Conversation With Sam.
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: Sam
I have recounted some fairly startling conversations with Sam over the months, but let me tell you: this one TAKES THE BISCUIT.

The Ohana is finishing up getting ready to leave on Wednesday morning, and Ben has just entered looking smashing in a blue striped dress shirt.

Me: Oh, honey, you look HOT. (Aside to Ben) Hmm, maybe you should come home at lunch for a nooner!

Sam: Ewww, Daddy's going to come home at lunch and they're going to HAVE SEX.

Ben and Me: *stare at Sam with our mouths hanging open*

Me: We are SO in trouble.

Despite the family bed, we do not have sex around Sam. We do not TALK about sex around Sam. We don't watch racy TV shows or movies when he is awake. Where he gets this stuff, I do not know. The kid obviously hears all, absorbs all and understands all, not saying a word -- UNTIL ONE DAY HE COMES OUT WITH SOMETHING LIKE THIS AND MAKES YOUR HEART STOP. Sam is not five years old yet. Precocious? Uh, yeah. Too much. God help us.

Sam Time = Good Time.
Mood:  cool
Topic: Sam
An unexpected benefit of recent turns of events is increased one-on-one time with Sam, my number one son. As usual, it's been both a teaching experience and a learning experience.

Today Sam and I went down to explore the trails along the Upper Newport Bay and the nature center, which is inevitably closed by the time we make it down there on a weekend. Without the commotion of a family of five, we got down to water's edge and spent quite a lot of time just exploring and farting around down there. Sam was the leader and I was the carrier -- meaning that I carried the essential supplies we needed, because a leader doesn't have time to fool around with Yoo-Hoo boxes and water bottles and so on. Sam carried only a toy pistol in order to protect me from mountain lions and other potential threats.

We spent some time throwing things into the water: rocks, sticks, empty snail shells. There was a considerable wind blowing, because the wind always comes up in the afternoon on that part of the estuary, and I explained to him that we really needed rocks or shells, that lightweight missiles were just going to blow right back in our faces. So we cast about for things which we could throw into the water and produce a satisfying plunk.

On the return hike, I mentioned to him that he should use such trips as a guideline in choosing female companions: that a girl who wouldn't be up for such a hike, or who would worry about getting her hair windblown or her shoes dirty, might not be the sort of girl you want to hang around with. You know, because they don't want to have any fun. We had ice cream afterward at Sav-On Drugs. By way of absolute trivia, local lore is that John Wayne used to like to stop by the same Sav-On for ice cream in his day, because he lived along the bay also. The service is abysmal, but if you are able to do a paradigm shift and accept that things will unfold in geological time, then the ice cream is extremely satisfying when, eventually, you receive it. Or at least Sam and I agreed that it was.

We had a wonderful relaxing afternoon, and I hope it was a learning experience for him -- about what sort of guy he is, about what sort of girl he likes to spend time with, and about how time is best spent in outdoor environments. For us it was poking at holes with sticks, speculating about what sort of creatures might come out of them; trying out various approaches to the water's edge for maximum throwing freedom and visibility; scouting out small animals (rabbits, squirrels, lizards) scurrying through the brush; and making note of any and all piles of poop (dog, horse or God only knows what). Sam used his pistol to shoot at the poop. We agreed that it was good and dead. It was a Calvin and Hobbes kind of afternoon, and I'll play Hobbes to his Calvin anytime.

Squeak, I Say.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Sam
What you get when you cross Sam, a leopard bra, a Mickey Mouse hat, and too much Ren & Stimpy watched with Daddy.

Conversation With Sam: Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire.
Mood:  flirty
Topic: Sam
(Caution: This post contains slightly spoiler-y stuff.)

Sam and I went to see the new Harry Potter movie, Goblet of Fire, on Friday. Those who have read the book know that there is a bit in Goblet of Fire where Harry, sitting in the prefects' bath at Hogwarts Academy, has a conversation with Moaning Myrtle. Myrtle is the ghost of a Hogwarts student who died as a young teenaged girl, and who haunts various Hogwarts bathrooms. In the films, she generally makes her appearance by shooting up out of a toilet. So there is your backstory. In the movie, it is very apparent during this scene that Myrtle is, and not very subtly, getting looks at Harry's wizardly equipment. You know, his magic wand, if you will. And here is the conversation Sam and I had last night.

Sam: I liked the part where Moaning Myrtle is trying to see Harry's package.

Me: Yep, that was funny. Well, better her than us. I sure don't want to see Harry's package.

Sam: Me neither. Hey, I wonder if they will make an action figure of that? Of Harry in the bath when Moaning Myrtle talks to him?

Me: Well, they might. But don't worry -- if they do, I don't think they're going to show his package. It's not that kind of movie.

Sam: [giggling]: Ha ha! And what if they make action figures of Fred and George and Ron Weasley?

Me: They might. But you know, I don't think they are going to show any of their packages on the action figures. Don't worry.

Sam: Okay. *giggle*

As you see, being honest and direct with your kids leads to some rather surreal conversations. I don't know if they will be putting out any Goblet of Fire action figures, but if they do? I think we can all safely put our money on the first thing Sam is going to do when he gets one.

The Cornfield.
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: Sam
They are always telling you to watch what you say around your kids, because little pitchers have big ears. I wholeheartedly believe this to be true; Ben not so much, although he is learning it more every day. He is learning it mostly because of Sam, who is living proof of the truth of the cliche. Because Sam, although he doesn't say much, absorbs absolutely everything. The other day, he startled us quite out of our wits with a casual demonstration of how true that is.

Ben and I have two shorthand expressions for when someone is mysteriously done away with. They are being sent to the cornfield and being sent to the farm. The cornfield thing has its origins in an old Twilight Zone episode where Billy Mumy plays the scary little psychokinetic kid who sends you to the cornfield if you piss him off. The farm thing is derived from that old line of parental bullshit when they've put your dog to sleep -- the one where they tell you Oh, we took Skippy to go live on a nice farm where he can run and play and be happy, and never have to worry about getting in trouble for pooping on our $3000 Oriental rug. Sam is kind of dialed into those concepts -- in fact, when he is very upset with us, he has been known to tell us he is sending us to the cornfield. At which point we laugh our asses off, which rather takes the edge off his wrath.

But Sam understood more about the farm and the cornfield than we realized. We used to have a dog, Teddy -- that's Teddy in the picture there. He was (is) a miniature schnauzer, and he was blessed with all the Crazy native to that breed. He tried to take a bite out of Sam when Sam was a baby, probably because he was pissed off that Sam had supplanted him in our bed and, presumably, our hearts. So we placed Teddy with a new home, with the assistance of Small Breed Rescue. A home with older kids who could kick his ass if he tried to bite them. We did NOT send him to the farm or to the cornfield. (If you notice drainage tubes in Teddy's shoulders in the photo, that is because this photo was taken shortly after he tried to kill a pair of full-sized Akitas on the evening of September 11, 2001. Teddy's Crazy almost got him killed. But not by us!)

The reason I give you this hefty dose of backstory is because Sam casually said to me the other day, as if in passing:

You and Daddy took Teddy to the cornfield.

I almost fell over backwards. Poor Sam -- he didn't say a word, but for all these months he'd been thinking poor Teddy landed in the cornfield! And who knew what other wild imaginings were going through his dear little head. Maybe we would take Nicky to the cornfield, too. Shit, maybe he worried we would take him and Matt to the cornfield! Best mind our Ps and Qs and not piss off Mommy and Daddy, or it's off to the cornfield with us! My God. I was horrified.

I quickly and gently explained to Sam that Teddy did not go to the cornfield, and that Ben and I would never take a dog to the cornfield (I decided not to even bring up the idea of taking a child to the cornfield), and he seemed to understand, but: MY GOD. I hope we didn't traumatize the kid. I hope he doesn't wind up in lengthy, expensive psychotherapy over this.

So, a word to the wise: Mind what you say around your children. Or, you know, you could wind up in the cornfield. Or wish you had done.

According To Sam.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Sam
Conversation between Sam and me:

Sam: . . . or are you just saying that because I'm a parrot?

Me: You're a parrot now? I thought you were a kid.

Sam: No, I'm a . . . I'm a parrot.

Me: Oh. So, are you going to go live in a tree with the other parrots?

Sam: No. Now that I'm a parrot I'll still live in our home.

Sam and Matt playing with George and Jane Jetson figures:

Sam/George: Honey! Don't shout at me!

Matt/Jane: *kisses George*

Sam/George: Just because you kiss me doesn't mean you like me.

He may not be as brilliant as Rebecca's Julia, but you have to admit, the kid has an interesting mind.

Sam Starts School.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Sam
He started preschool this week and handled it with his customary low-key good humor -- a Winnie the Pooh backpack on his back, a Snoopy dog in tow for naptime. My little boy is growing up. I was a total nervous wreck, but Sam made it look easy.

Yesterday I took Nicky to the vet for his Date with Destiny -- his neuter surgery, which we hope will encourage him to chill out and stop lifting his leg on the living room furniture. I told Sam that Nicky had been to the vet, and Sam said very calmly Yes, I know. He got his balls cut off.

We've really got to be careful what we say around that kid. He complained after his first day of preschool that he hadn't learned anything -- well, if we don't watch it, his little friends at preschool are going to be learning plenty from him.

Clear And Present Danger.
Mood:  bright
Topic: Sam
Sam, at four, already has a world of concerns all his own. Many of them involve being eaten -- you know, by a monster, or a dog, or a bug.

Our new dog, Nicky, likes to play a bit too rough. He pounced at Sam's feet and started worrying his ankle, and Sam ran to me with a worried look. Did Nicky scare you? I asked. He nodded. Don't worry, I said. He's just playing with you.

Sam frowned. He was trying to EAT me! he said.

He told us of a bug he saw in the backyard at day care. It was big, and it had green wings and brown biters, he said. It tried to eat the twins and me. It made a FACE at us! He demonstrated the face the bug had made, a scowling chewing face, and the way it had moved its biters. That's how he could tell it wanted to eat them. What did you do? I asked.

We ran away, he said. It didn't eat us.

One day there was a spider in his sandbox. I was gardening nearby. Mommy, a spider! Sam cried. Just squoosh it, honey, I told him, tired.

Sam was indignant. No, he said. It wants to eat me. It looked at me and said "Does he taste good? Yes." That spider is going to EAT me if you don't come and kill it, Mom.

What could I do? I killed the spider.

Kids are enchanting. It's refreshing, and charming, to spend time with a guy for whom eat me is not a scatological suggestion but a clear and present danger.

Hello, I Must Be Barfing.
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: Sam
There comes a moment in every parent's life when you're confronted with the Ill-Timed Public Barf by one of your children. This weekend it happened for the first time to Ben and me.

I went in for a haircut and color on Saturday, leaving Ben minding the store. Now, Ben is the most protective and attentive of fathers; but being a father, he is by definition a male, and therefore also by definition Fairly Unconscious about a number of things. In this instance, while he successfully changed a Matt poop of epic proportions ("A twelve wiper!") and kept them from burning down the house, he overlooked such fine points as Lunch and Limiting Snacks. With the result that Sam, by the time I returned at 2 p.m., had consumed two (2) waffles with syrup, a number of cheddar potato chips, and no less than two (2) packages of York's Chocolate Peppermint Swoops, but nothing which actually contained any nutritional value.

We were all a bit peckish on my return and Sam wanted to go to Toys R Us to buy a yellow Boohbah, so we set off for the Tustin Marketplace for lunch at Romano's Macaroni Grill and a toy shopping trip. Just short of Romano's, Sam complained that he felt like he had to throw up. He's hungry, I thought. So we parked the car and went inside, me carrying Matt, who had chosen that moment to fall asleep.

Inside the restaurant, we paused to reconsider; we'd forgotten that they had no booths, ordinarily a requirement when eating with the boys because that way we could pen them inside and prevent them from escaping. Also, Matt was still asleep, and I have no lap of which to speak these days. So we decided to leave, and just as we did, Sam burst into loud tears in his father's arms and then, as we walked back to exit, threw up all over Ben's back, behind and shoes. We dripped and retched our way to the parking lot. Hello, we won't be staying; we just stopped by to puke! Bye now!

Beside the car, Sam stood and continued to vomit for a while, paying mute testimony to the food for all any passers-by could tell, while Ben stripped off his t-shirt and Sam's and mopped down his shoes, himself, and Sam as best he could. Behold, the half-naked barfing family in the parking lot. And then we piled back into the van and departed, probably having relieved Romano's of a good bit of their would-be mid-afternoon late lunch traffic.

Well, look at it this way, Ben remarked on the way home. At least his barf was minty fresh. I trust this was small comfort for the staff of Romano's. Me? I just said a tiny prayer of thanks that he'd spared the upholstery in my minivan, and that he had barfed on his father rather than on me.

A Guy Thing.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
My Sam is growing up. He celebrated his fourth birthday earlier this month, and he still can snuggle with his mommy like the preschooler he is, but day by day I see the Guy in him coming to the forefront. He wants to do Guy things. His concerns are starting to be Guy concerns. He wants to hang with The Guys -- mostly his daddy, and certainly not his little brother, who now sometimes gets on his nerves.

Now that Sam is a Guy, in certain ways I'm just a chick who wants him to do non-Guy things, and therefore occasionally a pain in the ass. Witness our trip to the shoe store on Sunday. Did Sam want new shoes? No, he did not, despite the fact that his existing shoes are (1) too small and (2) are so worn they look like fourth-generation Dust Bowl hand-me-downs. Sam did not want new shoes because that involved a trip to the shoe store, the uncomfortable trying-on of stiff new tennis shoes, and socially acceptable behavior. It involved an interruption of his hunt-and-capture games atop the swing set. It involved the intrusion of a civilizing influence into his busy schedule of manly pursuits, and suddenly, that is more than Sam wishes to tolerate from his mom.

Did we go to the shoe store? We did. Did Sam complain? Mightily. Did he get new shoes? Yes, under protest. And then we returned home, where I retreated upstairs to watch Toy Story cuddled up with Matt, my baby. Ben and Sam? Well, you know. They got the oil changed in my minivan. Took old furniture to the Goodwill. Stopped off at a pizza place, where Daddy had a beer and Sam had root beer. And then returned home for a game involving bad guys, light swords and a whole lot of chasing. They did Guy Things, is what they did, and women and babies were not welcome.

When did he get so tall? When did he start spraying pee on the toilet seat just like his father? When did he learn that look of tolerant condescension his father sometimes gives me? My baby went and turned into a guy overnight, and I never saw it coming.

Performance Review.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Sam
Today, after reviewing a brief I had written, my boss remarked, "Great argument. You really nailed it." I smiled and thanked her.

After leaving the office for the day, I picked up the boys at day care and went home to start my second job. My really important job. Sam asked for a snack, and I offered to surprise him -- he likes surprise snacks. "Okay," he said. "But I don't want a fake snack. I want a good snack."

I disappeared into the kitchen and made up a little plate: six Twizzlers arranged on a dinosaur's belly, with a handful of Jelly Bellys in the little round area where the cup is meant to go. (Yes, that's right; I am a horrible mother who feeds her children dreadful snacks loaded with sugar and completely devoid of nutrition. Sue me.) I carried the plate in and placed it in front of Sam.

He smiled. "Cooooool snack," he said.

Back in the kitchen, I realized I was grinning from ear to ear. Some performance reviews are more important than others.

A Boy And His Peepee.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
My Sam is going to be very popular with the girls one day; he's tall, off the charts for height, so probably destined for 6'3" or so; and he has a startlingly large peepee. We don't circumcise, so he's bound to frighten the girls with it, one day. At the very least, he frightens me with it every single morning when the old morning wood phenomenon kicks in. Ten-hut! his father invariably remarks, saluting. I don't know whether to salute or pray to Jesus. If his peepee is this alarming before he reaches the age of four, I hate to think what puberty will bring. Fortunately, by that time I won't have to look at it anymore; or if I do, I will be well within my rights to tell him Either go put on some pants or get out of my kitchen in your underwear.

This morning he rose early, dressed in a pajama top and Scooby-Doo underpants. He was, as usual, pitching a ferocious tent. Pulling persistently at himself, he observed, I can't get my peepee to lay down.

Well, I told him, peepees like to wake up and stretch in the morning, just like you do. It will lay down soon enough.

Still tugging at it, he replied Well, I'm trying to get it to lay down. But it won't. It crossed my mind that here was the beginning of a problem he would have for most of his life, but I refrained from pointing this out to him. It also crossed my mind that as long as he kept pulling at his peepee, it would probably never lie down, but I figure he will discover that soon enough, too. Possibly already has.

It's interesting watching a guy coming to grips with his genitalia, so to speak. I've always wondered what it must be like harboring a bodily organ that behaves so independently of the rest of you; I'm guessing it's something like having a baby moving inside you, this little presence over which you don't entirely have control. The wonder, bemusement and camaraderie with which Sam relates to his peepee are endlessly fascinating and entertaining.

I'd Watch That Show.
Mood:  flirty
Topic: Sam
Last night Sam and Matt were very eager to take their bath, and the kids pestered us about it throughout cooking dinner, not to mention eating it and cleaning up afterward.

We were just finishing up in the kitchen when Sam, wearing only Spider-Man underpants and his most brilliant smile, leapt into the doorway with arms spread wide and announced:

It's the PARTY NAKED SHOW!

Ben looked at me. I would watch that show, he said.

I think the kid's got something there. At the very least, he got his bath, without further delay. Who can argue with a guy who wants to party naked?

What A Wonderful World.
Mood:  amorous
Topic: Sam
Last night we were all lounging in bed watching So I Married An Axe Murderer (1993) with Mike Myers. At one point, Mike mistakenly walks in on Amanda Plummer while she's in the shower, and there is a brief view of naked soapy backside.

"Hey! I saw that naked girl!" Sam said.

"What, did you see her butt?" I asked.

"I saw her woo-woo," Sam confided.

"There aren't any woo-woos in this movie," Ben interjected.

"There are woo-woos everywhere!" Sam exulted. He spread his hands wide and flashed his biggest grin. "Welcome to my world!"

Words fail me.

Pssssssst.
Mood:  party time!
Topic: Sam
Y'all. Ssssshhhhh. Get in here. I'm afraid to say anything too much.

Sam woke up this morning with a dry Pull-Up, asked to go to the toilet, peed a humongous male morning pee, then asked to put on underwear when getting dressed.

That was six hours ago. So far, so good. He did have one accident, but I suspect that was because he was tired of the gecko underpants and wanted to wear the Hulk instead. And then I played my ace in the hole: I put him in his Darth Vader board shorts. Would you pee on Lord Vader? I sure wouldn't try it.

And you know what else? Midway through the last paragraph, he went to the toilet again.

Hush now. Let's not put a hoodoo on it. Maybe he won't go to college still peeing his pants. Maybe -- just maybe -- there is light at the end of this pee-soaked tunnel, and I won't have three kids in diapers after all.

Sam's Peepee Goes To Preschool.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Sam
This morning we did it; we went and toured Sam's new preschool. He starts in September, and the only trick is going to be getting his peepee (not to mention his behind) in order by that time as far as the peeing and the pooping and when and where to do those things.

I have faith in him, though. He was fascinated by the four-year-olds' room and kept asking the director "What's that for?" and "What do we do here?" So he's motivated. We stopped at Starbuck's beforehand for Mommy's venti nonfat cappuccino and he peed in the toilet like a champ, although I'm going to have to work with him on making sure his peepee is actually pointing into the toilet before he lets fly. "My peepee is getting really good at peeing in the toilet," he mused afterward.

Sam's peepee has quite the personality. Sometimes I will take him to the bathroom and he will try to pee but then explain, 'My peepee says No no no." His peepee says other things, too, and Sam will sometimes wag his peepee up and down and make it "talk" as it says these things. Ben and I find it endearing that his peepee says No no no in the first place. Most guys' peepees don't say anything except Yes yes yes, and that goes for their whole lifetimes.

So, you know, I think Sam and his peepee are going to do okay. Mommy, on the other hand, is a bit of a wreck. Preschool this fall means kindergarten next fall, and excuse me, didn't I just give birth to this kid ten minutes ago? Mr. Baby is all grown up. This is all a bit much for a hormonal pregnant mommy.

In other news, I finally got up off it and bought a domain name. The Mr. Baby Blog is now located at www.MrBabyShow.com. Our motto: Same shit, different URL!

Well . . . Yes.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
Yesterday we had lunch at BJ's Pizza. It's one of Sam and Matt's favorite places; they love the minestrone and the root beer floats, and Ben loves the beer, so we go there a fair amount. On this particular visit, Sam was especially energetic. Which is to say he drove us absolutely nuts. He was happy enough, but was completely bouncing off the walls, so that the whole meal was a litany of Sam this and Sam that and Sam, will you please pull your head out from under the table and eat already?

By the time we loaded the kids back into the van to go home, I was exhausted. As we started out of the parking lot, Sam suddenly piped up, "I don't want to go there anymore. I don't want to go back to BJ's Pizza ever again."

I turned around to look at him, surprised -- he loved BJ's. "Why, honey?" I asked.

"That place makes me crazy," he said.

Skeleton Crew.
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Sam
Preamble: I would like to point out that it is five freaking thirty in the morning and I have been up for over an hour despite not having to leave the house until 6:45. Damned pregnancy insomnia. It's good for the blog though; I've even got three draft entries in the pipeline on topics ranging from "Sticking it in" and popular music to mating tortoises to a comparison study of the Beatles, Monkees, Rutles and Wiggles.

* * *

Every morning in the car, I listen to the Howard Stern Show. There are many who will tell me I absolutely should not do this, what with the kids in the car and all, but I am a much worse influence on them than Howard Stern. I have never heard them repeat anything untoward from the Stern Show, but I have more than once heard Matt mutter "bloody hell". On the plus side, if he's going to learn to cuss from me, at least he is learning to do it in a somewhat refined, British style. We are, after all, a nice well-spoken family.

In any event, yesterday morning Artie and Howard were discussing Michael Powell, the departing FCC head. "Michael Powell!" Matt yelled. Sam, who firmly believes that Michael Jackson is both a skeleton and a girl, cried, "He's a skeleton!"

"No, honey," I told him. "Michael Jackson is the one who's a skeleton. This is Michael Powell. He's an entirely different guy."

Sam looked at me. "They're all skeletons," he said darkly.

I tried to convince him otherwise, but he is quite certain that anyone named Michael is a skeleton. This could prove interesting in his future social life.

Meanwhile, in this week's Onion, Neverland Ranch Investigators Discover Corpse of Real Michael Jackson

Well, that explains a lot. Sam is right. He really is a skeleton.

Womb With A View.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
Sam has been chatting quite knowledgeably about the baby in my belly. The other day he told me, "I want to go back in your belly."

I told him "Sam, you wouldn't like it in there anymore. It's boring in there. There aren't any toys in there. There's no TV. There are no DVDs."

He replied "Yes, there are! There are toys and TV and DVDs and remotes."

I told him "If there were, then you and Matt would never have come out of there. You'd still be in there."

If there were, their father probably would have found a way to get in there with them by now.

Sam's Advice.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
Every morning when I drop the boys off at day care, Sam walks me to the door to tell me goodbye. It's a long, elaborate ritual punctuated with hugs and kisses and standard recitals. "Bye mom! Have a good day at work! Be careful! See you later!"

This morning, he had a final admonition for me before closing the door: "Don't blow up the car!"

Well, honey, I'll try to avoid that. But I am definitely putting my foot down with your father about all those James Bond movies he's been watching.