My girl's hand, my boy's foot.
When Mr. T was born five days ago, he had wrinkly hands and feet like I’m used to seeing on great-grandparents.
Minutes after birth, my son’s weathered hands were holding on to my finger, and I couldn’t help but think that my wife had given birth to a senior citizen.
When I got a good look at his feet, the same thing. Wrinkled, worn out feet that look like they had been through Vietnam.
When Tommy boy looked at me for the first time, he looked deep into my eyes, as if to say… “Do I have a story to tell you…” I felt like I was looking into the eyes of an elder. I wanted to call him ‘Sensai’ for some reason.
For a moment I thought my son might be a spy. He was so mature, and wise already. Why was he sent here? Would he find my secret stash of Triscuits?
The first night, Mr. T didn’t cry at all. Slept through like he was on old man’s sleeping pills. Friday, his first full day, he was content and chillin’, like he was watching the Golden Girls.
On Saturday, Mr. T became a baby. He started crying. He wasn’t sleeping at night. His hands became unwrinkled, as did his feet.
I no longer think my son is a spy or a decorated war veteran. But I would be proud if he became one.