After Elliot was born a nurse who hadn’t yet met us walks into my room, looks at Elliot, looks at Peter and says, “Well, we know who daddy is.” At the time I was all “heh, yes my baby is as gorgeous as my husband.” Now that it’s almost six years later I like to retell the story more as “uhm, yes – the baby that was removed from the giant gash in my abdomen does have a striking resemblance to the man sitting over there.”
Peter’s mother tells a story that when he was little he could charm all the elderly church ladies out of their purse candy. He’d bat his long eyelashes and stare with a face that I assume looked a lot like this:
When Elliot was a toddler I took him to urgent care for what turned out to be another ear infection. He was as adorable as possible, chatting up the doctor. She looked right into his big blue eyes and said, “you are handsome.” Then she looked at me and said, “good luck.”
This son of mine? I think he’ll be a heart breaker. But of the quiet kind. I think he’ll be too busy presiding over Chess tournaments to notice girls. They’ll just have to suffer in silence. Swoon over those eye lashes of his. Write his name with swirlies and hearts on their notebooks. And if he really is like his dad, I don’t think he’ll have any idea.