A lifetime of hoping begins. Last night it was for a second pee so (big) little Whit wouldn't need anything to supplement his mother's milk. Next month it'll be for admission to our local day-care, ten years from now it'll be for an 86 on that Earth Sciences test, and a few years after that it'll be for Gerry Sharpe (that same Gerry Sharpe who was going to be a star for Bristol City until he broke his leg and found his future coaching American children near the warm waters of Virginia Beach, not Blackpool) or some equivalent to pick him for his eighteen man roster.
But all of that is far away; for now, we can be happy that he did get that second pee, which made his parents happy, and also made his dad realize that all those things he'd heard before but not understood, how Abigail's mom, whom I'd never thought would mention something so delicate as pee or poop, could mention Abigail's so frequently in that sing-song voice while we're all eating lunch.
Because we're just three days in and I already want to tell everybody about big little Whit's, but I'll hold off for now. You can ask me about it, but I'm not going to out and out tell you about it. Not yet.
But all of that is far away; for now, we can be happy that he did get that second pee, which made his parents happy, and also made his dad realize that all those things he'd heard before but not understood, how Abigail's mom, whom I'd never thought would mention something so delicate as pee or poop, could mention Abigail's so frequently in that sing-song voice while we're all eating lunch.
Because we're just three days in and I already want to tell everybody about big little Whit's, but I'll hold off for now. You can ask me about it, but I'm not going to out and out tell you about it. Not yet.
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