Here's the conversation I had with Samson this morning at breakfast. I have no idea what it all means, if it means anything, but I wanted to write it down before I forgot.
The chattier he gets (and with Jane starting to chime in), the more I think we should Nixonize our dining room so years later we'll have a record of all those silly fleeting moments that never get recorded (unlike birthdays, graduations, etc) but that really make up life.
Samson: When will I have a son?
Me: When you're older, I hope.
Samson: But it won't go in my tummy.
Me: No. Mommies have babies.
Samson: But I'm not getting married.
Me: Oh?
Samson: No. I'm going past that.
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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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