Sometimes I have to remind myself that my son is not me. He has my hands and my feet- but his face, skin and hair color are his mothers. His temperament is a mix of the two of us- but he already has a ton of my habits and mannerisms. It is not surprising- what other man is he going to look to first. Sometimes I look at him and ask him if he is sure that I am his dad. He laughs and holds up his hand. A million years ago I showed him the special lines in his hand that prove that he is mine. He laughs again and tells me that he knows all of my tricks and then he grows silent. He knows me well and understands that he can't say that he knows all of my tricks without expecting something to happen. Sometimes I come up with something new and sometimes I just wrestle with him. Boys are like bear cubs, got to wrassle with them pups a bit. I rub my face against his and he yells at me that it is rough. I laugh and he says it is not fair. I tell him that life isn't fair and that grand
"When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, 'Damn, that was fun'." — Groucho Marx