Off and On

I finally got my wireless network functioning yesterday, only to discover -- immediately -- that my desktop computer wouldn't even turn on. My scream of triumph was still rising from my belly. By the time it emerged, it was a cry of anguish.

At least Kim can consistently use the network on her Windows machine now.

I have back-ups for most of the files on my seemingly dead machine, but not all the digital photos from the past few months. I'm keeping my DNA crossed.

Anyway, I'm gearing up to do a little more "personal" writing here, once things get squared away on the computer front.

In the meantime, look for more terse, link-laden entries and the occasional picture for which I have a back-up.

The Place I Was Before

Talking to our neighbors Jonathan and Erin tonight about their move to a bigger house -- they now have two small children and want another -- we exchanged comments about how acquaintances without children frequently can't understand the reality of our parental lives. It was the sort of conversation you have with people you don't have much in common with besides parenting. I participated willingly, but felt guilty afterwards.

Is the divide between couples with children and couples without children really that absolute?

I don't want it to be. But I do sometimes look back on our pre-Skylar years like a person trying to imagine a time before Christianity. It's so hard to put aside the reflexes that spring up when you become a parent: the alertness to danger, the need to put on a façade for one's child, even the facility for coordinating loads that you would once have dropped in seconds.

Take this picture for example. It captures Kim on a Seattle bridge during our July, 1996 vacation centered on a week of backpacking excursions in Olympic National Park. As Dan correctly pointed out, you can see the snow-covered Olympic Mountains in the distance.

As I examine the image, though, I can't fully indulge my nostalgia. There's a voice inside my head saying, "Where's Skylar?" It makes me sad to think that she wasn't there with us.

I realize that must sound absurd. But that's what parenting does to you. It reshapes the past until it matches up with the present.