There are times when I wish I had a camera rolling in my car. This morning was one of those times. Samson has already discovered the theater of the absurd.
Scene: Saturday morning, in the car. Samson and Daddy, returning home after playing soccer at the gym and getting a pretzel at the mall.
Samson: Where are we going?
Daddy: Home.
Samson: Why?
Daddy: You said you wanted to go home, didn't you?
Samson: When?
Daddy: At the gym when we were playing soccer. And at the mall after we got our pretzel.
Samson: I know. But where are we going?
Daddy: We're going home, buddy.
Samson: Why?
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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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- That's really super, SuperGirl
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