Life with a three-year-old (at least with our three-year-old) can feel at times like a Beckett play. I submit for your consideration the following conversation Vicki and Sam had this morning:
Samson: When babies have a diaper rash, does God have one too?
Vicki: Does God get diaper rashes?
Samson: Yes.
Vicki: God gets them too?
Samson: He gets them for the babies so the babies won't cry.
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About Me
- dada
- 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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