The sport of kings

Because the Preakness is tomorrow, there are all sorts of local (and free) events this week around town. Among them is a chance to visit Pimlico at sunrise for a tour of the stables and a chance to see the horses work out.

Such an event at that time of day is probably appealing only to parents with small children and serious gamblers. Falling squarely into the first camp, and going on a tip from a friend who had taken his daughter the morning before, I made plans for a little Sam and Daddy adventure: Sunrise at the racetrack.

Unfortunately, yesterday morning, in the doorway, keys-in-hand, was when I learned that Samson is a little afraid of horses. I'd turned the news on as we were getting dressed to show him where we were headed, and he seemed OK but not overly enthusiastic. Of course, it was 6:40 in the morning, so I didn't give it much thought. But as were literally on our way out the door, he began to let me know that he really had no interest in going and that, in fact, he wasn't a big fan of horses. Truth be told, they frightened him. [Note to self: The next time an episode of Thomas is on in competition with Godfather I, we should watch Thomas.]

So, unwilling to simply call it a day before the day had begun, I suggested we go see the 6:30 hot air balloon launch taking place at a park about 20 minutes from our house. Not bad for a quick fix, I thought, and we drove north in the early morning light.

Unfortunately, the launch was scheduled for 6:30 PM [a quick call to Vicki revealed my small but important mistake], so our arrival at approximately 7:03 AM meant we had our pick of parking spots but not much else.

Needless to say, I was pretty bummed. Selfishly, I'd planned this cool, almost cinematic experience for us: Morning at the race track, mist coming off the infield, and the thunderous sound of hoofs in the chill morning air. Instead we were sitting in an empty parking lot in a northern suburb and would probably hit rush hour traffic just trying to get home.

However, if Samson was disappointed, he didn't show it. I'm still not sure if he thought the empty playground at the park was the "really fun thing" I'd been referencing in the car. So after a quick trip to Panera for a muffin and some coffee [or a bagel and some chocolate milk], we spent about an hour as kings of the playground.

And the whole family went back that night to see the balloons launch. I don't know that it would have been worth an 11-hour wait, but it was pretty amazing to see.

So I guess the moral of the story is: It's OK if you can't tell time as long as you have a Vicki at home to cover for you. Also, things don't seem nearly as bleak after coffee and a few good swings on the monkey bars. Still, I really would like to have seen those horses. Maybe Jane will go with me next year...

Crafty Sam

Court of appeals

Samson is starting to figure out how to work the system. Right now, he's more like Bambi learning to walk than a grifter working the long con, but still...

The other day he wanted something and Vicki had told him no. I was sitting in the living room and heard him go back and ask her again, following up with: "Daddy said I could." Smart kid.

Of course, Daddy had said no such thing, and I stepped right in on his scam. However, part of me was proud of his initiative. He still needs to work on his timing, of course, and there's the whole issue of keeping parent A out of earshot of parent B. But he's definitely doing some quiet calculating while he plays with his trucks and his trains.

Our little guy is growing up.

Having seen both London and France...

So much for my role as the early morning drop-off pied piper of Samson's class.

Yesterday, as Samson and I settled in to read our customary story, there was a huge crowd gathered over by the bookshelf. Apparently three of Samson's classmates who are already potty-trained were having an underpants showing.

Look, I like to think I deliver a compelling rendition of "I Love Trucks." And I don't want to flatter myself, but I believe my interpretation of "I'm a Big Brother" is both heartfelt and whimsical. But I know when I'm outgunned.

To be honest, I'm not sure Dr. Seuss himself could compete with a Spiderman underpants parade.

Unfortunately (at least as far as Samson's potty-training goes), he was the only one in the class not interested in checking out his classmates' drawers. At this point, Juna might be out of diapers before he is.

Gratuitous Sam and Jane pics

The Gospel according to Sam

Samson's class has chapel every Monday, and so every Monday night at dinner we get a little piece of what occurred. For the past few weeks, the class has been going into the church to look at the stained glass windows, see the altar, etc. I think all this preparation work was leading up to today, where they celebrated some version of the last supper.

I say "some version" for two reasons. One, because we got something about this in the mail, but I can't remember exactly what it said or whether we gave permission for him to have wine. He kept talking about wine at dinner, but I'm betting it was grape juice. I base this on the fact that he was still wide awake (and belting out songs about bread and Jesus) at 8 o'clock tonight.

Reason two comes from the recap we got, which I'll try to reproduce verbatim.

Me: "So what did you learn in chapel?"

Samson: "God was sad."

Me: "Really? Why was he sad?"

Samson: "Because of Jesus."

Me: "Oh..."

Samson: "Jesus took his bread and wine. And God wanted it back. So he gave it to his guys."

Me: "The apostles?"

Samson: "Yes. The poss...possers. Then he was happy."

Me: "Did you sing any songs?"

Samson: "Then the bunnies ate the bread. And they put it in a bucket."

[At this point, I think he decided to see how far he could take the story before I became suspicious. One of his bowls is some kind of Beatrix Potter print with bunnies on it; I'm pretty sure these bunnies have buckets. Also, while I guess there may have been bunnies in the Garden of Gethsemane, I'm reasonably certain they didn't have much of a role one way or the other in the whole "Take this bread and eat it" scenario.]

Ugh

The best laid plans of mice and men never include alternate plans in case of illness. So it goes.

Samson spent Saturday with a 102 fever and snot running from his nose like the great Ganges. He was OK by Sunday. Which meant it was then my turn.

I spent almost all of yesterday either sleeping or in the bathroom. Bad times.

Even sweet Jane was feeling under the weather with a stuffy nose.

So Vicki's Mother's Day gift was that she alone was spared the wave of illness that descended upon our house. Until late Sunday night.

And all my plans of a weekend in Washington, a trip to the farmer's market, and an ice cream date with the kids to celebrate Mother's Day went unexecuted.

I suppose there's always next weekend.

I believe Pliny the Elder said it best when he wrote: Sucko.

From the dept. of darnedest things...

Last night while I was giving Samson a bath, I began to pour water over his head to get it wet for the shampoo.

He looked up at me, quite seriously, and said: "Excuse me. Please don't do that." and then went back to playing with his boats.

Honestly, I need a pause button for this kid, so I can stop, laugh, and then resume with a straight face.

Gitmo

Over the past few months, young Samson has gotten really into Playmobil. Which is great, because the figures are almost exactly the same as when I played with them. Honestly, I think the big difference is that now some of the guys have beards, but otherwise it's the same as it ever was.

We've got a pretty good cross section of Playmobil society: police copter, bank, construction site, rancher (with cows and cow poop; no, I'm not kidding), and a plane with pilot and flight attendant.

At this point, we're just an Indian chief and leather guy short of having our very own Playmobil Village People.

Usually the pilot and all his passengers talk about where they're headed or offer each other juice. Sometimes they finish conversations with "OK, bye. I love you."

I'm not sure what has shifted, but last night after he'd gone to bed and we were cleaning up, Vicki and I discovered some sort of mini Guantanamo Bay set up. This bears watching...

Food: It's what's for dinner

I don't think Jane was nearly as excited for her first taste of rice cereal as we were. She was a pretty good sport about it, but this may take a little work...

Story time

It only took me half a year to figure it out, but Samson does a lot better with the drop-off at school if I spend a few minutes with him in his class before heading off to work. Lately, we've developed a little routine where I'll put his things into his cubby while he goes and picks out a book from the bookshelf. We'll then read the book together, and then he's pretty content to go and play with his classmates.

Clearly this has not gone unnoticed. For the past week or two, Samson and I have been joined by Colin, a newer member of Sam's class. He doesn't say a whole lot but usually brings a book with him too and will look up at me and solemnly intone: "Ree boo." Which, I assume, means he wants me to read to him as well. If I have time, I try to read both books to the boys. [In case you're wondering, I'm almost never on time for work.]

This morning, however, I had everybody. Six kids and me at the snack table reading about Steve and Blue, his dog, and their picnic. We then proceeded to a lift-the-flap book about Winnie the Pooh and his lost honey pot. Big hit with the crowd, especially because the whole book is spent looking for said honey pot but finding other things (socks, tea kettle, balloon) in all the wrong places (oven, bathtub, under the carpet).

Obviously, I realize what a tremendously difficult job it must be to have charge of 8 or 10 2-year-olds on a daily basis. But sitting on the floor with all those kids and hearing them laugh as we turned each page was a pretty nice way to start the day.

And I have to say I was pretty impressed with Samson: He seemed fairly willing to share me for at least a few minutes. This is not always the case at home, where he's starting to get a little more protective of me and my time (as in, "Hold me! Let Mommy hold Janie!" or "Janie's tired --- she should go to bed now.")

Theater of the absurd

So Samson's school has a new director. She started in the early spring and has already made a huge impact. We get weekly letters home; the school has instituted mandatory parent-teacher conferences, and they've introduced a science curriculum for the "older" kids [next year, Samson, next year].

She's painted the hallways and hung murals and really made some welcome changes. And her son is in Sam's class, which is great because she's got even more of a vested interest in what goes on with the "young 2's."

Unfortunately, we've gotten a Clintonian two-fer with her ascension to the director's office. Her husband has sort of adopted the school as his own. Which would be fine except he's a total doofus. I mean that in the strictest, most clinical sense of the word.

He's also, apparently, ubiquitous. I don't know if he sleeps there or what, but we are, at least in theory, on the same drop-off schedule three days a week.

Which means I get lots of time for grinning inanity as I'm trying simultaneously to give Samson his last-minute school day pep talk and get his gear into his cubby and his lunch and snacks squared away.

I should note here, if you haven't already guessed, that I'm kind of a curmudgeon. I have an extremely low tolerance for people who aren't funny but feel the need to make jokes, and I have an even lower tolerance for people who feel compelled to fill any moment of silence by talking.

Obviously, there's a certain amount of small talk that is necessary to grease society's wheels. I'm sure I probably ask people how they're doing dozens of times a day.

But the kinds of conversations you have as you pass by someone in the hall or wait for your stop on the bus or your floor on the elevator are (I always thought) universally understood to be about one exchange long. Two at the most.

So the question "How're you doin'?" is not an invitation for the recipient to hold forth on his lower back pain but simply an acknowledgement that, well, you've got to say something, so this might as well be it.

I wish there was some kind of national public service campaign to let people know it's OK to have nothing to say. In fact, being quiet (particularly for adults) is really kind of underrated as far as I'm concerned. Maybe Nancy Reagan could be brought out of retirement to shoot a whole new set of commercials for the "Just say nothing" campaign. She'd probably be totally on board after last week at her husband's library.

Likewise, as far as being funny, a little self-knowledge goes a long way. So when my two-and-half-year-old walks into class with his hat and glasses on, it would be funny to make a witness protection program joke. Sliding downward, it might even be funny just to make a joke about being in disguise. But it's not funny to say: "Hey: Look at you, STUD!" and then wait a beat for me to erupt in gales of hysteria.

I mean, come on, even Pauly Shore's writers would have left that line on the cutting-room floor.

As always, Samson had the appropriate response --- a long soulful/puzzled look followed by a Beckett-like observation about ants in his cubby.

Samson in repose

Judge me if you want, but you know in your heart of hearts that you would have taken this picture too.

And you can bet this photo will somehow miraculously reappear the first time Samson brings a date home...

God bless what's-her-name...

So Jane's christening on Saturday was wonderful. The priest did seem to have a little trouble remembering her name, which is understandable given that it's so exotic, but even so the ceremony was quite nice. Incidentally, the priest's name is Fr. Sam; and one of the altar boys was also named Sam; so our little guy was pretty excited at this festival of Sams.

When we booked the date for the christening, we worried that Jane's godparents, Karen and Ben, might not be able to make it from Colorado for Jane's big day. What we didn't realize was that Jane's big day coincided with the annual church carnival.

Which explains why it was available when all the other dates were taken through July. And which meant that there was absolutely nowhere to park owing to the bejorted masses drawn by the siren call of the tilt-a-whirl. On the upside, every once in a while the wind would carry the sweet scent of funnel cakes through the church. So all in all, a plus.

Jane was an angel, as usual, and I actually got to hold her for the full hour of Mass. I almost never get to hold her at all, much less for a whole hour [see: Samson; see also: kicking and screaming].

At one point, I found myself losing track of what Fr. Sam was saying --- in all fairness, his sermon kind of zigged where it might have zagged --- and just gazing into those big blue eyes of hers and thinking: "What a gift. Thank you."

Speaking of gifts, Jane fell asleep at 6:30 with a house full of people downstairs and didn't wake up until 8:45 the next morning. That's 14 hours of straight sleep. It's like she's practicing to be in college.

Lonely Planet: the early years?

Whatever path he pursues career-wise, I guess Samson is already planning for his "gap year" adventure. Vicki got the kids a little backpack to keep some toys/games in for when we go to church or out to eat. It's kind of a grab-and-go selection of cars, books, etc.

You'd be surprised how much time and energy is expended on the way out the door trying to figure out the right mix of his stuff. I'm showing my age here, but Samson's decision process on what toys we bring reminds me of making mix tapes in college. Anyway, I imagine this will only increase once Jane is old enough to have her own preferences (although something tells me she's going to be really into excavators and firetrucks).

Regardless, Samson took immediate possession of the backpack and is now apparently ready for the Khaosan Road.

Career planning

Since it's May Day and all, I figure I might as well tackle this topic now. Samson has already scoped out his career path and it involves hard hats.

He kind of goes back and forth about being a fireman or being a construction worker, but I think the important thing to him is the headgear.

Don't get me wrong, he still loves planes. And trains.

And he continues to drum on anything with a flat surface. But this kid is crazy for helmets. Which is fine up to a point. But you try putting a toddler to bed in a hardhat.

I can't tell you how many times he's hit the bridge of my nose while sitting on my lap with his fire chief hat on.

I'll be honest, even baseball hats are tricky when he's in my arms and makes a quick turn to look at something.

So lately I've been switching out his Thomas videos for "Fiddler on the Roof." I'm open for other brimless hat occupations, but I figure a little interest in the rabbinate right now couldn't hurt.

Worth reading

Saw this article today in the NY Times. Worth a read.

Obviously, Samson and Jane are a long ways away from college, but I look at the current environment and the long, joyless processions of kids I see shuttled to and from music lessons, sports, and compulsory community service projects with a fair degree of dread. It reminds me a little of Fritz Lang's "Metropolis," albeit in minivans and SUVs.

I'm not nearly as old as the author of the Times piece, but I wonder at this generation of high school overachievers and where all this application-worthy experience is leading.

One of the best summer jobs I ever had was working as a busboy/waiter/barback at a restaurant. I'm sure a summer internship with my district's congressman would have done wonders for my resume, but I'm kind of glad that I wasn't thinking about my resume at 19.

I'm not trying to sabotage my kids' futures or anything, and who knows, perhaps they will both be desperate for schedules as full as any CEO's, but I really hope they can just be kids.

There's no spot on a college application for tree climbing. Which is kind of what makes it fun, no?

Pagan babies, take two

A while back I posted about a colleague who in her joy at Jane's arrival was also grimly concerned about the fate of Jane's immortal soul.

Well, apparently she can worry no longer. The church (or the Church, if you prefer) has declared the whole limbo thing to be a little, well, wrong.

OK, not exactly, but it's as close as you're going to get to an admission of error on the issue.

Regardless, Jane's baptism is scheduled for next week. And let's be honest, the initiation into the church is important (at least to me), but does anyone really believe, in their heart of hearts, that 'original sin' --- which, for my money, is a great plot device but hardly a solid operating principle --- is more powerful than innocence and love?

And what, if not those two things, are infants after all?

If there's no saving those tiny ones who haven't yet had the chance to make a mess of things, why on earth should the rest of us get a chance?

Seriously, you might as well just join the yakuza --- those guys don't forgive anyone. Ever.

Random

So we're at the zoo today, and as we walk past the food court I see a guy walking around with a bottle of Bud. This surprised me. For one, I had no idea they sold beer at the zoo. [Do you really want to increase your chances of somebody accepting a dare to hop into the rhino habitat?]

And for two, I couldn't for the life of me figure out why you'd need to have a beer while at the zoo. Either you really, really like the taste of beer [3 pm Sunday in the petting zoo be damned!] or spending time with your family is so painful that you've stopped caring what anyone else thinks and you're just going to tilt back that little brown bottle and let it ride.

Either way, it's weird, no? Like the people who buy pornography at an airport newsstand.

Saturday in the park

Spring has finally arrived, and we finally got the chance to get outside and enjoy a picnic lunch and some general running around.

Jacob joined us, and he and Samson spent a good deal of time gathering sticks, running with said sticks [to repeated choruses of "no running with sticks, guys!], and trying to climb trees.


Good times.

Friends, real and imaginary

Samson has a lot of friends. I bring this up because you would think (or at least, I would) that in making up names for his toys, he'd pick from the list of children he knows. Between friends he's known all his life (literally) like Jacob and Oliver to kids he's met at school this year, like Jordan, there should be no shortage of names.

Even so, almost every toy gets named either Bedai [pronounced BEE-dye] or Dai-dai [pronounced DYE-DYE].

Full disclosure: I'm guessing here on the spelling, but I feel like going with the "ai" at the end gives them a kind of Old Testament meets Kung-Fu sensibility. Plus, that's how I see them in my head when he says them. [Am I the only one who sees words in his head when they're spoken?]

Any attempt to get him to see the difficulty in having a whole society of toys with the same two names seems to fall on deaf ears. Yesterday, his Playmobil plane took off for Congo [no, I'm not kidding] with five passengers, four of whom were named Bedai. The fifth was Gog, which apparently still resonates somewhere in that swirling little mind of his.

Speaking of planes, we've started playing a game where we spot a plane in the sky and try to figure out where it's going. Lately, all flights seem headed for Congo, with an occasional flight bound for Australia and a rare one headed to "my school."

Foreshadowing

I realize that Samson looks like me, but wow...

The best thing about this, if you're looking for the story behind the photo, is that while he may look deep in thought, this was apparently a nanosecond before he started picking his nose.

Makes you wonder about all those very serious-looking book jacket photos of authors, doesn't it?

Head on

Jane is apparently a lot more tolerant of "tummy time" than her big brother was. This may be because she's given up on feeling safe on her back; even when she can see him coming, she can't stop him.

Something tells me she's going to be an early walker.

One little monkey

Apparently we do jump on the bed in our house. I stand corrected.

Grace

I've written before about Samson's strictness when it comes to saying grace before meals, but tonight we finally got to hear the whole version of what they say at school. All two lines of it:

"We fold our hands and softly say: thank you for our food today. Amen."

This may not seem like a big deal to you, but we've been asking for months about what they say at lunch with no success. We do get full reports on who got a time-out, who tried to eat his lunch (usually Jordan), and other assorted dispatches (e.g., I didn't kiss Nora today). But we've never gotten to hear the whole thing.

So tonight was pretty special.

Not to mention that seeing young Samson fold his hands, put on his most serious (and presumably thankful) face, and say grace almost brought tears to my eyes.

I don't know about you, but given events of late, I could use a little more grace in my life.

Safety first

Vicki's uncle is in town and arrived bearing the best of gifts: safety goggles.

This is the same uncle who has already given Samson a genuine hardhat and safety vest, so he's pretty much cemented his status as a superhero in our house.

Sitting up, taking notice

Vicki, ever the vigilant web researcher, found this seat online called a bumbo seat.

Essentially, it's a piece of molded foam/plastic that allows a very tiny infant to sit up without being physically able to sit up.

We think it's pretty cool; Jane doesn't seem all that sure.

Holy orders

Apparently Samson has been paying a lot more attention in church than we realized. Yesterday he started walking through the house with his wiffle ball bat raised like this and telling us he was an altar boy. And a priest.

It's not like we discuss Vatican II at dinner or something; to be honest, in a good month we make Mass two Sundays out of four. But clearly something has resonated.

So we're sort of torn between thinking this is kind of funny and being a little unnerved at our two-year-old walking around the house like an extra from "The Warriors."

At last...

Finally, proof of Jane's smiliness. Here's a shot of sweet Jane in her Easter outfit.

For those about to rock...

Samson got a little toy electric guitar in his Easter basket and spent much of Easter weekend rocking out. At one point, he must have been channeling guitar legends of the past because he stopped in the middle of the kitchen floor at my parents' house and uttered this low, throaty, MonsterTruck-style, growl of "ROCKOUT!!!!!" and then proceeded to do just that.

Tough to catch on film, but this is him rocking out in the living room on Easter Sunday.

Speaking of which, is there any greater holiday for choking hazards than one which involves tons of small candy before breakfast?

He is risen; have some candy

We're back from a nice long weekend in New York to celebrate the choking-hazard festival that is Easter. It felt like February for most of our time there, but we managed to get outside and play every day anyway. I'm back at work, and the photos are on the laptop at home, so more to come later today...

Side by side

Samson and Jane took the new stroller out for an inaugural run (actually a walk) for some lunch by the lake.


A good time was had by (almost) everyone. Sorry Janie...

The wrong stuff

Samson is home from school today with a wicked diaper rash. He's going through some kind of Omerta phase about letting us know when he's pooped --- which is no big deal when we're home but really causes trouble when we've spent the day outside.

In order to speed the healing process, Vicki thought it made sense to let him go sans culottes this morning.

But we stressed that if he felt the need to go to the bathroom, he should let us know. To make things even easier, we put the potty in his bedroom, just a few feet away from his train table.

And it worked. Mostly. All morning, he'd announce "I have to pee!" and then go sit on his potty. He'd then announce "I peed!" and proceed on his merry way.

That was before I left for work. At about 9, just as I was pulling into the lot at my office, I got a call on my cell from Vicki. She was in the bathroom brushing her teeth when she heard the following from Samson, who was playing in his room: "It looks like a banana!!!"

I'll let her tell the rest of the story...

The right stuff

Yesterday was the kite festival on the National Mall. It was part of the Cherry Blossom Festival, which, in case you were wondering, is being brought to you this year by the good people at Target. I'm sure that's just what the citizens of Tokyo had in mind 95 years ago. Nothing says friendship and understanding like super-low prices on home goods and toiletries.

[By the way, what did they do with the Cherry Blossom Festival during World War II? Did they pull an "I Love Lucy" after Castro's ascendance, pretending Ricky was Mexican? (I think that's true by the way, but I can't find any evidence right now; besides I'm supposed to be working on my thesis). Or do cherry blossoms seem sufficiently American that they didn't need to do any freedom fries type maneuvers? I digress.]

Anyway, the wind was gusty but not constant, which meant I had a better chance of getting Sam airborne than our kite. Which was fine, as he really just wanted to run around on the giant lawn anyway [especially since the last time we were in DC, the Mall looked like this].

So we did lots of running and ultimately ended up at the Air and Space Museum.


Lots of cool hands-on stuff, but I think we oversold it on the walk over. Samson, apparently, was led to believe we'd be flying a rocket ship.

This pretty much made up for it, though.


In case you're wondering, he's looking at the girl patiently waiting her turn behind him in line.

Christ on the cross, Sam on the drums

Palm Sunday Mass, we've just heard Luke's account of the Passion. Samson is sitting on the floor quietly and contentedly coloring. As the choir begins to sing, he picks up two crayons and begins air drumming.

When they finish he adds a "psssh" sound and strikes his air cymbal. He did this after every song for the rest of Mass. Including the super somber flute solo/closing hymn "Were you there?"

Nothing like trying to stifle laughter in church on the most solemn day of the year. I had always assumed having children might be my ticket into heaven.

Smiley face

This is as close as we've gotten to "ocular proof," but Jane is full of smiles these days.

We'll keep trying...

Tempis fugit

Same park, same car, same kid. Amazing...

People skills

Part I of our Sunday outside was spent at the zoo, where we were greeted almost immediately by one of the zoo's in-house educators and a kookaburra. I'd never heard a kookaburra before, but they're pretty loud.

Loud enough that the Australians apparently refer to them as "the Bushman's alarm clock." At least according to Nancy, the animal educator. I can't remember the last time I heard the term Bushman used in a non-ironic sense, but there it was.

Anyway, Nancy was there to hold the kookaburra and answer questions.

Someone asked if the bird talked, and she said no. [Why is that the first question people always ask about an exotic bird?]

Then someone asked what they eat, and she replied that they are carnivores mostly, feeding on mice, snakes, etc. Which made the questioner ask "Do they hunt them?" To which she responded, "Well, they live in the wild; no one brings them their food." Thanks, Nancy.

To his credit, the questioner was patient and followed up by saying: "I meant do they hunt or are they scavengers? The bird doesn't look physiologically capable of being a predator." I should point out that at this juncture in the mini-lecture there were about 10 people standing around. Easily five of them were little kids (stroller sitters and front-pack riders).

So Nancy helpfully responds, "Oh no --- they're quite capable as hunters. In fact, when a kookaburra catches a snake he thrashes it back and forth, smashing its head on a rock to kill it before he eats it."

At which point, the woman next to me (with baby in front pack) grew wide-eyed, uttered breathlessly "OK, we're done here sweetie," and sprinted away.

For his part, Samson was more concerned that the bird was going to make noise again [he's not big on loud noises, unless he's the one making them] than with the way it gets its dinner.

Man, I love the zoo.

Science!

There's no way for me to ensure that when you read the word "science!" you'll hear in your head an audio clip from that classic Thomas Dolby song. But whenever I see that word I almost always hear it like that in my head. So there you have it.

Yesterday was a marathon let's-get-outside day. With the sun finally shining on a weekend, I wasn't about to miss the chance to spend some time outdoors with our family.

Along the shore of the reservoir, Samson and I conducted our very own science experiment.

We started with some field work, noting that little stones make little splashes and medium-sized stones make medium-sized splashes.

Of course, we wondered --- as good scientists do --- what kind of splash a big stone would make. Our findings have not been peer-reviewed yet, but we're pretty sure they make big splashes. At least, those are our early conclusions.

We've proposed a follow-up study with Lake Victoria as a test site, but the funding and regulatory agency that covers travel for scientists (Mommy) isn't sure our methods are sound.

In your Easter bonnet...

Here's a preview of the face Jane will make at 12 when one of us tries to drop her off in front of school instead of a block or two away. Yep, you saw it here first.

Thomas in the Third World

Because Samson upended the nicely designed train set-up that Vicki painstakingly put together some months ago, the task has fallen to me to redesign things.

Which is not good news for Samson. And it's even worse news for Thomas and his friends.

For one, I was not a train guy as a kid, which means I still have a hard time estimating how much of the wooden track I'm going to need to make this line or that bridge connect/not collide/whatever.

Not to mention the fact that as I'm trying to put things together, Samson is next to me trying to run his trains along this sad set-up.

Which leaves him with a railway system not unlike that of some sub-Saharan African nation, like Zambia or Tanzania.

The analogy is pretty apt when you think of it. Engineered and inaugurated to great fanfare with outside help (China or Vicki), then left to allow to fall into disrepair, what was once a proud accomplishment eventually becomes a series of pitfalls, broken lines, and just a general nuisance. Not to mention a safety hazard.

At this point the only thing Samson's train set is missing is miniature-sized squatter families living by the side of the railway tracks hoping to sell bottled water and snacks to passengers whose trains break down.

So basically Samson's only chance of restoring his little table-world's infrastructure is resurgent interest from an outside source. And to be honest, as busy as Vicki has been with Jane lately, Samson's best hope might just be Chinese engineers sent by the Central Committee.

The cat(?!) stays in the picture

For a short while, Ishmael was afraid of Jane. Clearly that's done.

This was supposed to be a preview of her Easter outfit, but, well, you get the idea...

Ready for his close-up

Sure, he's got sleep in his eye and some food remnants around his mouth, but I think Vicki's captured something here.

You wouldn't criticize Dorothea Lange for not cleaning up her subjects first, would you?

Men at work

The day began with a fleet of cherry picker trucks (Sam's favorite kind) across the street from our house.

I have no idea what they're doing, but there were at least seven guys standing around when I left for work, and it looked like they were getting ready to hoist a giant shiny erector set to the top of the nearest telephone pole.

To be honest, they could spend the next six hours on a coffee break and Samson would be riveted.

I just got a phone call informing me that "the man ... is in the bucket. [long pause] HE'S WORKING!!!"

Sweet Janie blue eyes

What could I write that wouldn't be superfluous?

Token economy

To assist Samson with potty training, we've introduced what teachers call a token economy.

Every time Samson pees on the potty, he gets a sticker. A poop on the potty is worth two stickers. And every three stickers gets a prize.

So basically we're bribing him to get him out of diapers.

And you know what? It's working.

Sort of.

He's now a champion at peeing on the potty.

Unfortunately, he is showing no inclination toward the two-sticker goal. And because he smarter than we are, he's figured out that he can go on juice box benders and almost assure himself of a prize every day without ever having to "shoot for two."

I'm not sure if we can change the rules just yet, but once the prize bag is empty (at this rate, it will be Saturday), I think we may need to draw up a new set of rules.

Big top Samson, pt II

As promised: Part II of the circus recap.

Just before the intermission, we were treated to a huge food fight by the clowns, prompting the Greek chorus of elephants to once again remark about how wacky humans are. Hilarious.

Then it was lights up and a full-on onslaught of vendors hawking everything from toy swords (!) and elephants to more giant boxes of popcorn. Samson was moved by none of this. He spent most of the 15 minutes looking for Miss Sara, who teaches the "big kids" (translation: she teaches the 4-year-old class). Miss Sara is also pretty, blond, and probably 25 years old. Whether or not this is relevant, I don't know, but he didn't spend even a minute looking for any of the other teachers from his school.

Anyway, during intermission we could see them setting up the tiger cage, so I tried to get Samson ready for the appearance of a bunch of these big cats so they didn't end up in his nightmares for the rest of the weekend. The performance was pretty controlled, with lots of rolling over and playing dead and the like. And here I should note that in situations like these, despite the massive (and communal) potential for PTSD, I always root for the tigers.

I should explain: it's not like I want all these kids age six and under to witness a horrible scene of carnage as one of the tigers finally snaps/finds his dignity and mauls the bejesus out of the trainer. To the strains of Bow Wow Wow, no less. But I equally don't want all these kids (especially mine) to witness a massive food fight and have to re-explain on the way home that we don't throw food in our house. There's no danger of us either training or being eaten by a large cat at home.

The final trick of the act involved the biggest tiger on a platform atop a rotating disco ball with one paw in the air. Which made me just plain sad. I'm not a big fan of animal tricks to begin with --- the majesty of two poodles on a motorcycle, pace Ringling Bros., continues to elude me. And it just made Samson wonder: "Where'd Miss Sara go?" (she was two rows behind us, but I think at that point she was getting a pretzel).

Anyway, the tiger act concluded with nothing worthy of a bad Fox special and the show resumed. Neat horse riding tricks by some Cossacks. I'm not kidding. Didn't these guys used to strike fear in the heart of the people of the steppes? I bet they totally sympathize with the tigers.

And then came the finale with that crazy steel orb with all the motorcycles in it. Set to an instrumental version of Ozzy's "Crazy Train." How they fit all those guys on motorcycles in there is beyond me, but it was well worth the price of admission. And I wasn't even rooting against them.

So all in all a pretty fun time. And let's be honest, I'd take a trip to the circus with Samson over a day at the office any day. It's not even close.