Still life
Published February 19th, 2008 in Mostly a picture, Re: the lil' monkey.
“I’m relaxing with a little piece of stale bread,” says she.
[Copped on the fly (and from the hip) using this time-tested photojournalistic technique.]
Lesbian Dad 101
Hieroglyphics alert! LD recently made the jump to WordPress 2.5.1, with which came hieroglyphics (–) everywhere in the archival material. I've weeded a coupla dozen posts, and continue to do more when I have time, but please be patient 'til I git the mechanic to git the rest of it outta here. Shouldn't be too long.
Other maintainence work:Whilst I figure out how to make the best use of spiffy blogroll widgets and the new Links page, links on this home page will be a-shufflin' a bit. Good news: more of 'em, better organized (I think).
Lesbian Dad is written by a parent who answers to the name "Baba" and works toward a world in which amor does indeed vincit omnia.
Still curious? You'll find a ton more on the About page. Baffled by the lingo? Peruse the Glossary. For the proper immersion experience, I highly recommend a visit to the Best of LD.
Hispanohablantes: ¿aquí por error? Tengo una página para usted.
Other maintainence work:Whilst I figure out how to make the best use of spiffy blogroll widgets and the new Links page, links on this home page will be a-shufflin' a bit. Good news: more of 'em, better organized (I think).
Lesbian Dad is written by a parent who answers to the name "Baba" and works toward a world in which amor does indeed vincit omnia. Still curious? You'll find a ton more on the About page. Baffled by the lingo? Peruse the Glossary. For the proper immersion experience, I highly recommend a visit to the Best of LD.
Hispanohablantes: ¿aquí por error? Tengo una página para usted.
Public Service Announcements
Resources
Unfettered by adult nices and norms children can eat the most amazing things. Stale bread reminds me of green toast.
‘Whats that you’re eating?’
‘Green toast from under cooker’.
Not my child, nor cooker I hasten to add. Probably makes up for all the times that dead-cert-favourites become poisonous don’t-like-thats.
Yegods, green toast.
Our son crawls around under the table foraging for and munching up what he dropped. If I wasn’t so nostalgic for my dearly departed dog (whose job it was to do that very same thing), I’d stop the little guy. Instead I just look at him and sigh.