You’re six weeks old, and this is what I notice about you so far:
You have no shame in peeing on our guests. You pee when you want to, where you want to, and on anyone you want to. You pee on me, and you even pee on yourself. Devil may care. Pee and be damned.
You are not afraid of strange bearded men in dark robes, the rabbis we brought over to the house to conduct the Pidayon Ha’Ben ceremony. You were not in awe. You farted right in their faces.
When you sleep, you stretch your arms out above your head, like a boxer after victory, like a champ – confident and imperious – staking your territory. You’re not afraid. Do not disturb.
You have my anger. It’s quick and nasty until you get what it is you’re after. Mostly it’s your mother’s nipple. I know how you feel man. Hang in there.
You love going head-to-head.
Like Winston Churchill.
You’re smart and resourceful: you’ve figured out how to feed yourself; no hands. You clearly crave independence and freedom.
You’re little, but you have charisma, confidence, strength and courage. Like a Jedi.
But you’re not all tough and cunning. You love being massaged, you love bathing in warm water, you love being bounced, and you love being held.
I love you. Stay just as you are.