Fireman Sam

Samson's Halloween costume arrived in the mail yesterday. When he's in uniform, he reminds us to call him "Fireman Sam." I'm not kidding.

He also addresses us as kids in his class (Colin, Maeve, etc) and then lectures us about playing with fire: "NO Colin! You can't play with fire. I'm Fireman Sam, and you need to listen."

I'm not sure he really sees this as a costume so much as clothing that's way more interesting than anything else he owns. In truth, this is not surprising, given his history of fireman dress up.

Polonius at the dinner table

Monday night at the dinner table.

Me: "How was school?"

Samson: "R___ hit me. I told him: 'Please stop hitting me.' It's not nice."

Me: "Did he stop?"

Samson: "No, but I can't hit him. He's small. And we don't hit people."

And of course, he's right. We've drilled into young Samson that hitting is not OK, and that he cannot hit his sister, the cat, or other people when he gets mad or frustrated or feels especially hitty.

Even so, and I know who R___ is, it took everything in me not to say: Hit him once, hard, and he'll leave you alone. If he doesn't, hit him again. Harder. Also, sweep the leg.

I should confess that I'm not much of a fighter. Growing up as the only boy and having a sister nearly five years younger than you doesn't offer a lot of practice.

And for reasons I'm not totally clear on (but am grateful for), I never got picked on at school on in ways that involved regular beat-downs, locker shovings, de-pantsing [the scourge of junior high hall travel], or the like.

I can actually still recall the first time I was hit. I was in second grade, and the kid who hit me, who is now with the NYPD, wanted my new Nerf football, which I refused to give him. He hit me square in the eye, and I remember, in addition to feeling pain, having this weird kind of epiphany of "Wait? Did he just hit me?! There are people in the world who are going to hit me?! What just happened?!"

I like to think I landed a good punch or two on him before we were broken up and hauled into the principal's office, but I bet not.

Actually, I'm proud (mostly) that Sam took the high road, particularly with a kid who is younger and smaller. That said, I don't want him to be bullied, and well-reasoned arguments will only take you so far, especially at this age.

[Sidenote: I should mention here that Sam has already figured out the power of a put-down. Caroline in his class tried to take something of his last week and he called her, I kid you not, a "bad scientist" and made her cry. They have science class once a week, so I guess his words were particularly stinging.]

Don't tell Vicki, but maybe we'll start mixing in some UFC with his Caillou and Curious George. Not to give him any ideas, but just in case R___ has a growth spurt.

Calamity Jane

Perhaps I understated my case when I mentioned that changing Jane had become difficult. At this point, the only way to keep her from rolling over and crawling right off the changing pad is a strategic series of zrrbrrts, which make her laugh and weaken her Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu style defenses.

In the space of just a few days, she has not only become a really fast crawler, but she's also developed this unbelievable stubborn streak. Honestly, we watched her crawl out of our room and nearly all the way into hers in pursuit of a toy that Samson was holding.

Likewise, on Saturday, she actually had to be restrained from pursuing the cat around the living room.

Samson is in trouble when she learns to walk (which at this rate might be before Christmas).

Gratuitous Jane pics

Now that Jane is crawling and sitting up pretty well, she's discovering all kinds of fun things to play with.

Something tells me Samson is about to become very interested in his heretofore ignored piano.

Three feet high and rising

Samson had his annual check up yesterday, and he is now 3 feet 1 inch tall. He's still not quite 30 pounds, however, which may have less to do with his diet [he eats almost everything] and more to do with the fact that he is rarely not in motion. Even when he's asleep.

I know this because he slept in our bed last night. Why? Funny you should ask.

I am not a betting man, which is probably a good thing because I clearly have no sense of playing the percentages. I changed Sam's sheets last night, switching out Star Wars for pirate ships, and figured I'd give the mattress cover thingy a wash too. I mean, it's been months since he's leaked through a diaper, so he could go one night without the cover, right?

Wrong. I was downstairs, having successfully put him to bed if not to sleep when I heard the familiar staccato cry of "Dad-deee, Dad-deh, Dad-deee, Dad-deh. I'm wet. I'm weee-eeee-eeee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eeeTTTT"

He actually held the last word for the entire time it took me to climb two flights of stairs and get to him. And indeed, he was wet. Not from leakage but from spillage. Apparently the plug in his sippy cup (a cup of water is a requisite sleeping aid for young Sam) was not fully, er, plugged. I didn't notice this. Vicki didn't notice this. But Samson did. And he decided to pour it over his head. So when I arrived, he was soaked, literally from head to toe, and his mattress had a nice pool of water beneath the now soaked pirate ship sheets.

Change of diaper, change of PJs, change of venue: Instant sleepover with Samson. To be fair, it was pretty damn funny, and I was hard-pressed to look stern while telling him he shouldn't pour water over his head in bed.

In other news: Sweet Jane had her nine-month check up yesterday, and she too is low on the weight percentiles.

Interestingly, she's tracking right along with where her brother was at this time. Our pediatrician, God love him, assured Vicki there was nothing to worry about: the kids are happy, healthy, and developmentally on target.

He thinks we might want to start letting them snack on sticks of butter during car trips, but otherwise no worries...

Forward motion

There have been rumors of Jane's ability to crawl, but I can now report a confirmed sighting.

Maybe next time I'll remember to grab the camera. She not only crawled several, er, steps forward, but she's pretty darn fast.

And super proud of herself.

As she should be.

Scene from a rest stop

"Stand right there. And don't touch anything." This is the advice I gave young Samson in the men's room at the Clara Barton rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike.

What I forgot to provide, unfortunately, were instructions about not looking at anything. Fortunately, there was only one other person at the line of urinals.

Unfortunately, this man, who was wearing a cowboy hat, did not flush. Or wash his hands.

These omissions did not go unnoticed. And despite the fact that we were definitely inside, there was no inside-voice to accompany Sammy J's observations.

Samson: "Are you going to flush?"

Me: "I don't have to. There's a sensor that does it for you when you walk away."

[Cowboy-hat guy walking behind us toward exit.]

Samson: "That cowboy didn't flush." [watches him exit] "How come that cowboy didn't wash his hands?"

Me: "Don't worry about him. Mommy and Jane are waiting for us in the car; let's go."

Samson: "Don't forget to wash your hands, Daddy."

Me: "Thanks, pal."

A day at the beach

Man, I miss having the ocean nearby. Not enough to move back to Long Island, mind you, but still...

Tenderness

I have lots of work to do and little time to post right now, but we had a terrific weekend in New York. The kids had lots of fun with their new cousin, and we even made some time for a brief trip to the beach.

I can't even tell you how many times the words "gentle" and "Samson" were used in the same sentence this weekend...

Unfortunately, there was never a time when Samson, Jane, and Luke were all awake at the same time. Actually, I should amend that statement: Sam never napped and so was completely available for photo ops. Luke and Jane, however, were sleepyheads.

Vintage Sam

We are finally going to meet Luke , and in anticipation of the trip this coming weekend, we went through Samson's clothes from his infancy to offer whatever hand-me-downs we could for the little guy.

Sam helped, as you can see, and he really enjoyed putting on his old clothes. I think he's got three or four things on in that picture (most of which are either 0-3 or 3-6 months in size).

Not to mention his old fall/winter hat, which now looks like a sporty wool yarmulke.

Flashback

Vicki just sent me some photos of Samson from when he was Jane's age.

Wow, where did that time go?

Guess who's not napping?

Also, guess whose crib mattress was lowered immediately after this little photo shoot?

Renaissance Man

I was out of town for work this weekend and so missed Samson's first brush with the alternative universe known as a Renaissance Festival.

As with anything, his impressions come out in bits and pieces, so I expect over the next few days to hear about jousting and jugglers and other period-appropriate activities. For now, he's pretty big on the bubbles. And pirates?!

I'm no Elizabethan expert, but methinks somebody at the RenFest decided to capitalize on Disney's ride-turned-endless-sequel-franchise.

And you can forget the turkey legs and mead. There was ice cream there that would have made a Tudor blush.

Bring your daughter to work day

Ok, so it's not officially BYDTWD, and I'm sure the designers of the day --- however well intentioned --- did not mean for it to apply to 8 month olds. But Vicki's mom is sick so we split the difference with her going in until noon and me taking Sweet Jane to the office with me.

I think she was pretty underwhelmed with what I do for a living, but at least she was polite about it.

And to be honest, she couldn't have been better behaved. Not only did she give a lot of strangers smiles, but she slept soundly on my shoulder for nearly a half hour while I proofed and revised a document I'd been working on.

We didn't tell Samson about this, as I don't think bring your toddler to work day would go nearly as smoothly.

Plus, I've told him I'm an astronaut...

A Sam by any other name...

If I ever availed myself of all those child development books we (read: Vicki) purchased before Samson was born, I'm sure I'd learn that 3 is just about the age where experimentation with identity begins. Further, I'm sure I'd discover that this development is particularly associated with a growing appreciation of play and a burst of growth in the imagination department.

What this means in real life, to me, is that for the past five days, I have come home to a small boy who proclaims: "I'm Diego." Except he says it more like Dee-AYE-goh. I have only seen the Diego show once or twice, but apparently it involves being naked except for a fleece vest and jumping on the couch. At least, that's Sam's version of Diego-dom.

He's also been assigning us roles. Vicki is various teachers from his school, assorted swim instructors, Alicia (Diego's sister?), and/or a firefighter.

Somewhat more prosaically, I am usually Jordan, a boy from his class. Or a sea turtle.

Milestone

This is post number 500 of the blog, which gives me an excuse to post some gratuitous Sam and Jane photos. Enjoy.

Scared straight: birthday edition

Samson's buddy, Jacob, had his birthday party on Saturday at the local volunteer firehouse. Sadly, we forgot our camera, but we've been assured some photos are on the way.

We had initially thought we were going to miss Jacob-palooza, but Sam's low-grade fever was just high enough to keep us from visiting Luke [if there's one thing new parents don't need, it's a sick baby]. However, we figured Jacob and the rest of the crew were all germy enough to handle Sam's runny nose and sneezes. [Note: If Jacob is sick today, he was probably already coming down with something before the party, and we take no responsibility.]

So we got to the firehouse and were greeted by "Fireman Mike," who looked sort of like Henry Rollins and had the demeanor of a state trooper at a Phish concert. He began by letting all the parents know that if at any time the fire alarm went off, we were to grab our children by their "hair, ear, hand, or whatever and get them out of the way." Good times.

He then informed the kids, all without taking a breath: "When Fireman Mike is talking, you're not talking. If you have a question, you raise your hand. But while I'm talking, you are sitting down and listening." It was sort of like the first time Maria met Captain von Trapp's kids, but way less gay and campy.

Anyway, the kids were impressed/intimidated. I have never seen a roomful of three-year-olds sit still for 20 minutes. Fireman Mike's presentation was actually very useful; he gave a really good talk on fire safety --- even if it was peppered with the kind of delivery that would probably have worked better with kids who'd been caught playing with matches. Or maybe kids who were five or six.

Perhaps one of the best parts of his spiel was when he showed another firefighter donning his gear and kept emphasizing to the kids that even though the heavy coat and mask may look scary, firemen are not scary and are there to help.

Then he jumped the shark, demonstrating the emergency locator beacon feature of the fireman's suit, which is activated when a firefighter remains down for more than 45 seconds.

Not only was the sound ear-splitting, but just in case any of us had spent the past few years with the good folks of the Dharma initiative, he referenced it as something we might remember hearing on 9/11. Nothing like bringing up the nation's worst domestic terror attack just before we all adjourned for pizza and a ride on the fire truck. Not to mention the fact that Sam, Jacob, and the rest of the funky bunch were all negative three years old on the date that Rush Limbaugh and the rest of Red State America started loving NYC and stopped thinking of it as Gomorrah to San Francisco's Sodom.

Anyway, Mike was actually a very nice guy, just not particularly at ease around toddlers. I'm guessing he showed up late to a meeting or something and this was the result.

For their part, the kids were all amazingly well behaved [maybe Mike is on to something]. The ride in the engine was awesome, and the kids all got to hold a fire hose while Mike helped them put out a "fire."

And Samson, because he's Samson, got us a tour of the radio room by asking about the dispatcher.

Birthday recap

Samson spent his third birthday much like he spent his first, kind of sick and slightly feverish. Even so, we had a little pizza party at the house with Nana and Papi, and Sam got some pretty cool gifts, including the Playmobil skate park you see above.

For weeks he'd been asking for a skateboard, and we actually did get him a scooter for his birthday [pictures to follow, including one that shows what happens when speed and Samson meet gravity and pavement]. But this seemed like the most sensible way to handle the skateboard request.

And I'm pretty sure it's a hit: He tried to take it into bed with him last night.

We pulled up some old Bones Brigade videos on You Tube so Samson could see real skaters doing cool tricks. Which got me to thinking that when I was a kid, part of the appeal of skateboarding was its rebellious image.

There were probably only a handful of kids (mostly guys) in any given junior high school who could have told you who Animal Chin was, much less who was looking for him.

Likewise, to have a "skateboarding is not a crime" sticker on your locker, book bag, etc. signaled you were out of the mainstream and intentionally so. [Full disclosure: I didn't have one of those, but I wanted one. I was also pretty lame on a skateboard, lacking the necessary components of coordination and fearlessness --- and of course, actually owning a board --- that would have made me a decent skater. I did have a lot of friends who skated though, and I'm happy to rewrite history so that my son thinks I had to make a tough decision between focusing on my skating or writing for the school paper.]

[Sidenote: This is not unlike the kind of revisionist music history that you see in movies, like Donnie Darko, where the Halloween party has Joy Division and Echo and the Bunnymen playing in the background. I can say, proudly and truthfully, that I listened to those bands in the 80s, but I remember the parties I went to usually had soundtracks provided by White Snake or Steve Miller Band. I digress.]

Anyway, clearly times have changed, which makes me wonder if Samson's generation --- having been raised to think of skating as mainstream in the same way that listening to "alternative" music is hardly alternative at all --- will go the other way. Will we see stickers on lockers like "Debating is not a crime" or "Model U.N.: If you have to ask, you wouldn't understand."?

Year in review

My how you've grown...

Mom and Janie and I sure do love you, Samson James. Happy birthday, little man.

Shoeless Sam

This morning was Sam's first day in shoes since the spring thaw. Honestly, between the no shoes thing and his desperate need to be naked, you'd think his parents were Pap Finn and Nell.

Yes, I realize he's been wearing Crocs all summer. But I don't feel like those really count. As much as I love them, and I do, they're shoes in the same way that a visor is a hat. Which is to say, not at all.

Anyway, we put his new sneakers on this morning, and I immediately began the P.R. offensive: "I bet you can jump really high in those cool new sneakers."

Sam: "I jump high in my Crocs"

Me: "Yeah, but they fall off."

Sam: "I put them back on."

Me: "Well, I bet everyone at school will really like them."

Sam: "I just don't know."

We finally convinced him to try them by letting him break them in with a footrace around the living room.

If you've been in our living room, you know that we might as well have scheduled a footrace in a FotoMat [remember those?]

Regardless, it seemed to work, and we heard no more about the shoes. Tomorrow, of course, is another day...

Rotisserie league

Jane has become a master at rolling over.

Which means she is getting really close to being able to crawl.

It also means that she has gone from near inertia to a giggly, chubby, flash.

It also, also means that changing her these days is like a cross between a log roll and alligator wrestling.

Obviously, there are no teeth involved [not yet, anyway, but she's got two coming in on the bottom].

I do wear a flannel shirt and watch cap, however, in the spirit of the thing.

Rock and Roll

Get your RockOut fingers ready, Samson. They're back.