Birthdays are a curious event; they are curious because we wait a full year to celebrate a person's entrance into this world. We were all too eager to celebrate Emma's first birthday, but in truth, I celebrate her birthday every day of the year. I suppose I could be accused of being a Proud Papa, for Emma is a delight and a joy. If there is one thing holding me back it is that God is the author of her life; all I am doing is raising her. I often think of what a gift Emma has been, is, and will hopefully be, and with a humble sincerity thank God for her daily.

I clocked off work a bit earlier than usual that fateful Thursday; I had managed to drag my sorry self out of bed before my usual time, thus I had more time in my afternoon to enjoy the sudden rain storm. Holly and Emma were out at a swimming party, ironic that the heavens would open up to overflow our gutters and flood our streets with their thirst quenching rain. I opened a couple of windows, grabbed a fiction magazine I have been wanting to read and set my mind upon relaxing.

Christmas, while still a religious holiday in which we celebrate the birth of Jesus the Christ, has always been a family affair in my life. For good or for bad, when I think of Christmas I think of family first and church activities second. There is a joy in giving gifts, of seeing someone's face light up when you get them something they want. The joy is especially great when it's a child's face breaking at the seams with excitement.

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.