Close, But No Cigar

Getting ready for a new baby is so much fun. I loved shopping for the little clothes and blankets. I talked with other mothers about 'must-haves.' Putting together Sam's little room was my favorite part. My mom even joined in the fun during one of her visits. We went through a lot of different bedding sets, and decided on one in the pattern on the lamp below:

I wasn't a huge fan of the sheep, and I'm still not. But I knew I wanted beige, and to stay away from a lot of cartoony-type decoration. Mom bought the sheets, blanket, bumper pad, curtains, and diaper holder in this pattern. The sheep aren't as noticeable on the other items - some don't have any sheep at all.

Anyway, we were so excited when we found the matching lampshade. It didn't come with the base. We must have gone to three other stores, trying to find a matching base, and finally gave up. I eventually bought a cheap base and painted it to match.

Never once, in all of this decorating and messing around with the lamp, did I think beyond Sam being an infant. I certainly never expected to walk into his room and find his darling lamp like this:

Quite simply, the kid is deranged.

Sam Turns Four Years Old!

Last night, finally fed up with Sam's long hair, I battled him in the tub and gave him a trim. I know a lot of people liked his hair. I did too, for the most part. But when I look at the pictures of Wally, Sam, and Eric on the couch, all I can think is, "What a pretty little girl!" Not that there is anything WRONG with that. But I prefer my son to look like a boy, thankyouverymuch. He will have plenty of time to grow out his hair and drive me crazy when he is older.

This morning as Sam and I played in his room, I tried to get some pictures of his new look. I could not believe it when I snapped this one:

Seriously. Who is that kindergartener? What is with that self-satisfied little smirk on his face? This picture is a little glimpse into Sam, the middle-aged accountant.
Now THIS is my baby. Still with the tax-preparer hair, but wearing puppy pajamas and reaching for the toy I'm dangling over his head.
What a sweet face! I hope I don't see any more of that 'old' face for many, many years.

I Say Tomato, Sam Says Nummy Nummy

I have written before about Sam's willingness to eat anything set in front of him. I know a lot of moms who have to hide vegetables in their children's food. I consider myself lucky to not have to worry about that, but I assume it is only temporary. I keep waiting for the day that Sam starts to refuse certain foods.

Wally, during his harvest deliveries, gave us several tomatoes from his sister's garden. I love tomatoes but clearly remember not liking them when I was a child. Yesterday I made myself a BLT for lunch and figured I'd save myself the work of fixing two meals by making one for Sam, too. I thought that at the least, he'd eat the bread.

Well, Sam is Sam, and he ate his 1/2 sandwich before I could take more than two bites out of mine. He then strained himself reaching for the bowl of tomatoes on the counter. He ate raw, plain tomato as fast as I could dice it onto his tray.

We eat lunch fairly early in the day. When we got home from the library at 4 pm, we were both hungry. I opened the refrigerator to look for something for dinner, not noticing Sam slipping in front of me. He grabbed a tomato out of the bowl and took a huge bite out of it like he was eating an apple.

Sometimes being his mom is just exhausting.

Dailey Men

Yesterday, Eric's dad stopped by to drop off his fall harvest. He is not a farmer by any means; but he's a guy who always knows a guy. Near the end of every summer, his house is overflowing with crops and butchered meat. He went on a little road trip yesterday, stopping by four of his kids' houses, pulling out bags and bags of fresh corn on the cob and coolers of steaks and roast.

He didn't stay at our house very long (he had deliveries to make), but Sam was just delighted to see his Papa. He showed him around his bedroom, complete with big-boy bed, and engaged him and Eric in a spirited game of catch.

For a few minutes, they watched some highlights of the last Vikings game. I couldn't resist taking a picture of them. They really do look alike. If Eric eventually grows into the person his dad is, and Sam turns into Eric, I would be a happy and blessed woman, indeed.

Just a couple of guys watching the game.
My past, present, and future - sharing a couch.

Samthoven

Last Friday night, a thunderstorm knocked out our electricity. On Saturday morning, in an attempt to distract Sam from the loss of Sesame Street and hot food, I let him play the piano. I don't usually allow it, because, well - then he'd be playing the piano.

I couldn't believe how serious he was once I set him on the stool. He carefully and deliberately used his pointer fingers to try out all of the keys. A lot of what he did actually sounded like music. He was incredibly impressed with himself.

He insisted on having the music in front of him.
Seriously considering his next note.
All the greats eventually go mad.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Are Signs

I have said before that Sam (so far) is not really a verbal toddler. He seems to prefer using his own type of sign language to get his points across. A quick tutorial in communicating with Sam:

If you are peacefully enjoying a book or TV show, and are suddenly hit in the arm with an empty bowl, Sam is hungry.

If you are peacefully enjoying a book or TV show, and are suddenly hit in the face with an empty cup, Sam is thirsty.

If Sam suddenly starts running in place, grunting and grimacing, he is dancing.

If Sam walks up to you, hands out, palms up, something is lost.

If Sam stretches out his feet in his highchair so he can push against the footrest and stiffens like a board, he is full.

If Sam puts his pacifier in his mouth, holds his blankie to his face, and looks pitiful, he is tired.

If you are on the computer and Sam knocks the keyboard to the floor, he wants attention.

If Sam comes running with the TiVo remote in his hand, looking panicked, he has just erased all of our recorded shows.

If Sam holds his hands in the air, wiggling his fingers, and wrinkles his nose, he has found something gross.

If Sam shakes his head no, he is saying yes.

If Sam is standing next to your bed, in the dark, holding an empty pop can, he is ready to get up.

If Sam is holding his nose, he is looking at a picture of a skunk.


Armed with this information, one could easily care for Sam for at least an hour or two.

The Chicken Dance

For the last few weeks, Sam has been obsessed with music. He has a few toys that play songs, and he plays them over and over. Each song is about 30 seconds long, so he barely gets away and starts to play before he has to go back and start the music over.

Yesterday I got a birthday card from my Uncle Bryce. It is a musical card that plays The Chicken Dance when opened. Sam was just awestruck. He carried it around all day, opening and closing it. He never let it play all the way through, though. And so I listened to the first five seconds of The Chicken Dance about 400 times yesterday.

Da da dada dada da
Da da dada dada da
Da da dada dada da
Da da da da

And repeat. 400 times.

Happy birthday to me!

Sam the Builder

One of Sam's favorite toys is the MegaBlocks set he got from Grandpa Mark and Grandma Tina for Christmas last year. They come in a zippered-top, plastic bag. At first, Sam just loved dumping them out...and putting them back in...and dumping them out...and watching Mom put them back in...

I hadn't realized he was getting so good at building towers. He is learning to put the largest blocks on the bottom, and he can stack the single blocks over 10 high. Yesterday he was building on the coffee table, and he was so proud! I am particularly impressed by the three curved blocks on the bottom of his big tower.

Sweet to Violent (and back) in 30 Seconds

Last night as I gave Sam his bath, I couldn't help laughing at his hair. The cute little wisps above his ears have become wings. He was so adorable, splashing around in the tub, and I thought I'd take a few pictures. Little did I know that I was about to document a savage washcloth attack.

Sweet, cute baby in the tub.
No more washing my hair...revenge on all washcloths!
AAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGG!!!!
Victory will be mine!
Sweetly assessing the carnage.