The following are pieces of conversations I've had in the last month or two. I realize that hearing the "darnedest" thing that somebody else's kid said is the aural equivalent of being forced to watch vacation slides, so you are duly forewarned...
In the grocery store:
Samson (pointing to a bag of Doritos): Can we get those?
Me: No. They make your hands turn orange.
Samson: I know. That's why I like them. I love orange.
At home:
Samson: Did they have bathrooms on the Death Star?
Me: I don't know. I mean, I guess so.
Samson: It would be weird to walk into the bathroom and see Darth Vader peeing.
Me: [silence]
In the car:
Jane: STOP!
Me: What's the matter?
Jane: The sun is bothering me.
Me: Is the sun in your eyes? Turn your head.
Jane: No. The sun keeps looking at me.
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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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