Funny thing about these weblogs is how, in relatively short order, they start to affect the way your day progresses. For example, I checked in this morning around 10:30 am to find that since my vampire shift at work ended at 4am , 8 mysterious individuals had visited my site to read whatever drivel I'd last taken the time to post (and invariably neglect to spellcheck). Who were they? What had they been hoping to find? Were they sated? What can do I do to keep them coming back? Somewhat ridiculously, I'm now finding myself re-examining the otherwise banal daily details of my life, wondering if they'd be suitable for (hopefully) witty and/or insightful encapsulation. This illogical need to document insignificant asides, irrelevant minutia and random observations is seemingly fueled by the simmering suspicion that sooner or later (probably sooner), I might run out of interesting things to say here. Then, of course, there's the argument that that's already happened and now I'm simply typing run-on sentences of arcane data obliviously into the cold, lonely, gaping maw of futility. Hopefully, that's not the case.
In between entertaining these and numerous other existential quandaries, my off-hours are ruled by a drooling, babbling Lilliputian who, when not rummaging recklessly through the apartment in a ceaseless mission to search and then accordingly destroy, requires -- nay, demands -- my full and tirelessly unwavering attention. Charlotte (the child..sixteen months old today, as it happens) has tenuously grasped the ability to....well, maybe not walk so much as stagger in a manner reminiscent of a tiny Frankenstein after several shots of Jaeggermeister. Where once I was allowed to juggle the task of minding the baby with other activities (like scouring eBay for vintage Stranglers posters I can't hang on my wall anyway), looking after Charlotte when I'm the sole parent in the house has become a full-time, all-sensory-consuming duty that requires the type of stealth, efficiency and a innate sense of alert normally reserved for agents of the Mossad. At one moment, she'll be giggling happily in the other room, presumably playing with soft, edgeless, unswallowable toys. Next, will come that tell-tale ::thud:: of toddler head hitting unrelenting hardwood floor (don't be too alarmed, this is an almost-daily occurrence in virtually every home with a small child) prompting me to scramble like a young gazelle to her. More often than not, it makes more sense to simply follow her around, as she pushes her toy stroller about our shrinking apartment in a seemingly endless Bataan Death March, exhorting bursts of giddy gibberish like a diminutive drill sergeant with a full diaper.
As such, internet access and weblog entry has been relegated to that amorphous and worryingly diminishing window of time dubbed "Naptime." As I type this, however, I can't help noticing that "naptime" has just ended, and I am being summoned. More to come.
Recent Comments