Category: Samantha

Sam used to have a “pack and play” playpen that long-time readers may recognize from old pictures. She became separated from it a while back when we left it at my sister’s house in anticipation of just using it on the next visit, which never happened for one reason or another. Well, a few weeks ago I get an e-mail from my sister. It turns out that she had set up the playpen so some visiting friends could put their own toddler down to rest. Only that sleepy toddler was experiencing extreme gastrointestinal distress of the kind usually reserved for sick elephants. And it turns out that this child has a bit of an artistic streak, so short version: the playpen was befouled in a most thorough fashion –a fashion involving deliberate smearing, cramming, and grinding. So my horrified sister apologized profusely and told us to pick out a new one for the new baby so that she could buy it for us.

Seeking to save her a few bucks, Ger and I decided to try and buy a used one instead. So yesterday we went to some kind of “Baby Mania” event, and if you can just hold the words “huge baby-related yard sale” in your mind for a moment you’ll probably start to understand my trepidation going in. It was basically a one-day swap meet where people could take the dried up husks of their old parenting equipment and sell them for pennies on the dollar to people like us who didn’t want to pay full price.

As we pulled up to the event and saw the ocean of penny pinching parents swarming over the second-hand goods, I started to worry that once we got in there some crazed, new mother in a faded jumpsuit would grab Samantha, hold her up in front of me and scream “HOW MUCH FOR THIS? HOW MUCH?” And I’d be totally speechless, because I’ve never given the question adequate thought. It’s also the kind of event where you have to assume that everything has at least trace amounts of other kids’ filth on it, but you have to think “How much poop is too much?” because poop or no that exersaucer is a steal at five bucks.

But actually, it wasn’t that bad. We walked out with a number of things, including a little fire truck that represents the best $0.75 we’ve ever spent judging from Samantha’s enthusiastic enjoyment of it. No playpen, though.

Here’s some pictures:

I like this one because of the precarious mounting of the tire swing and the way she looks like she’s about to launch herself into disaster. This one also makes me smile, but mostly in memory of what she was doing when I took it. Ger had left one of her “Chick Lit” books on the counter and Sam picked it up to study the cover, which had a cartoon of two fish kissing. Sam then sat down and flipped through the book, stopping at each page to point at one random word and say “Fish…” and then to point at another another and say “Kiss…” She did this for like 10 minutes. Apparently it’s a book about fish that kiss, and apparently Sam found it to be a page turner.

Not a terribly eventful week this time around. I did get a new camera lens (more on that a bit later), though, and decided that I wanted to go to the zoo to test it out. Geralyn pointed out that Samantha might like to come too, so we made a day of it. After meeting disappointment when asked what kind of animal she wanted to see (her vote was an enthusiastic “COWS!”), Sam agreed to go to a little sea lion show they were doing. Sam kept calling them seals, but when I kept correcting her and calling them sea lions, she decided that “sea seal” was an acceptable compromise. She’s a uniter, not a divider.

After the zoo I was pretty much ready to get some overdue lunch, but Geralyn wanted to visit this “Arthur’s Day in the Park” thing the Public Broadcasting System was putting on for their younger viewers. She produced a clipping from one of those free magazines and noted that there was supposed to be food, games, and “photo ops” with PBS characters like Elmo, Cookie Monster, Bob the Builder, and Clifford the Big Red Dog. Sam is into each of those people/monsters/animals to some degree, so I agreed. We made all kinds of extravagant promises to an excited Samantha about visiting her favorite characters as we headed over.

After searching for a spot in the overcrowded streets for some time, we finally engaged in some creative parking and trekked over to the park where the event was taking place. As soon as we broke through the outer crowd we were greeted by the sight of lines. Lines everywhere. Just sweaty, child bearing people queued up and waiting for …what? We weren’t sure. At this point Sam and I were okay, but a very pregnant, hungry, and footsore Geralyn wasn’t too happy about seeing that half the state’s population had apparently lined up at the only food stand. She plunged through the crowds to investigate the other lines, pushing her way to the front to see what everyone was waiting for.

Turns out, it was the much celebrated “photo ops” that the clipping had promised. There were several tents set up, and inside each one some poor schmuck in an Elmo or Arthur the Ardvark costume sat in a chair and gazed out into the unending sea of waiting children, his dead, googly eyes betraying all his lost hopes and dreams. I estimated that it would take about a week to wait long enough to get a five-second visit with just one muppet, during which I’d probably get an underexposed, off-center, and out of focus snapshot. I was about to point this out to Geralyn when she snatched Samantha up and held her up at eye level. “Look! It’s Clifford!” she said, pointing at the barely visible big red dog through the pressing throng. “See Clifford? Let’s go!” She then hefted our bewildered toddler onto her hip and clomped off to the next tent.

Similarly brief and long-distance visits to Elmo and Arthur ensued (Cookie Monster was apparently out back on break). Five minutes later we were walking back towards our precariously parked car and Geralyn was chirping “Did you have fun seeing all your characters, Sammy? You saw them. YOU CAN’T SAY THAT YOU DIDN’T SEE THEM! MOMMY’S HUNGRY!”

And a brief time after that we sat in a nearby diner, making it all up to Sammy by letting her eat a huge plate of pancakes at 2:00 in the afternoon.

Here are pictures.

There’s plenty of shots up there of Sam at a pumpkin patch with her cousins, uncles, and grandparents. I think Ger was there, too, but I wasn’t. They get to do all the fun stuff, like climb on pumpkins, drive tractors, and run through drainage pipes. I also like this picture, mainly because of the sign not four feet away from child and photographer alike.

The last thing I’ll mention is an incident from this morning that made me aware of how Geralyn and I can have the same intentions and desires when it comes to parenting, yet make unique assumptions and go about caring for Samantha in different ways. I had jokingly handed Sam a dollar bill, telling her that she could totally retire by age six if she invested early and wisely. This prompted Sam to just kind of stand there and smile at her newfound wealth. We were running late, though, so Geralyn snatched the bill from Sam’s hand and tried to shoo us, her two children, towards the door. For some reason this really upset Sam, who immediately burst into tears.

Now, it may not surprise you to know that a crying Samantha will get nothing but great sympathy from both Geralyn and myself. But what surprised me, on later reflection, was the differences in what we did because of that sympathy. Geralyn immediately went to her knees, apologized for snatching away the newfound treasure, and gave Sam a big hug while making all kinds of soothing sounds. I, on the other hand, ran to the spare change jar and brought it over, making promises that Sam could pick out any coin she wanted as a replacement.

So indulge me in some naval gazing and think about that. Ger had assumed that Sam was sad, startled, and probably a little angered by the way that she, Geralyn, had taken the new possession away. The appropriate response wasn’t necessarily to solve some problem, but to empathize, apologize, and reassure. To mend hurt feelings, in other words. I, on the other hand, assumed that Sam was just pissed over the simple reality of not having her newfound treasure anymore. And the logical, appropriate response to that was to solve the problem by replacing the bill with something more durable, less valuable, and altogether more pleasing to a two-year old’s senses. I wanted to fix the situation so that the source of her unhappiness was gone.

I don’t think it’s a guy/girl thing (I’ve known women who probably would have done what I do and men who would have done what Ger did), but it does bring to mind how we do differ, even when the situation and the desired outcome (i.e., a happy Sammy) are the same. And I guess that’s a good thing, since it increases the odds that at least one of us will be right. Like in this situation; Sam was fine after a moment of hugs with Geralyn and a dip into my change jar.

Well, she was fine until we looked over and found her shiny new dime in her mouth. Then we took that away from her, thinking along exact same lines of how neither of us wanted to spend the next few days watching for “buried” treasure should she swallow it.

Hiring baby sitters has always been nerve-wracking to me. We had a party to go to this last weekend, though, and Ger’s parents were busy so it fell to us to go gently inquiring to neighborhood girls about finding someone to watch our spawn. I’ve never gone shopping for crack, but I suspect it’s a pretty similar procedure: you start dropping subtle hints to your neighbors whenever you happen to see them, then as time goes by and you get more desperate you start being more direct, telling people that you gotta get something NOW, but do you know this guy and can you totally vouch that he’s cool, man?

And actually, the girl we found turned out to be great. She put her best foot forward by showing up on time and not absconding with our child to Mexico while we were out drinking wine and eating couscous. And after a few moments of uncertainty the idea clicked in Sam’s head and this gal was suddenly her very best friend in the whole world. Sam actually took her by the hand and started pulling her around the house, showing her where the stacking cups and blocks were kept, and where the potty was, though she didn’t’ think she’d have any need for that tonight, thank you very much.

I did spend much of the evening worrying that Sam would freak out when the baby sitter couldn’t figure out what “Wan read Artur Cluck!” or “Make a hide for the amamowls pees!” meant (“Want to read the [book called] Arthur Cluck” and “Make a slide for my stuffed animals, please” respectively). Sam was in bed when we got home, but I couldn’t resist checking in on her to make sure that the sitter hadn’t done something like put her diaper on outside of her pajamas. She hadn’t, and the young girl’s competence was further delineated when I went in the next morning to get Sam up and she demanded “Hey, where’s the baby sitter?”

Here’s some pictures for your clicking pleasure:

This picture is my new favorite. It captures a lot of the personality that Sam has been so diligently developing. There’s also some great shots of the day that Sam insisted on wearing a pink tu tu and frog slippers, including her jumping up and down. I can’t vouch for the fashion statement, but the kid sure loves to jump lately. She’ll jump in place, jump off curbs, and even off stairs if we don’t jam out our hands and run towards her, shrieking.

Speaking of Sam’s personality, it’s really blossoming nicely. Much better than those actual flowers Ger’s mom sentenced to slow death under our care. This kid loves to laugh, and will do so at the drop of a hat. This is great, because I love to make her laugh, and I’ve found that laughing myself is one of the best ways to get her to do so. So it’s not uncommon for Geralyn to walk into a room to find both me and Sam sitting in the middle of the floor just sitting there and guffawing at each other like morons. She will, of course, join us. Sam has also managed to balance both being petulant and polite in the same breath, as evidenced by exchanges like this:

“I want to go outside, Daddy.”

“Okay, but you need shoes. You’ll have to go get them.”

“You go get them. Now!”

“Hey, Sammy… Is that how you talk to me?”

“You go get them. Now! Please.”

And, let’s face it, she’s starting to get a little manipulative. The other day I was sitting down in the basement watching TV when same came up and gave me a big hug.

“I love you, Daddy,” she said into my shirt.

“Awwww. Sammy, I love you too, sweethea–“

“I want something to drink. I’ll wait here.”

Of course, I went and got it.

It always amazes me that my sister, who has no kids, somehow manages to stay more informed than I about what’s hot in the world of kids at the moment. It’s like she has a TiVo season pass to Entertainment Tonight –Toddler Edition while I’m stuck with NPR and the Journal of Applied Psychology. This most frequently manifests itself in the baffling presents she frequently sends to Sam. I distinctly remember opening the first of these packages a couple of years ago and asking Sam who the hell “The Wiggles” were and why they looked so happy.

This time around the source of my bamboozlement was the delivery of a DVD and CD by The Laurie Berkner Band. Sam insisted we watch the DVD right away, so I popped it in. The titular band consists of a trio of middle age adults who look like they’ve eaten a pound of Prozac between the three of them, probably on the way to the mall for a shopping spree at Shiny, Stretchy, and Brightly Colored, Ltd. They jumped around on stage with exaggerated expressions of glee and sang songs about spaghetti and dinosaurs. “I kept seeing this gal on places like The Today Show,” my sister said later when I called to thank her. “And kids were going crazy. It was like when people saw the Beatles for the first time.” While she didn’t scream and tear her hair out, Samantha was entranced, as was my mother. So now she doesn’t have to listen to any more Talk of the Nation –Science Friday and Ger can’t get “We are the Dinosaurs” out of her head.

And here are pictures.

A lot of the pictures this week are from a children’s museum where Sam got to play with sand, dump water, buy ketchup, eat pizza, and get electrocuted. Much fun was had.

Another trip (no pictures unfortunately) took place on Sunday. Ger was at some yogurt class (or maybe it was yoga class, I wasn’t listening) so I took Sam to the grand opening of this little train store down the road. Her love for Thomas the Tank Engine is well documented, so I thought she’d love it. I wasn’t wrong. This place was pretty cool, with tons Thomas and other train toys set out for kids to play with while their parents blanched at how expensive this stuff is. In the middle of the place they had what looked like the whole island of Sodor set up, with all the handcrafted trains and buildings just waiting to be mangled by the many little hands who had come to visit. If you’ve ever heard the sound of dozens of toddlers simultaneously pushing little wooden trains around and chanting “Chooooo chooooo!” then you know the voice of madness.

There was also a clown named “Lollipop,” a name which many of the children apparently misheard as “Grothgar the Flesh Reaper,” because she scared the bajeezus out of most of the kids there. Sam, to her credit, just gave Lollipop a few suspicious looks up and down before deciding that the clown just wanted, in fact, to give her a Scooby Doo sticker and not grind her bones for bread.

What was really interesting for me, though, was watching Samantha interact with all the other kids since it’s not something I get a lot of chances to do. For the most part she either played nice or ignored the other little shoppers completely. At one point, though, this newly arrived little girl about Sam’s age deigned to stand in the exact spot where Sam wanted to go. So my little girl, normally the most placid of creatures, reached out and totally shoved this fellow toddler out of the way. It was the first act of aggression or rudeness I had ever seen from her. Granted it was pretty mild compared to the little boy not three feet away who had just used a wooden Percy toy to kneecap another lad, but I was horrified just the same. Sam got a good talking to (she seemed repentant and said “I sowwy” to the other girl, at least), then I decided I would change the scenery by taking her to get complimentary cake and juice.

I think I handled that pretty well. Sam only shoved two other kids on the way out, then asked for more cake.

We’ve hit another big milestone this week: Sam went to pre-school. Well, actually it’s kind of a pre-pre-school, or as I like to think of it: a pre-pre-pre-pre-pre-pre-pre-pre-Ph.D. program. Or as Geralyn thinks of it: a chance to run errands twice a week.

Not being the stay-at-home member of our parenting dyad I haven’t been able to see the pre-school, but Ger apparently hasn’t gotten to see much more. The place is run with a kind of efficiency reminiscent of a prison yard: parents drop their inmates off with their backpacks (bright pink and festooned wtih Strawberry Shortcake in Sam’s case), which is immediately deposited in THE DESIGNATED BASKET RECEPTICAL. Mixing of backpacks or backpack contents is strictly prohibited. From there, children are taken out of sight to engage in wholesome activities like coloring, playing with a ball, holding hands, and possibly assembling Nike sneakers. At the end of the day parents drive up and display a sign with the child’s name on it. Designated school personnel deposit the child into the appropriately labled minivan and tell them to move along. The entire process is overseen by the mysterious “Miss Jeanie,” who I have never seen but envision as a kind of cross between Nurse Ratchet and Mr. Kurtz from Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Except that she shops for clothes at Old Navy.

Okay, I’m joking. I’m told that the school is wonderful and Miss Jeanie is a very nice person who has not created a jungle stronghold deep in Cambodia where she uses perscription medicine to keep her wards in check. Yet. In fact, Sam seems to really like it so far and look forward to it. The first day back she showed me a new trick she called “tumbling” and which I call “falling down repeatedly.” Then she made me a pair of sneakers.

Pictures!

Also of note this week is the fact that my mom, Sammy’s “Nana,” is visiting from out of town. When Sam and I went to go pick her up, Sam was delighted to find out that not only had we paid her a visit to the airport to see Nana, but she would actually be getting into the car and coming back with us! Sam is loving the visit, especially seeing as how Nana bought like 600 children’s books for a nickel from the Goodwill store before she got on the plane. It’s actually pretty cool to see how Sam remembers my mom and has affection for her even from just the few visits they’ve had when Sam was younger. They seem to get along great, and have plenty of conversation fodder, like how they both have knees that are less than three years old.

Finally, we also had a long overdue housewarming party at our new place this weekend. Much of Ger’s family was in attendance, including a few younger kids that made good use of Sam’s toys and back yard playground. Sam was still the youngest one there, but she displayed an impressive degree of sociability in that she wanted to play with the other kids. Still, they were usually quite a bit older, which presented difficulties. They were all friendly and accepting of Sam, but most of them weren’t really sure what to do with this little thing that just kept looking up at them and saying “Hi!” over and over again.

Another busy week, with one bitter and one sweet thing to report.

The bitter comes in the form of a little pill with the word “No!” written on it. Honestly, I thought we had missed out on the terrible twos and that whole negativity thing, but Sam just appears to be late to the party. And it’s the kind of party where everybody wears black, listens to weird music, and drones on about the ultimate negation of the universe. Then they all get time outs because I’m totally not going to put up with that kind of thing.

Seriously, Sam will shout “No!” or “No it isn’t,” just to contradict us or deny us whatever favor we’ve asked for, like eating her banana or not jamming a nail in the electrical outlet when there’s a perfectly good one jammed in there already. This really kind of started out of the blue, though, so maybe it’ll go away just as quickly. Right?

The sweet thing to balance out the bitter, though, is that Sam has taken a shine to singing. This is profoundly odd, since neither Geralyn nor I sing. EVER. It’s not that we’re under any kind of court order, we just do it very, very poorly and don’t want to trouble the rest of the world with it. Sam, on the other hand, is pretty good. She’ll just sit there and make up songs, or she’ll sing tracks from Guitar Hero. The other night I listened through the baby monitor as she sang “Hey you, you’re nodding out / What’s this all about?” over and over for like 15 minutes.

The really funny thing, though, is when she sings in church. Like the rest of us she only knows some of the words, so she just chants along in these nonsense syllables with the occasional random word or snippet from another song thrown in. So we get something like this:

Oh ral ral ree, God
On Lord dah dah dah dur
Blood Elmo duh-duh
Tip me over and pour me out!

It’s cute, in a sacrilegious kind of way. And now, pictures.

I finally made it to the massive pool complex I mentioned the other weeK, and it was indeed pretty impressive. My favorite part was when I convinced Ger and Sam to yank on a particular rope that resulted in their own private deluge that I captured for posterity. Unfortunately it was like 73 degrees out and Sam didn’t really figure she should tell us she was cold until she was shivering and had goose bumps the size of actual geese. So we cut the visit a little short.

The next day, though, we went out to the fabled “Farm” with other members of Ger’s family for the Labor Day weekend. So instead of the pool, Sam got to squat in the lake. Many people hadn’t seen Sam in a while, and they were all suitably impressed with her charm and wit. And the fact that thanks to Dora and Diego, she can count in Spanish better than she can in English. Counting fingers comes out “uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco” just fine if she’s in a south of the border kind of mood, but otherwise it comes out to “one, two, three, eleven, nineteen!” almost every time.

We’re working on it. Plan B is for Ger and I to just learn more Spanish and pretty much just speak that.

For those of you keeping track, Sam’s latest thing is to ask what you’re doing. This kind of casual conversation making is flattering at first –most people don’t really seem to give a crap what I’m doing, and attempts to educate them usually result annoyed requests to “Put that thing down.” Like many things I’ve come across in life, though, Sam’s interest turned out to be equal parts joy and tedium. A typical conversation goes like this:

“What are you doing, Daddy?”

“I’m washing the dishes!”

“And what are you doing?”

“Uh, still washing the dishes. Different dish now, but the same principle.”

“And what are you doing now?”

“Still washing dishes, Sammy.”

“What are you doing, Daddy?”

“Sam…”

I didn’t get it until one day when I caught her studying the following flow chart:

I wish I knew who gave her that. The only way I’ve found to deal with this is to just throw the question back at her and ask “What are YOU doing, Sammy?” This usually stumps her for a couple of seconds, then she rejoins with “What are you doing, Daddy?” and we’re back at square one. It passes the time, though, and after about half an hour it kind of reaches this zen-like place so I think I may be on to something big here. Somewhere there’s probably a Buddhist monk sitting on a mountain top in search of ultimate enlightenment and chanting “What are you dooooooooing?”

Pictures!

As you can see, we took some time off from asking what we’re doing to blow some bubbles on the patio, which Sam is getting much better at despite her proclivity for inhaling bubbles instead of blowing them. Fortunately there were no inhalation incidents this time around.

This week’s memories are dominated by three progressively weirder conversations I had with Samantha. First was this one, which took place as we sat on the bouncy bed:

“Watch me, Daddy!”

“Sam, don’t–“

WHAM!

THUMP!

“Waaaaa-haaaa-haaaa!”

“Oh, Sammy, awww, come here. Did you hit your head?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“Sammy, you know what?”

“Yeah?”

“That wasn’t a very good trick.”

“Yeah…”

Then there was this one as we sat at the kitchen table:

“Sammy, did you just toot?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“It’s okay if you did. Just say ‘Excuse me.’ Everybody toots.”

“Everybody toots. Grandma toots and Nana toots and Uncle Brent toots.”

I’m not sure what these three family members did to earn the title of most flatulent in Sam’s estimation. I would have asked, but I was laughing too hard.

And then finally there was the king of all non-sequeters as I was changing her diaper. Sam grabbed my head in both hands, turned it sideways, and peered intently at the side of my skull.

After a few seconds I asked, “Sam, what are you doing?”

“I’m looking in your ear,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“To see if there’s any poop in it.”

“…Well? Is there?”

And now, here are pictures:

There are some pretty cool pictures of the swimming pool complex that Ger took Sam to this week. I didn’t make it there (work and all that), but it sounds and looks like some kind of aquatic Xanadu, replete with fountains, waterfalls, and many kid-friendly activities. After hearing about it I nonchalantly said that I’d have to make it there later in the year. This prompted Geralyn to give me a quick refresher on the chemistry of water and how it freezes solid under certain circumstances, such as those fostered under winter in parts of the world that aren’t Southern California. How quickly I forget.

I also like this picture, even though the composition is off a bit. Over the weekend I plugged in Guitar Hero for the Playstation 2 and started to, as we say in the music business, rock out. Within seconds Sam came running in and started clapping, squealing, and jumping like my own little toddler groupie. She totally go into it, even if my attempts at teaching her to “throw the horns” were rebuffed by a vigilant Geralyn. Still, Sam was soon requesting songs (her favorites seem to be “Take Me Out” by Franz Ferdinand and “Hey You” by the Exies) and either singing along or chanting “red, red, blue, yellow, green, green” in response to the on-screen signals.

I gotta say, playing some Guitar Hero with my daughter has been a lifelong dream. No, seriously. This has turned out to be like the best reason for getting a kid yet. Two more and I can have a whole set of backup singers.

Often when I sit around and fantasize about being interviewed about this blog, I think of the question of how it has changed my relationship with my daughter. In my mind I lean back in an overstuffed chair, cross my legs, clench a pipe between my teeth, and gaze into the gently crackling fireplace for a moment before saying that it has made me more of an amature anthropologist working with a live subject. I pay attention to Sam’s new behaviors, note them when they emerge, and mark the passing of old ones.

I mean, let’s take a specific example: Samantha’s understanding of time. When she was younger, everything was in the moment out of necessity. Absolutely no thought went into the future and no brain power was spared to retain the past. It was ALL about processing and experiencing what was right in front of her at that second. This was, in a way, a very pure existance that I was sometimes jealous of. Even after she started talking, if you asked her what she did earlier that day, she’d probably give you a blank stare. Or she’d say something she had done days or weeks ago like “I went to the playground!” or “I stabbed the cat!”

Just in the last couple of weeks, though, I’ve noticed that Sam has tuned in to the concept of time. Now when I come home from work and ask her what she did, she’ll give me a report that is corroborated, usually, by Geralyn’s. She’ll now talk about a planned trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s house for days leading up to it, and yammer for days afterwords about what she did. And now if she tells me she stabbed the cat with her Winnie The Pooh fork, I can be pretty sure the wounds are still fresh.

This has, in fact, changed my life for one very important reason: Samantha now remembers promises I make her and she holds me to them. Yesterday morning, for example, I had gotten March of the Penguins from NetFlix and told Sam that we could watch it that afternoon after her nap. She alerted me to her nap’s end that day by shouting “I CAN WATCH THE MOVIE ABOUT THE PENGUINS NOW!” through the baby monitor.

And can we take a moment while we’re on the topic and discuss how if you’re planning on showing this movie to your two-year old you might want to reconsider? Not too far into the flick Sam and I were smiling and watching the titular birds start their trek to the breeding grounds when the camera cut to a lone penguin separated from the herd, shuffling and scooting across the ice. Sam glanced at me and asked “And what’s that penguin doing, Daddy?”

Before I could respond, Morgan Freeman broke in with his the dulcet tones and said something along the lines of “But for the ones who start the journey too late, the winter’s chills are harsh and chances of survival are remote.” Then, quick cut to a close up shot of a penguincicle -horrible, dead, and frozen solid.

Sam paused for a beat, then turned to me and said “What’s he doing now?”

I had just a second to consider what my answer would be. Should I lie? Should I tell her the uncomfortable truth? “He’s sleeping,” I said. Turns out that my respite from teaching my kid the reality of death on the frozen tundra was short lived, though, as I was hard pressed to apply the same explanation a few scenes later when a father penguin drops his egg and watches it freeze solid in seconds. And the “sleeping” ruse was completely useless a few scenes after that when an errant penguin chick gets mauled and murdered by a sea gull.

But at least now that discussion with Sam about death and the circle of life is out of the way and I’ll never have to talk to her about it again. Whew!

And now, pictures.

I particularly like this shot because it looks like she’s posing for some film noir or pulp fiction paperback cover. And actually, she really was posing for me on that one, which is a rarity. This one is a close second, though. There’s nothing not to love about blowing bubbles on the back porch.

Not a particularly eventful week this time around. We’ve been having a fair number of things delivered to the new house to fill in some of the blank corners, nearly all of those things arriving in brown cardboard boxes that it is, for some reason, my responsibility alone to open. I’ve developed a kind of game with Sam where I ask what she thinks is in the boxes as I open them. Her invariable answer is “Toys! Toys for Sammy!” even though the unearthed contents of the cardboard tombs have yet turned out to be so. Still, she’s optimistic, and you’ve got to appreciate that.

And here are some pictures.

Power problems have continued through the week, viz a viz Sam’s attempt to seize it at inappropriate times. As I’ve mentioned before, she has delighted in testing whatever boundaries present themselves and seems intent on instigating a one-person junta whenever we let our guard down. Still, we remain strong in the face of these rebellions.

For example, the other night at the dinner table (and isn’t it so quaint that I say things like “at the dinner table?”) Sam noticed that her blanket had gone missing. Probably on account of her having dropped it in the basement when she noticed some breakable thing I’d accidentally left out. After an initial verbal inquiry as to the blanket’s location was made with unsatisfactory results (i.e., it didn’t magically appear when she spoke its name), Sam gave an airy wave of her hand and announced “Mommy wants to go get it” like the world’s most ineffective Jedi. When Mommy signaled that no, in fact, she did not intend to get up from dinner to go get it, Sam tried the other branch of her family tree. When I followed up that request with a similar denial, Sam tried screaming and crying, the implication that the blanket’s absence was causing some kind of psychological and probably physical scarring and that we should remedy this immediately if we loved her. This got me moving, but with the announcement that she was in for a time out. Next thing I know she’s halfway down the basement stairs, shouting “No I get it!” as she went. She returned a moment later, dry eyed and blanket in hand as if nothing had happened.

I plan on seeing if I can get similar results next time someone tries to delegate unwanted work to me in a staff meeting. Wish me luck.

One of the changes in Sam that I’ve noticed over the last week is that she’s become much more independent. Used to be that she would try to run this greedy little monopoly on our attention –if we were doing anything else besides playing with her, feeding her, or bringing her fruit snacks, we were in direct violation of some parent-child contract she had cooked up in her head. This kind of iron grip on our mind share could only broken by the Power of Dora, or possibly the denizens of Sesame Street, who we called upon for help whenever we absolutely had to. Recently, though, Sam will go off for longer and longer stretches of time –sometimes minutes— and do her own thing without demanding our involvement. She’ll color, play with her menagerie of stuffed animals, or whatever else happens to be in reach. Like the phone or the cat or the contents of the vegetable crisper.

This kind of goes hand in hand with the increased use of her imagination. Sam will now routinely pick up any object at all and announce that it is something it clearly is not. Which is awesome. So a pair of book ends become dogs, a strip of pink ribbon becomes a backpack, or a shallow plastic tray becomes a swimming pool for her Weebles. Apparently this kind of thing can make her little mind snap, though, as one excursion into make believe culminated in her asking, inexplicably, “ARE YOU A BOAT, DADDY? ARE YOU A BOAT?” as loud as she could for like fifteen minutes straight. I tried every answer I could think of –“Yes!” “No!” “Only on Tuesdays!”– but nothing would stop her. We just had to let the imagination fever run its course, at which point she just looked at me and said, “Daddy’s NOT a boat.” And that was that. I remain, to this day, not a boat.

Pictures!

You may also notice that we took Sam back to the pool this last weekend. This seemed like a sensible thing to do, given that the outside temperatures were pushing 5 hoojillion and 100% humidity. We quickly found out that Sam’s previous healthy respect for the water had at some point blossomed into a near psychotic disregard for all dangers of the type aquatic. She went totally bonkers for the pool, to the point of trying to leap in whether or not we were there to catch her and deciding that it was the greatest thing in the world to be thrown high over the waves and drop into a splash-inducing free fall. She was a total maniac for the water, and by the end of the afternoon she was practicing advanced techniques like shimmying around the pool edge and swallowing great gulps of chlorinated water. I’m quite proud and exhausted from all the fear.

Oh, and lest I forget, there is some significant news on the pregnancy front. We ended not having the amniocentesis done given the positive blood test and ultrasound results. The ultrasound technician, who was not as foul mouthed as the last one, did have a thing about hamburgers and hot dogs and revealed the sex of the baby.

In other words, Sammy is going to have a baby sister. Woo!

And actually, I still can’t make any sense at all out of those ultrasound pictures. I think that the baby is actually talking out of her femur in the picture above. Or maybe spine. I don’t know. All those grey smudges look the same to me. All I know is that everything looks healthy so far and I can’t wait to meet her in person.

This whole child thing is getting way complicated. It doesn’t seem like that long ago that Sam was a much simpler creature. You just had to make sure she was rested, fed, and clean and that was pretty much the extent of it. Now someone has exchanged that Parenting for Beginners accessory with an advanced model that is not only capable of telling you her most complex desires and emotional states, but in fact will not stop doing so. At all. Ever.

And many of these desires seem completely random and inexplicable. So instead of just crying because she’s hungry, Sam will insist that Daddy pick up the purple Weeble NO THE PURPLE ONE DADDY and put it on the couch AND NOW I WANT A STRAWBERRY no I don’t want it anymore Daddy put on a Dora DVD I want to watch a Dora DVD Sesame Street Daddy open the door I want to go to the playground NOW DADDY NOW now I want Daddy to chase me CHASE ME Daddy has a baby in his belly PICK UP THE PURPLE WEEBLE DADDY! Is there some kind of cheat sheet that I can use to keep up? Because this kid changes her mind faster than mine can keep up.

Still, frantic and bizarre as it’s all becoming, I think it’s all worth it at the end of the day. All Sam has to do is blurt out one hilarious non sequitur or demonstrate some bit of mundane conversational banter made precious simply by virtue of coming from a two year old. Last night we were sitting at the dinner table when she looked up at me and said “So how was your day, Daddy?” in a perfectly casual tone that suggested she really was interested. I’m sure she just picked it up from Geralyn, but the fact that she’s now getting old enough to ask such a question and expect an answer is completely awesome. Nevermind that as soon as I started to answer her she started shouting/singing “Happy Birthday” to the cat.

Pictures!

On the pregnancy front, things are going pretty smoothly. Geralyn is having another blessedly uneventful time of it so far, with no morning sickness or any of that other nasty stuff. Just like with Sam, in fact. The only stressful thing on the horizon is a possible amniocentesis later this week. Apparently when expecting mothers are of a certain age the genetic councilors come out and tell them frightening stories like how there’s an increased chance that their kid may turn out to be the next Attila the Hun, but that they can totally test for that kind of thing. Unfortunately the most foolproof of these tests involves stabbing you in the belly with a huge needle to suck out some baby juice. Of course, they don’t say things like that, they say something like “insert a long syringe into the abdomen to extract a sample of amniotic fluid.” But your imagination kind of takes the latter and rewrites it to the former. I mean thinking about it makes me squirm and I don’t even have a uterus.

Still, we want to do what’s best for Baby and for Mom, so we’re going to consider all the options. At any rate, we have an ultrasound appointment coming up which should hopefully leave us with precious knowledge of the baby’s sex. So place your bets now and tune in next week.

Prior to the last few weeks I was always skeptical when parents of older children would tell me that kids would “test the boundaries” as a part of natural social and mental development. “Oh, my little Billy,” they’d say. “He’s a handful, but he’s just testing the boundaries. It’s how he learns.” I usually just nodded, but I always privately thought it much more likely that Billy was just a little bastard at heart and that the only boundaries he’d be testing later in life would be prison bars. If we’re lucky.

Alas, the last few weeks have disabused me of those quaint notions. Samantha, previously the most milquetoast of creatures, has begun poking, jabbing, and kicking at every boundry she can find. Take the following exchange, which happened over the weekend when Sam grabbed my power drill and pointed it at her left eyeball.

“Samantha,” I barked, “put that down! It’s not a toy.”

“It’s not a toy,” she repeated, putting it back on the floor where I had carefully left it and then stepping back. She then gave me a sly look and added, “I can just look at it.”

“That’s right. Just look. Knock yourself out with all the looking.”

Keeping an eye on me, she edged closer to the drill again. “I can just touch it,” she said, kneeling down and laying a single finger on it.

“No, Samantha. Don’t touch even it.”

This got her to stand up and remove the offending finger. Again she gave me a coy look and gently nudged it with her toes. “I can just kick it.”

I’m pretty sure that if I had left her to it she would have moved on to poking it with a stick or activating it with telekenesis, but I figured the easiest thing to do was to just put the thing away. Dangerous power tools aside, I can see I’m in for a balancing act. I don’t want to stifle her natural curiosity and attempts at exploring the world. I want her to experience and learn as much as she wants to. But obviously there are limits as to what’s healthy and what’s socially acceptable. I guess we’ll just have to do our best and hope she doesn’t end up sharing a cell block with little Billy.

And now, pictures.

The last thing I wanted to address this week is the mystery that has recently developed around Samantha’s coloring books. Like many kids her age, she delights in grabbing fist fulls of crayons and scribbling madly over some cheery outline. Or she’ll ask us to draw something like a heart or a flower of Thomas the Tank Engine so that she can color it in. I don’t have any frame of reference for the artistic merits of her work, but most of her coloring seems to me to be within the normal parameters of a two year old. Here’s a typical portrait:

Now this picture makes my inner child chuckle for reasons that are both too obvious and too uncouth for mixed company, but it’s a good example of what you’d expect from someone who can’t hold a crayon in anything but a tight fist.

However, when flipping through the coloring books I find that up to ten percent of the pictures resemble something more like this:

Note the slight increase in penmanship. Crayonmanship. Whatever. Now, either Sam is entering into and out of a temporary state of artistic savantedness or we have a phantom artist hitting the books when I’m not looking. I don’t want to cast any aspersions, but I do sometimes see Geralyn sitting at Sam’s little table, hunched over something. So it’s either her or, if Saturday morning cartoons have taught me anything, Old Man Jones wearing a rubber mask and using a fog machine.

This is kind of a special edition this week. I’ve been studying the traffic logs here at jmadigan.net, and I’m kind of alarmed at what I see. Traffic is actually up overall, but there has been a slight dip in the last few minutes. If growing up in the 80s and watching way too much TV has taught me anything, it’s that when things start to get stale you’ve got to make some changes to the lineup. Here’s just three examples I can think of off the top of my head:

Following this conventional wisdom, I thought I’d give you, dear denizens of the Internet, a sneak peek at a new character we’ve been working on for upcoming editions of Sam’s Story. Here’s the first publicity photo:

In other words, Ger is pregnant again.

Woo!

Now, to serve you better, I’ve taken the liberty of preemptively answering the 5 most common questions I think you all are likely to have. They are:

1. No, we don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl yet.
2. Yes, we intend to find out as soon as we can. Surprises are great if it’s Christmas or if you’re Ed McMahon headed for my front door, but that’s about it.
3. Yes, we meant to do this. All is going according to plan.
4. I’m not sure yet. At the moment, I’m thinking that when the baby is born, I’ll discontinue the Sam’s Story weekly updates and just do a combined weekly update for the whole family. There’s no way I could find either the material or the time to do two weekly updates.
5. Walrus.

On a side note, I’ve yet to decide how to handle blogging about the pregnancy. I did a lot of that the first time around (click here and scroll to the very bottom of the page) but it was mainly about the learning experience of a couple of first-time parents who had never been through that particular act of gestation before. I don’t think I’ll have as much to say this time around, so when I discuss it it will probably be in the Sam’s Story updates or an occasional lone update as warranted. We’ll see.

What I do think I’ll do is do like I did before and take a weekly picture of Geralyn so we can track how that little baby making belly of hers progresses. Here’s this week’s picture (click for full size version):

With that announcement out of the way, let’s see some pictures of Sammy!

The majority of these pictures were taken out in the back yard with Sam’s swing set, or “playground” as she calls it. It’s got a few swings, some monkey bars, a covered picnic table, and a slide. Sam seemed dubious about the slide at first, but she got quite into it after a few experimental slithers down its bright yellow surface.

The only other thing I’ll say about Sam this week is that she has developed this odd little habit where if I ask her to do something she doesn’t want to do, she’ll look at me and say, for example, “No, Daddy wants to go get my shoes,” like the world’s most ineffective Jedi. Sometimes she even does the little hand gesture. It’s funny, though maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to call it ineffective. I usually do end up getting the shoes.

The big event recently, as I mentioned last week, is that we finally moved into our new house. Now it’s not a mansion by any standards, but coming from the postage-stamp sized houses of Southern California it sure feels like one to us. I keep thinking of those diagrams that show the size of Earth relative to Jupiter or the Sun whenever I can’t remember where I left my wallet. Which is often.

This also means that Ger and I have had to develop some new attitudes about letting Sam roam the place unattended. In California we usually wouldn’t let her stay on another floor unattended, and the place was set up so that we could pretty much keep an eye (or at least an ear) on her this way. Now she can be totally out of the picture at any time and the image of her in my mind changes from her doing safe things like reading to her stuffed animals is replaced by images of her taking an electric drill to the basement drywall or doing backflips off the stairs. But we’re getting used to it.

Sam, too, has had to adjust to the size of the new place. Our second night there we were playing in the basement when I told her it was time for her bath. Sam acquiesced and climbed the stairs to the living room on the main floor where she paused to look around with a confused and slightly worried look on her face. She then turned to me and asked “Where did the bathtub go?” I mean, I climbed stairs, Daddy, and I distinctly remember the bathtub being upstairs, so WHAT’S GOING ON, MAN?

She’s got things figured out now, though. Last night we were playing on the swing set in the back yard when I decided to engage her in conversation about the new place. “Sammy,” I said, “do you like the new house?”

“Yeah, I do like it.”

“Why? What do you like about it?”

At this Sam paused to purse her lips and gather her thoughts. “I like the oveeeen, and I like the microwaaaave, and I like the dishwasherrr, and I like the teveeee, and I like the siiink…” This went on for like five minutes, with her just sitting there on the tire swing and naming off all the appliances and fixtures she could think of, stretching out the enunceation of each one as if to say “Ohmygosh, there’s just so much cool stuff here!” And funny as it was, I had to agree with her –I like the TV, too.

Sam also had absolutely no problems transitioning to a full twin bed, either. The first night we put her in it she gave it an initially dubious look, then seemed to decide that it was okay before demanding that one of us get in there with her and read “Go, Train, Go!” seven hundred times in a row. She slept through the night without getting up once that we know of until about 7 a.m. the next morning when Ger found her halfway down the stairs in search of breakfast. I swear, this kid is so easy going it’s eerie sometimes.

Pictures!

Most of the pictures, you may note, are from a trip to “The Farm,” which is a place out in the country that Ger’s parents, aunts, and uncles own. Sam has been there before. There’s a rickety old barn with a swing, there’s a beach, and there’s a small lake. Sam thought all of the above were increasingly awesome as the day went by and she learned valuable new skills like throwing rocks or slinging wet sand at everyone in sight.

Fair warning: this week’s post contains contents of a scatological nature. And for the unlearned, no that word has nothing to do with jazz vocal improvisations. Just read on.

As I mentioned before, one of Sam’s strongest, greatest passions right now is Thomas the Tank Engine. She loves watching the show and when we brought her home a board book featuring the titular train she went bonkers and wanted to read it over and over and over again for several days straight. Now, on a seemingly unrelated point, Sam has had some trouble grasping this whole potty training business. She’s actually okay with the wet works, if you know what I mean, but learning to put numero dos in its designated place is kind of a weak spot in her program. So, I decided to follow some solid (pardon the pun) sounding advice and turn one of Sam’s strengths, Thomas the Tank Engine, against her weakness, the proper placement of …you know. I learned this from an wise old Chinese man who was well versed in the art of war. You know the guy. He used to live down the street from me in Tulsa? Drove a bitchin’ black and gold Trans Am and always talked about getting his real estate license? Yeah, that guy.

What I did was go out on my lunch break and buy Sam another Thomas book, only held on to it when I got home that night. “Sammy,” I said. “I bought you a surprise. The next time you can go poo-poo in the potty, you can have a new Thomas the Tank Engine book.”

The result was a bit more dramatic than I had expected. Sam shouted “I want to go sit on the potty NOW!” and whipped off her pants and diaper like both of them were secured by velcro and she was a Chippendale’s dancer reaching the end of his act. Before I could respond, she was naked from the waist down and bolting down the hall towards the bathroom.

The problem was, of course, that she had already gone earlier that day and the nature of the gastrointestinal process conspired against her attempts at earning her prize. She tried, though, oh how she tried. By the time the dinner hour rolled around she was still sitting there with a look of staunch determination on her face. We had to coax her down from the throne by explaining that if she had a big dinner it might work in her favor. Especially if she ate all her vegetables.

Here’s this week’s pictures, none of which relate to the story above.

There are several there of Sam with her cousin Molly, to whom she owes a great debt for all the barely worn hand-me-down clothes. They were out with some other members of the extended family at the local botanical gardens, where they had some kind of kiddie area with water sports. Sam also had her first chance to lick mixing batters, which was an experience so thoroughly pleasing that it appears to have thrown her into a temporary state of shock.

So, given all the changes we’ve thrown at Sam in the recent weeks –new home, new city, the pay-per-potty program described above– we decided it would be a good idea to throw one more at her. Next week we’re finally moving into our new house here in our new city. After living out of suitcases for two months, it’s definitely about time. We thought we’d just go ahead and spring the upgrade to a “big girl” bed on Sam, so she’ll be spending her nights in the new place trying to sleep in her new twin bed instead of the crib, for which we have other plans. I fully expect carnage and frustration galore as she gets up in the middle of the night to roam the house and pull things off shelves. Either that or she’ll learn to work the remote control and we’ll wake up to the high volume, maniacal laughter of Elmo at 2:16 in the morning.

Wish us luck.

Sam has a new favorite thing: the vibrating chair. Her grandma has one of those pads that you can drape over any recliner to turn it into a Vibromax 2000 Brand Muscle Buzzing and Relaxation Station, and once Sam gets on it it’s hard to get her off. Any suggestions that she dislodge herself in favor of other pursuits like bathing or eating are met with –and I quote– “I’m busy, Daddy.” Usually shouted over what sounds like the buzzing of a thousand extremely mellow bees.

Relaxing moments in the vibrating chair aside, Sam has a pretty active week. She once again went to the pool at Ger’s godparents’ house, out again on Saturday, and to a Father’s Day party that one of Ger’s cousins was throwing. And there was another pool there, which I had to take her in even though lightening storms blowing through the area presented the delightful twin threats of electrocution and hypothermia.

This Father’s Day was marked with unhappy undertones for myself, as it was the first one in my entire life that I didn’t have to wish my own dad a good one, thank him for everything he’s done for me, and promise him that his gift was a little late but totally on the way. Or would be after I bought it and put it in the mail, and let’s face it it’s just going to be a gift certificate because I’m awful at buying presents. I think this goes back to one Father’s Day in particular, when I was finally old enough to choose and buy a gift on my own and, inexplicably, settled on a mass-produced, godawful print from the frames department at Wal-Mart. I think there were ducks and a hunting dog and a sunset, all in various tones of brown, beige, and more brown. My dad was clearly taken aback when I gave it to him, but he recovered quickly and thanked me nonetheless. Though he apparently couldn’t help noting that it was certainly the last thing he had expected to receive. I think that most of my gift-buying difficulties stem from that event, as it presents a kind of mental road block where I just give up and take a detour onto Gift Certificate Lane.

Sam, on the other hand, seems to be a natural. She marked the special day on Sunday by presenting me with the Venture Brother’s Season 1 DVD set, still neatly wrapped in a Best Buy shopping bag. Which, of course, is five separate and distinct kinds of awesome.

Here’s some pictures:

You’ll notice that I’ve put Sam to work cleaning my car, but she was actually glad to do it and kept chirping “We giving Daddy’s car a bath!” the whole time. I preemptively dressed her in her swimming suit as I thought that the hose play would result in a soggy Sammy, but she displayed a healthy fear of the hose, yelling “Get out of the way! Get out of the way!” and running for higher ground whenever I reached for it. She did, however, enjoy the rainbows I created by setting it to “mist” and spraying it up into the sunlight.

The last thing I’ll mention this week is that Sam’s diction and pronunciation are coming along nicely. She uses pronouns quite deftly, referring often to “you” or “me” or “she” in the manner most sanctioned by international grammar laws. The only major challenge she still needs to conquer is her “S” and soft “C” sounds. She still almost always puts a “Sh” sound in there instead so that “snake” becomes “shnake” and “Percy” becomes “Pershy.” This normally isn’t a big deal, but can be a little embarrassing if we’re out in public when she gets tired of walking and announces to the world that she needs to “sit.”

Did you know you can play games with children? I mean not with them per se, but using them as pieces in your elaborate game of life? I’ve noticed that Sam has elevated mimicry to an art form. There’s almost nothing the won’t try to imitate if she sees someone else doing it. This is useful for teaching her basic life lessons like washing her hands or soldering computer components, but it also leads to some otherwise inexplicable behavior. I’ve decided to put co-opt this behavior for my own amusement.

For example, The other day Sam and I were playing with two orange candles –“Harmmy’s canal and Daddy’s canal” if she is to be believed. And relax, they were unlit. On a whim I held my candle up and shouted “Candle! Candle!” Sure enough, Sam hefted hers and parroted, “Canal! Canal!” The next day Ger was a bit confused when Sam wandered over to nearby table, grabbed a tea candle and started bellowing “Canal! Canal! Canal” why waiving it over her head.” Shhh… Don’t tell her why. It’s funnier this way.

Actually, Sam is surprisingly good about repeating back words. We were at Ger’s godparents’ for dinner last night and Sam was making the rounds, inspecting all the delicate, expensive things just waiting to be knocked over.

“Sammy,” said our hostess as Sam poked at a ceramic lion near the stairs. “Do you know what that lion’s name is?”

“No…” Sam said, searching her memory and apparently coming up short.

“He has a very complicated name.” Ger’s godmother continued. “I don’t think you’ll be able to even come close to saying it until you’re ten years old!” At this point she straightened up and said in a very important tone, “His name is Melchizedek.”

Sam gave her a halfway annoyed look and said, with perfect pronunciation, “Melchizedek.”

Come to think of it, that was a lot funnier than the whole candle thing. Maybe she’s playing us.

Here’s this week’s pictures:

It’s kind of “Sam’s Story: Swimsuit Edition” given that Sam made it to the pool twice this week –once at the hotel where I’m staying and again at the aforementioned dinner with Ger’s godparents.

Kind of a slow week this time around, so I’ll just start off with the pictures:

Sam did have one of her important firsts: her first baseball game. She actually got really excited about it when we started telling her that we’d be going. All day long it was “We going to a baseball game!” and “We going to a baseball game!” and finally “We going to a baseball game!” When we finally got there she looked everywhere except at the actual baseball game itself. It was like five billion degrees out even when you calculated in the windchill factor, so she did an admiral job of keeping herself hydrated. Too bad she seemed less interested in the game and more interested in kicking at the head of the lady sitting in front of us. She did, however, manage to count all the other people in the stadium. There were four, according to her best estimates.

One new thing I’ve noticed about Sam this week is that her energy levels have become really sporadic. Sometimes she’ll sit still for long periods of time, either watching television, scribbling in her coloring books, or even just cuddling with Geralyn. Other times, though, it seems like she’s bubbling over with energy and can’t sit still. The latter is usually when we’re trying to put her pants or socks on. There’s just something about the words “Sammy, let’s put your pants back on” that sends her into a full-on fit of burbling antics.

I’ve also noticed that she’s developing her own unique mannerisms, like twirling her hair or biting her lip and twisting her torso back and forth so that her arms swing back and forth like little fleshy whips whenever she’s reached a moment of indecisivenes. This is all very cool, of course, because it means that she’s developing her own personality and poker tells.

Finally, to close this week out, here are my 10 favorite things about Sam at the moment:

1. The way she pronounces “strawberry” as “saw boobie.” Better yet, “Strawberry Shortcake” becomes “Saw Boobie Hort Cake.”
2. Watching her put all her stuffed animals down for a nap with a kiss and a “Goodnigh. I love you.”
3. The way she’s picked up on the game of “Let’s find something green” (or white or red, or whatever) and how well she plays it.
4. The way she loves to water the plants in Grandma’s garden
5. The way she keeps saying “Thomas is a maheen” (as in “Thomas the Tank Engine”) after I taught her to classify things as animals, plants, people, or machines.
6. The way she proudly announces “I drinking from a big girl cup!” right before dumping the entire contents of said big girl cup down the front of her shirt.
7. The way she scoops up handfulls of bubbles from the bath and tries to blow them in my face.
8. The way she laughs when I lean in and blow them in hers first.
9. The way she would still eat black olives, refried beans, and red onion all day every day if we let her.
10. The way she says “Mmmmm! This is GOOD” when she likes something. Especially black olives, refried beans, and red onion.

I should really keep a list of these things.

If any of you are thinking of throwing a party for Samantha, I recently discovered what it will take to make it a success in her eyes. We went to a graduation party for one of Ger’s cousins over the weekend, and it worked out so that we could take Sam with us. The next morning I sat down with her over breakfast and asked her about it.

“Sammy,” I said, “Did you have fun at the party last night?”

“Yeah! I like the party.”

“Why? What did you do at the party?”

“I blew bubbles and I ate candy and I ate cake.”

So there you have it. All you really need to make a party for two-year olds is bubbles, candy, and cake. This formula also holds up surprisingly well for adults if you throw in a keg of beer.

Here, lots of pictures this week:

There are a good number of pictures there of Sam sporting swimwear, the reason being another party we went to earlier in the week –a pool party that Ger’s godparents throw for her birthday each year. Sam had been to their pool before, so she seemed pretty comfortable around it, though she did exhibit what I would call a healthy amount of respect for the water, probably because I repeatedly told her that the pool was evil and wanted to eat her alive. So when not taking a reassuring hand from Mommy, she would only approach the water on all fours. Also note the lovely Aquatic Life Preservation System, which I like so much I’m going to have her wear it in the bath or when drinking from a cup larger than 12 fluid ounces.

The last thing I’ll talk about this week is Sam’s latest infatuation with Thomas the Tank Engine, which is this kind of creepy-ass toy tank engine from England or Hell or somewhere. The toy tank engine she has isn’t that bad, but the television show really creeps me right the heck out. It’s all done using models and toys with a single narrator speaking the lines for all the characters. All the train engines and other machines all have anthropomorphic faces, and I think what gives me the willies is the way that their faces never move, except for their eyes move and flick around in ways that seem to have nothing to do with what’s going on in the story. It’s more like they loll and roll around in a “OH MY GOD I’M TRAPPED INSIDE THE BODY OF A TRAIN ENGINE HELP ME!” It’s like low-budget children’s television beamed straight from you-know-where, maybe the 10th circle that Dante was too scared to go to, much less write a poem about. I’m pretty sure that one of the special features on the DVD box set is a behind the scenes special that shows little imps with pitchforks running the cameras and train track controls.

Seriously. Creepy.