One of the amazing things about daddy-hood is the speculation. Will she use those li’l kickers to play soccer? Karate? Perhaps she’ll wear a pantsuit and become president.
I wonder and wonder and wonder, but really, we’re not even sure what color her eyes will be ( blue now, like most babies, but chances of green and brown in the afternoon.) And yes, I want to know if she’ll be a novelist or a drug addict, a drill sergeant or a past-the-expiration-date flower child, but really I’d be content to know what she will look like.
I try to imagine her at 2, 5, 11, 16- but all I can see is a giant baby. A giant baby running across the playground in diaper dribbles a basketball, drives a car, does her algebra homework, all with chubby cheeks, the balding monk haircut, and a vocabulary that consists of “Mwauoo?” and “Agwaa!” only. When she cries I’ll be left to guessing whether she got snubbed by the boy she sits behind in English Lit, or whether she wet herself. Or perhaps she just wants a glass of milk? Help with her biology homework?
Such a mystery, this baby speculation.