My new son scares me. If I make it to 68 he will be 20; I bet he could whip me then if he wanted to. He may whip me by the time he’s twelve.
I say that because of my concern for his random flailing and throwing punches around. I’m already seeing increased muscle tone in his delts and arms. I’m pretty sure he’s gonna be a pack leader of some sort.
His eleven pounds can even be asleep and still erupt with several lightning-fast, violent, air born combinations. Powerful combinations. Where does this rage come from? Am I the cause? My wife? Does he wish we hadn’t adopted him? He’s a half-breed like me and Cher and that leads to a lot of pent up rage, broken knuckles and broken dreams.
And that’s not to mention how he kicks with those little chicken thigh legs of his. It’s a good thing he doesn’t have spurs like real chickens or he would tear me to pieces, especially while I try to apply a clean diaper - that guy that invented Velcro was pretty slick. I don’t care what they paid him; it wasn’t enough.
I love every one who gave us baby clothing at the showers but the 36 little metal jobbers that I have to re-snap at 4 in the morning without my contacts in, while he is kicking out his best Michael Phelps breast - strokes make me feel like a clumsy buffoon as he screams and writhes around all over the place.
Nancy loves those little outfits but I have to admit I sometimes opt for my fail safe swaddle since my left fingers are less than coordinated in semi-darkness on moving targets after my C 5-7 spinal injury.
And no, baby boy, my frustration is not lessened simply because you are wearing an outfit that says “cute” and has a monkey on the front or, “I love my daddy”.
So, my prodigal son, I don’t know what your plans are for me but one day you may discover that I enrolled in a mixed martial arts class shortly after you kicked your momma in the face.