My Child

People stop me on the street just to ask it.

It’s as if they have to.

They can’t let it pass them by

Without vocally wondering why

My sons eyes don’t match mine

He’s adopted, isn’t he?

Well, yes, I say

I put a “Well” before my “Yes”

To indicate that I’m not frustrated

By their saturated tone

Adopted

They might as well say

Since they’re thinking it anyway

He’s a serial killer, isn’t he?

Or

He’s an Islamic terrorist, isn’t he?

Or more popular

He’s not yours, is he?

But regardless of what I think they’re asking

I answer the same

Every time

Yes, he is mine

But what I follow with

Usually blows their mind

Do you know how I know he’s mine?

A question they are not expecting

And before they think they answer—

“How?”

And this is what I say

I know he’s mine

When he wakes up in the morning

And says

Ba Ba

Ba Ba means Daddy

So I know I’m his Daddy

Of course I could also be his cookie

Since Ba Ba means cookie

Ba Ba means teddy bear

Ba Ba means basketball

Ba Ba means toy store

And Ba Ba means Daddy

All things he loves

I know he’s mine

When he and I

Are strolling out on Halloween

His costume—a can of tomato soup

Mine—Andy Warhol in his later years

Who else but a father and son

Could pull off such a fantastic costume duet

So brilliantly?

I know he’s mine when he screams for me

In the night

Because the monsters that come

When there isn’t any light

Have scurried out to get him

And only Ba Ba can fend them off

I know he is mine when he fidgets

The way I do

Or when he throws back his head to laugh

The way I do

Or when he rubs his nose up against his mother’s cheek

The way I do

I know he’s mine because he stays up late

He’s not a morning person

Though he enjoys breakfast

At midnight

The way I do

I know he’s mine because he trusts with caution

He’s sweet but fresh

When he’s in trouble with Ma Ma

He charms his way out of it

That’s how I know he’s mine

He is my son

He will break his index finger at seven

And his arm at nine

Falling out of a treehouse

Both times

Respectively

The first time he will not cry

The second time he will howl

Like death itself has seized him

By his waist

He will excel in English, History, and Phys. Ed

He will fail at Math and Science

He will love anyone that teaches him proper grammar

He will detest anyone who imposes their ignorance on him

He will play the following sports:

Basketball

Hockey

Lacrosse

He will quit all but lacrosse

Since that’s the one

The girls like most

He will own a turtle, two dogs, and some sort of lizard named Steppin’

Yeah, like Steppin’ Out

Ironically, he will step on Steppin’ Out

But Steppin’ will survive after what appears to be a lizard coma

He will do karate

Take piano lessons

Eat with chopsticks

Fumble with the word “u-to-pia.”

He will be grounded six hundred and twenty-two times

Only three of those groundings will stick

He will respect and adore women

He will befriend the friendless

Champion the weak

And kick ass at Scrabble

He will get married

He will have children

My grandchildren

He will make them call me “Pop Pop”

And will insist he never called me “Ba Ba”

He will write books late in life

About his life

And dedicate one to me

The inscription will be

“Fate is the blood in my veins,

Serendipity is my flesh,

It is a privilege to carry your name.”

And somewhere when I hear that read

I will weep the tears that turn to blessings

For I have achieved the greatest glory of any man

I have raised a child

And no, not a biological child

I did not give him my eye color

I gave him a sense of responsibility instead

To pursue passion and tirelessly

I did not give him my hair color

But I gave him the gift of exposure

To art, beauty, poetry, and language

I did not give him my genes

But I would pour all that is me in me

Into him

If it would keep him young and sincere

Forever

But if you really want to know why he’s mine

I’ll tell you

He’s mine

Because he simply couldn’t be anyone else’s