After several fake outs, William Isaac Woodlief was born at 4:15 Tuesday morning. He was seven pounds, 12 ounces, and 20 inches long. He has his mother's good looks, and hopefully her brains. He has my bad temper.

Both are very healthy and beautiful. I'll post a picture soon.

William is named after my wife's grandfather, who helped liberate the ungrateful French in the second world war. As a result of a little luck and good timing, he was visiting us when my wife went into labor, and so he got to meet his great grandson later that day.

We'll call the boy by his middle name, which means "laughter." Isaac's brothers are excited to have him, though disappointed that he can neither catch a football or be tackled yet. All in good time, boys.

Yeah, there's still only two of them. The littlest brother seems content to just stay where he is, which the doctors assure my wife is not a permanent situation. She's beginning to doubt their word. The promise of some kind of Guinness record seems to be little consolation.

The two who had the mercy to be born before being able to walk, meanwhile, are enough to occupy us for now. There is something about little boys, I think, that makes them crave danger. By Sunday evening Eli had sustained a scraped knee, a bashed nose, and at least two shots to the head that would have sidelined the average quarterback.

All of these injuries were the result of doing something that normal people with sense simply do not do. Why hold your head half an inch from your headboard when you are about to sneeze? Why, child, must you balance yourself on one knee while sitting at the table? What can be gained, little monkey, from racing your tricycle well beyond the posted driveway speed limit?

Caleb, meanwhile, lost most of the skin on his elbow when he decided to sprint down the sidewalk on his way to visit the college girl of whom he is enamored. Best he associate those feelings with pain early, I say.

I am, as you know, a worrier. These boys are going to put me in an early grave.

Eli's vocabulary has taken off of late. His cute words are disappearing, replaced by correct pronunciations. Friday, though, he asked me for a "pollylop." I hope he doesn't learn the right word any time soon.

Caleb, meanwhile, is in the stage where the correct words are very important. Yesterday I told him to pick up his army man and put him away. "Dad," he lectured, "this is not a army man, this is a rescue hero."

Right. Rescue hero. Every day with children I get dumber.