Happy St. Patrick’s Day

My father is Irish-Canadian. As he gets older he gets even more Irish and even more Canadian, and I see the same tendencies in myself. In the summer of 2006 we went to Ireland together for a week, just me and him. It was a pretty special trip, and I want to go again in a few years.

While we were there he told me that he and his wife were expecting another baby (they had a 6 year old daughter already).

When I came back home my wife and I conceived Erin. (That’s her story, anyway; the doctor said that the date of conception was actually in the middle of my trip to Ireland. Without her. Hmmm……)

And as a result of how special that trip to Ireland was to both my father and I, and because we both get more Irish as we get older, we both decided to name our new daughters after our ancient homeland: my little girl is Erin E., and his little girl is M. Erin.

In honor of these two little Irish dancers, I give you the following very special song. Ireland’s classic anthem: Danny Boy

Thanks Boing Boing

Food on the Go

Dear Backpacking Dad,

“What is the best mobile food for a backpacking baby?”

Well, I’m glad you asked, imaginary interlocutor.

It’s mini-bagels. They don’t fall apart all over me, as bread does; they don’t smear, as cheese does; and they can be torn into fist sized pieces that keep your solid-chewing, masticating, Big Girl occupied, unlike smaller snacks that you would have to constantly replenish.

Any other questions, voice-in-my-head?

“Fastest land mammal?”

The cheetah.
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Now I have to chop my arm off

I’ve been home with Erin since the end of September, which I believe means that I’ve been doing this for (quick use of Windows Calculator) 6 months now, less about a week.

I haul her around everywhere, usually on my back. I toss her up in the air in a way that would scare the Blahnik’s off of most moms. I also stretch out my arm and balance her (all 20lbs of her) on one hand, in a way that would scare the Chino’s off of most dads.

But at around 5 months old she became very tossable, and I can’t resist, and it makes her giggle, and I love to hear and see her giggle.

She has had her little bonks, and her big bonks, but surprisingly none of them as a result of the circus act that is her father’s notion of “playtime”.

So, as the saying goes, “imagine my surprise”….

Are you?

Thanks.

We were playing an innocuous little game of hide-and-go-seek in our apartment. The floorplan, with the bedroom and bathroom doors closed, is essentially like half of a pair of eyeglasses: a big circle, a straight line, and a corner at the end of the line. There aren’t many places to hide, and our game really just consisted of me trying to crawl on my hands and knees just out of sight so that she would laugh and follow me around the corner.

I was leading her down the ear-hook hallway and to the dead-end; I twisted around at the end of the hall so that I could pop out as she approached and say “boo”. And as she was coming around the corner and I lunged forward IT happened.

I sprained my baby toe.

Come ON!

It’s the least manly injury I can think of: dad, crawling around on the floor with a baby sprains (not ‘breaks’, not ‘severs’) his smallest appendage.

I wish I could sprain my baby toe every day, though.