Dad Entry #44

Once upon a time, a boy was born. His father wept and his mother cried (in pain) and on his birthday he was strong enough to do push-ups in the plastic bassinet they set him in after delivery. He was markedly out of place in the newborn nursery, a giant next to the preemies there, maybe like a white shark caught in a fishing pen full of tuna. He was born with the chest of a strongman contestant and the shoulders of an Olympic swimmer. And if physique alone wasn’t enough to earn him the title of nursery brute, he had a swollen face to go with it, mostly around the eyes, like a prizefighter. His labor was arduous although he never did arrive as nature intended. Too big. But the swelling – and his mother’s severe exhaustion – were proof he went the distance before going to the scorecards for a decision to surgically intervene. As a baby, he only cried when he was hungry. But this was not infrequent really because according to the charts, at 2 months he was 10 months, and a 10-month-old eats food. Real food. Solid food. This wonder-boy only got milk. But every day he drank two or three times the number of ounces recommended by the pediatrician. Some of his clothes were never worn because he outgrew them in utero. It wasn’t long before this toddler could speak so clearly that one might, over the phone, mistake him for an eight-year-old. Dirty bibs and diapers were age giveaways in face-to-face meetings, although they emphasized the dichotomy; those who spoke to the boy were impressed. He learned every ‘Thomas the Train’ character overnight. It wasn’t long before he knew enough about marine biology to lecture at a university. And he knew less about marine biology than he did about prehistory. At the ripe age of five, the boy became a world leader in dinosaur identification (and, even more remarkable, pronunciation). Pachycephalasaurus. Say that five times. A fan of books, the boy’s private collection surpassed in number every library on the planet save two (Congress and the Vatican). And, to enhance his creativity further, in a matter of months he collected more lego sets than Kate Hudson has boyfriends. Okay, I can’t go on with this story, but hopefullly by now you’ve identified its hero. Yes, he is Michael Byard Cox (not to be confused with Papa Mike). Since I noticed I’m approaching entry #50, I’m anxious to get there… so more on Michael in #45.