In many ways, we know nothing about my son. He’s almost 11 months old.
We see him do something new and think, is that what he will be?
Yet we still aren’t sure what color his hair will be, permanently. It seems blond right now. But I was blond as a child, they say. His mother is blond, but my son doesn’t use any such products on his hair. (That line might have been a suicide attempt. Not sure.)
I watch him throw things around, with his left arm more than his right arm lately. And they are tossed with such force.
He will be a major league pitcher, I think. A quarterback. I’m sure of it.
His little donut ring toy — he rolls it around, so he might could be a bowler. Or maybe a mechanic or a tire changer on a NASCAR race team.
His favorite toy right now is a little wooden biplane with big wheels. It’s meant to be ridden somewhat like a tricycle, but his feet don’t reach the ground when he’s on it. But he leans on it and it’s helping him learn to walk.
He can roll along so good with it — he loves it.
Will he be a pilot?
Or a runner? That would be certainly falling far from the vine, as his daddy isn’t a runner. I’m not even a brisk walker.
He’s a good boy. I’ve heard people say that about their kids and seen evidence, quickly, that it isn’t exactly so.
He’s got a little bit of mischief in him, but he does it in plain sight, that little smile on his face letting all know he knows he’s pushing a button.
But he’s 99 percent good and happy, and only unhappy when he bumps his head or has got a cold bigger than the usual baby sniffles.
Whatever happens, I think he will be a gentle man and a gentleman, like his grandfather, for whom he is named.
He got the biplane from my wife’s parents. The maternal grandparents also got him a huge fluffy ball of a toy, a duck. When you squeeze it, it makes a noise, a ducky, coughy kind of noise. That’s his second favorite toy, I think.
He doesn’t squeeze it with a hand or an arm. He attacks it, attacks it like he’s a paramedic doing CPR.
“I … won’t … let you die!” he seems to be saying as he fiercely pushes onto the duck’s “heart.” Is he the next Johnny Gage/Roy DeSoto? (Does anyone remember the guys from “Emergency.”)
We have baby gates at the top and bottom of the stairs. He crawls over to them, stands up, rattles them.
“Let me out, ya screws!” I say everytime I see him do it. He’s like Jimmy Cagney in “White Heat.”
Whatever he becomes, he won’t make a good jail bird, I think.
The way he swished about in the bathtub, we knew he was going to be a great swimmer. I love to swim, but his mother, she used to competitive swim as a girl.
Is he the next Mark Spitz?
So when he got into the pool at my sister’s development, we were surprised he didn’t want to stay in as long as we thought he might. But it was a relief, a bit, to me. I’m not too sure I like the idea of any progeny of mine going about in a Speedo.
He just stares at things at times, and I think he’s going to be a scientist. Deep, deep thoughts.
He pushes a box along, opens things up, tries to take a few things and I think he might be like his Uncle John or his Grandpa Tom. A handy man, good with tools.
We don’t know anything, really. But we look at all he does, simple, silly things, all of it new to him and made new to us.
I don’t want to find out too soon, but I am also dying to find out what this little man might someday become.
Then I change one of his diapers, one of THOSE diapers, and I know.
He’s going to be a politician.