A Boy for All Seasons

For Halloween this year, Sam will be a cowboy. This choice of costume wasn’t inspired by my interest in the West—I’m not foisting spurs on the boy so he can enact Charlie Goodnight driving a herd up to McKinley Pkwy.  Sam came up with this all by lonesome…well not quite all alone.

 

The first time Sam really laughed, a true belly laugh at something in the world rather than from a belly full of gas, his father mimicked Woody from Toy Story by pointing his fingers at him and saying, “Reach for the sky”. It’s hard to resist your baby’s first belly laugh…And I did try…this all seemed a bit politically incorrect…playing fake guns with a baby? Suddenly I wished Sam had picked up a Barbi (she's not all that anorexic, right?).

 

Regardless of my resistance, this little pantomime kept evolving especially when the Rec Teacher at Hopevale gave my father a Woody hat to give to Sam. Dave found an old hat…good theater needs costumes.

 

Then Sam learned to point and say "pow" and when he did any adult he pointed to would fall down even Holly the church toddler group leader gave an Oscar worthy performance at the park (I’m not sure how she stands on guns or Barbi). The falling down routine was big fun at the lake when Uncle Billy and Gram would fall and kick and splash.

 

All the while Sam laughed, Sam studied especially his Uncle Ken’s performance which involved an “Uh, you got me”, a grasp to his belly, folding over, then down on his knees and splat.

 

After learning from all these great performance my boy developed his own sketch and whenever anyone would shoot him—he circled a small area and said, “Uh”, then folded over, fell down on his bum and splat. One day he put his swim shorts on his head. It’s the first time Sam made me laugh—a big grown up laugh—not from parental joy, happiness nor condescension just someone did something hilarious. It’s hard to resist your mom’s first big belly laugh…he didn’t even try to resist.

 

Now, his dad has taught him different stunts…like what to do when you get shot in the bum. Sam grabs his bum and says “Uh, Uh, Uh” or his toe which he picks up and tries to hop while holding one foot.

 

And whenever I start to worry that all this fun will lead to a propensity to guns, I think of what my departed children’s/high school acting buddy Cooper would have said to me, “He made you laugh.”

 

There are two more new entries, so scroll on down.

Tags: Sam, Sam Ferguson, Samuel Hawk, Cooper Lewis

Sam's Peops: Girls! Girls! Girls! (and some Boys)

Sam mostly hangs with the older girls (see July's blog), but he has a couple younger boys he hangs out with (I didn't get permission from their parents to put them on the blog so no pics). They have cigar chomper names--Sam, Max, and Zac. I'm hoping they start their own Hollywood Studio System. Next blog time around, I'll get permission.

Although, I must say having the oldest kid at the toddler group makes Sam seem a little hooligan-ish. Max's and Zac's parents are very sweet about Sam's behavior but I didn't realize how fast and strong Sam's arm was until I tried unsuccessfully to intercept a block heading for Zac's head. Hopefully the older and more mature Ava will join the group and teach Sam good toddler group etiquette.

A Boy and his Da (& one with his Ma)

As a modern mother, I receive regular emails with parenting tips from parenting magazines i.e. what is perfectly normal for your toddler to be doing and when to race him to the nearest specialist. Mostly the tips help, for instance I was reassured that hitting is normal toddler behavior and not a sign that his mother’s/grandmothers’s/great grandmother’s/great grandfather’s temper is necessarily twisting down along the ol’ DNA. But the articles about how Daddy will get all the love (or whichever partner isn't home all day) were especially comforting. Sam is all about the daddy. Even the way he says “Daddy” is infused with joy and fun.

 

He says, “Mom” (never mommy) and he uses a deeper, more authoritative voice than his normal one. He doesn’t need to say, “Hey Mom, will you wake up and get me out of this crib" just “MOM” and “Mooooom”. His meaning is all in the inflection. I worry sometimes his vocabulary won’t increase; instead he’ll get creative with syllable stressing.

 

The first time I realized this Daddy-love might be an issue happened before Sam was even born. I was visiting my friend Shannon’s house around dinner time. An internal clock must have gone off in her daughter Emma’s 3-year-old head because she was ecstatic over her father’s imminent arrival—like he was Daddy March returning from the War in Little Women. Excitement is one thing but an Epic everyday at 5pm is a little much. It was an omen.

 

Don’t believe me? Check out the pictures (or read the articles).

On Becoming Mom

What I haven’t mentioned thus far about being Sam’s mom is the anxiety. I don’t mean panic attack anxiety; I mean a kind of anxiety that keeps things a little surreal. I don’t know if my anxiety stemmed from the years (and years) of waiting to have a child or from the miscarriages and infertility treatments or from a life long battle with anxiety. But often in the last year and a half, I seemed to be stuck in a fusion of anxiety and awe.

 

The only experience I can relate it to is the time when Phyllis led me up this mountain side. I had quit smoking and she wanted to show me that now I could go where the cigarettes had kept me from going before. While I appreciated it, my lungs didn’t. By the time we arrived at the meadow, I was out of breath. The view was worth it. It was awesome and the light headedness contributed to the wonder.

 

That’s sort of what it has been like with Sam—wonder and awe and a fear that I’d never again catch my breath. That’s how it was until last week.

 

At a garage sale, I picked up a toy tool set. Sam has been very feisty lately; full of his own bad self and his impulses to hit and kick so maybe the hammer wasn’t the best choice. Sure enough when I wasn’t looking he hammered my shin. Wow, it stung. The kind of hurt that makes a mother forget Dr. Sears and Dr. Spock and every other baby doctor. Enough sting to trigger an impulse to swat. But I didn’t. Thankfully. Instead for the first time since his birth, my breath caught. For the first time, I got off that top of the world feeling. I wasn’t in awe of this little wonder of mine rather fully present and bruised.  

 

With one swing to my shin bone, Sam seemed to say, “Aw Mom, SNAP OUT OF IT.”

 

And so I did. And with it came that visceral rush of love that sometimes awe and anxiety can keep at bay…not at that exact moment but later after I stopped limping.

 

Right then, I thought, “I’ve got to teach this little pisser not to hammer me.”

 

There are two more new entries so scroll on down.

Sam's Peops: A Few First Timers

There are some key peops in Sam’s life who have not appeared on the blog (and some of those still aren’t—hopefully a trip to the west coast will somewhat help with that). But this entry includes some of Sam’s favs—Great-Uncle Billy, our Starbucks buddy Mary, and Ava.

 

Ava is Sam’s first friend—they’ve attended music class, concerts, farmers markets, etc. If this is starting to read like a personal ad—SWM dates SWF that’s because their relationship has been prearranged (or was that preordained). If you notice behind Sam and Ava are two looming presences—the Grandmothers/Chaperones. Please don’t let me give you the wrong idea, I don’t think my mom and Nancy (Ava’s Grandma) have been conspiring: I’m not suggesting, they might have met with Cam Miller (the officiant at both Ava’s and Sam’s parents’ respective weddings) to perform some sort of joining ritual; nor would I want anyone to think, Mom and Nancy are staging a revival of “Matchmaker” although I have heard Mom humming, "Matchmaker Matchmaker make me a match”. And it has been noted that Ava is older than Sam which is the way of both sets of their parents.

 

What I am saying is--they are friends and very sweet together. Last week Sam pushed Ava in her stoller around the Bidwell’s Farmer’s Market. That’s all I’m saying.

The Back of Sam

I decided to do a back of Sam series.  Now that he’s sure (or rather surer) on his feet, he’s a man on the move. This is the view I see most. He runs runs runs away and into everything.

 

For my 32nd birthday, my hubby took me (and Sam) to Palmyra, NY (where Joseph Smith founded Mormonism) to find us a sister/wifeJ. Actually, I’m interested in the American West and that means knowing about the Mormons (so no Sister/Wives and I'm a wee bit older than 32). We went to the grove where Joseph Smith encountered Jesus and God. The Mormons consider this spot the 2nd most holy place (note to self—what is the first most holy place?). We decided to go on Sunday because we thought the Mormons would be in church. Fairly far into our walk through the grove, we spotted teen-agers tucked into the woods. Dressed in their Sunday best, they sat on benches and blankets, writing letters, praying, and crying. (I think) they were missionaries about to embark on their missions, writing goodbyes to their families, and seeking a revelation in the same grove where Joesph Smith saw his. It was like being on a Mormon Safari. Sam was enthralled and started running up to them, yelling “Hi Ya, Hi Ya, Hi Ya.”

 

So, where in the What to Expect books, do they make suggestions on how to teach your child that while s/he might be mommy and daddy’s little revelation, s/he isn’t anyone else’s personal revelation? The Mormons kids were ever so polite and gracious (of course), but unfortunately didn’t break out into a chorus of I’m a little bit country/I’m a little bit Rock n’ Roll (and now I'm revealing the real reason for my fascination with the Mormons).

Sam Gives Good Face

Sam has arrived into toddle-dom with an ear-piercing, repetitive shriek. As I write this he's unwrapping parchment paper. He’s walking, talking, climbing, head-butting, running and he’s weaned. He ain’t a baby anymore.

 

My father, who never lectures me, did lecture me about allowing Sam to bust up the joint. Sam will empty the kitchen cupboards, jettison the bottles of specialty cooking oil, pitch eggs out of the refrigerator, and leap for the stove knobs. He's well supervised and we are baby proofed but my father fears that in my attempt to grab him before he crawls into the oven, I'll slide on a baking sheet and end up yolk soaked. My father envisions Dave, Sam, and my life as a Three Stooges short.

 

Dave bought a gate for the back of the kitchen so while I’m at my housewife station, Sam can be in the kitchen with me without fear of pratfalls.

 

The first few times behind the gate, I distinctly heard Sam chant, “Att-i-ca, Att-i-ca.” He then launched his toys over the gate. A pretzel finely soothed him. He’s full bore toddler.

 

There are 2 more entries so scroll on down.

What Sam Does Now that He's One

SamSpeak

When the pizza delivery man comes to the door (who else knocks and then doesn't just come in), Sam says in cadence if not words, “Who is it?”

 

He’ll pick up any object as if it’s a phone; put it against his ear and say, “Hi”. He has received very little in the way of role modeling for that behavior--as phone phobic as I am. Perhaps he’s trying to tell me something.

 

He says, “Bye” with accompanying fanfare. If he says bye to you, he’ll get shoes (his, yours, anybody’s), he’ll escort you to the door, wave and blow kisses at you from behind the glass and then shut the door behind him. Again, super polite but not role modeled behavior.

 

My favorite word which he refuses to repeat very often is “kiss”. We were at Lowes and I gave him a kiss and said, “Kiss”. I stepped away and he said, “Kiss” and then presented his forehead. He slays me. But of course in the tradition of all mothers and sons he melts me with his charm but refuses to perform on demand.

 

He also says Hank (the greyhound next door) which means dog. On the Grammar ToDo List learn the difference between name vs. noun.

Sam's Peops: The Fam

This spring we’ve been busy with the family get together—Easter, Brayden’s Baptism (my first Godmother stint) and in the Ferguson clan it’s the Birthday season so there are lots of family photos. I decided that since I’m spending so much time recording Sam’s life, blogging and going to endless family functions (oops sarcasm slippage altho I'm not sure why I'm complaining since I'm always suggesting another one) that I might need to learn how to take better photos so this spring I’m taking a pt. and shoot class. Can’t get enough of Sam's blog? There will be so much more of this to come.

The 1st Birthday Party

For his entrance into his party (after his prefunc nap) I gussied him up in a white tux that our friend Peg had sent him. I set him down in the entryway not realizing that I set him down on a red carpet. He preened. Cameras flashed. His paparazzi said, “Hey Sam look over here.” I thought he might crumble under the glare, but the kid thinks he’s George Clooney.

 

The party that almost wasn’t turned out great. We had some problems with location (no heat at the lodge), but Nana saved the day with her condo clubhouse. Dad made chili and Mom made cornbread. We had deserts galore—Joyce made her signature dish Baklava and Mom baked the traditional chocolate chiffon cake originally made for the celebration of Uncle Scott’s birthday and now continues forth with Sam’s birthday. If you notice, on this cake the candles read “Happy Retirement”. Mommy and Daddy picked out the wrong candles at Party City. My dad who is perpetually retiring but never does thought it was fantastic that his grandson could retire at 1.

 

Sam received a galaxy of toys. One of my favorite gift was a t-shirt that said, “I do my own stunts” (thank you Ann, Rose, Claire, and Nick).

The Guests

Sam’s party guests were asked to write a memory of the last year or a hope for his future. These index cards inscribed with memory and hope will be read by Sam…well…when he can read. Some guests abstained—his great grandmothers (who I had hoped would leave a little note for Sam to read in the future). I’ll dog them until they do it. But everyone else participated. There were some very sweet messages as you will see in the pictures. Grandma Joyce wrote “stay close with all your family” and my mom wrote, “taking your first two steps when Mom and Gram let go for a second” (Grandma Gert—how her nieces refer to her—filled up 20 index cards. Never ask a writer to jot down a thought. It turns into a cavalcade).

 

One of my favorites was from two year old cousin Owen (we’re still wondering who his ghost writer was—Uncle Matt): “Sam, Keep the beers cold and the chicks hot!!! Your Buddy Owen—Have a Good Summer”.

 

If you weren’t at the party, you can still participate. Jot down a memory or hope and send them along to me lollily@aol.com. I’ll save them for Sam to read.

And Introducing Sam's Newest Peop

Since the last blog entry Sam has been joined by another cousin—Brayden Alexander Palinski. That makes 11 for the Ferguson clan. Joyce is looking for an even dozen—a not so subtle nudge in Dave and my direction. Unfortunately Dr. Gong has retired but I found a new old Chinese man—Dr. Wu. He’s not the sorcerer Dr. Gong was but he’s kindly and knows his needles. Wish us luck. Sam likes new peops.

Twas the Season

Sam has had a tremendous holiday season. Now and then Mommy misses the motel-like apt. she lived in up on Phinney Ridge—teriyaki and videos sometimes sound good and peaceful. Balance—impossible to incorporate into life. We trick or treated with Caeley and Soph; Uncle Scott and Tiffani (Sam’s new girlfriend. Loved her.) blew into town for his birthday; Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve we spent with some of the first cousins once removed at Gram’s house; and Christmas day with the first cousins. Sam loved Christmas evening. The presents weren’t all that interesting but his cousins rushing around with colorful boxes thrilled him. He stood up, raised his arms, and screamed “Whoo”. He’s ready for his first sporting event.