He was a big baby, eighteen pounds six ounces, to be exact. The moment I held him in my arms I knew my life would change forever. I loved everything about him – the silkiness of his skin, his endearing paunch, the way his nose and ears twitched, his festive snorts. (I didn’t dare tell my wife – who was out of commission for the next seventy-two hours – but I had be praying for a boy.)

I’m not oblivious to the way people look at him at the park, the strange behavior of friends and family (our own parents make excuses when we ask if they want to hold him or feed him). Given, he’s no Gerber baby. Maybe he’ll grow into an attractive young man, maybe he won’t. I don’t care. I couldn’t give a flying fuck. I’m his father. He’s my son. All I want is for him to be happy and, down the road, to stop shitting on the rug.