This is an argument for getting this site audio-enabled: This morning, as I brought Jane from her room into ours, she spotted her brother and in her sweetest little voice said: "Hi Samson."
We, of course, made a huge deal out of this, thereby ensuring she wouldn't do it again.
But boy did it make my heart smile.
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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.
Blog Archive
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2008
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September
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- All the blurriness, none of the composition
- A natural progression
- Big shoes
- Metaphysics on the soccer pitch
- Profiles in Ridiculousness
- Mondegreen
- Yielding the floor
- Happy birthday, Samson James
- Girl, uninterrupted
- Two little words
- The Samson monologues
- From the people who brought you the Maginot Line
- A movable feast
- Samson Agonistes (once again)
- My girl
- Running
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September
(16)
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