Life comes in waves. It's amazing that one week of non-events can lead to the next week of life-altering experiences.

"(I) wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today."

And I'm glad. I'm glad that its unpredictable and that it changes and that unexpected events, be they good or bad, can bring unexpected consequences both good and bad. I just want the good to out-weigh the bad. But i suppose its the bad that builds character, that makes us stronger, better people. And before this gets too cliched and metaphysical, I'm going to stop.

I will say this, though. Life would be empty, life would be hollow if it were spent alone. Thank goodnes for a spouse who knows and understands me and thank goodness for two little girls who giggle and tease and call me Mustard and Hot Dog because they think that's funny. Who are we kidding, it is funny.

I have two daughters. One's a 3-year-old blonde, Claire, who is completely nuts and the other's a 1-year-old troublemaker, Leigh. Complete troublemaker. Turn your back for three seconds and she has a fistfull of dirt already inside her mouth while sitting precarioulsy close to the edge of the counter she's just climbed.

The point. I was putting them to bed tonight and Claire was an emotional wreck. She hadn't had a nap so she was at that point of exhaustion when failing to look at her while she speaks sends her into a full-blown tantrum. Anyway. She won't just go down. She has to have her three favorite stuffed animals, her favorite books, three songs sung to her in a specific order and she has to plug in her night-light herself, turn off the room light and shut the door. It's a freaking production putting her to bed.

So tonight I'm lying her down on her bed and she's crying that she can't find her "purple" book. She has half a dozen purple books, many of which I produce. No. That's not the one she wants. She goes off for five minutes explaining to me the book between sobs, wails and gasps of breath. Keep in mind she's only 3 and doesn't speak really well to begin with. "Claire, you can't climb up there." "Yes I am!" she responds. So the whole time she's crying and describing her book, I'm trying to interpret the banter. A book about a boy. Your purple coloring book. Your purple crayon book. I have no idea what book she wants so I yell at her, tell her to stay in bed and go to sleep. I leave. She balls. I come back yell at her some more and she cries even harder. I can see that the yelling isn't doing what I want it to. Yeah. Who knew. So I finally patch things up, sing her "Twinkle Twinkle" and leave the room. She eventually falls to sleep still mad I didn't know what book she was talking about and probably frustrated out of her 3-year old mind that she can't communicate with the people around her.

Three hours later I go into my room and notice books sitting on the bed. I curiously look through them to see if any match the incoherant descriptions Claire gave me. And then I see "Harold and the Purple Crayon" and put it togehter. I felt terrible because I know had I not been fuming with her hours before and not pushing to get her to sleep, I could have easily figured out she was talking about "Harold and the Purple Crayon." I'm an idiot AND a jerk. No wonder kids have issues with their parents.

So I'm a bandwagon jumper. The idea of a blog sounded fun. So here it is. Of course, if I thought anyone was actually going to read this, I might be more hesitant. But let's be honest, it's the World Wide Web. I'll be lucky if I can talk my own wife into visiting the page.

As a reporter for a major metro daily (read: midsize, midtown publication) I thought this would be a good way to hone my column-writing skills. If it ends up just totally sucking, I and the fat, Reeses Peanutbutter Cup inhaling computer geek who trips onto my blog because the word "SundownerMan" tripped up his flamboyant Florida gay men porn search will know.