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I have a son, yes, I have a son

Welcome Castiel Alexander Kroker, your mother and I are delighted to have you join our family.
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@ DAN-isms.com

I have a son. 
…and he looks—just—like—me.

Looking down at this tiny face that really is a mini-me-mirror elicits an unusual set of conflicting emotions.  I’m in love, yet afraid.

Any child of mine already has to deal with a surname that in English-speaking countries elicits endless “Kermit the Frog” and “Ribbit” jokes.  But having that face, my face…

A part of me desperately wants to apologise.

I look at my child and I think he’s beautiful, my partner looks at him and gushes in the kind of way that only a human who spent nine months crafting another human being can.  But I remember all the hurt that face inadvertently generated for me.

Everyone has days where they want to outlaw mirrors.  Personally I’ve learned to accept my appearance; I quite like the general shape of my head, my eye frame, and my jawline.  I’m ok with me.

But I can remember every time a person called me ugly like it just happened and I have heard every “big-nose” joke that you can possibly receive.

I think the best compliment I’ve received on my appearance was a woman calling me ‘charismatically hot’, which sounded in my head like ‘you can be charming, despite being handicapped by your face’.

I think of these things when I look at him and I feel like a lifetime of teasing is coming his way, and it’s entirely my fault.  Maybe if I’d shaken my hips differently at the point of orgasm or if I drank some secret tea before building my sperm deposit… maybe he’d look more like his mother.

I feel like I need to pre-emptively arm him with a barrage of rapier wit so cutting, that every person who looks at him sideways will feel the wrath of a thousand emotional paper cuts.
Or maybe he could learn Kung Fu.
I hear good things about Kung Fu.

As I think of the myriad different ways that someone might try to hurt my child I am comforted by another part of me that stirs at the site of his face.  It is a part that elicits a very raw, very primal thought process.  A process that says:

“This is my son. Where he goes, I follow...and if you look upon him, if you take in the blessed visage that makes his mother smile—speak, with, care."

"When you observe each of his perfect tiny features, know that he is loved, know that he is protected by a man that was raised with a belief that a father’s sole purpose in life is to defend those he loves.  Be aware that each phrase, each word, each syllable you utter will be filtered through the universal ‘guardian dad’ translator and if I don’t like what I hear… we’re going to go for a little walk…"

"…Because I have 10 acres of bushland, a shovel, and an open-minded sense of justice."

"And at the conclusion of that walk, after I have explained all the different ways in which you will be introduced to righteous vengeance, when you have been regaled with an imaginative and descriptive explanation of your impending horror, when you are adrift in an unbelievable, unimaginable and overwhelming sense of dread for what lies in store at the end of the journey, when you feel that things could not possibly get any worse... I will show you the true face of reckoning—"

"By introducing you to his mother.”

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