Bryn is currently playing with his belly button.

So, my daughter and I have this game we play, where she'll find a small toy (usually it's this tiny fluffy sparkly ball of I-don't-know-what) and bring it to me so that I can toss it across the room; she then chases after it in her toddling way, her chubby little legs threatening to trip up and send her careening to the floor, and then she'll pick it up and bring it back to me, so that I can just up and toss it across the room again.

That's right: I've taught my daughter how to play Fetch. Don't judge me.

After five or six cycles of this, she eventually gets tired of the game, taking the ball of fluff and retiring to the extra carseat we have by the front closet, where she just sits and enjoys the view of the neighbourhood through the screen door, every now and then shoving something foreign and probably toxic into her mouth because in her world EVERYTHING GOES IN HER MOUTH; it's funny, because this is exactly what our dog Chewie would do whenever I tried to play Fetch with him: go through the motions a few times, and then run off to the far corner of the yard where he'd proceed to chew up whatever item we'd been playing with, which is why our back yard was strewn with the deflated corpses of basketballs and soccer balls, as well as tiny leather scraps of baseballs and tennis balls.



I am in NO WAY saying that playing with my daughter is like owning a puppy. That would be wrong and irresponsible of me. It would make me a Bad Parent, and I am a Damned Fine Parent, and anyone who tells you different is a liar and probably a communist.

Anyway: I won't be playing this game this weekend, as the Ladyfriend has taken the Little Miss with her to Saskatoon, joining Miss Amy and her brood of feral children as they go all Thelma & Louise on the Canadian Prairies. Honestly, I expect to that the next time I see my family unit will be on the news, surrounded by police cars as they hole themselves up in some roadside gas station they've decided to 'knock over'. That Miss Amy's a baaaaaaad influence...

...of course, what this all means is that I am all by my lonesome this weekend (except for Bryn, but he doesn't count, as he spends the majority of his time lurking in the basement, ascending the stairs only at night to hunt the alleyways for stray cats and wayward hobo-flesh); I expect that this will result in a brief return to the days of my bachelorhood, when I would play video games until the sun came up, sleep for about four hours, waking only to dine on chocolate bars and ginger ale and the odd slab of meat.

It's true: I am what is commonly referred to as a Sad Individual.

At least I have fun doin' it.

Oh! Congratulations are in order to the handsome Bruce Anderson and his lovely lady Robin Pritchard, as they gave birth to an even handsomer baby boy last Sunday! Forrester Kaden Anderson-Pritchard weighed in at 8 lbs 1 oz, and already sports a fine head of hair. Good luck, you two! I will NOT babysit for you, as I spend all my time teaching my daughter to NOT put the dryer lint in her mouth, but I wish all three of you the best.

Now I must go do nerdy things. Be good. Or else.