The Man

My son is already way cooler than I ever hope to be. Exhibit A: the hair. I wake up every morning and slather my hair with a tub of paste to attempt to make it look naturally disheveled. Cameron's hair coifs into perfection without any product (well, a little regurgitated milk might get in there). Exhibit B: his musical taste. Cameron loves him some James Brown. If he hears any rendition of "I Feel Good" (even an impassioned screech from his father) he will immediately break into a huge smile. No kidding, I sang him "I Feel Good" about ten times in a row yesterday and he smiled at the bridge every single time. As a quasi man of science, I have to reject the null hypothesis of coincidence. Cameron has declared his adoration for the Godfather of Soul. Considering that "mmm bop" by Hanson never fails to put a smile on my face, I think he's taken round two in this contrived coolness competition. Seriously, sometimes I look over at Cameron kicked back in his bumpo seat, grooving to James Brown and I wonder ... is this cat really my son?

Now that the question has been asked, I think it's time to share a little story. Please come back in time with me to a darkened hospital suite in North Austin. The ward is quiet, the family is resting. A nurse quietly enters. She inquires if we would like to have a paternity test done before the birth certificate is completed. Awkward glances are exchanged. Mindy speaks first. The nurse slinks back from whence she came. And thus, no official documentation of my paternity has been established. I remind Mindy of this fact when she asks me to do something for Cameron that inconveniences me. It's a great out.

But what does one do when they've been denied proof of parenthood? You scour for evidence, that's what. So I find myself staring into Cameron's eyes searching to see if the left one is slightly off center. I listen intently to his coos for any indication of speech deficits or a biting wit. And that's how I heard it. Even amidst the background noise of the Countess singing that new hit "money can't buy you class;" it was clear. I heard it and I knew without a doubt that Cameron is my son. For Cameron was creating an exact rendition of the weird throat scratching / throat clicking thing I find myself doing from time to time. If you know me well, you know what I'm talking about. It's my annoying calling card, it's distinct, and if I've done it in your presence it's driven you a little mad. Apparently it's genetic. But there is only one difference between Cameron's version and mine. Cameron makes throat clicking cool. That's what I'm talking about. He's got it all.