I've returned home from a trip and the wife is in the kitchen, neither barefoot nor pregnant, mind you, but it's a pleasing sight nonetheless. She gives me a wife-type greeting that you need not concern yourself with further. Suddenly there is a screech at our knees. It is Isaac, and he is pulling at his mother's leg to separate her from the object of his affection in order to stretch his arms up at me and get on tippy-toes in the universal child language that means: pick me up, now.

And what is he screeching? "Mine! Mine!! MINE!!!"

It's nice to be coveted. I have no idea why this baby loves me more than all my other babies -- combined, no less -- did at that age. But it's nice.

Or perhaps he just doesn't want any younger siblings.