El Sol Rojo

For the last three days, the sun has been an orangish red. According to Legolas from Lord of the Rings, this would indicate that "Blood has been shed this night." The sad thing is, in our reality, we know no other sun. When has blood not been shed?

Really, the red sun is just a product of its environment. The ash filled sky is filtering out some of its dangerous beauty, making it appear like something out of Revelations. Who are the four horsemen of the Apocalypse? Are they hiding in caves? Are they running for office?

Enough of my chatter. I must feed the Dragon, a noble profession at Best.

I love you with all my heart.

Too cool for school: Christian's preschool picture. 

The God of Thunder

It is Thor's Day, the god of thunder. I wish I could dislodge the little trivial knowledge I have and replace it with important stuff, like, how old was my son when he got the chicken pox? I sure as hell don't remember writing it down and if I did, I don't know where I put it. I remember he got it from one of his cousins on his father's side, right? Who am I asking? I certainly am not one to ask, these days. My memory's not quite as stellar as it once was and now I'm kicking myself for not taking advantage of the time when it was good. Why didn't I try harder in Spanish? Why didn't I practice my scales in Piano? Why can't I remember what we ate for dinner last night?

Is it in the water? It could be. I don't want to get all "conspiracy theory" because the government is most likely reading this, but doesn't it seem like everyone's memory is getting worse. Or maybe it's just because, like myself, most adults I talk to are getting older. I don't want to attribute poor memory to age. I'm only 31 for heaven's sake.

That's why it's important to talk to children. They can remind you of what it is like to have a good memory. Christian has a fabulous memory. He remembers all the things I don't want to. The people I dated, the colors I dyed my hair, my mental condition. I'm glad that I'm creating new memories for him. Memories that I'm proud of. Memories that only he will remember.

I love you! And don't you forget it.

The Awakening

Last night, I mean, this morning, Madeline woke out of a sound sleep and began screaming. It's one of the most disturbing sounds, a child in pain. I ran to her crib and saw that her tiny arm was wedged in between the bumper and the mattress. My first worry was dislocation. I unfettered her and picked her up. She continued to shriek for close to a minute and then settled down, but appeared to be wide awake. Although I had sympathy for my daughter, I didn't necessarily want her to begin waking every night/morning at 1:18am. Babies are the ultimate creatures of habit, as both Christian and Madeline have proven quite well.

I managed to soothe her with soft strokes on her cheek and whispering to her as I did to her brother before her, "It's nighnigh time, go to sleep." Though still awake, I placed her in her crib and let her fall asleep on her own. It took close to an hour.

One thing you gotta love as a parent is the unpredictability. Sure, they have their general schedules of when they like to eat and when they get tired, but you never know when they're going to wake up at the witching hour and create a memory. One of my favorite movie scenes is in the movie Parenthood, when the grandmother tells Steve Martin's character about life being like a roller coaster. Of course he rolls his eyes at the cliche, but later cries when he's hit with the realization that there hasn't been a more accurate and beautiful description. That's how I feel at 1:18am. I feel like crying because I'm so tired, but I'm also crying at how amazing my child is when she is sound asleep on my chest, or when she is wide awake, with her beautiful tenacity, fighting sleep with life and limb.

Tuesday Morning

It's one of the most insignificant days of the week, but somehow, today feels monumental. Maybe it's because I see my son tomorrow or maybe it's because I'm holding my daughter in my arms while I type this. She smells like spilled milk, but somehow, even when her scent seems sour to some, she smells succulent. Also, she sells seashells down by the seashore.

I realized that 75% of my two days of blogging was photos. I guess I just wanted to show off what I'm most proud of. I'm not really blogging to meet new friends to IM or whatever. This is kind of an online diary of sorts since I type faster than I write. Of course, this is also a public diary, so I'm sure I won't delve too deep.

I have to start the pork, but I wanted to share a quick story. Yesterday, I had to go to the bathroom. When you have a baby that's close to crawling on the floor, you know you need to move fast. Unfortunately, nature doesn't always obey the likes of man and so it took me a little longer. I was listening with the bathroom door open and I noticed that Madeline was quiet. I finished up the best I could and ran out to the living room (didn't even wash my hands) and there was Madeline playing peek-a-boo with the ceiling fan. She had pulled the sheet she was playing on over her head and then she flung it off when she heard me approach. There she was silently saying "peek-a-boo" with her radiant little smile. The sacrifice of my personal time was definitely worth the reward.

Sorry I didn't tell you this story, Daddy, but you're reading it now!

Here I am with my everything, Rich Furry. 

Christian Matthew 

Madeline Jayne 

Boring Templates and First Posts

This my first post on this boring template. I picked the polka dot one, but some how got some sterile, patriotic looking thing. Maybe this is just how it looks in the creating mode. I know looks aren't everything. And I also know you can't judge a book by it's cover; although, this one book I read had an interesting cover and turned out to be an interesting book with lots of cool hand drawn pictures inside. So much for overused phrases. Hopefully, on this blogger, I will create some of my own phrases that most likely will be seen by my family, which is the most important audience that I am lucky to be seen by.