Friday, June 22, 2012

To The Favorite Son, Happy Birthday

This week, we celebrated the eighth birthday of my son, to whom we affectionately refer as "Jones," "Boss," "Pablo," "Little Man," "Brother," and even, "The Favorite Son."

He's my only son.

Folks who are connected with me personally, on Facebook, or elsewhere know that I have countless, great "Favorite Son Stories." I'll limit the anecdotes to just a few:

When The Favorite Son was about five years old, I bought him single-color Hanes boxer briefs. You know, the same ones that Michael Jordan and, well, his dad wears. He thought they were so cool, he couldn't stop giggling and wanted the two of us to wear the same color.

DAD: "Time to get your pajamas on and brush your teeth."
FAVORITE SON: "Hold on. I have to get a drink of water. My throat is pouched."

The Favorite Son likes to watch "scary movies," so he and I watched the most recent M. Night Shayamalan one Friday night. It was more a thriller and not too crazy, but he still wanted to sleep on the big chair in my room.
The next morning I asked, "Did you sleep okay? Were you scared?"
He answered, "I slept okay. I told my mind to think happy things, and it listened."

After The Favorite Son asked to watch television one night, I first said, "No," but then I reconsidered and answered, "I think we will watch T.V. tonight because it's a very important night for . . . "
The Favorite Son interrupted, "The Jets?"
"No," I said.
"The Missouri Tigers?" he asked hopefully.
"No," I repeated.
"Then, what?" he asked.
"The Republican candidates running for President of the United States."
He started to cry.

During a recent family dinner, The Favorite Son opined, "The best thing about me is that I'm not lactose intolerant."

And then some, Brother. Happy Birthday.


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