Work has been very busy, and I've come down with some kind of crazy sore throat, achy-fever thing, so sorry for the dearth of posts lately. Rest assured, I'll be back on track in a day or two.
We tried out the bike trailer this past weekend, and---wonder of wonders---Samson really liked it. Which is good, because there's nothing sadder than a family biking on the trail with their toddler in a little nylon and aluminum chariot of sorrow...
Call me dada. This has, in the few months since my son started "talking," become my name. I'm sure (at least I hope) it will eventually morph into something less early 20th century art movementy --- but I am marked forever as dada. And this is a good thing.
I have no real advice to offer, other than always carry Cheerios and extra onesies, and I don't really have a lot of 'wacky' adventures to regale you with. Truth be told, this is as much for me as it is for you. So, uh, thanks for stopping by. I hope it's at least an interesting time-killer.
And if not, consider this an ironic exercise in skewering the bourgeouis notions of 21st century American parenthood by deconstructing the materialist ethos that has turned childhood into a demographic and rendered adults simultaneous enablers and slaves. Or something.
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