Playing with Master Blackwell last night I was taking stock of his sartorial splendor.
He wore a onesie, proclaiming that he is indeed “Handsome,” as if both of his grandmothers hadn’t provided that reminder once or twice.
He had socks bearing the Batman logo, covering the feet that have so captured his attention of late.
And he had the goatee of shiny drool that has become his go-to accessory.
Casting my gaze further up his noggin, I was dismayed to find something else.
|Once he gets teeth, I'm in trouble.|
The boy is unquestioningly amassing hair, and at an exponential rate. For months, a team of wispy, barely-visible hairs has sparsely populated his head. You had to look closely to know they were there.
Frankly, I liked it. Since he was born, I’ve occasionally referred to my boy as “the Old Man.” It’s a refrain others have repeated without ever hearing me utter it.
The kid possesses an unimpressed demeanor and has a propensity for scowling. Couple these features with a bald head and the “Old Man” moniker slides on like a silk glove.
Alas, with the emergence of this mane, I’ll have to adopt a new nickname for my boy and, let’s face it, come to grips with the fact that he’s growing.
And boy, is he growing. His head is in the 90th-plus percentile in size. His weight is just about there too. His length/height is somewhere near the 50th. Wait, what?
We’re told he is going to put on length soon, a good thing as Mrs. Blackwell and I have no intention of raising a fire hydrant. (I keed. I keed.)
His soft little scalp will soon be shrouded, never to see the light of day again until he is a bald, older man. Perhaps by that point the shadows of cars flying overhead will be cast upon his old-man dome. Who knows?
I just know his hair means he’s getting older, just as we all are. But, when I look at him, I am often left wishing that they made a “pause button” for life before they get around to the flying car.