In-born love of projectile devices

First, two photos from Easter. I think I mentioned that Sam's Easter basket contained a little rubber bulb which he can squeeze to shoot a harmless foam dart.

You'd think we'd given him a real live pistol with a laser sight and silencer.

Sam spent all day playing with it, and continues to enjoy it. Just last night he and I raced around the house shooting at one another. And on the first day he had a great time skeet shooting a balloon.

You may be wondering what this has to do with Easter and the resurrection. For the answer to that, I refer you to Susan, who bought the items for his basket, and who, on Easter, attempted to convince us it wasn't a "gun" but... what did she call it? I can't remember. "Foam shooter", perhaps.

To a 3-year-old, it's most DEFINITELY a gun. As you can see from the gleeful look in his eye. That morning, despite not knowing previously of the existence of these, he said to me, "Daddy, I always always always always wanted one of these!" Lends credence to the whole concept of racial memory. Or gender-related desire for projectile drivers.

(I told him Uncle Paul, Grandpa Gene and my dad's Dad were hunters and knew all about guns. Now he regards Uncle Paul as the resident expert and the other day when I said we could run around outside chasing one another with squirt guns he wanted to know if Uncle Paul had taught me about squirt guns.)

Found a new playground while wandering around East Rochester (a second-ring suburb) looking for an empanana restaurant. Sam spotted the playground and, having a little time, we stopped and played. The park it's in is very large, with old, old trees, and a baseball diamond in the other end, flanked by old (20's?) houses. It had the feel not of the Rochester suburbs, but of the small towns in northern NY or even northeastern OH.

(These towns always both beckon as places where one can escape the rat race, yet bear underlying dread, as one wonders how in the heck anyone makes a living. Unless of course you are Jimmy Stewart as the attorney who is well respected, spurns big-city life and depends heavily on his "gone fishing" sign.)

In the shot with the blue slide, Sam is posing. He is more and more aware of the camera. In a photo below he even spent time practicing his smile in front of the mirror before letting me take the shot. Have to start using a hidden camera.

Had a good Mother's Day--and more to the point, Susan did too. While Susan napped in the afternoon (not from lack of industry--we'd been up in the night because Sam came down with an ear infection), Sam and I spend a long time working with playdough. (Oh, and yes, he's getting a hair cut soon.)

Sam and I did a craft project so he'd have something to give Susan: Sam made a suncatcher. Mom did this with us as kids--you place little plastic beads in a metal form and bake it in the microwave. The scent of it after baking brought back pleasant, long-dormant memories.

In other news, Sam is now aware there are other intelligences than his own in the universe. I deduce this because in the past couple of weeks he has started expressing curiosity about how Susan and I learn things. I come home from work and ask how he enjoyed the parachute at Friday Gym Frolics, and he asked, astonished, how I knew he played with that. Susan gives him straight answers ("Daddy and Mommy talk on the phone"); I just tell him daddies know everything. Shouldn't there be *some* mystery in his life?

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Just after listening to "Clementine":

Sam: Do they sometimes call wells "canons"?
Susan: Oh, they said, "canyon". It's like a gorge, or a valley, probably with rock walls... (searching for a better description)
Sam: Like a deep ravine, mommy?
Susan: Yeah, yeah! That's what it's like! How did you know that? (surprised)
Sam: I don't know. (pause) Will you tell Daddy?