All the blurriness, none of the composition

This is all I could get with my BlackBerry at Friday night's soccer game.

Here's Samson getting some coaching. I'll offer the game recap later, but it's taken me half the morning to get the photo from my phone to my desktop, so I thought I might as well post it in all its scrambled-cable glory.

A natural progression

I guess we should have seen this coming...

Big shoes

There isn't really a good story to go with this, and I wish I had video to show instead of stills because you'd really get the full effect.

For reasons I am unclear on, Jane is obsessed with wearing her brother's shoes. But watching her clomp through the house yelling 'SHOOZ,' completely cracks us all up.

I am starting to wonder, however, is this a clever phase 2 of her dining plan.

If so, it totally works as Samson gets down every time to follow her around and join in the big shoe parade. At which point she heads to his seat to finish his dinner.

Perhaps he's trying to recapture some fond memories from his own big shoe adventures.

Metaphysics on the soccer pitch

Samson had his first soccer game on Friday. More on this later, but as we weren't sure there would be room for him on the team --- or, quite frankly, if he was going to actually get out there and play --- we brought him in just sneakers and sweats.

Which meant that yesterday we went out to get him a pair of shin guards and soccer socks. Once said gear was acquired, of course, we needed to go test it out. Poor Jane hadn't slept well the night before and was out cold in her car seat, so Samson and I went and kicked the ball around while Jane (and eventually, Vicki) took a nap in the car in the parking lot of the park.

So there we were, father and son on a sunny late summer day, just kicking the ball around and running back and forth between the goals, when the following conversation took place:

Samson [kicking to me]: "How does someone get sent to heaven?"

Me [slowing down]: "What do you mean? Has someone been talking about this at school?"

Samson: "No, but like with Ishmael. Where did he go?"

[NB: I should point out that up until now I had been sticking with the 'he went to live with Santa' story, but clearly the jig is up on that bit of fiction. So much the better, I guess, as Samson doesn't seem all too scarred by the whole thing --- as you'll see from the rest of our conversation.]

Me: "Well, his body didn't go anywhere, but I like to think that his soul went to heaven. Do you know what a soul is? It's something that makes you really special and that only you have."

Samson: "Is it from you and Mommy?"

Me: "No, it's from God. You know how when you light a candle, there's a flame at the top. I like to think of your soul like that. Without that flame a candle is just a piece of wax, but when it's lit it's something special. So when Ishmael was done with his body, it was kind of like blowing out a candle. You know, like how the smoke goes up into the sky? Kind of like that. That's how I like to think of it anyway."

Samson [pausing, looking up at me]: "I really like the Red Power Ranger. Did you know that?"

Me [kicking ball]: "Uh, actually, I did."

There's probably a reason Afterschool Special wasn't a reality show.

Profiles in Ridiculousness

With the exception of the birth of a child, very little that is good happens at 3:41 in the morning. So it was with some dread that I awoke two nights ago to hear our garbage pail being rummaged through. My first thought was "Damn those hobos!"

But then I shook out the cobwebs and realized I had been given the chance to finally confront my nemesis: The raccoon that has been going through our garbage on a regular basis and making a general mess of things.

So I crept downstairs, peeked out the front window, and there --- tucking in to the remainder of Samson's chocolate birthday cake --- was a raccoon easily as big as dachshund. I tapped on the window and gave him my best "Hey, WTF" face. No response.

I got a flashlight, opened the window, and shone it in his face. No response.

My next move was to open the door and chase him away, at which point I remembered that the house alarm was set. For some reason, disarming the alarm (which entails pushing buttons that beep) always wakes up one or both of the kids.

This happens when I slip out around 6 to go the gym, which isn't great but is manageable (at least I tell myself this as I imagine Vicki rolling over and cursing me under breath and into her pillow). But at quarter of 4 in the morning, the idea was untenable. So I resigned myself to letting the raccoon have his cake and eat it too, while I tried my best to be menacing from the front window.

[Sidenote: I'm not particularly menacing close-up, much less from behind a window, so you can imagine how successful I was at scaring the raccoon straight.]

Last night, however, time was on my side. It was just before 11 o'clock, and I was in bed reading when I heard the familiar thud of our pail being turned on its side. I headed downstairs and opened the door to find the bandit sitting on our porch railing, getting ready to hop into the pail.

It was at this point that I realized I had nothing with which to scare the raccoon. My "hey get out of here" was met with a blank stare, so I went back in the house to look for something to throw at him. And there, next to the door, standing like a mute witness to my earlier dereliction of garbage duty was one of Jane's pee diapers in a little blue bag. Heavy enough that if I hit him he'd get the message, but not so heavy that I'd be required to remove an unconscious scavenger from the property. [I had to remove a dead cat from our road last winter, and it was pretty unpleasant, to put it mildly.]

So I stepped out onto the porch into the chilly night air.

And there, in the glare of the front porch light, in the half shadows made by the rising moon, under the cold fire of the stars burning in silent galaxies, I threw a pee diaper at a raccoon.

My aim was a little high, and it actually sailed over its head. But it fled, grumbling, into the shadows past the reach of the porch light. And I was victorious. Also, ridiculous.

Postscript: It came back later (sometime around 4, I think), but before I went to bed I put a brick on top of the lid to keep it secure. Advantage mine.

Mondegreen

The word mondegreen is one of my all-time favorites. It's one of those happy instances where someone has come up with a perfect distillation of something it would take you at least a few sentences to explain.

Samson, in the few years that he's been talking (and to be honest, at this point it feels like he's been talking since birth), has become a master of the mondegreen.

I've mentioned before that Samson is obsessed with Vampire Weekend's "Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa." What I didn't mention was that he calls it "the Sy-ungus song."

Why? Because the first line is "As a young girl..." and he, apparently, thought the singer was saying "Sy-ungus." It only took us about a month to figure out where he was getting the name from.

Which isn't bad, considering I spent most of my childhood assuming Pink Floyd was talking about the "Dukes of Hazard in the classroom."

Yielding the floor

I meant to post about this the other day, but since Vicki beat me to it (and did a better job than I could), I'll just link here.

Happy birthday, Samson James

We have spent the weekend celebrating Samson's birthday. And, in case you were wondering, the drum kit was a huge hit.

Unfortunately, the snare drum bracket snapped as I was tightening it, so he's only got two drums and a cymbal set up. This occurred last night at around 10 pm, so I cursed the Chinese and their shoddy manufacturing practices e-mailed the seller and hope to get the problem resolved soon.

This missing snare didn't bother him in the least, and I was pretty amazed with just how loudly he could play and how well he could keep a rhythm going. Also, the drums are very loud. Did I mention the loudness?

I hope our new neighbors (more on them later) like the music of Brian Mexico. Although I am sad to report that Oregon Ridge Manhole is no longer together. His new band is called The Heads Down. Which is actually a pretty cool name and makes me think he might have a future as a producer...

Anyway, he is now sound asleep, and I can't believe how quickly four years have gone by. Happy birthday, Samson James.

Girl, uninterrupted

One thing you should know about Jane: She loves drumming almost as much as her brother does. Good thing he doesn't read this blog. We got Samson a drum kit for his birthday, which is coming up. While he was napping [words I almost never get to write], Jane discovered the kit hidden (clearly not well) in the back part of the basement.

In fairness, the drum kit was covered. Also, Samson thinks there are monsters back there, so we have no worries of him discovering it.

Another thing you should know about Jane: The only thing she likes more than eating Pirate Booty is eating Pirate Booty out of a bag. And Jane fears no monsters.

Two little words

This is an argument for getting this site audio-enabled: This morning, as I brought Jane from her room into ours, she spotted her brother and in her sweetest little voice said: "Hi Samson."

We, of course, made a huge deal out of this, thereby ensuring she wouldn't do it again.

But boy did it make my heart smile.

The Samson monologues

For reasons of search engine un-optimization, I'll have to handle this post delicately. But Ms. Ensler's favorite word has now become a big hit with Samson. Which is, well, interesting.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of using the proper names for things [no child of mine will call sparkling wine "champagne"], but it's really hard not to laugh when he says the word. Particularly because he seems to be channeling the ghosts of coaches and pledgemasters past.

To wit:

I was in the shower, and he came in to the bathroom and wanted to chat. When I told him I wanted a little privacy, he asked: "Why? Do you not want me to see your v_____?"

Or, when he and I were out for a run a few weeks' back. I slowed down going up a hill and he asked if my v____ hurt.

Probably not what the Cos had in mind when he was thinking about reviving Art Linkletter's old show...

From the people who brought you the Maginot Line

The stairs that lead to our basement from the outside are dark, dank, and generally worthy of an Edgar Allan Poe story. They conclude with a small concrete landing in which is placed a French drain.

For reasons beyond my comprehension, having a drain that is basically a hole in the ground was deemed a good idea by the people who built our house way back during the Eisenhower administration. For six years, we have had no problem. Sure, leaves tend to collect there, and I need to remember to shovel out the snow that invariably piles up when we get a real storm. But by and large, the basement stairs are left to the creepy crawlies.

Unfortunately, the drain is now clogged. So there is some standing water, which I have been dutifully bailing out so as not to provide a veritable Woodstock for mosquito larvae.

More importantly, however, is the threat of Tropical Storm Hanna, which may dump rain for the next two days on us. I have tried Drano and plunging with no great success. And so I leave it to you, gentle reader, for any suggestions you might have about how to unclog a French drain.

I may, in the absence of any flash of plumbing brilliance, take a tarp and cover the stairwell entirely, essentially creating the most dangerous 45-degree slip and slide ever.

Stay tuned...

A movable feast

Jane has never lacked for willpower, but now that she's completely mobile her patience for sitting at the table and eating is limited to the few minutes she spends inhaling everything within reach.

She then demands "down" and will cruise around the table picking up leftovers. And yes, I do mean "picking up" as in off the floor.


I think there is a method behind this, as her little stroll almost invariably leads to Samson getting up --- usually way before he's finished what's on his plate.

With Sam's seat empty and his plate full, Jane then climbs up into Samson's seat for round two of dinner. Cue the cries of recrimination: "Hey, that's mine! JANIE! Stop eating my food!!!"

Good times in CrazyTown...

Samson Agonistes (once again)

This will only be amazing to you if you don't have toddlers, but the last picture was taken only 2 or 3 minutes after the one just above it. Sam, as you can see, is not so big on the "time to go, let's head home" part of the day. Poor little guy...

My girl

I think Samson's love of baseball is rubbing off on his sister.

Her sweetness, on the other hand, is sui generis.

Running

Because of the incredibly mild weather we've had, I've been going running a few times a week in the morning before I get ready for work. Lately, my runs have included Samson and Jane in our jogger. Is there any better motivation than hearing "Daddy, are you awake? Want to go for a short run this morning?"

Despite the fact that Samson and Jane combined barely tip the scales at 50 lbs, pushing the two of them (especially uphill) is quite a workout. For her part, Jane is content to sit and just kind of enjoy the scenery --- provided she's got her Winnie the Pooh and something to eat. Samson, however, treats these runs like "Crossfire." Tons of questions, follow-ups, double-backs, and gotchas. And because he's inevitably cold, he wears a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up and insists on having the stroller's sunshade thing pulled over.

Even so, I can usually handle the questions for the first 10 minutes or so, but then I tend to start breathing a little heavier and just saying yes to whatever he's asking. This, of course, leaves me no room for taking the high ground when we get back from our run and he informs Vicki that I told him he could have SourPatch Kids for breakfast.

Speaking of which, Samson refuses to bring food with him on our runs. His reason: "I don't like to eat before I run." I wish I was kidding.

So these runs are not particularly long --- a half hour at most. But I really cherish this time being out with the kids in the early morning. The streets are quiet, the sky is clear, and it's really a nice way to begin the day. And while I don't want to get all after school special on you, I also really cherish the fact that I can do this.

I've been thinking a lot about health lately and how determined I am to remain healthy --- not just for me, but for my family. Obviously running two or three miles a few times a week with Things 1 and 2 is not some kind of guarantee. But it certainly can't hurt.

Also, the decision to use pictures of the kids actually running instead of me with them was deliberate. Sam and Jane look cute and free and taken with the pure joy of running.

I look sort of like a sweaty giraffe pushing a shopping cart...

Proud

My father has been sick for the past few days with a kidney infection. He's 81 and not in great health, so I try not to keep Samson apprised of Papa's condition every time he gets sick. Vicki mentioned it, however, and Samson thought a care package and card might help cheer his grandfather up.

So he asked Vicki for some supplies and set to work making my dad his own La-La and a get well card.

Those tasks completed, he was a little worried that there wasn't a toy for Papa. So he went through his stuff and picked out one of his superheroes. [Samson already had a Batman figure when he got this other Batman, so he decided this new guy was "Ra," Batman's brother. Full disclosure: In the hierarchy of Sam's superheroes, Ra is pretty much near the bottom. I don't think an act of Congress could have induced Samson to send his Papa The Flash.]

The package was already on its way by the time I got home from work, but Vicki was kind enough to take pictures so I could see what my boy had done. Occasionally words fail me, and this is one of those times.

Suffice to say, young Samson has a very big heart. And I am both humbled and extremely proud.

Preschool of hard knocks

Yesterday was Samson's first day of school. As in years past (see here and here), I tried to get the official first day of school picture.

And as in years past, as you can see, it sort of worked. Samson was insistent that La-La be included in this year's picture. Rather than fight with him on the front step, I figured so be it.

This year, however, we had an interloper: Star, the neighbor's cat, who "gets out" so often that it might as well be an outdoor cat.

Alas, Star has taken to stalking Samson whenever she sees him outside.

At this point I decided I better put the camera down and help defend Samson against all seven pounds of our neighbor's almost stray pet. And off to school we went.

No trouble (and I hadn't expected any) at the drop-off, especially as Sam's buddy Jacob is in his class. In fact, Vicki had to pull him from the playground at the end of the day when she went to pick him up.

I got home excited to hear all about his day, but the face that greeted me at the door had a slight shiner and a cut to the side of the right eye. Samson was chosen to be line leader for the first day of school and was injured in the line of duty. Literally.

Apparently, while leading his class down the ramp and to the stairs he walked into the corner where two hallways meet. I wish I was kidding.

The "incident report" noted that he didn't want ice or a band-aid, and that he cried a bit but was then OK. By the time I got home he seemed to have forgotten all about it.

And so another school year begins...

Hey, nice jerkin

We took the kids to the renaissance festival today. Given the weather of late (more like late September than late August), and the fact that we knew Samson would get a kick out of seeing the jousting, we thought it would be a fun way to spend a Saturday.


Jane, unfortunately, did not sleep on the way there and so only wanted to be held by Vicki. Which was OK for me, but really hard on Vicki, especially as the day warmed up and we attempted to do, well, anything that necessitated Vicki not holding 21 lbs. of cranky, screaming child.



Even so, it was fun. The joust in particular was pretty impressive. I mean, I'm sure the knights have some padding under their armor, but they were hitting each other with lances while speeding on horseback. And I'm pretty sure the horses weren't faking the whole galloping thing.

Of course the thing that makes the renaissance festival so entertaining is the people. And not usually the ones being paid to provide entertainment.

Now, I am not a scholar of the time period, but apparently the renaissance was a time of leather bustiers, affected guys with wispy goatees, and clove cigarettes. I only wish I'd had the presence of mind to surreptitiously record some of the more egregious examples of inappropriate/anachronistic/just plain godawful costumes.

Similar to those folks I see all painted up at sporting events, I've often wished I could see these people pre-game. Like the guy in the soda line dressed, in meticulous detail, like Captain Jack Sparrow. Who is he? Where does he live? Is he sad at the end of the day as he takes off his make-up and transforms back from Captain Jack into Dwayne from the Help Desk?

Pathos

The other day we made one of those super stock-up trips to the supermarket, you know the kind where you need just about everything. With the cart full to overflowing, I took Samson to get the car while Vicki and Jane hung back to finish checking out and planned to meet us in the designated loading zone.

Unsurprisingly, there was a minivan that looked like ours already in the zone. I guess Jane thought Samson and I were in it, however, because when it pulled away, she burst into tears and cried out: "NO! ME! BEEP! BEEP! NOO! MEE! BEEP! BEEP!"

Of course she was both confused and relieved when Sam and I pulled up a moment later. But the tears in her eyes (much less the story, when I heard it) were enough to break my heart.

Sweet Jane is aware of way more than we give her credit for.