Permanent record

Remember making forts? Man, I miss doing that.

By the way, the "temporary" tattoo on Samson's arm has lasted nearly two weeks now. No idea how to get it off, but let's hope his preschool doesn't have some kind of policy on this sort of thing.

Six degrees of Samson

Sundance channel has a new series called "Live from Abbey Road," where musicians play a song or two at the famous studio and viewers get to watch. Pretty straightforward concept, and the line-up over the past two episodes has been an interesting mix of new(er) bands, like the Zutons, some older acts, like Shawn Colvin, and some truly off-the-wall guests, like Iron Maiden.

Yep, Iron Maiden.

I imagine the mere presence of the band that brought you such classics as "Run to the Hills," "Aces High," and "Can I Play with Madness?" has left three out of four Beatles spinning in their graves. [OK, so Ringo's not technically dead, but still...]

Anyway, I thought Samson would greatly enjoy watching the Gipsy Kings do their "we have 87 people in our band each clapping and playing two guitars" thing.

And indeed, he did. The GKs were the segment immediately preceding Iron Maiden [to be referred to from here on out as "Maiden," in accordance with the rules set down by the guys in my high school who took auto shop, metal shop, wood shop, and (occassionally) my lunch money.]

So Maiden comes on to play their classic "Hallowed Be Thy Name," which starts out slow, and Samson turns to me and says: "Will they get loud?"

Ask and ye shall receive, young Samson. No sooner had the question been raised than the drums kicked in and the band, who all look old enough to remember the blitzkrieg in London, duly rocked out. Which scared Sam a little. Still, he was impressed by the number of drums and cymbals in the drummer's kit. He also noted that the singer "yelled loud."

I have "The Number of the Beast" on cassette, so when I checked out iTunes to see what Maiden had on offer digitally, you can imagine my surprise to see that Bruce Dickinson, legendary frontman for the band, was formerly the lead singer of a band called Samson. Go figure.

Happy Feet, Unhappy Fashionistas

Really silly article in Slate about Crocs portending the end of Western civilization.

I'm not sure if the writer has kids, but any shoe that a two-year-old [almost three; I know, Sam; I know] can put on himself is OK in my book.

As for the adult-sized versions, I'm with her on the no socks with Crocs rule. But quoting from the editor of Lucky magazine (the Paris Review for the QVC set) as she channels her inner Heather lends no credence to the argument.

If anything, it makes me want to wear the goofy rubber shoes even more.

Overheard

I've always found the whole kids saying darnedest things shtick kind of cloying. This aversion, however, will not stop me from subjecting you to it, so consider yourself warned:

Samson is now at an age where he is repeating a lot of what he hears. Which is, well, interesting. Particularly since he clearly picks up on things we don't even realize we say.

Like "apparently." Apparently I use this word a lot. Also in heavy rotation are "You sure can" and "of course." He's also big on "probably."

Consider this Friday morning exchange about a possible hot pocket [slang at our house for poo in the diaper. I should point out that credit for that phrase is due to Jacob's mom. I'd love to claim credit for being that clever, but she reads this blog and would surely --- and rightly --- call me on it.]

Me: "Hey, did you poop?"

Samson: "Probably."

So nearly every day we get an odd phrase or word handed back to us, rarely in its original wrapper.

Lord only knows what he took away from Vicki's annoyance with the whole Thomas train recall, but the other day at breakfast he kept addressing us as "Consumers: Chinese boys and girls."

He also requested a snack at lunchtime by saying to Vicki: "Let's get some grapes goin' "

Weighing in

There's probably a reason that the scales at the pediatrician's office are shaped like little cradles...

Jane has her six-month checkup next week, but Vicki was curious to see how much weight she'd gained since her last visit. We think she's up to 15 lbs, but it's kind of hard to vouch for the accuracy of the measurement.

Big Brother is Watching

Samson's lifelong friend Oliver became a big brother yesterday. Vicki took care of O for the day while his parents were at the hospital, and the boys had a really fun time.

When I got home from work, I asked who in the house was a big brother and got two very enthusiastic "ME"s. When I asked what the baby's name was, I got the following responses:

"Curious George" (from Oliver)

"Doo-doo" (from Samson)

Perfect. Just fyi: The baby's name is Vivian, and she is doing just fine. Interestingly, this is the third of Samson's friends to have a new baby sister this year. So playgroup 2.0 is well under way.

Because Vicki is terrific, she organized a big brother party for Oliver. Which included cake and ice cream and a party hat. And of course, there was music.

So welcome baby Vivian, and congrats to O and his mom and dad.

Mad Dogs, Englishmen, and Our Family

It was easily 95 degrees outside today, but since today was the second Sunday of the month we didn't want to miss our chance to ride a miniature model train (two actually).

These guys (and I do mean guys) offer free rides once a month. It's kind of a well-kept secret around here, but it's well worth whatever kind of weather you need to endure to experience it.

The track goes in a two-mile loop, complete with crossings, signals, sidings, and the rest. My knowledge of train jargon comes almost exclusively from Thomas the Tank Engine, so all you train cognoscenti out there will have to forgive me if I'm not doing the track justice.


Samson and I rode the freight train, and then he and Vicki rode the freight train, which Sam and I followed up with a ride in little Pullman cars on the New York Central locomotive. Did I mention it was a well-kept secret? There were about two dozen people there, including parents and children, so there was really no waiting and no limit to how many rides you could take. Which accounted for the two Daniels on board for both rides I was on.

I don't want to make any sweeping generalizations from such a small sample size, but Daniel might be making a bid to become the new Kyle.

Aeropostale

We visited an aviation museum today. Not only is it situated next to a working airstrip, but it's about a half mile from the tracks that carry the DC Metro, Amtrak, and CSX freight lines.

Samson and I were sitting under a tree watching a guy do the pre-flight check of his Cessna when we heard a train whistle and saw a freight train with about a hundred cars go roaring by. I thought Sam was going to explode.

The museum itself is terrific: very kid friendly and lots to do and see. It was pretty empty, which was good because somebody kind of hogged the virtual Wright Brothers exhibit. [I'm not naming any names, but I think it's safe to say that in addition to writing "Mrs. Corey Haim" on her Trapper Keeper folders in junior high, somebody spent a good portion of 1987 on her Commodore 64 playing Flight Simulator.]

Clearly a portion of that gene has been passed along...

For her part, Jane was pretty impressed with the exhibit on wind currents. It had floating beach balls and a cool vacuum cleaner sound.


And of course, what would a visit to an aviation museum be without the chance to wear an old-school flight suit? Mission accomplished, indeed...

Happy birthday, America

We went to the parade on July 4 morning. I mention morning (10:30 to be precise), because apparently people tailgate for this thing?

We didn't notice the guys on the hill behind us until after we got home and downloaded the photos. Look at the trees in the upper right corner. I'm with them: If I can't pee in public, the terrorists have already won. God bless you Lee Greenwood.

And I'm not sure what the deal was with the woman on the blanket behind us. She arrived with her husband and a small child. They left to get a pretzel, and she immediately turned into an extra from "Trainspotting." Weird.

Anyway, the parade itself was fine. Since it's not an election year, we had far fewer candidate floats. But they stacked the parade up so that everyone who won office last year was in the first part of the parade. Which meant convertible after convertible of politicians but no music. Not even a drum. So by the time the clerk of courts rolled by, it was getting kind of quiet.


There were, however, lots of firetrucks and some Army vehicles. And quite a few marching bands, including, interestingly, this one. I'll tell you what, those Lutherans can get down. I'm not sure which of the 95 Theses mentioned bringing the funk, but they blew us away. OK, not really. They just marched past us in cadence on their way to the reviewing stand, where they gave a rousing version of "A Might Fortress is Our God." It's the sousaphones that really make that song; I've been saying it for years.

Department of Apologies: Samson was a pill for the first few hours of the day, so by the time we got to the parade site and ran into some friends we were supposed to meet, I said hi but barely stopped the stroller in my quest to get a shady spot [exactly how shady would later be revealed in our photos] before the parade got underway. So, sorry guys.

Baba O'Samson

That YouTube is a powerful thing. Samson is constantly trying out new ways to play his guitar [we're in trouble if he ever sees the footage of Hendrix at Monterey].

In any event, he was doing this crazy arm thing, and I told him he looked like Pete Townshend of the Who. Later on that day, I sat him on my lap, typed in "pete townsend baba o'riley," and hey presto: this clip.

By the way, this song (and possibly even the performance linked to above) predate the birth of both of Samson's parents. I'm just saying...

So we now have Samson jumping all over the house and trying his best to do that windmill thing "like PIT TOWNHEAD." If Blogger ever allows me to post video directly, you can see for yourself. I'll try to get some photos up in the meantime.

Long live rock.

Food and drink

Apparently watermelon for Jane is like Scooby snacks for Shaggy [and Scooby too, but you'd expect that, no?]

To date, Sweet Jane has shown absolutely no interest in food at all. At her last few visits with the pediatrician, he has asked "Is she interested in food? Does she try to grab your food?" Aside from the fact that she's on her first nap when we eat breakfast and headed to bed as we're sitting down to dinner, I just don't think she has much interest in food right now. Honestly, we've mashed up banana, given her a taste of mashed up avocado; heck, we even got these little rice cookies made especially for babies. No deal.

Watermelon, however, is a whole other story. We were having dinner last night and had some watermelon for dessert. On a whim, I gave her a tiny piece to suck on. The reaction was sort of like the one I remember seeing on the face of the kid who "experimented" with drugs in one of those mandatory school indoctrination films. [Remember those? Where a bunch of nebbishy junior high kids have somehow scored the kind of pot only Bob Marley roadies could find. And what's more: They're dead set on making their one friend try it. Said friend immediately becomes Ray Milland from "The Lost Weekend." I digress.]

After the tiniest taste of watermelon, Jane's eyes opened wide(r), her little arms started to wave and wiggle, and she pretty much went bonkers any time we tried to pull the fruit away from her. Crazy, no? [And we didn't even need peer pressure.]

Along similar lines of food discovery, we've determined that Samson has no use for flavors or names when picking out ice cream. He goes for the color. And by "goes for," I mean shows the same palette preference as a girl from the Valley circa 1983. The last time we went out for ice cream, he had this electric green concoction that was supposed to taste like sour apples. It was sweet enough that he'll probably have cavities in his permanent molars when they come in six or seven years from now.

Today, he opted for ice cream that was pink and blue and yellow and about as tasty as you'd imagine those three colors/flavors of ice cream to be.

Of course, his selection criteria make sense in a way. Despite the fact that chocolate and strawberry are great and classic flavors, unless you know they're good, you're probably not going to opt for the cylinder of light brown or pale pink looking stuff. And forget about vanilla...

Brothers and sisters

So I spent last weekend with my sister, who is expecting and due in August [outside of the birth of my two little ones, there is no other baby on the planet I've ever been as excited to meet].

Which got me to thinking how lucky I am to have a sister and how I look forward to Samson and Jane developing that kind of relationship as they get older.

I should note here that a fair amount of our conversations involves making fun of our parents, so I've already set the karmic wheel in motion on that one. Still, it will be something to see...

Suhwing battah...

Samson is absolutely crazy for baseball. We probably spent 20 hours throwing, hitting, and catching this weekend. Not to mention all the tobacco chewing.

When he's in the batter's box, which moves in direct response to the direction he is facing after he swings, watch out. I have to say I'm impressed about how good he is in not getting frustrated when he misses. But he expects you (or more directly, me) to get the ball he's just missed. The rationale: "I have the bat in my hands."

However, when he hits it---which is actually pretty often---he then likes to chase after it. Also, he's not so good with the tee. In fact, and I'll need to check with the good people at Elias, I think Samson recorded the first-ever bunt from a tee over the weekend.

At the beach

Not much time to write, but I wanted to share a few photos from our trip to the beach. We made a whirlwind tour of Connecticut and Long Island, including a ferry ride across the Sound [more on that later; by the way, if you see a sign that says "Horn is loud and may blow without warning," pay attention.]

Samson: Electric Boogaloo

I have not seen it (yet), but Sam is crazy for a show called Hip Hop Harry. According to Vicki, it's the worst show she's ever seen.

This carries some weight, given that she's sat through Lord knows how many episodes of the Wiggles and the Doodlebops, much less an adolescence replete with Charles in Charge, Saved by the Bell, Full House, and Small Wonder. [I shudder to think what her TiVo list would have looked like circa 1988...]

Anyway, last night Samson was doing his usual pre-bed stalling, playing furiously with everything in arm's reach, when all of a sudden he lay down on the floor and started spinning around. He went on one knee and did this really jerky wiggly kind of dance and then informed me he was "breakdancing."

Don't get me wrong, I hold no brief against hip hop (at least not the old-school variety). I still have De la Soul and Public Enemy cassettes(!) somewhere in the attic of our house. [And, just between you and me, I was known to wear a Flavor Flav-style clock around campus occasionally during my freshman year. The irony was lost on a few people here and there, but I remain committed to the countdown to Armageddon.]

In any event, this show is apparently an attempt to teach preschoolers valuable lessons using music that bears about as much resemblance to hip hop as Ding Dongs do to black forest cake. All things considered, I guess that's ok. Although it's not like there isn't already a good model out there for teaching kids useful things with well-crafted music. [You're lying to yourself if you don't think that little train engineer helped you learn grammar...]

After breaking it down on his carpet, Samson sat up, smiled, and said "the house is spinning."

Well done, Harry. Thanks.

Where cute and weird collide

Jane is obsessed with eating her toes.

Samson is obsessed with making sure we are not paying too much attention to Jane...

Temper, temper

So this is new: Samson has decided that simply saying "no" to something is no longer sufficient.

When he really doesn't want to do something now --- like get his diaper changed, which means a few minutes' interruption of playing --- he gives a full-on "no-wah." Which, if he's tired, cranky or both, can quickly ratchet up into a tantrum. Cue the yelling, crying, and occasional fall/jump to the floor.


Obviously, every kid throws tantrums at some point in his or her life, but to see Samson go from playing sweetly to something just this side of Joe Pesci in Goodfellas is a little unsettling.

For now, we've simply been walking away from him to let him know that we're not going to respond.

But I have a feeling that won't work in public, however, and I may soon be that guy in the supermarket with a shrieking toddler over his shoulder headed for the exit who causes everyone to wonder if they're witnessing a toddler meltdown or a kidnapping.

I'm gonna hate being that guy.

At the movies

Fascinating article on the movie industry and work rules allowing infants on the set. I've always wondered who represents the littlest actors.

While there's something really goofy about seeing one of those hospital scenes with the new mom and what's clearly a three-month-old baby swaddled in her arms, it seems really weird that you'd want to bring your newborn [or newborns, in most cases] to a movie set at just over two weeks of age.

Although maybe if I had two-week-old twins, I'd be using any excuse to get everyone out of the house. [We've got friends with twins due in early July; I'll check in with them on day 15 to see if they're looking for an agent.]

Father's Day

We had a really nice low-key Father's Day [including at least an hour when Samson, Jane, and --- truth be told --- I took a nap].

This little photo series (it came in a nice frame and will be hung in my office first thing tomorrow) made my day before it had really started. Almost literally, since I got to open my present just a bit after 7 this morning, when Samson arrived in our room, trucks in hand and ready to do some construction.

*&#%^!!!!!

Thought some of you might appreciate this link.

Apparently a number of Thomas trains, particularly the red ones (like James the #5 engine), have lead in their paint. Needless to say lead is toxic if ingested; also needless to say, any toy marketed to kids under 4 stands an excellent chance of being licked or otherwise inserted into a mouth.

Antediluvian

Samson loves dinosaurs. He also loves Noah's Ark. As luck would have it, there's a new museum that, quite literally, joins the two. Good for them.

It's about time. I'm so tired of boring exhibits on fossils and "science." Finally, we can just concentrate on the cool stuff: like how Noah got all those dinosaurs onto the boat.

What concerns me about this museum is not the substitution of faith for science or the calcifying effect of belief (religious or otherwise) on honest dialogue. Sure these are important issues.

But I wonder what it means for a family I care deeply about. Are you going to tell me these people never existed? The Great Gazoo you can keep, but I refuse to believe Fred and Wilma were just made up to keep me quiet on Saturday mornings (and later, to shill really awful cereal). I know what I believe, and no amount of high-tech chicanery will make me budge.

Also, I'm not sure if there's an exhibit on the Nephilim mentioned in Genesis (6:4), but I'd travel to Kentucky to see that. Wouldn't you?

By the way, I think Samson thinks that Noah's last name is Zark. Every time we play with his little Fisher Price set, he apportions out the people and animals and invariably I get Mrs. Noah and he gets "NoahZark."

Swimsuit issue

Samson went to his very first pool party on Saturday. Our friends had a barbecue/pool bash, and Sammy the fish was very excited to get wet. He was also oblivious to the fact that he was one of only two boys there [our friends' daughter is 3, and so her friends, naturally, are 3-year-old girls].

He was not oblivious to the 7-year-old girl there and talked about her for half the car ride home. (Good grief).

The other boy there, Will, had just woken up from a nap, and his mom jokingly referred to him as "the cranky boy." The joke was lost on literal Sam, who must have figured this kid had been named according to the same conventions as Robin of Locksley and Vlad the Impaler, because for the rest of the day, he kept referring to him as "Will the Cranky Boy."

Will didn't actually factor much into the day as Samson was convinced he was playing with the little tribe of girls. In reality, he was playing alongside them or near them at best, but it was pretty funny to watch. And they were pretty tolerant.


It shouldn't surprise me, since they are related and all, but the resemblance of these two really struck me when I saw this photo.

Also, they both seem already to have perfected the early U2 style of not looking/looking disinterestedly at the camera for photos.

To everything turn, turn, turn...

Last week, Jane Victoria rolled over for the first time. Of course we were very proud. Not that we're keeping score, but this is a full month ahead of her big brother's previously unbroken record.

That said, we're not handing out trophies just yet. Her new found rollability is only partial: She hasn't quite figured out how to either roll back or roll completely over. And she really doesn't like being stuck on her stomach.

So those few minutes before she settles for a nap have become uncharacteristically participatory. Time was, Jane went in the crib and Jane fell asleep. Now I'll go in to find her crying and on her belly, only to roll her over and get the "hi Daddy, want to play?" smile.

She may be ahead of Sam's schedule on the rolling, but she's clearly been taking pointers from him on bedtime stalling.

Silent film

In the kitchen with Dada

Never let it be said that this isn't a full-service blog. In addition to making strawberry jam last night, I also made a really nice strawberry soup. We'll be making strawberry crepes later for dessert.

[Sidenote: Taken in the context of the farm stand, seven pounds of strawberries doesn't look like that much. In the kitchen, it's a whole other story; seven pounds is a hell of a lot of strawberries. It occurred to me, as I worked in the kitchen last night, that Jane didn't weight seven pounds at birth; so there you have it.]

In any event, here's a great recipe I found for strawberry soup.

Ingredients:

1 quart strawberries, washed and hulled
1 cup sugar
1 cup white wine
4 tablespoons lemon juice
2 teaspoons grated lemon peel

Basically, you put everything in a food processor and, er, process it until it's smooth. Then chill and serve. You can garnish it with mint leaves, strawberry slices, and a dollop of fresh whipped cream if you like.

I had a sample last night, and you can probably halve the amount of white wine the recipe calls for. Unfortunately, I'm from the Hannah Arendt school of recipe following, so because the order was given, I obeyed.

Which is to say that Sam will not be sharing in the soup.

Also, Vicki may start singing Carole King songs or challenging me to arm wrestle. We'll see.

But it really does taste good.

The Good Earth

Hard to believe it's been a year since we last went strawberry picking, but we went back to the same farm this morning. It was a lot hotter this time around, and --- surprisingly enough --- the place was pretty crowded (by which I mean we weren't the only family there). Even so, it was terrific.

We ended up getting almost 7 pounds of strawberries, which cost us about 8 bucks, so that made it even better.

And I'm pretty sure Samson ate several pounds' worth while he was "helping" us.

The family next to us must have picked 20 or 30 pounds of berries [I'm basing this on our one semi-filled container to their five bursting ones]. They looked a little too NPR to be survivalists, but you never know.

Needless to say, I can't wait for the kids to go to bed so I can make some jam and other treats...

Playing (nicely, I might add)

Samson has been waiting, somewhat patiently, for Jane to be ticklish. I think he got his wish.

Fear and loathing at the deli counter

Am I the only one who feels weird stating a preference for "white American" cheese at the deli counter?

I was standing in line, holding Samson [the only way to keep him from using his new found knowledge that there is a seemingly endless supply of numbered tickets in the "take a number" machine] and had to assert my choice of white over yellow American.

I know that neither of these should really even be considered cheese, but I'm not about to start putting Gouda on my burgers. So you can take that concern elsewhere.

Still it feels weird to be saying "I'll have the white American" out loud. Obviously, not as weird as it would be if I was picking teammates at the U.N.'s annual kickball tournament, but still.

Yarden party

What better way to break in the new play area than to have some friends over to play? Jacob and Oliver came over for a cookout on Sunday, and the boys immediately got busy golfing.

When they tired of hitting little white balls around, they embarked on a Lord of the Flies tour of the yard, using the clubs to hammer everything that didn't move (and a few things that did). For some reason, they did not get tired of this.

Not even a little.

You'll notice one of Samson's shoes in his hardhat; Oliver (always fashion-forward) wears Crocs, and Samson decided that he was making the switch, which, of course, left Oliver barefoot. We got Sam a pair the following day and have been trying to keep him from wearing them to bed ever since.

Sing along with Samson

Last Friday was the Spring sing-along at Sam's school. Unlike the winter concert, during which he stared pleadingly at Vicki or cried, he was pretty into this show. If you've never been in a room full of 2, 3, and 4-year-olds singing "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt," you're missing out.

They particularly enjoy the shouting part.

Each class had a featured song. Because Samson's class did "Mr. Golden Sun" they all wore yellow and held up little suns during the song. Priceless.

By the way, you can't really see it, but I believe Jane has perfected Samson's blank stare look.

For children (like mine) who won't go gently into that good night

Interesting article from Slate on kids, sleep, sleep deprivation, and the like.

It still takes Sam between 30 minutes and an hour to fully settle down and go to sleep. This can involve singing, crying, screaming, playing, and reading in any number of combinations. Last night we could hear him on the monitor giving his trucks (his bed is like a garage with the number of vehicles it contains) a time-out for not listening.

We really should tape some of what he says in the moments before sleep; it's like having a two-year-old William S. Burroughs in shorty PJs upstairs.

That said, I shouldn't complain because he still stays in bed. It hasn't yet occurred to him that a very powerful form of sleep protest would be a walk-out.

We're in for it when he makes that connection...

The Running Man

Among the weekend's festivities was a 5K on Saturday that Oliver's dad (Mr. Gary, official legal advisor of this blog) and I ran. It was awfully muggy by 8:15, and right around mile 2, I started to wonder --- since this was a neighborhood race --- if there were any water stations. Indeed there were, but I wished I'd brought a small bottle with me.

In case you're wondering, I finished 130th out of 302 runners with a time of 27:46. I had hoped to make it under 30 minutes, so this was not bad. Obviously, it's not great but it was a consistent 9 minute 15 second per mile pace.

Still, I was passed (pretty quickly, I might add) by a woman pushing a double stroller with two full-size toddlers inside. On the official results website, I counted at least a dozen kids who are not old enough to see PG-13 movies who beat me.

And toward the end of the race I heard a cheer go up from behind me "Way to go, Grandma! Almost there." Oh, the humanity.

Even so, Gary and I had our own cheering section, and it felt good to be out running on a sunny Saturday morning.

Quick fix

Lots of stuff to catch up on, but a quick post will have to suffice for now.

We spent all day yesterday doing absolutely nothing. OK, not nothing: Naps were taken, hamburgers were eaten, and some games were played.

And young Samson was introduced to lacrosse. Watch out! [Seriously, he tends to throw the stick when he gets frustrated...]

Music in the woods

Saturday was the music in the woods festival at a park near us, and the day didn't disappoint. Sam has already picked up on the fact that guys with guitars get all the attention.

Some great acts (bluegrass, jazz), some weird acts (clog dancing anyone?), and hot dogs for lunch.

What more could you want?

[Sidenote: I'm not sure why the men need to dress like Johnny Cash/Ralph Furley and the women like Flo from Mel's diner, but Sam really enjoyed all the stomping and clapping.]


And despite all the noise, Jane managed to get some sleep.

Yarden

For some reason, Samson has always conflated the terms "yard" and "garden." So when he wants to go outside, he asks to go out into the "yarden." As far as I know, he only does this at our house; maybe he thinks our yard is special.

And yes I know we should correct it, but it's kind of endearing.

In any event, we spent the past few days fixing up the backyard to create a little play area for young Samson (and eventually, Jane).

We finished up last night after he went to sleep, so I can't wait to get home and play outside with him.

Punctuation marks

Holding Jane these days is like holding an upside down exclamation point.

For some reason, with better head control has come a fascination with testing my reflexes by suddenly straightening out and watching to see my reaction.

For his part, Samson is now a question mark. The number of times he asks "why?" in one day is fast approaching the number of decimal places in Pi.

Nothing escapes the why-ness of the Sam these days. On our way to school, he not only questioned why we were stopped at a red light, but why the light was red, why our car is white, why it was a school day, and why a woman was on the sidewalk with her dog.

The answers, in case you're wondering, are as follows: We stop at red lights because it's the law; the light is red to let people know to stop and let other drivers have a turn; our car is white because that's the color it was painted at the factory; it's a school day because it's Monday, and you go to school on Mondays; the woman is walking her dog because it needed some fresh air.

Vicki blames me for encouraging this ceaseless questioning, but it seems silly not to answer at least the first hundred or so times.

Plus the whys at the beginning of the day are a lot easier to manage than the stalling-on-the-way-to-bed whys that come at night.

Snapshot

It's not exactly in focus or particularly well composed, but there is just something about this picture I really like.

I had the day off on Thursday [hence my ambitious racetrack/balloon launch plans], and we went to the zoo in the early afternoon. Apparently, so did every unruly third grade class in the greater tri-state area.

There were about 7,000 school groups running amok throughout the zoo. It was like Lord of the Flies meets A Hard Day's Night but with colored t-shirts and name tags.

Seriously, every exhibit had an animal that looked like it was calculating its chances at grabbing one of the kids hanging over the fence.

The leopard was particularly attentive to the boys from a local Lutheran day school. Ditto for the vultures. But even the penguins appeared to be considering how much kid they could fit in their cave.

The trip, by the way, was probably Sam's favorite ever because he got to spend more than an hour observing big kids running free.

And I think he really was studying them, because he turned to me at one point and asked in a very serious tone: "Do girls poop?"

Good times.