I'm continually fascinated by the ongoing genetics experiment we're conducting by having children. It's pretty easy to see where some traits come from. I have my father's long, narrow fingers and feet, so it's not hard to see where Alec's absurdly long fingers and monkey toes came from, for instance. But although I have a lot of my father's build, I look nothing like him in the face. But K has his mouth. And Alec has his nose and ears, and I would not be surprised at all to see a big resemblance as he gets older. Apparently my father's face has been hiding in my genetic code, just waiting for the opportunity to be expressed.
We finished watching Torchwood: Children of Earth last night, and I don't think I've watched such a depressing five hours since the time I made the mistake of watching Schindler's List and Life is Beautiful in the same week. It was just so unrelentingly awful, in ways that I'm really sensitive to right now. Which is not to say that it was badly written, acted or produced. It was just a good telling of a story I really didn't want to watch.
Hey, remember when Captain Jack was likeable and fun? I miss that.
B isn't working tomorrow but we're still shipping K off to daycare, so hopefully we'll be able to go see Harry Potter tomorrow. This is all dependent on the baby cooperating with a nice long nap, but given that there are showings about every half hour tomorrow, we should be able to find some point in the day when he'll sleep long enough. We might as well take advantage of the sleep like the dead phase of infancy while we can.