Holy cow, I've been busy at work. Like busy enough that I bring work home and, after putting Samson and Jane to bed, get back on the computer. I know: Poor me.
In lieu of an actual post, I thought I'd try something more challenging. An update on Samson and Jane using the spare and haunting poetry that is haiku. So here goes.
Jane
All right now Janie
You want to try the potty?
Oh. I'll get a towel.
[OK, I was one syllable over on that one]
Samson
Samson, where are you?
How did you get under there?
Wait, don't move. VICKI!!!!
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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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