He’s my wife’s son

My son is so much like his mother I often think I didn’t have much to do with bringing him into this world.  He looks like her, has her allergies, needs glasses like her and gets in a really bad mood if not led to the trough to feed on a regular basis.  For her, a lack of food equals a precipitous, foul mood inducing drop in blood sugar.  I fully expect it’s the same for him, although we’ve yet to have a doctor check on that.


He is also, like her, very, very intelligent. We figured we might have a precociously smart kid on our hands when he started reading at an amazingly early age.  It’s not like he was browsing the New York Times while we changed his diaper, but he began recognizing words on a page when he was 17-months-old. By the time our daughter came along when he was three, he was more than capable of reading books to her at night.  He’s 12-years-old now  and school has never been a problem for him.  If anything, it’s too easy.

I’m very proud of him, but sometimes I just have to shake my head.  Take today, for instance.  I finally went to check on his bicycle because he’d been complaining about a thumping noise.  Turns out he had a flat.  I found a nail stuck in his back tire.  No amount of patching was going to fix the huge gash it ripped through his inner tube.  All the air must have been let out in one big WHOOSH!

“You didn’t notice the flat, son?” I asked. 

Apparently, not.  

A couple of weeks ago, my wife was leaving on her daily ride and came back into the house complaining  that she couldn’t get her pedals to rotate. 

I went outside and put the chain back on the sprockets. 

Those two are more alike than they know and sometimes, I think they keep me around solely to take care of the little things.


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He’s my wife’s son

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