He Knows

One of the fears most parents have is that someday, without warning, their child will be better than them. Smarter, faster, stronger . . . able to leap tall buildings in a single cliche.

Part of this is because time is on their side. Children, by definition, are younger than their parents. While we're growing older, they're growing up. We've passed our prime, and they've yet to reach their's. It's a patently unfair system, but it's the only one we've got.

Enter Porter.

The kid smiles like grins are on sale. Not all the time, mind you. He has a serious side as well. But I'm convinced he knows he's keeping his mother and I awake and away from anything approaching a full night's sleep, and he's playing us like marked cards.

It's like a less athletically capable Stewie saying, "Yes mother, I AM cute, aren't I."

"Oh, father, here's a smile to warm the sub-cockles of your heart!"

Damned if it doesn't work every time.

Eight Month Report

I know I've been lax on reporting the joys and sorrows of fatherhood and parenthood and baby-boyhood.

No excuses. No, we haven't slept in over eight months. No, Porter screams every two hours out of three. No, work doesn't seem to care if Porter had a rough night.

Nothing.

This is a completely excuse-free zone.

The most impressive news to date is that Porter is on the verge, the cusp, the ledge, the very cutting-moment of walking. He's been standing with assistance for about two months now. This assistance includes: daddy's fingers, mommy's fingers, Aunt Isabella's fingers, the couches, the chairs, the tables, cousins, and the standing lamp that he has three times managed to pull down on top of himself.

He's apparently a slow learner in regard to the stability of standing lamps.

What's even more impressive is his sound financial sense. Especially in these trying times of four-dollar-a-gallon gasoline, Porter has stalwartly not grown out of his six-month clothes. This has been a great help to Lil and I, as the clothes we've mooched from Eric and Amy have yet to arrive (may the gods bless you!).

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, Porter has learned to say "mama"!

Ok, that last was a joke. Almost all babies learn "dada" first and Porter, my son, is no exception. He babbles "dadadadada" quite a bit, as if to say, "Oh father, how can I ever repay your benevolence for bringing me into this world, clothing my nakedness, changing my dirtiness, and feeding my hunger."

That's quite alright son, just start sleeping through the night and we'll call it even.

Oh, and a Pulitzer prize. But no rush on that.