If all the moms jumped off the playground swing, would you?

Apparently I would.

Many of the bloggers I’ve started reading (Motherbumper, Mom to the Screaming Masses and Sarah and the Goon Squad, among others) have posted raw, morning pictures of themselves. I’m not entirely clear on the purpose, but the dad-activist in me can’t let this opportunity to be in on the game pass. Dads can play too. And we look just as terrible first thing in the morning as anyone.

So here is a picture of Erin this morning, you know, before she put on her makeup:

And this one is me without any product in my hair:

And this one is Emily when she first woke up:

Yeah. As if I was going to get away with that one. But instead, here is one of Erin and myself right before our Hair and Wardrobe people arrived at our on set trailer.

Do I win anything?

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.
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