Happy birthday to Samuel

He turns five tomorrow. Quite a ritual awaits him at school. He’s to carry a globe around the classroom five times while his teacher and classmates sing to him and eat granola bars. Photos of his short life will be displayed.

Karin & I worry about the singing, which Samuel doesn’t always take to; but we’ve drilled the expectation into him, and he bears it stoically.

He now seems to like school. He was downright excited at the bus stop this morning after what must have been a too-long Fall Break.

(The driver took the wrong street but quickly turned around and came back for Samuel.)

He’s losing various perks: the WIC vegetables, the books from Dolly Parton, the visits from privately funded social workers. But he wouldn’t eat the vegetables, anyway; and he continues to peruse the books that arrive for Daniel.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I ought to mention, today I saw one of the brightest “firework displays” of my lifetime: Madrid’s and Dortmund’s rehash of last season’s Champions League final. I have no love for Madrid, but my goodness, what talent, what tremendous self-belief. Pedigree is real.

I take on more responsibility in the home

Yesterday’s temperature plunged to sixty (F); it felt downright cold. I decided that Samuel should wear pants. He thought this was hilarious; he thrashed and thrashed, taking one leg out of his pants while I tried to put the other leg in. He did this every time I changed his diaper.

I do my share of caring for the boy; but, also, until now, I’d hardly ever bathed him or put him to sleep at night. I’m expert at putting him to sleep during the day, but the night-time task is altogether different. I’ve regarded it, and the bathing, as within Karin’s sphere. Well, tonight, I did both those chores (Karin needed to compose her remarks for Rick’s funeral). I did the bathing particularly badly. Samuel wasn’t pleased. He usually lingers in the tub and splashes the water with his legs for several minutes after he’s clean; this time, he was eager to get out. But he came through the ordeal. I expected his bedtime ritual to go even less smoothly. But he listened respectfully as I read to him, and he finally dozed off during his third book, Dr. Seuss’s Fox in Socks.

There is a social worker who talks to us about our baby every other week. It seems she’s been grading Samuel. Two weeks ago, all his grades were high, except in the category of gross motor skills; but this week, the social worker was pleased to report that his gross motor skills had received a grade of 55 out of 60.