Towel is a five-letter word

Just minutes ago, I was getting Nels out of the tub. Sophie, already out, was running down the hall naked to pick out her own jams. This is something she gets to do since she’s the big girl, and Nels is just the little brother. I picked Nels out of the tub and put him across my lap on a fresh towel. “Towel,” he said.

Honest to dog tears welled up in my eyes.

I remembered when Sophie was his age, a book she had that listed various bath toys. Towel, Ducky, Soap, Faucet. I was overwhelmed with nostalgia for just a few years ago. In Kid Time, though, those years are uncannily light-speed. I mentally flashed-forward to Sophie, a 20-something parent of her own, and me trying to tell her about that book and the word “towel” and how she said it. I wondered why my own parents don’t relate these little memories of growing up. Then I was struck by fear that these moments dissappear; that memory is incorrect, that this memory will soon be gone. That’s why my parents don’t tell me. They don’t remember.

I was suddenly sad, but my son was already down the hallway and picking out his own pajamas, and there was no more time for nostalgia.

zooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom

I am now the most miserable man living. If what I feel were equally distributed to the whole human family, there would not be one cheerful face on the earth. Whether I shall ever be better I can not tell; I awfully forebode I shall not. To remain as I am is impossible; I must die or be better, it appears to me.

- President Abraham Lincoln

I Hate MSN.

I hate MSN.

Disappointment

They didn’t choose my icon for Art of Illusion.