The sincerest form of flattery

Samson got this baby doll, which he named Juna (pronounced JOO-nah), for his second birthday from a friend of ours. She thought it would be a good way to get him prepared for having a new baby in the house.

For months, Juna sat under Sam's train table, but recently she has been getting a lot more attention.

And yes, I know it doesn't look like a little girl doll, but you try telling him that.

Big top Samson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lions and tigers and, possibly, bears

It was 75 degrees today, and Samson got to show his baby sister the zoo.

OK, she actually saw very little of the zoo, but Samson and Jacob had a blast racing the otters around their glassed in habitat at the children's zoo (otters on the inside and S & J on the outside; it's not that kind of children's zoo).

Tomorrow it's supposed to be 38 degrees and snowing. Which is perfect, because we're headed downtown for the circus. I've taken the day off to accompany Samson on his first trip to the big top. His school wisely mandates that every 2- and 3-year-old be accompanied by a parent.

I used to work around the corner from the arena where this is taking place and can remember quite clearly the busloads of kids spilling out onto the sidewalks, tiny mouths agape and frosted with cotton candy wisps, armed loaded down with shiny, flashing, plastic junk. Good times.

I'm actually quite excited to get to spend a Friday with Sam. Even if the circus is terrible (which, in the spirit of full disclosure, I confess I expect it to be), what could be better than a field trip with my guy?

Stay tuned...

Bad Samson

Last week (Tuesday to be precise), I arrived home and was greeted by a grinning Samson. He had milk --- or possibly yogurt --- dripping down his chin, and he proclaimed, with apparent satisfaction: "I did a bad job at school today."

Apparently, Samson has been testing his teachers lately. On the day in question, he got not one but two time-outs. The first he earned by hitting his classmate, Maeve, in the head with a puzzle piece.

Which, all things considered, is better than hitting her with a truck or a chair or something else. But it's still not good. Of course, he gave himself up right away. When Maeve started to cry, he told his teacher "I hit Maeve." I'm not sure it was a confession as much as a "hey-look-at-me" kind of moment, but you've got to give him credit for honesty.

Infraction number two came later, during naptime. All the kids were asleep --- or at least resting quietly --- on their cots when Sammy Sunshine stood up on his and belted out a verse of "Twinkle, Twinkle." Again, not the stuff that indicates a future in reform school but still something that must be dealt with. So that night, we had a long talk.

The trouble is that at age 2 there's not much appreciation for taking away things in the future. As in, "we won't go to the park tomorrow."

Likewise, at the end of the day, there are only a few things to take away:

Dinner, which we would never do [he's skinny enough as it is].

Bath, which we really shouldn't do (especially on school days).

And La-La. Which, and perhaps I'm being selfish here, would probably only be worth it if he committed homicide. Or maybe man-1.

Anyway, he did get sent to bed that night with no stories. And that seemed to work: He cried a lot and eventually came around to the idea that one shouldn't hit one's classmates with anything.

As if to make sure he understood me, we went through a checklist of things he is not allowed to hit his classmates with, including but not limited to trains, books, sandwiches, diapers, shoes, cheese, bananas, and straws(?).

The report from school on Friday and today was that he did just fine. Played, ate, napped, and was a good citizen. Here's hoping he can keep it up. We've got a trip to the circus with his school this coming Friday, and I don't want to be that dad with that kid. Remember that kid from your pre-school?

And yes, Bryan K. I am looking at you. It's been 30 years since "the Toughskins incident," but I'll find you.

As God is my witness, I'll find you.

And though our teacher is probably dead, or at least in senescence somewhere in the sunbelt states, the truth will at last be told. Our teacher, who believed your lies and sent me home with a note will at long last know that I didn't "wet my pants."

No sir, I did not. You, Bryan K., peed on me.

Also, I bet you have a son named Kyle.

Gratuitous Jane pics

I'll have to take some time this weekend to detail Samson's bad day at school on Tuesday, but I just got these photos of Jane --- or, as we like to call her, "the good one" --- and thought I'd share.

The sweater and dress are both hand-made. Lucky girl. [By the way, she does smile quite a bit now; we just haven't gotten it on camera yet. Stay tuned.]

Belated

For so many months, we wished Samson would take a pacifier. Clearly we should have put an expiration date on that wish. Yesterday he showed some interest in one, just as Vicki was trying to get both kids out the door.

Jane Victoria is two months old today. It's amazing how quickly that time went. It's equally amazing how different she is from Samson. She's already done with swaddling, is sleeping almost straight through the night most nights, and --- these photos notwithstanding --- really doesn't cry very much.

In fact, on Sunday I got my first smile. A big 1000-megawatt smile that almost brought tears to my eyes. Sweet Jane, indeed.

Still, I keep thinking there must be a catch somewhere. She's probably a neo-con.

Poo

I've titled the post as honestly as I could, so if you're squeamish or are just sitting down at your computer with breakfast, I'll give you a minute to navigate away from the page...

OK, let's continue. Sunday morning we had every intention of making Mass, but in what can only be called a first weekend in March miracle, nobody woke up in our house until 9 AM. Usually this kind of torpor could only be attributable to carbon monoxide poisoning, and I guess technically both Samson and Jane were up at six, but everyone managed to get back to sleep until 9. Which meant the 9:30 was out of the question, and as that's the only Mass where they tolerate Thomas and the rest of his little Anglican engines, we had to take a pass.

Which was OK, because we figured we'd get a jump on the day and go do some grocery shopping. Nothing doing: Samson wanted to try to poop on the potty and decided this morning was the morning.

To date, we've taken a kind of laissez faire attitude to potty training. With the arrival of Jane just 8 weeks(!) ago, we figured he'd probably take a little time adjusting to that and so rushing him onto the potty was of dubious value. That said, he seems ready and so Vicki promised him a train if he did, in fact, poop on the potty. In the diaper near the potty doesn't count [he tried], nor does on the potty in a diaper [also an attempt by the wily Samson].

In fact, we even got a seat that attaches to the toilet as a way of making it seem like he was joining some kind of big peoples' club by sitting on our toilet. Laugh if you want; it almost worked.

But this morning, he was all in earnest about his intentions. My presence was requested to read him some stories, and then read him some more stories, and then tell him some stories, and by about minute 27 I was starting to wonder if Samson had been reading Beckett. But of course, I didn't want to betray any impatience lest he end up in the clocktower at his college muttering mysteriously about just needing more time.

Finally, Vicki realized that it was probably the height of the toilet and the fact that he couldn't put his feet down that was holding things up (so to speak). And indeed, when the old, floor model potty was introduced, Samson was well on his way to another milestone of toddlerhood.

At first, however, he tried to convince us that he could stand and do it. Which we took great pains to dissuade him of. At last, convinced to sit, he requested a little privacy. It was the least we could do.

And lo, after just a few minutes, and some loud (but private) grunting, Samson pooped in the potty. This was greeted with great joy and congratulations, and promises of the trains were again extended. But first, we had to get rid of the prize. Which, I'll be honest, looks a lot different in a diaper than it does in a little plastic receptacle. And by different, I mean big and sort-of gag-inducing.

We flushed it with all due ceremony, washed Samson's hands, and at last were on our way to do some grocery shopping and to get that train.

Spring fever?

Holy cow what a weekend.

Saturday was gorgeous, and we did get to spend some time outside, but Samson has clearly got some kind of crazy cabin fever going on.

Seriously, on Saturday while he was supposed to be napping, Vicki went into his room to find him standing on his window sill looking out the window.

Before you call Child Protective Services, you should know that the window was locked and the safety latches were on, but there he was, both feet firmly planted on the window sill looking out at the neighbors' house. I can only imagine what it must have looked like from the outside. Thank goodness they weren't home. That's not a phone call I want to get.

This is not the first time we've caught him in the window. Indeed, it was just last week that he had his trains and tracks confiscated for the same reason.

Thomas and Co. are once again out of circulation. Except they're now sitting in the attic. Unfortunately, this didn't really seem to get any reaction at all from Sam. So I tried to earnestly explain what could happen if he fell. Not much headway there either.

But we've now moved his bed to what is essentially the middle of his room, which means he can't use it as a launching pad for anything but a quick trip to the floor. Which would be bad, but not nearly as bad as a fall from the window ledge.

It also means getting around his room is like navigating a subway car at rush hour.

I know he's just being two and a half, and just like some famous athletes, I guess we're supposed to chalk it up to Samson being Samson.

But good grief, last night before bedtime it was like having a coked-up pixie in the house.

He was running around with no diaper yelling "All Abooard" and exhorting everyone within earshot [probably the whole block] to hurry and get on the train. Then he stopped and said "Hey everybody, it's me: SAMSON!"

And where was I during the tour de Sam? I was sitting on the floor near his potty, diaper and pj pants at the ready [his, not mine], laughing.

It's madness, I tell you. Pure madness.

Hippocrates in pull-ups

The patience of Job in our house is actually the patience of Jane...

But even Sweet Jane has her limits.

Samson Agonistes

I actually considered posting about this at 5:15 this morning, but I couldn't get my eyes open enough to make my way downstairs to the computer.

I'll explain: Last night, Vicki was putting Samson to bed and I was feeding Jane. [Among the coolest features of baby 2.0 is the fact that she takes a bottle, so I can actually do something useful for her that doesn't involve cleaning up poop or spit-up. At least not right away.]

Anyway, it was about 7:30 when Vicki came downstairs and said the words I fear most at that time of night: "We don't have La-La."

Apparently --- and I'm surprised this hasn't happened sooner --- Samson left La-La behind at school and neither he nor Vicki noticed when she picked him up. So began the wailing and gnashing of teeth. Again, I was spared the worst of this because I was with Sweet Jane, but it was tough-going for about 30 minutes or more. [Sidenote, this website has a tremendous catalog of recorded concerts available for streaming, so while all was in disarray upstairs, Jane and I were enjoying a 1990 Grateful Dead concert recorded in Oakland. Scarlet begonias indeed.]

Despite the fact that Samson is OK with all the members of the La-La family, #1 is the only one he really wants in times of stress or when it's time for bed. Vicki was finally able to convince him that #2 was La-La's Mommy and #3 was the La-La baby and that he should snuggle down with them until the morning when we could pick #1 up from her overnight adventure at school.

Unfortunately, this was not the end. He was up more times during the night than Jane was. He kept having nightmares about "Moppy" --- which either stems from some deep-seated fear of manual labor or is a new kid at school --- and ended up in our bed around 5.

Two and a half full hours before his school opened. So we had plenty of time to discuss the extraction plan. Over and over.

By six, Jane had arrived (OK, I brought her in), looking to be fed, and we were once again glad we bought a king-sized bed all those years ago.

The upshot is that at 7:30, La-La was successfully recovered after a night spent in Samson's cubby. She was hugged and bitten and snuggled and promptly left on the floor of the kitchen about a minute after she got home.

The house always wins, part II

For reasons I cannot explain, I forgot to pull the washcloth out of the tub last night after giving Samson his bath. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem, but --- again, for reasons beyond my powers of explanation --- I had chosen a baby-sized washcloth instead of going with the full-sized one. Here's a tip for new parents or even old parents: Skip the baby-sized washcloths, they're wily and small and will cost you money in the end.

By the time I discovered this, the little yellow washcloth was already on a great big adventure in the pipes of our house. So I went and got the plunger and worked at trying to retrieve the thing.

For his part, Samson thought it was hilarious to see me standing ankle-deep in his bathwater plunging the drain. I eventually got the water to go down, but I was unable to summon up the little yellow washcloth from wherever it was hiding.

Terrific. So now it's Sunday night and we've got a clogged pipe. Nothing to do but wait.

The plumber came today and, in Dwight Shrute-like fashion, informed Vicki that he thought there was at least a 25 percent chance that he'd have to saw through the wall. Apparently his partner was more of a glass-half-full (or 3/4 full) kind of guy, and he went to the truck and got some kind of robo-snake thing and pulled out the little yellow washcloth.

Shrute guy also offered Vicki a helpful primer on what can and cannot go in the toilet or down the drain. I'm pretty sure washcloths are on the "no" list.

The house always wins, part I

Last night, during the hour long free for all that constitutes the time between Samson being physically put to bed and the time he falls asleep, I looked in on him to find him standing perched on the edge of his bed with one foot on the windowsill.

Needless to say I was not pleased. Of course, the windows are not only locked, but they are safety latched, so he wasn't getting outside. But he still could have fallen about a foot or so onto his train table and really hurt himself.

However, trying to impress this on him only elicited a lot of agreement like "I know" and "Yes, I could fall" followed by "It's snowing out, Daddy" and "I won't share my trains with Jacob."

Realizing that I was getting nowhere and that it was already near 8 o'clock, I hit upon the idea of taking all of Samson's trains and tracks off the train table as a punishment. So I grabbed a big plastic shopping bag with handles and started shoveling everything in. At last I had his attention, and so I told him that he'd been warned about standing on his bed and the window sill before and that because he didn't listen, he was being punished. No trains for a whole day. Satisfied that I'd come up with a judgment worthy of King Solomon, I duly deposited the giant bag-o-trains and tracks on the landing of our staircase for safekeeping.

Suitably chastened, Samson cried a bit, promised never to do it again, and was then given hugs and put to bed. Again. But this time he fell asleep.

Sometime around 2:15 this morning I was awakened out of a sound sleep [and I do mean sound: both Jane and Samson had been asleep for six hours by this point] by a crashing sound. At first I thought it was ice coming off the gutters or falling off the tree branches outside the window. But it was more of a wooden, plinky sound. Like Lincoln logs falling from the sky.

Actually it was Thomas and friends falling out of the bag, which had apparently split wide open in the middle of the night and was now duly expelling its little wooden denizens. Did I mention Samson has a lot of trains and track?

Mercifully enough neither Sam nor Jane woke up, but it took us a good 20 minutes to figure out how to quietly clean up this train wreck, and by the time we were finally settled back into bed, Jane was up and looking for some milk.

I'm not really sure what the moral of this story is, but those trains are back on the table tonight.

Uncertain smile

Jane is now in the developmental range for what are called social smiles (i.e., smiles not related to gas). Samson got the first one the other day. She was on her changing pad, and when he came into her room I picked him up so he could see her. Presto: big smile for big brother.

Since then, Vicki has gotten a couple. At least, that's the story she's telling.

For my part, I've gotten more of the half smile that you give someone you think you went to school with/used to work with/met at a party. You know, where you're kind of like, "Hi, I think I know you," but you don't commit to the full smile just in case you're mistaken.

If I can get a photo of one of these, I'll be sure to post it. But I wouldn't hold your breath.

A seat at the table

At long last, Samson has graduated from his highchair to a booster seat and can now really join us at the table. Along with his snowplow.

In case you're wondering, that's apple slices, quesadilla, and guacamole on his little sectional plate.

Apparently the snowplow is necessary to indicate when he's finished. Very useful, no?

A true outside-the-beltway candidate

I turn 35 in June and so am finally eligible to form an exploratory committee and be coy about my plans to run for president. Look for this photo to figure prominently in the 30-second TV spots I'll be running in Iowa and New Hampshire this summer.

I'm so outside the beltway that I actually take touristy photos when I'm in Washington. You want someone untainted by special interests? You've found him.

Of course there are some character questions that may arise. There is the matter of my dodging service in Grenada [I got a spelling bee deferment] as well as concerns about my 2003 statement that "France seems like a pretty OK country."

By the way, this is our new double stroller. In the picture, Jane is snugly sleeping in the compartment below Samson [her head is by my shins]. She was the only one who never got cold that day.

Darwin shrugged

On Sunday, faced with the prospect of yet another full weekend stuck inside because of the cold, I had the bright idea that we should go to the Smithsonian's natural history museum and check out the dinosaurs. The Curious George book about his trip to a museum is in heavy rotation lately, and I knew Samson would get a kick out of seeing the giant skeletons.

Of course, I forgot that this past weekend was President's weekend. So every third family within an hours' drive of D.C. had the same bright idea that I did. Poor Samson slept almost the whole trip down only to wake and get 25 minutes of driving in circles looking for a parking space.

And because it was about 14 degrees and windy, we were determined to park as close as we could get. We finally met with success, and the wait was definitely worth it. Lots of great exhibits, especially the new hall of mammals, which has a kind of African savannah room, complete with timed thunder storm sounds and stuffed leopards sinking their teeth into stuffed gazelles. Something for everyone.

Back by the woolly mammoth skeleton was a little exhibit of cave people [I guess it's considered an exhibit; it really looked just like a big diorama]. In any event, Samson took one look at the bearded guy in an animal skin and proclaimed "It's Jesus."

I'm not sure that my explanation of prehistoric people was in any way helpful [you try explaining the concept], but he stopped and thought for a second and offered: "They help Jesus."

And that was that.

Part of me wanted to issue some kind of public disclaimer that Vicki and I weren't teaching our son according the Kansas board of ed curriculum, but mostly I just thought it was funny.

I'm kept picturing Jesus' helpers in the Garden of Gethsemane bumrushing the Romans.

Maybe Mel Gibson will try that scenario out if he makes a sequel. I'd pay $9 to see it.

Gratuitous Jane photos

Samson is finally on the mend after being sick all week, and he returned to school this morning.

He's not all better, for sure. In fact, he's still coughing like an extra in a production of Oliver Twist, but his fever is gone and his appetite has returned.

Which meant Vicki got to spend some time with just Jane this morning and have a little photo shoot.

Pagan babies (more specifically, mine)

I have a colleague who is quite well meaning and apparently Catholic in a kind of endearing 14th century sort of way.

She always asks how Samson is doing and now asks about Jane as well. One day as we were leaving work she asked when Jane would be baptized. As the godparents (Vicki's brother, Ben, and his wife, Karen) are in Texas and soon to be headed to Colorado, we figured May was probably a good target.

When I mentioned this to my colleague, she asked if Vicki and I had considered having a private baptism in our house. At first, I was totally clueless as to what she was intimating. So I patiently re-explained that Ben and Karen probably wouldn't be back east until late spring.

At which point, again in a very nice way --- sort of like if Mary Kay had worked for Torquemada --- she put forth the private/home baptism option.

Finally I caught on and politely informed her that God forbid anything should happen to Jane, I would expect that her lack of baptism wouldn't consign her to some weird Dantean eternity in the company of Homer and pals.

What I didn't say (again, this person is very nice and I'm sure genuinely concerned about all our souls) was that a heaven that's only for baptized Catholics --- or all Christians for that matter --- seems kind of pointless. No sense in burdening her with my heresy.

Also, I'm totally leaving a ham, bacon, meatloaf, veal, and roast beef sandwich on her desk when Lent starts. I'll tell her it's from Jane...

Sam and Jane: The wonder years

Samson's largesse lasted just long enough for Vicki to get a few good shots of the two of them together. Once again, Jane looks a little nervous to be in such close proximity to her big brother.

Smart kid.

The kid stays in the picture

Samson is still getting used to the idea of sharing the house photographer's time...

Slings, arrows, outrageous fortune cookies

I've often thought that writing fortunes for fortune cookies would be a dream job. In fact, after reading this, I even wrote one company to see if they needed any freelance help.

I never heard from them, so I assume the answer was no.

But I was pretty thorough in my application e-mail and even went so far as to include what I thought fortunes were lacking these days. Namely a sense of fun. And menace.

Like: "Nobody is fooled by that toupee."

Or: "Stop kidding yourself. You didn't almost go to Penn; you got waitlisted. Move on."

Or: "Your goldfish has nothing but contempt for you. Be vigilant."

Or: "Wednesday will bring only sorrow. Remain inside. Under the kitchen table."

I bring this up because in some kind of karmic payback, I opened my fortune cookie on Sunday night and got the following message: "You will soon be crossing the great waters."

Now I'm no expert on world religions, but I'm pretty sure that this is a metaphor for death.

Mind you, it was my second fortune cookie [nobody else in the house eats them], so I'm not sure if it even counts. My first one said "You have many friends" or something completely non-fortuney like that.

Clearly, whatever it was, it made nothing like the impression that the grim reaper of fortunes made.

Still, I can't help thinking that I've got grounds for an intellectual property suit.

Unsettling messages on tiny rectangles of paper was totally my idea.

O Canada?

For a while now, if we've wanted Samson to stop doing something (like crawling along the floor as we're trying to put his clothes on) we've used the old standby: "That's not what big boys do. Babies do that, but you're not a baby. You're a big boy."

However, with the arrival of Jane, I think Samson is starting to rethink the whole "I'm not a baby" stance.

Think about it: She gets held on command, carried everywhere, and never gets in trouble. Ever.

So this morning, as I was trying to get Samson to take his fingers out of his mouth, I said: "Samson, I can't understand what you say when you've got your fingers in your mouth. Big boys don't put their fingers in their mouths. Canadians do that."

He took his fingers right out and asked, with a puzzled look on his face: "Can-ay-dee?"

[Sidenote: I have family in Canada and can report with near certainty that they don't talk with their fingers in their mouths. But since we don't have any Canadians in the house, and since we do have a baby, I figure our neighbors to the north will forgive this slight bending of the truth.]

Of course this could all backfire, and we'll have a toddler walking around our house singing the theme song to Sesame Park and demanding Kraft dinner.

St. Francis, the early years?

In December, when Samson and I were stringing up Christmas lights on the tree in our front yard, he sneezed and had a giant snot hanging from his nose.

Because I'm not 73, I don't carry a handkerchief in my pocket. So I deftly removed it from his nose with my hands and wiped it on the bark of the tree. Vicki thought this was gross. Samson thought it was about the coolest thing I'd ever done.

Fast forward two months. Of late, Samson has had a stuffy nose. And while we try to keep him supplied with tissues, occasionally he takes matters into his own hands. Literally.

Unfortunately, he feels the need to give me all items removed from his nose. What's even funnier is that he does it in this very offhand way, sometimes coming from another room with outstretched hand and a casual "hereyougo."

Anyway, yesterday morning, as I was getting him out of his car seat in the parking lot of his school, I heard "Daddy?" and looked down and got the "hereyougo."

There on the tip of his index finger was a tiny green asteroid, which I grabbed and flicked to the ground with all the speed and grace of an Ang Lee hero. What follows is a rough transcription of our conversation:

Samson: Where'd my boogie go?

Me: I flicked it on the ground.

Samson: Outside?

Me: Yep, outside on the ground.

Samson: So the birds can eat it?

Me: Sure, if they want to.

Samson: If they want to. The birds will eat my boogie. (Nodding) They will. They want to.

[Of course this makes me wonder what exactly he thought we were offering the birds last week when we hung up a peanut butter pine cone bird feeder. ]

One month later

Sweet Jane is one month old today. It feels both way longer and much shorter than just one month. So what have I learned since her arrival?

1. King Kong is a terrible movie. Why do I know this? Because Jane tends to be wide awake between 11 or 12 and 2 or 3 each morning. Since we pay for HBO, and I was sitting in the basement rocking her anyway, I figured I'd give the movie a shot. You know a movie is bad when Naomi Watts and a giant computer-generated ape can't save it. Just really, really bad. At one point Jane fell asleep and I woke her back up just so I didn't have to hear the ridiculous dialogue. OK, not really, but you get my point.

2. Being a good daytime sleeper is sort of overrated. Actually, it's way overrated. Like best football team in Alaska overrated. My earlier proclamations about Jane's sleeping prowess were, like that Chicago Daily Tribune headline, perhaps a little premature. As I write this, Jane has been up for three hours, been rocked, swaddled, and even lain on the dryer with it going in the hopes the motion would be soothing. Nothing doing. Of course, she's not crying, so that's a plus.

3. Newborns poop with surprising force. I don't remember this from Samson, but apparently it was the case then too. Which leads me to number 4:

4. My memory is gone. Seriously. The amount of stuff I don't remember from just two years ago is frightening. I wonder if there's some kind of program that converts years of parenthood and the resultant short-term memory loss to years spent touring with the Grateful Dead. Unfortunately, the only people who'd have any interest in creating such a program are either asleep right now, busy cleaning up toys, busy changing a fussy newborn, or having an incredibly animated (and totally earnest) conversation about the relevance of "The Hobbit" to the situation in Iraq. Over a big bowl of mac and cheese.

5. That thesis I was supposed to defend in May? I was probably a little optimistic about how much time I'd have to work on it. Not wildly optimistic in a "they'll welcome us as liberators" kind of way, but probably slightly more optimistic (and unrealistic) than the folks who thought that what we really needed to fill the void in our lives was a fourth hour of the Today show.

Sam fights the law; the law wins

Samson got his first time-out at school yesterday. Which is sort of funny, because Vicki and I were just talking about this the other night, saying how he gets them all the time at home but doesn't seem to ever get in trouble at school.

Not that I was worried, but it's good to know he's comfortable enough now at school to misbehave. [I should be careful what I wish for, but I'd rather him get in trouble occasionally because he feels at home than be scared silly and silent every day at school.]

Apparently he was talking at nap time and then stood up on his cot. Clearly against the rules, and clearly stuff he knows he should not do. [By the way, his cot is about three inches off the ground. Still a bad choice, but not a dangerous one. Like when he tried to stand on the windowsill in his room, using his headboard as a stepping stone. I digress.]

For punishment, he had to sit in the "little chair." According to Samson, one of the other kids in his class had a time-out in the "big chair," so I'm thinking there's a sliding scale for infractions, with Samson's registering on the lower end of things.

When I asked him about it last night, he seemed suitably chastened by the whole experience. We'll see...

Living After Midnight

For some reason, Jane can't seem to settle down in the wee small hours of the morning. I still stand by my claim that she's a better sleeper than her brother was. She sleeps through most of the day with no problem (and is apparently unmoved by drums, trucks, Samson's cries of "Strike up the band!" and other household noises).

And even when she's awake in the middle of the night, she doesn't make a whole lot of noise about it. This is not to say she's demure when she's hungry or has gas, but by and large she's just not a noisy baby. Which is good, because we definitely don't need both kids up at 4 in the morning.

At the same time, there's something a little unsettling about looking down at this peaceful little bundle and seeing those blue eyes staring intently back at me. This morning, as I walked around the house with her, rocking and shushing and talking to her, I'd catch her eyes closing every once in a while. But just when I thought it was safe to sit down with her, they'd snap back open as if to say: "I'm watching you. Back to work..."

This is a terrible analogy, but I can't think of a better one. So here goes: You know how in horror movies, there's always a scene where the star/hero thinks he has defeated the bad guy/monster? And then there are those few seconds of cautious joy mixed with sheer exhaustion. But then you get the close-up of a hand or an eye or something, and it moves, and you know it's starting up again.

It's kind of like that. Without the hockey mask, of course.

The one thing, apparently, that helps Sweet Jane get to sleep when she just can't settle is the sound of the hairdryer.

I've heard of this type of thing before, but running anything louder than a toaster for baby Samson sent him into fits of terror, so I was pretty surprised to see Jane's eyelids get droopy once that high-pitched whine started.

Makes me wonder if we shouldn't have gotten this instead of the rocking chair for her room.

The People's Game

Is there a more fun sport for two year olds than duckpin bowling? We went on Sunday, and I can honestly tell you there is not.

Seriously, where else can you combine the sheer thrill of rolling a heavy, potentially toe-crushing sphere with the excitement of knocking things down and the high drama (and possible finger loss) of the ball return mechanism?

In short, it's a perfect day out. Especially when the day is really cold.

Samson and Oliver did a terrific job taking turns and sharing the balls. It got a little dicey when the lane next to us was occupied by some kind of Golden Girls meets Gray Panthers bowling club, but even their reproachful looks at Samson as he reached for their reset button didn't diminish the fun.

You should know that Oliver is an excellent bowler. He's actually more of a thrower, but he sends the ball speeding (sort of) on its way to its destiny with those little duckpins.

Samson, on the other hand, is more of a slow roller. Watching his ball meander down the lane and meet the pins feels almost like a Beckett play. Long periods of waiting for something to happen. Occasionally something does. Or not.

Even so, it was great. And Samson woke up Monday thinking we were going again. It's kind of hard to sell school as an exciting option when you've spent the previous day being encouraged to throw things and knock other things down.

In borrowed shoes, no less.

The Kids are All Right

Freezing temperatures outside + Samson, Jane, and Mommy stuck inside = photo shoot.

Jane actually doesn't look so sure about this, but Sam looks like he's having fun. Man, I wish it was Saturday...

Code talker

When Samson was a newborn and having trouble falling asleep, we explored a number of theories to help get him settled. Swaddling seemed to work best. At least most of the time.

Unfortunately, it worked so well that we had to keep doing it to get him to sleep until he was about 8 months old. Which is a very long time, even if it doesn't sound like it [swaddle-months are like dog-years.] Indeed, we were worried we'd need to give his college roommate instructions on how to swaddle him.

Another scheme we tried was something Vicki read about where you create an association with a word or phrase and falling asleep. The trick, allegedly, is to catch the baby just as they are falling asleep and to say the word so as to build the connection. Once such a connection is built, the word or phrase can then be used to help settle the child down and ready them for sleep. Sort of like Pavlov, without all the salivating.

It seemed reasonable (or not any less reasonable than being up all night), and as I recall, the conversation went something like this:

Vicki: "I was reading about this technique where you create a code word to help the baby fall asleep."

Me: "Yeah. How does it work?"

Vicki: "Basically, you pick a word or a phrase and try to link it, in the baby's mind, with the act of falling asleep."

Me: "What kind of word do you use?"

Vicki: "I guess it could be anything."

Me: "Like 'poop'?"

Vicki: "We probably don't want to say 'poop' to get Sam to sleep. But it could be a phrase like 'lights out' or 'sleep tight' or something. Basically, it can be anything as long as you're consistent."

Me: "How about 'Unicorn Karate'?"

Vicki: [sighs]

Anyway, I won out, and we tried "Unicorn Karate." [She did say it could be anything.]

But we never had much success. Perhaps something about mythical one-horned beasts engaged in martial arts struck Samson as decidedly not sleep-inducing. Or maybe he was familiar with the little known Bruce Lee film. Or maybe it was that neither of us could say it without laughing and waking him back up.

Whatever, it still takes him more than an hour to fall asleep every night.

But now that Jane is here and is exhibiting some of the same night/day confusion symptoms her brother had (although on a far smaller scale), I think it might be time to give Unicorn Karate another chance. She's sleeping now, but I expect she'll be up sometime around midnight.
I'll keep you posted...

Il Postino

Jane, you've no doubt noticed, has a good, thick head of black hair. So did her mother. And apparently her grandmother as well.

Is Jane the Esau to Sam's Jacob? Probably not. She's got blonde eyebrows, and so I expect, just like later pictures of her mom evidence, a little towhead to emerge from under that Sid Vicious hairdo. And to be honest, I'm just glad she's got hair. From what I can tell from the pictures, I had the G. Gordon Liddy look for almost a year and a half. Not such a big deal for a little boy, but I can picture Vicki taping barrettes to poor Jane's melon. So we dodged that bullet.

Anyway, yesterday a colleague joked that Jane must be the mailman's child because of the dark hair.

Hilarious.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a cuckold joke as much as the next guy with a two-week-old baby.

What made the joke funny to me is that our "mailman" is a 225-lb black lady with cornrows.

Samson's protestations to the contrary, I'm pretty sure she didn't have anything to do with it.

People are strange (still)

I meant to write about this the other day and totally forgot. On Sunday, in a minor miracle (not quite on the level of the loaves and fishes at Cana or Lazarus coming out of the tomb, but slightly more miraculous than the immaculate reception) we made it to church. On time.

OK, Vicki and Jane made it on time. Samson and I were parking the car and so arrived after the opening procession. But we were still there in time for the first reading. In any event, we went to Mass and then met up with friends for some coffee afterwards.

We had just about finished when an elderly woman (sort of a well-coiffed combination of Cruella De Ville, the old woman from Titanic, and the middle Stygian witch) walked past the table, stopped to look at Samson, and proclaimed: "He's too pretty to be a boy. He should have been a girl."

I'm sure somewhere in the archives of Emily Post there's an appropriate response to this kind of gender-defiant compliment, but I was, uncharacteristically, at a loss for words. I thanked her with a puzzled look and pointed to Jane, lamely offering "well, his sister is right there." To which she said, "Oh, she's sweet. You should let me have her."

Again, I had no response at the ready. Which didn't matter, as it turned out, because she then let us all know the following: "I like them at this age. Up until three. Then you can have 'em back." And with that, she was gone.

So now I'm wondering if this woman lives in a gingerbread house somewhere on the edge of town and has a pen full of kids who she keeps until three and then returns to their rightful guardians.

I'm also wondering if somewhere out there is a two-year-old little girl whose parents are going to be told: "She's too handsome to be a girl. She should have been a boy."

Playing with food

Not exactly haute cuisine, but you really can't go wrong with a project that allows your two-year-old to make his own snacks.


To be honest, I think he's humoring me with the peanut butter and raisins. While I was working away on the masterpiece below, he was munching on a plain piece of celery.

Of course, it's a lot easier to gin up some excitement by calling out, "Who wants to make ants on a log?" than it is by saying, "Who wants to sit in the dining room and eat plain celery?"

First snow

The first snow of winter fell today. We probably didn't pick up more than an inch, so it was as much like digging in the dirt as it was playing in the snow.

Even so, it was a perfect excuse to get out of the house. And the look on Samson's face as he watched the snow falling was like something out of a Rockwell painting.

We weren't out for very long, however, because somebody refused to wear his mittens. Repeatedly. If there's one thing I won't abide, it's a refusal to dress for the weather. [Seriously, ask my sister. I'm very concerned about people being warm enough.]

The enforcer

I'm not sure who Samson has been observing for diapering techniques [should we call his school?], but consider yourself warned: Sam takes no guff.

Especially not from Care Bears.

Say it loud...

Something really strange happened last night while Samson and I were downstairs playing with Play-Doh. By the way, if you haven't played with Play-Doh in a while, there are two things you should know.

1. It still tastes salty. [My curiosity got the better of me, and I took a tiny taste while Samson wasn't looking. I figured it would be the same, but with all the new colors, I wasn't completely sure that they hadn't gone all "new" Coke on us.]

2. According to the warning label on the container, Play-Doh contains wheat. Some of Samson's friends are allergic to wheat, so I know how serious it can be. I also would never in a million years have guessed it contained anything related in any way to food. So now you know.

Anyway, while we were cleaning up and I was trying --- in vain --- to separate out all the squished colors and put them back in their respective little tubs, I asked Samson to hand me the black Play-Doh. [One of the new colors: great for making wheels and snakes and handlebar moustaches, but I digress.]

Amazingly, he went and picked up said doh and brought it over to me, singing "I'm black Play-Doh; I'm black Play-Doh." At which point he dropped the last part and started dancing around our basement singing "I'm bla-aaack; I'm blaa-aack!"

I have no idea what this means or where it's come from. But I think it's hilarious. Maybe it was that James Brown mobile he had as a newborn...


On the Jane front, her umbilical stump fell off today. Which will make changing her diaper a heck of a lot easier. I don't know what your experience has been, but the nurses at our hospital put the fear of God into us about touching the thing. Of course, when we took Sam for his first doctor's appointment, his pediatrician saw that it was hanging on by a thread and simply pulled it off.

Even so, I wasn't touching that thing for love or money, so I'm really glad hers fell off on its own. And Samson was really excited to hear the news because "now she's big."

Life as we know it...

Jane came home last week, and both she and Vicki are doing just fine. Likewise, Samson is doing a pretty good job adjusting to the big change. He's not crazy about me holding her, and the first few times she nursed he was fairly vocal about not wanting Janie to "put her nose on mommy's belly."

Overall though, so far so good. Some random stories from the past week:

Apparently the standard baby/infant seats (those ubiquitous buckets you see people awkwardly lugging all over town) do not fit in captain-style seats. Our minivan has such seats, which means that Vicki's step-dad spent a lot more time with me in the backseat of our van than anyone should ever have to.

After a mighty struggle, we decided quitting was the smartest thing to do and called up to the hospital room to our respective wives (not without some trepidation) seeking advice. Vicki's mom graciously offered to pick us up the kind of seat we knew would fit, and that was that. Still, I felt like an object lesson on the evils of procrastination there in the parking lot of the hospital (yep, I was that guy; what can I say? Jane came a bit earlier than we expected).

We continue to work on getting the ground rules down with Samson regarding Jane. As in, yes you can touch her arm or kiss her cheek. No, you can not push that train on her sternum. Definitely a work in progress. But he's trying.


It's still early, but Jane is a very different baby from Samson. For one, she sleeps pretty well. She's still figuring out the whole night/day thing, but she doesn't really cry all that much. And she can sleep through just about anything [perhaps she's been hearing the muffled yells and drumming of her brother all this time and so takes it as a matter of course]. But even when she's fussing she never really gets up to Category 5 strength like Sammy Lungs did. This is not to say she's not waking up at night or that we're not tired. She is. And we are. But nothing like the last time around. Sweet Jane.

She does, however, go through an incredible number of diapers in a day. I'm sure I have casually used the term "stinky-poo" at some time in my life. Only now do I truly appreciate the power of that compound noun.

The number of people who ask if we've named our daughter Delilah is surprisingly high. And I can't tell if it's an attempt at humor or if they really think that the pairing (despite the creepy things it would imply) makes sense. Either way, it would be fascinating as a sociological study if it wasn't so annoying.

We have also gotten a lot of "You had a girl? How wonderful. Now you can stop." I get the general idea, namely that people are telling us we have a nice, balanced little family. And I'm ecstatic to have a little girl, just as I was (and remain) ecstatic to have a son.


But to be perfectly honest, having another child is not among the things on my mind not two weeks after the birth of our daughter. I wonder if parents who have a second child that is the same sex as the first get comments like "Too bad you had another girl/boy. Guess you'll have to try again." or "Well, you win some, you lose some."

Perhaps Jim Morrison said it best when he said "people are strange." [Of course, he also said he was the lizard king...]

Gift of the Magi

She came a little early (on the Feast of the Epiphany, no less), but she's here safe and sound.

Welcome to the world, Jane Victoria.

Both she and Vicki are doing well. And big brother Samson is ready to start big brothering. Look out, Janie...

I'll post more later. Lots of photos, lots of stories, just not enough sleep. See you soon.

Letterbox

Wouldn't you know it? Right after Christmas, and just before what will certainly be a time of bunkering down in our house [although it's not exactly cold out right now], the TV in our bedroom is dying.

Mind you, I bought this set --- which weighs about twice what Samson does --- when I was in graduate school 11 years ago. So it really doesn't owe us anything. And it's not that the TV is going that is so annoying. It's how it's going.

I assume, based on my vast knowledge of electrical appliances, that the picture tube is slowly giving up the ghost. I say this, because now when we turn the TV on, there's a better than 50 percent chance that whatever we watch will essentially be in the letterbox format. Which might be cool when you're watching indie and foreign films. But it makes the news hard to watch.

And it makes Curious George almost impossible to find on-screen.

Lately, this is Sam's show. Which, I have to say, is a welcome respite from the Higglytown Heroes.

Aside from the creepy weeble aspect of the show, the cast of 'heroes' seems to waning. I'm sure the idea was sound when it all started: Introduce kids --- via talking nesting dolls --- to the many career opportunities out there.

Fair enough, but the pickings are getting a little slim: They've gone from doctors and teachers and firemen to clerks of court and electrolysis technicians. I imagine we'll see an episode soon where the kids do a ride-along with a bounty hunter or meet the tollbooth guy on the HTPK.

Kitchen confidential

Special thanks to Williams-Sonoma for carrying a Samson-sized apron that was not pink or yellow gingham.

This one even has a train on it. Measured against the toys he got, this was probably the least exciting Christmas gift we gave Samson.

But something tells me he's going to get a lot of use out of it.

Ringing in the new year

With Vicki due in just one week(!), we have been pretty busy getting things ready for the new arrival.

Even so, we did take some time to ring in the new year. Or at least, we made a valiant effort to ring in the new year but ended up calling it a night sometime around 10 pm.

The ball, I presume, dropped in Times Square?

The boys had fun, and I don't think any of us would have wanted to keep them up (or to stay up with them) until midnight.

Samson actually closed out the old year by being really cranky --- seriously, he was meaner than I've ever seen him. Not sharing, not smiling, not even really interested in playing music.

Still, all was forgiven by the stroke of 9:30.

And Jacob may have discovered his true calling. So here's to 2007...