Stories of Sam & Sahara

Come on!

2010-01-18T16:44:00.000-08:00

Sam came bouncing out of "kidz warehouse" the other Sunday with a coloring book picture of a jail cell. In it were an angel and a nice-looking dude in chains. At home over lunch Sam is sticking smiley-face stickers all over the jail cell as he tells me the story like this: "That guy was in jail. He was so sad! He has those chains on him. Then that angel comes. Then that angel says to him, "Come on! [Sam beckons with his whole arm to demonstrate. This is his favorite part.] Let's go! Let's play! And then the man was not in jail anymore."

Realism or expressionism?

2010-01-18T16:33:00.000-08:00

Sam and Sahara are drawing the traffic patterns on 277 at very slow shutterspeed.

Sahara Wants YOU

2010-01-18T16:11:00.000-08:00

So, as cute as this is, the truth is she was mocking me! She has been in the habit of throwing everything on the floor when she sits at the counter (or highchair or changing table or stool--any elevated location). She looks around for objects that are not attached and drops them. This is "fun." So I shake my finger at her and say "no" very seriously. The other day, she got a big smirk on her face and shook her chubby finger right back at me! I was so indignant, but she was so delicious I just had to get the camera.

Easter Sunday

2009-04-12T19:51:00.000-07:00

Wearing Carrots

2009-04-09T19:30:00.000-07:00

I have been trying to decide over a slow bowl of ice cream which photo I like best and I can't for anything choose just one, so I'm posting them all. I look at her face all day long and yet when I put her to bed, I miss it. I pace around the house for photos of her so I can see her even more, more strongly and surely, so I'll never forget. She's only the reason i get up every morning. she's sunshine and carrots and big curious eyes and she laughs so much now, especially at sam's silly faces, that it makes me breathless with happyhappyhappy. And this series is only breakfast. Thank goodness the camera runs out of batteries.

1903 Harrill

2009-04-09T19:08:00.000-07:00

Okay so this is our house in the 'hood where we've lived since I was 8 months pregnant last summer 2008. It's a mess. The porch and facia board need painting. We need new windows and porch railings. The storm door got broken, ironically, in a storm. The bright pink azaleas have some kind of disease. Miss Mary who is 900 years old and lives next door saved the tires-mounted-on-hubcabs flower pots for me. I spray-painted them green and will soon smother them in sweet potato vine like I did last summer to hide their junkyard origins. Danny's dad planted a cypress. So far I've planted a forsythia, a camelia, a bunch of lilies, and mounds of pansies. Oh, there's also a rusting yellow fire hydrant in the yard. Inside though, it's beautiful. It's got 10 foot ceilings and beautiful tile bathrooms. Some of the floors are still old wood. The house is 103 years old and is only a dozen blocks from uptown Charlotte. We're renovating it one inch at a time. I guess I'm putting this photo here so later I can see how much it's changed.

Bad Guy King Bonks Head, Gets Kiss

2009-04-06T05:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Sam excavated a grey t-shirt of Danny’s from the heap of laundry on the table and after a tussle, managed to get it on. Then he declared himself king. “Where is your crown?” I asked. “I are king!” barked Sam. He swung his arms around as if wielding a sword. “I are bad guy king!” he added with a snarl. “What is a bad guy king?” I asked. “I fight them!” said Sam, and roared. “Please would you go and fight the…(my mind scrambled for an alternative to “bad guys”)… monster!” Sam paused mid swing. Then, “Ya! I fight monster!” And with this he turned, leaped over his broken ukulele, and disappeared into the other room.

Growling and snarling ensued. He returned a few minutes later, face aglow. “Wow! I said. “Now would you please go and fight the...umm... dragon!” “Ya, I fight dragon.” He looked like Yoda in the long t-shirt as he leapt away. After some grunts and yelps… silence.

Sam appeared around the corner, his face crumpled up like a wad of paper. “I bonk my head!” he wailed. “Does bad guy king need a kiss?” “I need kiss!” he bawled. He staggered forward and I kissed his sweaty head. “Are you my bad guy king?” I asked. Sam nodded. “Can I take a picture of the bad guy king?” Sam kneeled on the floor and snarled, “I are bad guy king!”

green sundress

2009-03-29T18:19:00.000-07:00

Weather

2009-03-23T17:00:00.000-07:00

On March 2 we woke up to blankets of icy snow. Today, three weeks later, temperatures sauntered up nearly to 70 degrees.

Because i'm a writer, I feel all this pressure to write something really witty or spiritual or wise about this jarring juxtaposition of temperatures. BUT, Sahara is pulling on my slipper and making squawky noises. It's so hard to concentrate. My inner muse has been entombed in dirty laundry for two days. I've also been dying for a shower for the past 6 hours, if you must know, and now might be my last chance to make a run for it (err, the shower). I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT I SOUND LIKE THIS! Well, can't be helped. It is what it is. Therefore, in light of my muse-less state, I bring you the wit and wisdom of others:

Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather. ~John Ruskin

A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water. ~Carl Reiner

Don't knock the weather; nine-tenths of the people couldn't start a conversation if it didn't change once in a while. ~Kin Hubbard

The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of a world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found? ~J.B. Priestley

It is best to read the weather forecast before praying for rain. ~Mark Twain

There's no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing. ~Garrison Keillor

Papi and Abue Visit

2009-03-21T19:50:00.000-07:00

Papi and Abue drove down from Chicago to visit us this month. Thank you! Papi planted a tree. I built shrines to the Plueddemann ancestors all over the house and lit candles. :-) Danny and I got to go on a date. (Wow, I had forgotten what those are. I swear the waiters at Olive Garden are 12 years old. Who knew that a normal restaurant could make me feel uber-frumpy?) Sam and Sahara don't know what to do with themselves now that the house is empty. I don't either. We're barely managing...

Baby in Red

2009-03-21T19:42:00.001-07:00

(Ruby earrings for her birthstone, July)

Our Precious Desert Bloom, Sahara

2009-03-21T19:35:00.000-07:00

Sahara & the Doberman

2009-03-21T19:31:00.000-07:00

Now that the days are getting warmer, we spend more time outside. Our dogs are too big and heavy to romp around her, but I let them get acquainted through the gate. Sahara can spend 30 minutes at the gate absorbed in watching the dogs in the yard, yet the expression on her face is ambivalent. hmmmm.

11 PM

2009-03-04T20:34:00.000-08:00

Zzzzzzzzzzz :-)

Spelling

2009-03-03T07:23:00.000-08:00

Exhibit A: "Danny, I'm going to the bathroom to eat my I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M so that Sam won't bother me."

Exhibit B: "Sam asked if Mrs. Case has a P-E-N-I-S. I told him no, she has earrings instead."

What Happened to the Mailman

2009-03-03T07:13:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I refused to put Sam in diapers and Sam refused to wear his Thomas the Tank Engine underpants. So... taa-daa! Naked butt.
After awhile the door bell rang. Ding-dong. Sam took off at a gallop for the front door while I yelled out to remind him about his lack of pants. When I got there a moment later, Sam and the mailman were standing face-to-face. (Technically, face-to-knee, but they were looking at each other.) Due to a freak March snow, the mailman was bundled in his snow jacket, gloves and scarf. Sam was wearing his t-shirt and cheerfully flaunting his stuff.
The mailman started to chuckle. Actually, he may have been chuckling at me as I had neglected to take a shower although it was 2 p.m; I looked like a clown. Sahara was on my hip bonking the doorframe with a measuring cup.
Sam continued to loiter around my legs in the chilly, breezy doorway as I signed some certified mail. When I closed the door, I realized that Sam had turned blue from the waist down. This discomfort notwithstanding, he still refused to wear his Thomas the Tank Engine underpants.

Quiet time

2009-02-15T17:23:00.000-08:00

Sam has outgrown naps. This is a total bummer because I’ve always liked the guarantee of free time each afternoon. But there we are, such tiny luxuries fall away like matchbox cars from the hole in the pillow case where I keep them.

For a few afternoons I let him romp around. But then it occurred to me—it takes me awhile to catch on—that of course he could have an hour of quiet time. So after I put Sahara in her crib, I put him in our big bed with a stack of milk and a cup of books. What more could a little boy want? (I see the typo and I refuse to change it. Ha.) For days this has been our new and already cherished routine. But today, Sahara wouldn’t nap either! So I bunched up the pillows and plunked her next to Sam. In a very solemn voice I asked Sam to take care of her. Then I poured wooden blocks into her lap, and left.

A few minutes later, I peeked in.

Sam was reading his books to her. His little voice rose and fell the way a leaf scoots and skips in the air on a windy day. He made monkey hoots and crashing sounds, but most of the time his voice took on an informational, teachy tone. Sometimes he tilted the book towards her so she could see what he was explaining. He also paused to pile the blocks back in front of her. She grasped one in her chubby fist and pounded it zealously into the pillow.

If only I were a painter, I would have sketched the scene. The cavernous room rose around the bed with its soft chaos of mounded pillows and mussed sheets. In the middle sat two little hobbits sharing their provisions of storybooks and blocks, keeping each other company. Sun streamed in through the slats of the bamboo blinds and fell across the bed, transforming their bodies into brilliant compositions of light and shadow. Halos roiling with dust motes glittered above their heads. Light seeped through the thin membranes of their ears until it seemed as if they wore luminous earmuffs.

I stared and stared and stared, speechless at the exquisite sweetness of these two astonishing creatures who have come to live in my home.

Stop it, Sun

2009-02-11T14:34:00.000-08:00

So this morning on the way to preschool Sam began protesting loudly from the back seat, "Stop it, sun! Stop it, sun!" I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw him wincing and writhing away from the window. His arm rose up as if a large bird with talons were attacking his head. In a few seconds, I turned a corner and the sun moved around to the back window. Sam straitened out in his seat and sighed, "Thank you, sun."

Sick Day

2009-01-21T18:37:00.000-08:00

sammy and danny spent most of today in our bed being lethargic and sleepy together. They have low fevers and runny noses. They stare together at the new fish tank in our bedroom where a couple dozen baby convict fish glide over a zen-like landscape of smooth pebbles. When I hear rumply snores, I know they are dozing off. Sometimes they wake up and ruffle through their books---The Brothers Karamazov and Mr. Bear's Vacation. Then they nod off again because these books are obviously boring. It is very sweet but I hope they feel better tomorrow because I miss them.

Skin

2009-01-21T10:26:00.000-08:00

Soft as butter. Sweet as raspberries. Warm as cookies cooling on a rack.

Gifts of the Magi

2009-01-16T09:27:00.000-08:00

Everything was normal with Steve Whitby. Well, except that his right finger and thumb twitched. And was that a tremor in his right arm? Sort of, yes. And maybe, maybe his right foot dragged a little big. Not a big deal, really.

The tremor, twitches and dragging got a bit worse, so Steve mentioned them to his doctor who referred him to a neurologist. The neurologist assessed the situation and said, “We’re looking at a brain tumor or Wilson’s Disease, both fatal. And oh, there’s this itty-bitty chance of Parkinson's Disease, but honestly, you’re way too young.”

In January 2003, at the age of 30, Steve was diagnosed with young-onset Parkinsons. Of the one million Parkinsons sufferers in the United States, only a few thousand develop the disease under the age of 50. Steve is one of these.

I explained to God that this was completely out of line. His omnipotence was looking indistinguishable from impotence. Top of my list of grievances was that Steve is a gifted song writer and guitarist. Would there come a day when he couldn’t play his guitar? His tremors could sabotage so much, too much.

Later that year, our small group stuffed fund-raising envelopes for the Parkinson Association of the Carolinas. It felt like we were doing something, a little bitty something.

Four months after his diagnosis, Steve met Tami, our other friend. They fell in love--really, really deep love. Gooey love. Happy love. Love that made them both smile way too big and for way too long. When Tami eventually vowed, “In sickness and in health,” her eyes were wide open to the possibility that a husband in a wheelchair might be in her future, but that was okay. Souls are not wheelchair-able, not Steve’s soul anyway.

Steve’s right side got a bit worse and the doctor ramped him up to stronger meds. The 10-year trajectory for the progression of his disease was reached in about 3 years. By 33, Steve was on the strongest medication available at that time to Parkinsons sufferers.

Next time we stuffed envelopes, baby Sam came and gurgled on his blanket with us.

Today, at age 36, Steve can no longer tie his shoes in the mornings. Well, he can, but his fingers enjoy the dexterity of boxing mitts. Steve’s mornings go something like this: the alarm goes off at 6 a.m. and his eyes open, but his body is, as he says, “creaky.” He reaches for his water and pills. Slowly his muscles wake up. By 6:30, he can sit up, shuffle around, get dressed. Buttons are a hassle. Writing or typing are almost impossible until Mirapex courses fully through his body. And like I said, finding the dexterity to tie his shoes is about as easy as me finding the dexterity to be a contortionist. This is why his favorite pair of shoes are Sketcher Palms. They’re light-weight, lace-free, and even trendy. Their elastic bands let him slide his stiff feet inside.

Despite all of this, Steve is not one to talk about his situation. Even Tami barely ever catches him taking his cocktail of three different meds THIRTEEN times a day. He’s that sneaky and he never complains. But a few weeks before Christmas 2008, it slipped out that Sketcher had stopped making Palms. He’d tried other shoes, but nothing worked quite like Sketcher Palms. We looked down at this worn shoes. He’d been wearing the same pair almost every day for over a year.

In the days that followed, we kicked into gear. High gear. Every shoe store in the Charlotte area and every shoe outlet online was harassed by our searching voices and nimble fingers. Simon called his friend in NY who had a cousin in London to check stores there. Perhaps best of all, Laurie started bidding on a pair that showed up on E-bay only to discover that Steve was also in the bidding. She outbid him. She was a woman on a mission.

Two weeks before Christmas, Steve’s doctor looked at his scuffed up Sketcher Palms and said, “Dude, ditch the shoes. They're just socks with rubber on the bottom.” (my paraphrase)

A week later we had a Christmas feast and white elephant gift exchange. That night, every size and color of box and bag appeared under the Hopkins’ tree. Steve asked Tami what two gifts she’d wrapped for them. Tami, thinking fast, said she’d rather not tell. She’d found such great gifts and wanted him to be surprised. Steve shoveled into the broccoli casserole, oblivious.

After we were sufficiently stuffed, we tottered into the living room. “We're all going to take a gift and open it on the count of three,” said Dennis, one of Steve’s best friends. “After that, the white elephant part begins.” Laurie handed out the gifts. We shook our boxes and feigned puzzled looks on our faces.

One…

Two…

Three…!!!!

Paper ripped, bows bounced, ribbons zig-zagged in the air, and tissue bloomed in crinkly clouds before settling knee-deep on the floor. In a matter of seconds, all 16 of us were holding aloft one Sketcher Palm, size 10.

Tami started to cry.

Steve started to cry.

Then they both smiled their smiles that are way too big and last for way too long.

I wonder what the Magi were thinking when they brought the baby Jesus gold, frankincense and myrrh. We may not be as wise as them, and we certainly don't come with the gear---turbans, star-gazing skills, and camels. But this Christmas, in our own way, we brought the baby Jesus shoes—Sketcher Palms, size 10, to be exact. Steve gets to wear them for now, while Jesus lives inside his heart, his unwheelchair-able heart.

A) Ventilation B) Flexibility

2009-01-10T06:59:00.000-08:00

The Magi's Gifts

2008-12-18T14:12:00.000-08:00

Yesterday Sam and I were reading one of his lift-the-flap books about Christmas. As usual we came to the exciting page depicting the visit of the three Wise Men from the East. Sam lifted the flaps on the camel saddles to reveal two golden treasure chests and one jewel-studded urn.
"Gold, frankinsense, and myrrh," I said for the hundredth time. "Presents from the Wise Men to baby Jesus."
Sam twirled his hair thoughtfully for a moment. Then he pointed to the flaps and exclaimed, "Lunch box!"

No Food or Drinks Allowed

2008-12-18T07:05:00.000-08:00

I'm a frequent visitor to the chiropractor for a number of reasons which I will not be so presumptuous as to assume that you are interested in. I am not even interested in them. I'm just going to tell you that there is a large sign on the front door which reads:

No Food or Drinks Allowed.

Thank you.

This was discouraging the first time I saw it because I always go in the morning when my sole comfort in life is a deep cup of coffee. But surprise! Just inside the door is a buffet stuffed with beverages and food which cheers even the most pain-wracked of visitors. Coffee, orange juice, hot tea and cocoa are the daily beverage choices. And the food is no receptionist's mints, lemme tell you. There are generous piles of sliced cake, chubby cookies, little Debbie's taffy gobbles, cinnamon doodles, powdery donuts that leave your lips white, and large glazed donut holes in which you might glimpse your reflection. Over the weeks, a collection of signs has grown up around the table. It is with pleasure that I reproduce them for you exactly as they appear printed on white computer paper taped to the wall:

Snacks for

PATIENTS ONLY!

DO NOT

throw your cups with any liquid in our TRASH CANS.
Please pour your drink out in the sink first.
Thanks.

Parents~~

Please help your children
with the snacks and drinks
to prevent unnecessary messes!
Thanks for your help.
The Staff.

This is a SNACK

Not a MEAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PLEASE BE COURTEOUS OF OTHER PATIENT

THAT MAY COME AFTER YOUR APPOINTMENT.

THE STAFF THANKS IN ADVANCE

AND HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And finally this, accompanied by the image of two hands in a circle with a red line through it:

!Do Not Use Your Hands To Get Food!

(smirk)

First Car

2008-12-15T18:26:00.000-08:00

Sam the Man, 2 years ago! What can I say? He had hair.

Teething means gnawing the yellow cell phone.

This week when I got the car out of the attic for Sahara, Sam was reeeallly miffed.

Sahara at the Window

2008-12-15T16:40:00.001-08:00

The Great Roll

2008-12-07T09:20:00.000-08:00

Sahara is looking smart and relaxed as she works on holding her head up. It's been a good workout.

Mesmerized by the shenanigans of her big brother, the "lean" inadvertently begins. Her curiosity is peaked. She decides to push the envelope and take said leanage to its wobbly extremes.
Uh-oh!!!

Sahara finds herself upside down, legs and arms pumping like the legs of an overturned turtle.

Having righted herself once again, she realizes with a sense of awe, yet solemnity, that she has crossed a significant kinesthetic/spacial threshold.

Thanksgiving Day

2008-11-29T14:00:00.000-08:00

Sahara out of doors

2008-11-15T14:47:00.000-08:00

Bath Time

2008-11-14T16:46:00.000-08:00

Sunday Night Serenity

2008-11-09T18:50:00.000-08:00

Four and a half months after moving in, the last of the boxes is gone! The living room feels spacious; the walls and windows bare but peaceful.

Snapshot of the moment: Danny's reading The Greek Way by Edith Hamilton for the third time. Sahara is practicing her new skills---grasping fabric fish from her work station on the floor. Sammy's in the dinning room doing absolutely nothing... well, staring into the middle distance and twirling his hair. He's contemplating his next move. We are all listening to gospel music that Danny put on. "Victory in Jesus" is over and now this gem wafts through the house:

’Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus,
And to take him at his Word;
Just to rest upon his promise,
And to know, “Thus says the Lord!”

Jesus, Jesus, how I trust him.
How I’ve proved Him o’er and o’er
Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus.
O for grace to trust him more!

Yes, ’tis sweet to trust in Jesus,
Just from sin and self to cease;
Just from Jesus simply taking
Life and rest, and joy and peace.

I’m so glad I learned to trust Thee,
Precious Jesus, Savior, Friend;
And I know that Thou art with me,
Wilt be with me to the end.

Sahara laughed!

2008-11-09T18:11:00.000-08:00

Sahara laughed for the very first time tonight! It was more than a coo or gurgle. It was a bona fide, multi-second giggle. Spontaneous. Joyful. It took my breath away.

Sputtering to a Start

2008-10-23T13:42:00.000-07:00

Wow, I've MISSED YOU! A little bity thing happened while I was away: Sam got a baby sister, Sahara. Oh yes, and another little thing, we moved house. Oh, oh, and Danny closed our mortgage company (panic, panic) and then got a job at a bank (hurray!) the day before I went into labor (what the…?). It was chaos. All that catapulted me out of blog land for 3 whole months. I think I might be back now. Might.

I can’t possibly update you on 3 months worth of unlikely, disgusting, mundane, sweet, exasperating and, on the best of days, miraculous happenings. The thought of all that update-age makes me want to go shoot myself in the head. Instead, I’m going to do one of those lame, clunky transitions used in badly written paperback novels that people who are not me buy at travel stops: “And then a long time later Joe and Delilah were eating clams back at the farm." Just watch me do it. ha! I don’t even care. haha!

And then a long time later it was 11 PM at the Plueddemann Pad…

Sahara is emitting gassy noises from her swing which might mean I have to go pick her up soon. Sam is sitting on our big bed engrossed in a lift-the-flap book about work vehicles. (He enjoys a killer bedtime for a two year old.) He is testing himself: "Tow tuck? Nooooo. Cement tuck!" On the floor is a 60-piece jigsaw puzzle which he’s completed several times. Typically those who chug juicy-juice from sippy cups do not complete jigsaw puzzles. He's a genius.

What I have accomplished this evening--you will be excited to learn--is finish off a batch of chocolate chip cookie dough all by myself. I would have baked the cookies, but then Danny and Sam would have smelled them, followed swiftly by desiring them. One thing leads to another. I did what I had to do.

From my computer desk vantage point, I can see 3 dirty sippy cups under the dining room table. I think they mate under there at night and breed more sippy cups. This happens to binkies under the crib, legos under the rug, and squirty toys in the tub. We have a horny house.

Danny is in the living room watching his fish because I can see the harsh bluey light glowing against the darkness. I know he is sitting in the banana-leaf chair with his face tilted like a satellite dish towards the tank. His expression will be one of deep serenity, his sea-green eyes gliding back and forth with the fish. For whatever reason, the occasional cockroach scuttles across our floors (I mean ‘occasional’ in the sense of ‘always;’ still no shoe molding). Danny stuns them with a wack of his magazine, pinches them in a paper towel, and feeds them live to his Jack Dempseys and Convicts. An orgy blossoms around this horrifying bug as it sinks into its watery grave. Danny and I are now vegetarians (should’ve put that in paragraph 1) because we want to live more peaceful lives. Meanwhile we keep pets that are uber-carnivores. I offer no explanation for this.

Oh, listen. The dishwasher is hum-swooshing. And country music is twanging softly in the kitchen because I forgot to turn off the radio. I could sooo nod off to sleep right now, except for the frostbite. Did I mention the frostbite? Synopsis: the Doberman, whom I requested live under the house when we moved here last summer, tore up our new duct work. Hot air is now wafting pleasantly into the crawl space giving the dog a toasty evening. I AM SO HAPPY FOR THE DOG%*#. The good news (yeah!) is that we can repair it (yeah!) using all the money (yeah!) which we grow on trees.

The cookie dough no longer makes me feel happy.

Yup, here we are, back in blog land. Ta-da!

Monday Morning

2008-07-28T07:29:00.000-07:00

So "Bill Grogan's Goat" is blaring through the house (the tragic yet redemptive story of a thieving goat's near death on train tracks). Sam is marching around wearing a huge yellow rubber glove on one hand and with the other, pulling his wagon of tools, most of which he can identify: "wench! scu-dwiva! saw! hamma!"

Oh, oh... new scene. He has abandoned the tool wagon for a rolling file cart. He has laid Mr Frog in it and is pushing him around the coffee table, marching briskly to "...found a peanut, found a peanut." Now, having suddenly cast himself upon the floor, he is kicking his legs and shouting, "mine! wench!"

I'm going to take a shower.

MINE!

2008-07-21T11:38:00.000-07:00

MINE!

(referring to the camera. I offered to trade my camera for his popsicle, and steam started coming out of his ears.)

Damage Assessment

2008-07-20T21:27:00.000-07:00

Tonight Sammy squirted the better part of a bottle of Ranch dressing onto his plate (which is shaped like a banana leaf and was a gift from Tamara, thank you Tamara). I was away answering the door and Danny was in the shower while the crime took place. Later we discovered the mess.

I was irritated. It was a new bottle of dressing and I don't like waste. Plus, the sole purpose of Ranch dressing is to encourage Sam to eat raw vegetables, not drown them. Danny said, "At least it's all on the plate and not everywhere else." I chewed on my lip for a few moments, reflecting.

Sometimes the most you can hope for is containment.

Haircut

2008-07-12T07:49:00.000-07:00

Sammy haircuts have become events, the way an outing to a small European country might be an event. "Christopher Robin, give me back my Sam!" I declare to his moppy head. And then off we go to "PonyTails & Crew Cuts" in Cotswald. To begin with, Sam is treated to a choice of seats. He likes the big red "pleen." His flying suit is floppy green cape. A vast array of distractions encircles him. For example, a DVD of "Happy Feet" blares nearby. Once the comb and scissors appear, so do the Skittles.

Sammy's chipmunk-cheeks bulge with more Skittles.

Done! (sort of)

Bail Bondsman Moves In

2008-07-11T06:21:00.000-07:00

Right, so Danny has been looking for a renter for his office building. Lucky for us, he found one who is in business with Christ (!!!). Business is booming for Elliot and his divine cohort; apparently they need more space. They are also bounty hunters.

I thought our sins were not so much "payless" as "paid in full" by Jesus, but whatever the case, Elliot and JC let you make payment plans. I'd be the last to rock Elliot's theological boat. He's got guns.

His website reads: "Sin will take you further than you want to go, keep you longer than you want to stay and charge you more than you want to pay." Followed by: "Try Payless Bail Bonds! We will wipe your tears away!"

I Can Grow People

2008-07-09T06:52:00.000-07:00

Abuelita and Sam work on "What does the cow say?" while I knock out my superpower gig.

Sam loves to water

2008-07-02T14:31:00.000-07:00

Sam and Papi water the hydrangea. Sam is sporting his nifty Home Depot apron which says, "Hello, my name is SAMMY." :-)

Sam is very frugal in that each plant only gets 3 or 4 drops. However, he is also very generous--the weeds get watered too.

Mud!!

Father's Day 2008

2008-06-30T23:30:00.000-07:00

What beautiful blue eyes Sam has.

(I bought Danny that t-shirt. haha. :-))

Sam at Daddy's soccer game.

Viking Pulls Rickshaw for Frog in Diapers?

2008-06-30T23:19:00.000-07:00

I'm not even going to try to comment on the workings of Sam's little brain.

Sam and the Doberman

2008-06-30T23:14:00.000-07:00

A Fallen Branch

2008-06-17T19:36:00.000-07:00

Sam's Helps with the New House

2008-06-07T05:51:00.000-07:00

Dragon Tales

2008-06-03T18:54:00.000-07:00

Ord, Zak and Wheezie are alarmed about Sam sitting close to their screen.

Figuring Out the Universe

2008-05-22T15:05:00.000-07:00

SAM, whose vocabulary has swelled to 6 words, has brilliantly managed to combine two. He was standing in all his adorable nakedness watching the water in the bathtub sink his boats. Suddenly he stretched out his arm to the drain and said, "Bye-bye agua!"

SAM knows about stoplights now, which are semaforo in Spanish. He has a great view through the front windshield from his car seat. "Dis, dis!" he shouts when he spots one coming up, or when we have been stopped at one and it suddenly turns green. I have said the words rojo, amarillo, and verde so many times I'm about to go nuts. But Sam still says, "dis."

OUR hot water heater died recently, creating a 40-gallon puddle of warm agua in very short order. (It was new in 1987, so I'm really irritated that it only lasted 21 years.) But it was very exciting for Sam. I pulled towels from his bathroom cabinets, and he ran them one by one over to Danny who was on his hands and knees in the lake. You could tell Sam was very excited, jabbering, "agua!", pointing, dragging towels around. The cutest thing was that Sam would put his hand on Danny's lower back and pat it gently. It was as if he were saying, "It's okay Daddy."

SO it was Sam's naptime one Saturday while I was running errands. Danny put him in the guest bed with some milk. Of course, Sam popped up and appeared in the living room. Danny got serious and told him he couldn't leave the bed. He fussed for awhile and then it was silent. Later when I came home, I found Sam fast asleep on the bed with the yoga mat folded on top of himself. Danny had no idea how this happened.

Sammy's little sister's mobile home

2008-05-15T09:47:00.001-07:00

Sammy's rambunctious baby sister is 11 weeks away from delivery. I tell Sam often about the sibling-tsunami about to rock his world, but he has no clue. When he hugs my legs, I can't see him anymore!

Garbage Truck Morning

2008-04-26T08:35:00.000-07:00

Every Wednesday morning Sammy hears the garbage truck beeping and banging along our street. I never hear it until he runs to the front window and tosses back the blinds. Sometimes he ducks his head back under to find me and jabbers excitedly, pointing, then goes back to watching.

Sam also hears traffic helicopters thumping overhead and dogs barking in distant yards. “Woof,” he says, and cocks his head. I do not hear these sounds unless Sam draws my attention to them.

This morning I heard our van honk out on the driveway. This usually only happens when I hit the “lock” button twice on my key chain. After about 5 beeps, it occurred to me that Sam must have found my keys. Sure enough, I discovered him near the window punching the lock button over and over while the van tooted loudly for the enjoyment of the whole neighborhood. Because I threw out my back, I can’t bend over to Sam’s level so I held out my hand and said, “Sam, give me the keys.” Despite the enormous silence of the house, Sam was apparently unable to “hear” me. The van tooted again. “Sam, I happen to know that the hammer, anvil and stirrup bones inside your ears are perfect. So fork over the keys.” But Sam had become mysteriously deaf. Toot, toot went the van. At this moment Danny appeared and took the keys from Sam, who protested at an impressive decibel level.

Danny and I hear differently too. For a very long time, we could never hear each other apologize, though both of us claimed to do it regularly! Now whenever one of us feels we have apologized, we follow it up with, “Did you hear that I just apologized?” This way the other person has to pause and notice what their ears took in. We soon discovered that different words trigger the awareness that an apology has occurred. Danny simply needs to hear, “I’m sorry, it was my fault.” He zooms in on words that communicate personal responsibility. For me, such words are not very “loud.” Anyone can say “I’m sorry” after the fact. I need to hear how the grievance will not happen again. “Next time I will check the lock on the gate so the dog cannot get out” registers in my ears like a true apology.

Despite our age gap, Sam and I agree on hearing certain sounds though—like music. We are both also sensitive to the thump of Danny’s car door slamming in the driveway, and the jingle of his keys in the front door.

Even when Sam and I hear the same thing, we have different opinions about it. For example, one recent spring afternoon, a thunder clap rumbled down our street sending thrills up my spine. A few feet away, Sam’s calm face crumpled up like a wad of paper and he began to howl, his lower lip jutting out a mile.

At his age, Sam can hear an extraordinary 10 octaves. The thin membranes of his toddler eardrums mean he can capture frequencies between sixteen and 20,000 cycles per second. As humans age, their eardrums thicken and high frequency sounds don’t pass as easily between the miniature bones of the inner ear. Yet more significantly, aging can thicken the mind and render its ideas stale and brittle. This has the potential to reduce a person's "hearing" more than anything else. Sam, aged 28 months, hears the telephone ring two houses down, but he cannot hear me ask for the keys. Is this a symptom of aged eardrums or mind!?

Both Sam and I have perfect hearing, yet we can’t—or don’t—hear what the other hears. We tune in to different frequencies. Our dissimilar aural landscapes are mapped out less by the apparatus of our ears than by grids of meaning in our minds. What we hear is determined more by our worldview than the quivering hairs inside our cochleas. Our personalities and priorities act as a kind of zoom lens over the biological anatomy of our ears. It causes certain sounds to blur and others to jump into sharp relief.

There was a time when Sam’s entire world consisted of the soothing, surf-like thump of my heart. Afloat in the womb, my heartbeat was his first cradlesong. But I am less and less the only sound in Sam’s universe. At night I sing to him in Hausa and French so that his ears learn the tones and textures of other languages, but by day he is increasingly limited to the phonetics of English and Spanish. As the universe ladles out enormous helpings of noise into his eager ears, the thumping of my heart will become fainter and harder for him to perceive. This is bittersweet; but it can also be okay. It will be part of growing up (for both him and me).

What I hope for most is that he would be able to hear the most important sounds. I pray that even as his eardrums loose some of their extraordinary 10-octave range, that his mind and soul would only increase their range of perception. I hope that he will learn to hear whispers of grandeur in a stormy sky and shouts of joy in the common daysong of a North Carolina wren. I hope that he becomes fluent in the emotional dialects of music. I hope he learns to hush the Niagara of noise produced by cell phones and Ipods in order to create quiet cathedrals of inner worship. I hope the silent suffering of the poor becomes louder to him than the babble of advertisements and entitlement propoganda. I hope he develops a keen capacity for listening to nuance in relationships because such fine distinctions give dignity to others. I hope that amidst the broken cacophony of the world, he would learn to amplify justice and still ignorance. I hope that the thrill with which he now greets the garbage truck would grow into the delight of a lifetime of listening to the love of God.

What Happened to Mommy's Back

2008-04-21T11:36:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I royally threw out my back. I mean yelping-in-agony, pain-searing-down-my-leg, can’t-move-or-it-kills kind of back pain. It may have happened because of a teeny weeny 16-hour road trip to Michigan, but I’m not admitting that. It may also have something to do with being six months pregnant. Or it could be that I already had a weak lower back and possibly, inadvertently neglected to stretch or exercise like all the articles tell me to. But, as I said, I’m not 'fessing up to anything. What matters is that I was victimized by mind-melting pain that compares only to childbirth---except in labor there are nice people loitering about who will give you an epidural.

It had begun on a Tuesday and in the wee hours of Wednesday morning I made Danny call the office of our chiropractor, Dean O’Hare. The voice mail explained that the office didn’t open until 9. I could see that the universe was committed to my slow death. I made Danny riffle around for Dr. O’Hare’s cell number. We had it!! As Danny left a message, I decided that his voice was not desperate or urgent enough, so I glared at him. Nevertheless, a few minutes later, Dr. O’Hare called back.

“Going to die soon,” I panted into the phone. “Pain stabbing down my leg. Bottom of foot triggers excruciating agony.”

“Sounds like a full blown case of sciatica,” said Dean.

The word “sciatica” meant nothing to me. “Am six months pregnant. Will die soon. Help. Help.”

“The good news is, this isn’t hurting your baby at all.”

“Really?”

“Not at all.”

Birds chirped quietly outside.

“I haven’t used the bathroom in 10 hours." I resumed. "Cannot get up.”

“Now that you might want to take care of. That’s not so good for the baby. Is Danny there?”

“Yes.”

“Have him double bag some ice and put it under your lower back for 10 to 15 minutes every hour.”

“So you’re suggesting that into my volcano of torment I should toss an ice cube?” Actually, I didn’t say that. I thought that. But I was still being friendly because I harbored the hope that Dean might do house calls. "Ice,” I purred. "Good idea.”

“Can you move at all?”

“Not a bit. Can I take pain medication?”

“Not when you’re 6 months pregnant. Just Tylenol.”

Tylenol!!?? Molten anguish surged through my nervous system and he was suggesting Tylenol. “Certainly,” I purred again.

“If you can’t even stand without excruciating pain, there’s not a lot to do but wait it out with ice and rest. It will ease up. However, there’s a lot I could do for you in the office.”

The office, which was four miles away, could just as well have been four galaxies away. I wondered if my insurance covered helicopter transport. I hung up and stared at the ceiling. Then I whispered, “Honey, I have to pee. For the baby.”

Danny helped me out of bed, a sentence which is irritatingly easy to write. The actual act took at least 5 minutes and involved dozens of incremental shifts interspersed by yelps and groans. Then we hobbled together to the bathroom.

Later Danny filled a bag with ice and stuffed it under my back. I may have cussed a bit, the same way sailors cuss a bit, but eventually the ice was where the ice was supposed to be. I had the sensation of laying on a lump of sharp, burning rocks. But I inhaled deeply, willing peace into my body. With saint-like patience, I waited. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. No relief. I whimpered. My friend Tamara showed up. Sam's sitter showed up. Sigh.

An hour and a half later, Tamara and my husband had become my fan club and support group. Cajoling and cheering, they helped me once again to become vertical. Together we staggered towards the minivan the way soldiers do in war movies where the one in the middle is practically dead and the other two lug him forward while his boots drag a rut in the mud. I know how the guy in the middle feels.

At the door of the minivan, I released some adorable, ladylike bellows as they maneuvered my pain-wracked body into a kneeling position. To the casual observer, it may have looked like I had acquired a premature case of rigor mortis, but I felt like a circus contortionist folding into a matchbox.

After a 4-mile ride over what I can only believe were unpaved, speed-bump-overdosed, pot-holed roads, we arrived at Dr. O’Hare’s office.

“Hi Tina,” I mumbled. Tina was sitting in a chair. Effortlessly. Bitter feelings puddled in my heart. “Hi Amy,” I added. Through a blur of pain I noted that Amy was actually standing. Others were walking about the office. Clearly the world was mocking my newfound condition as an invalid.

But an hour later, after lots of assuring words, a few adjustments, massage, and grasping a jar of chirogesic cream, I felt comforted. Also, the baby was kicking vigorously. Relief.

I kneeled all the way home again, the roads having become miraculously paved during the past hour. My OB prescribed some sturdy pain meds, and I slept all day. I awoke only to grumble, get more ice, grumble, take a pill and grumble, in that order, except there was actually more grumbling.

That night was filled with dreams of pain drenched in aromas of icy-hot cream, followed in the morning by another epic journey over treacherous roads to the chiropractor’s office. This time Dean tried to show Danny how to gently massage my lower back and hip. Danny looked on dutifully, nodding. “Do this for her at home,” Dean instructed.

“Got it,” said Danny.

But Danny didn’t get it. At home, he wrenched and poked, asking tentatively if I felt better. I would have felt better if he’d driven over me with a riding mower. He was quickly re-assigned to his former duties of ice-fetcher and bathroom-assistant.

For the next days, the women at Dr. O’Hare’s office were fabulous. They greeted me enthusiastically every morning and gave me ultrasound massages. They exclaimed at how much better I looked than the first day and told stories about flushing their husband’s expensive salt-water fish down the toilet. I tried not to laugh because even if laughter is the best medicine, it was astonishingly painful. But I had to admit, I was feeling better. My in-laws sent a basket of flowers. My husband waited on my hand and foot. Yet as the weekend neared, another dilemma surfaced…

A childhood friend was getting married, and the wedding was to be held an hour and a half away in South Carolina. I was still kneeling on my trips to the chiropractor. Sitting in a chair was an Olympic feat for which I was still in training. The 16-hour road trip to Michigan had just about killed me. How could I drive an hour and a half away? At the same time, how could I let a stupid little nerve in the base of my spine sabotage me!!!

After much careful thought, I realized that things were not as grim as they seemed. I just had to improvise. All I would need was a driver (Danny seemed available), my son’s crib mattress, a neck support pillow, a pillow to put between my knees, an ice pack, extra ice in a cooler, one little pain pill, and a two year old for a peanut gallery. Honestly, it was a piece of cake.

Okay, so I winced at stoplights and clung to Sam's arm rest at sharp turns. BUT… I did clean out the trash from under his seat since I had unprecedented access to it. And I chatted lots with Sam, retrieving his dropped trucks and cheerios. I also made Danny park in discreet places so no one would see me lumber backwards out of the van.

The wedding was fabulous. Childhood friends flew in from everywhere. My sciatic nerve protested a couple of times, but mostly behaved itself. I felt elated.

Today marks exactly one week since my frantic pre-dawn calls to Dr. O’Hare. At ten o’clock this morning I drove myself to my appointment over smooth roads lined with blooming dogwoods.

“Hi Tina,” I said cheerfully. “Isn’t the weather great?”

“Oh, I love it,” she said. “Some people get depressed on these overcast days. But I love the deep purple clouds.”

“Sometimes a brilliant ray of sun will stab through the banks of rain clouds. It’s spectacular,” I exclaimed.

“Hm, hmm." She passed me my paperwork. "Room One.”

“Thanks,” I said, and limped to Room One.

Meditations on Eating a Banana

2008-04-07T08:45:00.000-07:00

Eating a banana is not as straightforward as one might think. Sam certainly has no pre-conceived notions about how to perform this act of fruit consumption—an act which takes place in billions of homes around the globe daily.

Back in the day when Sam was a baby, he got mashed up bananas to eat. This was because he only had gums and a tongue. Later he grew teeth and figured out some cool chewing moves, so he got bananas cut into little chunks. He grabbed these with fat baby fists and stuffed them into his mouth. As time progressed, he even got a plastic fork to stab the banana chunks.

Last week for the first time, it occurred to me to give him a whole banana. I turned down the peel in three strips, the way monkeys eat bananas in cartoons. Sam took to this new banana presentation with enthusiasm. He ate down to where the peel was still attached to the banana, then started digging with his tongue and fingers to pry out the rest. I showed him how to pull the peel back even further. He studied what I had done, but it took him a while to work it out for himself.

Today, I gave him a large banana and told Danny to watch. In a few seconds, Sam had peeled the whole thing and was holding it sideways, eating it up and down like corn on the cob.

I began to think about how some day, Sam will learn from repeated observation the “normal” way to eat bananas. He will also become more picky about getting banana all over his hands and choose to hold the clean peel. But for now, he can eat a banana any way he likes. He can also wear different shoes on each foot, or run around Lowes millwork department with no pants on. He can “read” his books upside down, make his dinosaur fly or his dolphin hop along the floor. He can put my lipstick on his cheek and Danny’s deodorant on his belly. He can eat dog food and feed his carrots to the dog.

Eventually though, it will be good to learn certain things, like that water belongs in sinks, tubs and cups, not on floors or in laundry baskets. Slowly the vast life curriculum of safety, health, manners, and thoughtfulness towards others will kick in. His unself-conscious actions will be replaced by a self awareness that may be both good and bad---a widening of his capacity to function appropriately in society, and a narrowing of his unedited curiosity. For now, he lives in a space of exploration and experimentation.

To get to observe it from such intimate proximity is breathtaking.

Insurance Exam

2008-04-05T20:07:00.001-07:00

Daddy and Sam study for the North Carolina Property & Casualty Insurance exam:

Reading in Bed

2008-04-05T19:32:00.000-07:00

Sam loves to jump on our bed. The other day he was jumping while I was in the bathroom. It had been too quiet for too long, so I peeked in to see what was up. Sam had pulled back the covers and made himself at home among the pillows. He was fussing to get his surroundings just so. First he pulled the bedspread up to his neck, then decided against this and folded it down, patting it with great care.

"Would you like some books?" I asked. I went and got some, which happened to be a children's Bible, a book on potty training, and a book called Guess How Much I Love You. He inspected each of these with interest. Then I brought the tissue box and put it next to him. (He has been imitating me using tissues.) He was very pleased with this and pulled out 5 tissues one by one. He scrunched them up against his nose and passed them to me to throw away. Then he went back to his books.

Babysitter for Sam

2008-04-05T17:20:00.000-07:00

So we needed a sitter on Thursday night. Responsible moms put lots of care and organization into finding and training their childcare. They are appropriately picky, anxious, and thorough. My plan was not marked by these features, and as the day wore on towards evening, I began to feel more and more like an utterly lousy parent. Where was my double-checked strategy involving an experienced sitter, lengthy safety instructions, a typed out schedule, and extra phone numbers? Was I being careless with my son?? ack!

My plan was to take Sam over to the Montagnard family’s apartment, who are my refugee friends that I visit. Despite language and cultural barriers, we would leave him there. Sam knows the place and the kids. However, I’ve never just walked away and left him there.

Thirty minutes before Danny and I were supposed to be at a restaurant, we showed up at the 3-bedroom apartment where 9 of them live. A mere 99 children were bouncing off the walls. Sam immediately disappeared into the fray. I explained to the oldest girl, Han, how to use this stuff I'd brought for her skin. By the look in her eyes, you would have thought I'd delivered a Porsche. On the spur of the moment, I decided to use Danny as a model for how to use cotton balls and moisturizer. Streams of giggles emanated from behind couches and corners. Having a real American white man in their home was clearly awe-inspiring and had changed the dynamic. But when he submitted to women's facial rituals, the squeals and gasps went through the roof. (Danny was a good sport.)

Then I explained the new word "babysitting" and they stared back at me with blank faces. Danny asked if 10 p.m. would be okay and inquired when they went to bed. Han shrugged and said with a very shy smile, “Nine, ten, or eleven.” Still uncertain, we waved bye-bye to Sam, who glanced nonchalantly over his shoulder and went back to tackling another boy.

Three hours later we returned. The population had dwindled to a mere 7 children and the atmosphere was hushed and sweet with the beautiful staccato texture of their language. Sam was drinking their apple juice in their kitchen and did not run to me. (This always mortifies me as a mom.) He eyed us suspiciously as if we were about to kidnap him and drag him home, which is true. Eventually Danny had to pick him up to get him to come. This made the kids laugh and exclaim to each other and to us, "Sam like us! Sam like us!" I said, "Sam like you too!"

Maybe I am not always a lousy mom. Maybe .00001% of the time, I might even arrange a fun, safe babysitting for Sam.

Sammy's Dad and the Gadget

2008-03-28T18:47:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I want to tell you about Danny’s newest toy and, by association, its tremendous effect on our marriage. (Obviously this isn't exactly about Sam, but it happened in the vicinity of Sam, so maybe that counts.) It would only be fair to preface this by saying that Danny's acquisition of this device was marked by enormous forethought, budgeting acumen, and a commitment to delayed gratification. Basically, Danny was sitting in a traffic jam on South Boulevard one day feeling hugely annoyed. Suddenly he spotted an Office Depot. As luck would have it, he still had the $50 gift certificate that his dad gave him for Christmas, and this led to the idea to go inside and purchase something useful—perhaps a box of paper for the fax—instead of fuming in traffic.

Upon entering, however, he spied a manly display of man gadgets and was drawn like a fly to potato salad. These sleek contraptions with crystal clear screens the size of a human palm were GPS devices. As traffic thinned outside, Danny’s mind also thinned into one muscular pulse of desire. A testosterone-enhanced thrill coursed through his veins as he pressed buttons on the displays and fondled the plastic packages. The universe had shifted, for what is traffic to a man with a gadget? The cage of a car becomes a Man Palace if he has a shiny gizmo to connect him to hunks of machinery floating in outer space....

* * *

About a week later we are scurrying to leave for a road trip to Orlando. Frazzled, I finally climb into the driver’s seat of our minivan and discover an unattractive black object hanging bat-like from my windshield. A smile twitches at the corners of Danny’s unshaven mouth. He looks at me triumphantly. “I keyed in the address of our Orlando hotel!” “Into what?” I ask. “Into that,” he exclaims, indicating the object with his eyes. “What is it?” I ask. “A navigational device,” he explains with great economy of words, and takes a swig of coffee. “Oh.” I pick up my print-out of mapquest directions and wave it in his direction. “That’s nice.I have these too.”

“Mapquest is a thing of the past,” he declares, swigging more dark coffee and gazing sagaciously into the middle distance.

“Oh,” I say, feeling like a dinosaur. I am so technologically challenged it's pathetic. I fold my mapquest print-out and stuff it into a pocket of the door.

“I have to look for houses all the time,” Danny continues. “I have to use mapquest. And that means printing things out, you know. What if the directions are wrong? Or what if I have to go from one house to the next, but I printed directions from the office? This is much better. Much better.”

“Okay!” His enthusiasm is contagious. Besides, I want to be a good sport.

I turn down our short street and an unfamiliar women’s voice suddenly fills the van. In one hundred feet, turn right. It’s the kind of voice one hears emanating from airport equipment, a voice that is meant to sound pleasant, but is so fake that only a guy could appreciate it. I glance sheepishly at the contraption, momentarily conflicted. I think, Gosh, I know exactly where I am, and I should definitely turn left. I hunch my shoulders and peek sideways at Danny. I ease the van left. “Hmm,” says Danny, his brows furrowed. We hit Interstate 77 and head south.

My mapquest directions to Orlando go something like this: Drive hundreds of miles on this highway, then hundreds of miles on that highway, then that one. Really, do I need to contact a satellite to determine my global position when I only have to remember three highways for the next 8 hours? Apparently I do, because immediately the mechanical women’s voice instructs me to exit the interstate and head east. She is very persistent about this: East. In 500 feet, exit onto the Billy Graham Parkway east. In 500 feet, exit onto Tyvola east ramp. In 200 feet, turn east. In 100 feet, east you stupid idiot! We are not 10 minutes from home and already I am being insulted by a lump of plastic that comes preloaded with maps of 22 European countries. I may not know the layout of Bavarian villages, but I do happen to know that Orlando is due south.

Caution, the voice says, apparently changing tactics.
“Caution?” I squeak.
“That’s for the speed limit. You’re going too fast,” says Danny.
“I’m going 11 miles over, for crying out loud.”
“Yes, isn’t it helpful? Take for instance if the limit suddenly changes and you don’t know, this thing knows. It knows!” He jabs his finger at it for emphasis. “It’s gonna save me a ton of speeding tickets.”
“I never get speeding tickets.”
Caution.
“See.”
“See what?”
“You’re going too fast.”
“No, I’m not.”
Caution.
“You’re getting a bad first impression.”
“Oh is that what I’m having… a bad first impression? The thing is 100% incorrect!”
In one half mile, take the ramp to 485 East.
“I don’t know why it’s doing that, honest. It’s been right all week.”
“I can’t continue this discussion in front of Sam.”
“Fine.”
Caution.

Minutes later, we pass some South Carolina pastureland which is home to a flock of billboards. Danny muses thoughtfully. “You know, I think I can turn down the volume on that voice.”

“You mention this now?”

“Well, I haven’t tried it before. hmmm…”

“&*#@”

Caution

“I prefer the voice completely off.”

“You’ll like it turned down. It’s a very different feel.”

“Why don’t you turn it off? When you drive, you can turn it on.”

“It’s not going to be that bad now,” he says cheerfully.

A couple of hours later we stop at a gas station. Danny unhooks the thing from its holder on the windshield and carefully hides it away in the glove compartment. I look on, hoping against hope that this is the end of the voice and the wrong directions.

“Whenever you stop, you should put this thing out of sight,” Danny instructs. “They get stolen all the time.”

“Who would want to steal it?”

“Well, it’s expensive, for one thing.”

“What, like 40 or 50 dollars?”

“Hah! Try $250.”

“$250??” I gasp.

A look of recognition creeps over Danny's face. “Well, with my dad’s gift certificate, it was just 200 dollars. It wasn’t even top brand.” He says this as if he is a victim.

A couple of hours later we are cruising down the highway when the female voice purrs, In 500 feet, turn onto Otis Snyder Melon Road. I note the distinct absence of an exit ramp. However, there is an overpass for a 2-lane country road. As we zoom beneath it, I read the small sign on the side of the concrete: Otis Snyder Melon Rd.

“Did you see that?” I ask.

“Yes, I did. For some reason, it really wants us to get off the highway and go to the coast.”

“So ‘it’ wants us to go to the coast?”

“I don’t know,” Danny shakes his head, mystified. “I don’t know.” I sense that some manly part of him is being defeated, perhaps even humiliated. Compassion puddles inside my heart.

After a very long day, we arrive in the outskirts of Orlando. The gadget kicks in with constant directions, all of which are inexplicably correct. In a few minutes, we have pulled up to our hotel. Once we have off-loaded and are settling in, Danny disappears. I spot him down below sitting in the soft glow of the interior van light. The evil gadget is in his hands and he seems to be pushing buttons, shaking it, turning it over. He must be so disappointed. Warm, huge, goopy love seeps into my heart.

After a little while, he clicks into the hotel room sporting a huge grin. “I figured it out!”

“What?” I don’t look up.

“It was set on “bicycle.”

“Bicycle?” I’m incredulous. “That’s a setting?”

“Yes, yes! All day it’s been trying to get us off the highway onto safer roads.”

“So the gadget was right. You just had it set on… bicycle.”

“Yup,” Danny chuckles and shakes his head back and forth. “I love it. Bicycle. Hah! Bicycle.”

Sam's inner world

2008-03-28T06:20:00.000-07:00

Okay, so, this morning Sam was galloping around the house wearing his winter Panther's cap that covers his ears. His race car toothbrush hung out of his mouth like a classy cigar, and he was wielding the broom which is 3 times his height. He looked so happy and intense! For the life of me, I cannot imagine what adventurous scenario he was acting out in his head.

I was in Walmart the other day and had to go to the bathroom. For the first time, Sam got on his hands and knees and crawled right out of the stall. I couldn't stop him at that moment. The floor was absolutely filthy. It was soooooo disgusting!!! Thankfully he just loitered outside my door until I came out, at which point he grinned up at me. A few moments later, I realized I was totally out of antibacterial wet wipes. Although I tried to wash his hands at the gummy sink with a meager drip of soap that I coaxed out of the soap thing, I can only suspect that he actually acquired more germs from the faucet. Later in the store, he stuck his fingers in his mouth. How is that for a delightful story? That's why I thought I would share it with you.

Flamingos

2008-03-12T14:26:00.000-07:00

Okay, so Sam was napping during the flamingos, but i'm still going to give them the honor of a blog entry. Extravagant birds, yet ludicrously overdressed for the Florida marsh. Opulently plumed, yet knee-deep in muck. Imperial and stately, yet they squabbled like chickens. Their necks as graceful and sinuous as arcs of water, yet all that loveliness brought to a screeching halt by blunt beaks hacking at slimy food.

Baby Gators

2008-03-12T14:14:00.000-07:00

Cara, Sam's cousin, watches the baby gators.

I can still (barely) carry Sam even at 20 weeks pregnant with Sam's baby sister!

Gators!

2008-03-12T14:02:00.000-07:00

Daddy and Sam riding a gator. Why am I not more alarmed??

Petting Zoo

2008-03-12T13:43:00.000-07:00

Sam loves all animals and is completely unafraid. This may be one of the (few) pluses of owning a doberman.

Sam does not always want to give up the food... Let it go, buddy!

Daddy is being so disgusting.

Pre-potty training

2008-03-12T13:27:00.000-07:00

Sam gets everything about the toilet. He lifts the lid and loves to flush. He follows both Danny and I into the bathroom whenever we go there, and we socialize. Or sometimes Sam just plays with the bath toys until it's time for him to flush. Two nights ago I bought him his own training potty at Walmart. He carries it around the house from room to room, sitting on it, opening and closing the lid, attaching the toilet paper roll to the little handle, inspecting the empty bowl. It's very exciting.

This morning I heard him wail terribly from the other room and went to find him. Evidently Danny had inadvertently flushed the toilet himself, and Sam was outraged. They waited together until the tank refilled and Sam could flush it too.

(sorry, no photos for this blog entry!)

The Dryer

2008-02-17T18:57:00.000-08:00

Did I mention that I lost track of Sam for a few days last week? It wasn't until I had to do laundry that I discovered him in the dryer. Just kidding!

Actually, Sam was playing outside with the dog and sticks, which are his favorite toys. I left the patio door ajar so he could run in and show me his treasures whenever he needed to. Anyway, I hadn't heard from him in about 30 minutes, and then I heard wailing. I rushed to the backyard and couldn't find him anywhere. Then I came back inside and realized he had gone in the laundry room and climbed into the dryer. But he was stuck! I was so overcome with compassion that I immediately fled the scene and got my camera. That made Sam really mad. :-( I'm happy to report that after some juice and crackers, we are best friends again. :-)

Stinker

2008-02-17T18:16:00.001-08:00

Okay, so unrolling toilet paper is hardly breaking news in the history of toddler shenanigans. But for Sam it was very new and exciting. Actually it was breathtaking. I came upon the scene while his arms were swinging like the paddles of a windmill, slapping the spinning roll over and over until suddenly just the cardboard core bounced wildly on the holder. He swatted at it a few more times, his enthusiasm visibly deflating. Then he looked up at me with a huge grin. :-)

Wrestling!

2008-02-02T18:20:00.001-08:00

During wrestling matches, it's pretty hard to tell who wins--Danny, Sam, or the Doberman?

Our Family

2008-02-02T17:48:00.001-08:00

Corn on the cob

2008-02-02T17:44:00.000-08:00

Shari's Back Stretches

2008-01-24T18:16:00.001-08:00

Shari decides to do some stretches while watching TV. But Sam thinks it's time to rough house.

Gradually Sam gets the hang of stretching.

Eying each other from ground level...

Sam decides to work out a few more kinks on his own.

Peek-a-boo!

Rice

2008-01-06T18:58:00.000-08:00

Sam loves Jasmine rice.
So sticky he doesn't need utensils... So sweet and aromatic he doesn't need gravy....

Thai Hom Mali; Gao Thom Thuong Hang:
Thank you for your water-logged paddies and spring harvests, for the fluffy piles of nutty, chewy grains. You take rice to heavenly places.

Barka da Krismati 2007!

2007-12-28T14:04:00.000-08:00

Guardian "Angel"

2007-11-15T05:37:00.000-08:00

Some kids have guardian angels; others have Spider-Man.

Sam Gets His Ducks in a Row

2007-11-05T07:34:00.000-08:00

I love baths and I am very organized with my bath toys. I line up my ducks and boats on the edge of the tub or I stack them in my bucket. Mom says I have a long attention span and great fine moter skills. I am not allowed to take my toothbrush into the bath. I am also not allowed to pee in the tub, or splash water on the floor. Any of these "antics" gets me evicted.

Reading

2007-11-05T07:28:00.000-08:00

Dad thinks I don't know my colors yet. B-O-R-I-N-G. Actually, I'm waiting till I can speak in whole sentences. Then we can read Hemmingway together.

Good Morning Cambodia

2007-11-05T07:11:00.001-08:00

Good morning, Cambodia!!! I LOVE BANANAS.
I LOVE MY DINASOAR PAJAMAS.

Celebrity Moments

2007-11-05T06:58:00.000-08:00

No comment. I'm just trying to hang out like a normal person. Get that camera out of my face. I love you all. I couldn't do this without YOU, my fans. You're beautiful. God bless you. Keep those fan letters comin'.

Breakfast arrangements

2007-10-08T17:55:00.001-07:00

This morning Sam carried his plush red chair into the fish room (former breakfast nook). He sat in it and systematically ate all his food which was on the bench at eye level. Sometimes he twisted his head around to look at me, then returned to his breakfast.

Sam often likes to eat his breakfast standing in front of the big fish tank. (The bench simply blocks him from opening the cabinet doors and eating fish food.) I display his bananas and cheerios on the bench, and he paces up and down like it's a smorgasbord, then eats and jumps or hops and jabbers his way through breakfast.

Pool Diaries

2007-09-27T15:01:00.000-07:00

Day 1:
Unwrap the new blue plastic wading pool. Scrub it very clean. Wipe thoroughly with Lysol. Add clean water. Put new Nemo swimming diaper on Sam. Play "This Little Piggie." Put on swimming trunks. Sing, O Do You Know the Muffin Man? Slather on several coats of SPF 50. Explain in reassuring voice about the water. Lower him slowly into pool. Nudge exciting tupperware towards him. Watch. Hover.Get splashed by Sam. Laugh joyfully.

Day 15:
Roll plastic wading pool off fence. Spray it to remove mud clods. Fill. Wrestle Sam into swimming diaper. Glob SPF 50 on nose. Put him in pool. Bark "sit down" many times. Scold him for splashing. Argue about whether or not he can get out.

Day Who Cares?:
Roll filthy pool off fence. Fill. Locate Sam who is tasting a rock. Strip him down except for diaper. Point to pool and grunt. Squirt SPF 8 in his general direction. Watch numbly as he places muddy truck, garden sprinkler, and sticks into wading pool. Ignore the fact that he is uninterested in getting into wading pool. Watch his Adamic nature bloom as he trots around the pool shouting bossily at his truck and the garden sprinkler.

The Interruption

2007-09-23T06:33:00.001-07:00

So I've finished making dinner and, sighing heavily, am attacking a heap of dirty dishes. I dislike washing pots and pans. There are pots and pans.
Sam cruises in on his red car--one hand on the wheel, the other brandishing his sippy cup. I wonder mildly about the location of his pants. I return to scrubbing.
Sam interrupts again, this time jabbering. He pauses to strike a pose and swig noisily on his apple juice. Then he points at me and and says, "nanananana."
Silly boy.
We hang out for awhile.
Thank you, Sam.

Sam

2007-09-17T07:10:00.001-07:00

And the boy Samuel continued to grow in stature and in favor
with the LORD and with men.

Sprayground

2007-09-13T06:06:00.001-07:00

Morning News

2007-09-10T19:08:00.001-07:00

Sam and Daddy read together about another mortgage lender going bankrupt...

Maybe Sam should worry more and Dad should have a bottle of milk.

Pazzyyy!

2007-09-10T17:39:00.001-07:00

How absolutely wonderful to catch my dear friend Patsy and baby Esther for an hour before we left Michigan. Patsy and I had many adventures in upstate New York, Chicago, and of course Kenya (where I turned 21). We were not able to make it to each other's weddings on opposite sides of the world, so it's definitely hard to imagine each other married... and being moms!

Vrooom!

2007-09-10T17:32:00.000-07:00

At Camp Maranatha Sam discovered... vehicles!!! His ultimate favorite was the car. Even though the front tire was twisted and the car wouldn't move, he would run right to it and sit there for a looong time, opening and closing the doors, punching the dashboard, getting out and in. He also learned to put a play fuel hose into its gas tank. (Parenthetically, his "John Deere" shirt was bought in Cambodia at the Russian Market for about 50 cents. Go figure.)

Josh

2007-09-10T16:42:00.001-07:00

Josh is Sam's wonderful cousin. He's 10 years old and he loves the sand.

Grandpa Ed

2007-09-10T16:34:00.000-07:00

I took the plaque off the wall so Sam could inspect his great grandpa Ed's achievements in science and life. Known as "Dr. Glue," great grandpa Ed worked in the field of coupling agents and died with 94 patents in his name. One of his accomplishments was inventing an adhesive that keeps the tiles of NASA space ships in place amid the roasting temperatures of take-off. He was voted into the Plastics Hall of Fame in 1988 and he authored a book called, Silane Coupling Agents. The "Edwin P. Plueddemann Award for Excellence" is still given annually to worthy chemists.

Great Grandpa's version of John 3:16: "Before he created the world, God knew that humans would foul things up and make heaven and earth incompatible, so he proposed to send his Son to act as a coupling agent between earth and heaven."

GG Plueddemann

2007-09-10T16:26:00.000-07:00

Sam visited his very great grandma Plueddemann who lives in Midland, Michigan. At 91 years young, she is very witty and smart. Here are 4 generations of Plueddemanns from Mary Margaret to Jim to Danny to Sam. Welcome to your great heritage, Sam.

Beach Time

2007-08-18T11:44:00.000-07:00

Queen Anne's Lace

2007-08-17T18:54:00.000-07:00

In Michigan in summertime, the roadsides are profusions of Queen Anne's Lace or, as my mom used to call them when she was a girl in Maine, "My Lace." Its filigreed, flat flowers balance precariously like china saucers on pencil-thin stalks. They form white collars around the bases of fence posts and, in the open pastures, they nod in the wind like old ladies' faces vigorously agreeing with me. (If you've never been affirmed by a field of flowers, you must make a point to experience it.) When the air is still, it looks like hundreds of doilies have been tossed lightly all over the grass.

Maggie & Sam at Maranatha

2007-08-17T18:50:00.001-07:00

Every July we make our annual pilgrimage to the shores of Lake Michigan near Muskegon where the Plueddemanns have a family reunion at Camp Maranatha. Here is Sammy with Maggie watching the boats and jet skis chugchug down the channel to the lake.

Samuel James Plueddemann

2007-08-17T17:57:00.001-07:00

I love you, Sam!

Chubby Thighs

2007-08-17T17:49:00.000-07:00

Deeeelicious.

More Cousins & an Inflatable Gazebo

2007-08-17T17:31:00.001-07:00

So Sam went to Georgia where he met lots of his mom's cousins and their kids. They got to play soccer, bounce on a trampoline, splash in a pool, and grill out. Sam paddled around in his floating gazebo. His non-fear of water caused his parents several dozen heart atacks.

Ocean Wonders, Sticky Styrofoam

2007-08-17T15:22:00.000-07:00

What Sam finds thrilling are spaghetti noodles, muddy shoes, and the increasingly sophisticated safety gadgets I attach to our electrical outlets to keep his fingers out of them. These household items present an unplumbed universe of smells, textures and tastables. His eyes and muscles fully engage such common wonders, sending synapses roaring across his brain like miniscule meteor showers. This is why being confined to his stroller and steered through ill-lit passageways of the Georgia Aquarium with a view of the spider-veined backs of adult knees was...boring.

Yes, he saw the rare Taiwanese whale sharks. Yes, the river gar like brown pencils floating in the water. Yes, the monstrous whiskered catfish. When we reached the 40-foot high tank of rainbow-coloured tropical fish, he pitched a royal, limb-lashing fit. So I scrounged around our things and offered him a... crumbly cookie and a... wait a second, here we are... sticky styrofoam cup.

All better.

Mystery Meal

2007-08-10T06:44:00.001-07:00

One night the kids created a "Mystery Meal" for the adults. They planned the menu, bought it at the grocery store, and prepared everything. When the adults arrived, we each had to select items for our 3 courses from a menu in Russian. This meant we had no idea what we were getting! I had pizza crust with lemonade for one course, and pepperoni with spinach for the next.

The kids hung a shower curtain across the opening to the kitchen so we couldn't spy on their preparations. Leanna was Chief Chef. Sam specialized in getting underfoot, running off with utensils that he flailed in the air, opening and emptying kitchen draws, etc. I heard lots of, "Aunty Tabitha, would you please come get Sammy because he's in our way!" Poor Sammy.

The Georgia Aquarium

2007-08-09T09:17:00.001-07:00

Didn't Mary Oliver once say the best sermon she ever heard was the sun? I choose the arctic baluga for my preacher till the world ends. I met this marine miracle at the aquarium in Atlanta. This watery cathedral shouts majesty majesty in the roving eyes of sea giants and holyholyholy in the gliding sting rays whose wingtips flick powdery sand along the ocean beds. Shells, fins, tails, flippers, suckers, stingers, whiskers, tentacles, teeth, gills, feathers, scales, bioluminescence, blowholes... all notes in a symphony beneath the waves. Did you know the whale shark's mouth is 4-feet wide but its throat is the size of a quarter?

Gasp.

Did you know that Africa has penguins and that these birds sprout up to 300 feathers per square inch?

Selah.

Dork Dads

2007-08-09T07:11:00.000-07:00

Being a dork is one of every dad's Main Roles. Dorkhood is a primary way that dad's mortify their children---and mortification is an absolutely necessary developmental hoop for all children to jump through, especially during their emotionally-spastic teenage years.

Frankly, the men in our family are under-performing and/or not taking this seriously. They need to "up their game"--perhaps purchase some dork glasses or grease their hair. One of the fastest routes to dorkdom is to wear---with shorts---black socks and shoes. In addition, a true dork should have glowing white legs.

Uncle Talmage is an outstanding model of this high level of dorkdom. The rest of the males in our family would all do well to study these photos and emulate.

Recycling Center

2007-08-09T06:59:00.000-07:00

All the cousins visited the recycling center together where they saw carpet made from recycled plastic bottles and lots of other wonders.

Fountain on The Green

2007-08-08T13:49:00.001-07:00

Sam and his cousins play in the "sprayground" on a hot June afternoon. Actually, Sam was kind of scared by the water popping up out of the cement and squirting down from the sky. He preferred to loiter on the sidelines.

Cambodia Cousins

2007-08-08T08:43:00.000-07:00

Sam's 3 cousins who live in Cambodia arrived on June 24. We spent an afternoon at The Green, a park in uptown Charlotte. Here are all the cousins: Tabitha, Jim, Myrna, Titus, Leanna, Phillip. In our family, we either look 100% Asian or 100% Scottish.

Fishshshshs

2007-06-16T08:24:00.000-07:00

Sammy loves our breakfast nook-turned ocean viewing gallery. The room is painted green and thatched mats hang on the windows. Sam gets a viewing bench to watch the fish glide and dip in Danny's 60-gallon water universe.

Every night after Sam's bath and before his bedtime, when he is snuggled into his dinasoar 'jammies,' Sam and Danny turn off all the lights in the house except the ones in the fish tank, and then feed the fish together. The tank transforms into swirling dervish of colors and fins and puckered mouths slurping in plankton flakes. It's a miracle every single night and Sam watches in the darkness with upturned face full of wonder.

Droooool

2007-06-16T08:18:00.000-07:00