I’ve been asked recently by various people why I don’t post much anymore.

Well for those who are interested I’ll let you know and I have to write this quickly so please forgive any run-on sentences, spelling or grammatical errors: see, I’m forced to write this behind the locked door of my bathroom. Waiting for me on the other side of that door is the personification of chaos, or as I usually refer to him “the baby”, who, as of January, has turned two, and has taken the concept of the terrible twos and just ran with it. He is currently repeating the phrase “Daddy poop” at the door and I can’t tell if he’s asking me if I’m pooping or telling me that he has pooped, possibly in his training potty or on the floor.  All day, everyday, I follow this little ball of destruction around making sure he doesn’t hurt himself, others or the steadily decreasing amount of property my family has. The spare time I do have is spent cleaning up after him, trying to repair things he has broken or praying for a few minutes of peace… and I just heard a crash and someone is screaming.

So, yeah, that’s uh… Yeah…

The 4am Train

The tracks are just a little over a mile from my house.

Every morning around 4am a train goes by.

This train, for some reason, believes that it can only go through this part of town if it lays on the whistle/horn/what-ever-you-call-it (I’m not a train person) the entire time.

At 4am every morning the baby hears this train whistle/horn/what-ever-you-call-it, sits up in his bed and loudly announces “TRAIN! TRAIN!”.

Somedays we can get the baby back to sleep.

Somedays we can’t.

I would like to tell everyone what kind of things go through my mind at 4am every morning.

But I won’t.

Because I don’t want to land on some sort of federal watch list.