I try to keep myself organized. Not "Martha" organized, but somewhere between her ideal and the aftermath of a nuclear detonation. This past weekend I was going through old photos (remember when "going through old photos" involved shoe boxes and rubber bands, not computers and hard drives?), which is a risky task. I invariably get distracted by the nostalgia of it all, and the next thing I know, four hours have passed and I've accomplished nothing.

And, wouldn't you know — I paused when I found the shot you see above.

The picture was taken in December of 2005, on the first of three nights we spent without power, following a terrible wind and ice storm that tossed a pine tree onto my wife's Nissan. Ah, New England. It's so nice here.

Grace was just 2 years old at the time and William was an infant. The only candles we had were scented, so our dark, frigid house smelled powerfully of "Fresh Linen," "Lilac," and "Mountain Breeze" all at once.

Last week, my wife went to beautiful Boston for a four-day conference, and I stayed home with the darlings. If the thought of 96 uninterrupted hours of childcare makes you shudder, consider that I once did a whole week. A friend of mine did two weeks. Single parents do it every single blessed day — something that I cannot comprehend. I tip my hat to you.

Anyway, I had the bright idea of "live blogging" the weekend. That is to say, I was going to provide the nine people who actually read my blog with a play-by-play commentary of the weekend. I gave up by 2:30 on the first day. I found that when I finally did have ten minutes to myself, I wanted to spend them on the couch, mentally traveling to the south of France.

By the end of day two, however, I was feeling quite proud of myself.

At 2:30 P.M., my wife walks up to me, her eyes darting back and forth. She leans in close to my face, her words hushed, but urgent. "It's 2:30," she says.

"I know," I answer.

"They aren't here yet."

"Do you want me to call?" I ask.

A few tense seconds pass. "I don't know," she says. "Yes. I think so...yes."

"Okay," I say, and go into the house. As I search the computer for the phone number to CJ's Ranch, I'm thinking, "God, what am I doing? I mean, who am I? I'm one of THOSE parents. That's who I am. God, I've become one of them..."

I remember my father as a guy in his late twenties — younger than I am now — wearing plaid pants, dollar store slippers, and a bright blue t-shirt that read "Master of Disaster" in fuzzy iron-on letters. A soggy cigar bounced in his mouth as he spoke, his eyes fixed on what he was doing. It was early in the morning, and we had already been up for hours, fishing for our breakfast in some Canadian lake. Standing in the grass, he was showing me how to gut a perch. I've got to tell you, there's nothing quite like the experience of sawing the head off of a still-gasping fish.

I also remember attending my first Indy Car race with my aunt. The air was so hot you could smell the asphalt. I saw Mario Andretti's car up close, stuffed myself with hot dogs and cotton candy, and then threw up all over my aunt's car as we drove home.

I remember ending my Little League career having only made a single hit; startling my sister so badly she whacked her head and had to get stitches; attending my first rock concert — with a priest — and burying three dogs, two cats, countless pet fish, and a brown rabbit named Rainbow.

Last week I was in the car with my kids when Grace piped up from the backseat. "Dad, remember when you played that funny game where you put my green coat on your head and marched up and down the hallway? That was funny."

"Yeah," I said, and the weight of what happened in that instant was suddenly overwhelming.

"Dear God," I thought. "I'm responsible for their childhood memories."