Breakfast

It's not like I'm the only one who made mental lists of things he hoped his future son would be.  I bet the cavemen daydreamed their sons and daughters would be mighty Mammoth slayers and efficient berry gatherers.  As a lover of words and the art one finds betwixt sentences and lines of prose I often pray that my son will pick up the pen and be a poet.  Nothing would make me prouder than a Poet Son.

Unless... he picked up a mitt and figured out how to make a baseball dance in the air on its way to home plate, dazzling the batter before picking up another ball and doing it again.  And again.  Nothing would make me prouder than an Ace Pitcher Son.

Unless... he befriended people not based on their appearance or popularity, but rather on the strength of their character.  As an overweight child unfamiliar with the inner workings of the "cool kids" group at school I was often ignored and/or bullied.  As I grew up and shed weight, I regret not offering a helpful hand to my classmates who remained on the outside.  I forgot my past and enjoyed a life of popularity and parties.  I hope my son retains a kind, fair heart when as he travels through the difficult life of an adolescent child.  Nothing would make me prouder than a Kind-Hearted Son.

Unless... he picks up the family spoon and perfects the generations-old gravy recipe.  Nothing would make me prouder than a Meatball Son.  Actually, the point here is loyalty.  The gravy recipe comes from a family I share no blood with.  But they are more my family than any Carlock has ever been.  I hope my son learns the value of loyalty and that family is the most important thing (not breakfast).