Cultural icons are a fascinating study. It amazes me how an idea or symbol can travel well beyond it's contextual borders and yet still convey something of it's original meaning. Take the White Christmas as an example. There exists, in my mind at least, this ideal that Christmas should be flocked with snow; this image is powerful enough that while my family sold Christmas trees years back, people were in the market for flocked trees, which were normal green trees painted white with fake snow.

Intentions being what they are it won't do much good to declare I had many in regards to documenting the aspects of our lives these past three months. Three months in the life of a small child can very well be half of it! Life has been moving at either a break-neck pace or has become ensnared in the muck and mire of circumstances that are better left historical and thus forgotten. With Christmas nearly upon us and two holidays already passed with nary a word it is high time I write something, though I fear it shall not be in any great depth.

Kids grow up so fast don't they? Just the last week Emma was 18 weeks old and now, at 8:31 PM PDT she'll be 19 weeks old! What is a dad to do? This dad is taking some pictures, only . . . they didn't turn out as you might expect. Take a look:

Babies are vastly interesting. Their lives have so little personal history it is simply amazing to watch how they learn. People keep telling me kids grow up fast, in fact I've heard it my entire life. In some regards children do grow up fast, but only because at first there is so much to take in that each new development, each new discovery, is a milestone in their short historical record. And yet I find it hard to document the minutia of Emma's life for public consumption.

Emma is now eight weeks old, an age we can hardly believe. I have always found that life's pace ebbs and flows; sometimes it feels as if the week/month/year will never end, and other times "yesterday" was weeks past. The kind folks at my last job wished me well when I left, so much so that I felt bad for leaving them, and a great many of them advised me to enjoy my time with Emma because she will grow up fast.

Next week is my last week at my current job. While I was on leave I have a job offer to work from home doing the same type of work I was already doing, and I'd make a little more money. Three weeks with Emma convinced me I want to have as much time as I can with my baby girl. She is quite the little bundle of preciousness.

I cannot remember a time when I did not suffer from seasonal allergies. My mother tells a story of when I was little and told my father that having allergies was awful, and he surprised me by saying he didn't have any; I'm told it made both of them rather sad as they realized I'd never know a year without allergic reactions. Every year about this time my allergies start up, and I get downright despotic about the opening of doors and windows in my house.

A baby, when hungry, will cry. A new mom, upon hearing this cry, will try to rectify the solution. Usually this involves waking up, contending with an IV, struggling with the snaps on some unfamiliar hospital gown, staring at the thing that just fell out of her gown, wondering whose it is because it looks so terribly unfamiliar, and then . . . cramming the baby's head into what is suspected to be a breast and hope all goes well so mom can go back to sleep. They tell you that both mom and baby need to learn to nurse.

My pastor and I meet on Thursday evenings to talk ministry and get to know one another; eventually I will be more involved in the church's ministries, maybe even doing some preaching. The Thursday before Emma's birth I gave Holly a good-bye kiss and drove to my meeting. When I came home forty minutes later I looked at Holly and remarked that Emma had dropped. Holly tried to quietly dismiss it, but I insisted she had dropped, which I proved by feeling her belly and pointed out that the top was like pudding, and not a hard knot like it had been.