Miracles, I Guess Still Happen Now And Then

The rumors are indeed true. Thursday marked an auspicious expansion of the Elder clan with the addition of a bouncing baby boy (no babies were actually bounced in the making of this post). One of the biggest decisions facing new parents is what to name the fruit of their loins. In this case, there were many possibilities: The Deuce, Chad The Younger, JB Junior, Baby Hughy, Seven, etc.

But we decided to try to catch what seems to be the wave of the future (or you might call it a blast from the past) and went with a name that's the all rage (no pun intended) in cities like London, Paris, and Amsterdam and fast becoming more accommodated locally: Mohammed.

I jest of course. While we did elect to go with a prophetic name, it wasn't the prophet. No, our little guy has been dubbed Isaiah, although it would not surprise me to learn that two or three Mohammeds were coming into the world about the same time as he did at the local hospital where he was born.

Now our eldest son gets to learn all about what it's like to have a younger accomplice brother. Although his initial reaction was a little reserved (I believe his first words to Isaiah upon bringing him home on Friday were, "Goodbye. See ya later."), I'm sure in time he'll grow to love and cherish his sibling and they'll have many an adventure together growing up.

For an idea of just what that might entail, I need only harken back to some of the things that JB and I did during our days of youth. Good Lord. My hair begins to gray at the mere thought of it. Oh well, we've still got a little time to prepare before he's mobile.

The birth of Isaiah puts my tally as a progenitor at two, well on the way to the American reproductive norm. All I have to do now is figure out how to get that .1 taken care and my duty will be done.