Geronimo!

The inevitable has happened. Whilst I was filling in my Precise Periods of Presence in the United States of America (yes, for my entire 35 years on earth), Baby Aodh leapt from his bouncy chair. The chair made more cozy by (STOP READING NADJA!) a sheep skin, which makes fastening the safety belt fiddly. Since the Big Mon was asleep in his hand-me-down pink-pink sleepbag, I let my guard down. I heard him stirring but by the time I turned around he was on his knees, arms crossed afore him, executing a roll even Uncle Mikey could be proud of.

Not much crying ensued as I don't think he was much injured. A bit surprised, yea, even shocked since he hadn't quite awoken and thought out this exploit. I felt a twinge of guilt. And some annoyance at the bureaucracy that requires me to forego thinking about the baby for whom I seek a passport to rack my brains about which day in March 1996 I arrived back in Houston from Managua. The bureaucracy that didn't bother to require its minions to stamp my passport on arrival those many times.