, pens, pencils, ketchup. He's a regular Basquiat when it comes to using what's at hand. And he's got no preference for medium: paper, table, floor, wall, his pants. It's all a canvas for young Samson.

I, however, am not a gifted artist. In fact, one of the only things I can draw is a teepee. Which, when you get right down to it, is really just a triangle.

Anyway, I've been sketching these for Samson for as long as he's shown any interest in drawing.

So you can imagine his excitement when we got to the farm and there was a giant corn-husk teepee for us to play in.

Child of the corn

This past weekend was picture-perfect fall weather. So we broke out the barn coats and headed to a farm for some pumpkin picking [more like pumpkin-picking-up] and a run through the corn maze. This maze was a lot bigger than I'd expected, given that the farm is just a few miles from the city, and we got a little lost. A few times. But in the end we made it out safely.


[Sidenote: I think my sister must have seen "Children of the Corn" at a really impressionable age because to this day she has a real fear of cornfields. Seriously. Accordingly, I had Samson call her and leave a message about our adventures. I can't tell Samson that this is one of the things he can look forward to as a big brother, but I'm pretty sure he'll figure it out on his own.]

They even had a little maze made of hay for the little guys. Samson kept stopping at the dead ends and simply climbing over to continue. He was also thrilled to be at a place where he didn't have to use his inside voice. Not even once.


And we did, indeed, pick ourselves up some pumpkins.

Desperate measures

Samson's head cold continues apace, and Vicki had to pick him up early from school yesterday because he was running a low-grade fever. So I'm home with him today and doing my best to keep him resting. I can't even type that with a straight face, but I'm trying.

We took a little field trip this morning to get my car's emissions tested. Lots of cool machines making lots of noise. Unfortunately, the woman who helped us looked less like a Michelle [the name on her badge] and more like a Michael. Strahan to be precise. So of course Samson kept noting "Man helping us; that man is helping us." [Sidenote: Samson gets like RainMan if you don't acknowledge he's said something, which makes it particularly awkward when he misidentifies the gender of the civil servant responsible for giving your car a passing grade for the state emissions test.]

After a quick trip to the bookstore and a bit of lunch, we came home for a nap. Selfishly I needed to use the time to catch up on some reading for my thesis, and Samson --- his entreaties aside --- really could use the sleep to help him fight this cold.

Nothing doing. I had just settled down into a chair on the deck with "The Craft of Research" (every bit the pageturner it sounds) when I heard through the monitor: "Daddy. I'm soaking wet." So up I went and indeed he was.

This was not unprecedented. And it certainly could have been worse. But occasionally, Samson will take all the water from his sippie cup and simply spit/dribble it out. Which he immediately confessed to upon my arrival.

So new clothes, new diaper, and new sheets [he was very excited to show me that he'd made "circles" by spitting his water onto the crib sheet]. Sadly, La-La #1 was also wet, and there just is no napping without her, despite the recent memorandum of understanding concerning La-Las 2 and 3.

I could feel the nap window closing, and I knew that putting La-La in the dryer --- which Samson helpfully suggested --- would take too long. So with a promise of imminent return, I headed to the basement for the ironing board. I mean, I spray dress shirts with water when I'm pressing them; why shouldn't this work?

Ok, so it wasn't a foolproof plan. And I think I may have singed her a little. La-La is now warm and not wet but moist. She's also pretty much pleated.

And as I type Sam is still not asleep. But I can take some small comfort in knowing I did everything I could.

Oh, by the way, it's official: I am ridiculous.

Dislikes

Now that Samson is speaking regularly in sentences, he has started keeping us apprised of things he doesn't like. On any given day --- and today was a particularly cranky one because he's got a bad head cold ( and let's face it, it's hard to be pleasant when you're drowning in your own snot) --- Samson will inform us (often apropos of nothing) that he doesn't like something.

Among the things he didn't like today:

1. Me, but only for a little while.

2. The number 99; Vicki mentioned something about this number, and we heard a little voice from the back seat protest: "I don't like ninety-nine."

3. The Holy Spirit. [We've been working on the whole genuflection thing, but when Vicki was practicing it with him, he wanted nothing to do with the last third of the Holy Trinity. Go figure; he was always my favorite --- I pictured him looking sort of like a cross between Jacob Marley and Moses.]

4. Having his nose wiped. This was a continuous theme throughout the weekend. Which was too bad, because it was something we did about 4,000 times between Saturday morning and Sunday bedtime.

5. Seatbelts, jackets, not holding one's cup upside down, cough medicine, sitting down, getting a diaper change, and milk. Interestingly, this medley of dislikes could probably also make it to a "what Samson liked today" list.

I don't like to brag, but my son is really good at being two.