The Nipper was born with a look of extreme confusion on his face. This is how I knew, without a shadow of doubt, where the other half of his genetic material had come from. I mean, I knew it *anyway*, but the moment I saw his little face, all scrimpled up, and imagined him hollering “CHANGE!!” in a Very Alarmed Voice, I looked at His Nibs and said, “well. He’s certainly YOUR son.”
He was born without any assistance at all, the doctor busying herself with things like doing something else as The Nipper squipped out onto the bed. When the nurse handed him up to me (as I was reaching down to get him, for the record), she looked at me and said, “well? What do you think of your baby boy?”
And I said, “He isn’t black.”
And the nurse said, “…?…”
And I said to His Nibs, “I told you I wanted a black baby.”
And the nurse said, “…”
And I said to the nurse, “I suppose you’ll have to put this one back.”
And our Doula had to have a sit-down with the giggles.
Happy Birthday, The Nipper. You’re perfect the way you are, buck teeth and backwards pants and all. I love you, pook.