As I sat watching my son’s JV tennis match (a riveting battle not unlike Federer – Nadal in their primes, only slower and without discernible talent), an older couple slowly climbed the metal bleachers and perched themselves beside me.  

From the timing of their cheers and commentary, it soon became clear that they were here to watch my son’s opponent.  They were dutiful grandparents, sacrificing their Saturday afternoon to support their grandson and see how their youngest generation was faring on the tennis court.

After a few minutes, the woman turned toward me.

“Is that your son?”, she asked.

“Yes it is.”

“I just have to tell you.  He’s absolutely adorable!!  Look at that face!  What a beautiful child.”

“Why thank you, that’s very nice of you to say,” I replied, working hard to conceal the burst of pride flowing through my veins and self-satisfied with my role in producing such a gorgeous specimen.

After a beat or two, she turned back to me.

“So he takes after his mother then?”

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