As many people close to me know, it has always been a dream of mine to live vicariously through my children to an unhealthy degree. Thus, with the birth of Elliott, I had already mapped out his future in my head. While I obviously have aspirations of him being a professional athlete like every good father, I am also a realist. The genes I have passed to young Elliott lend themselves to a more likely career as a comfortable chair tester than an athlete. But I still had hope that through my unorthodox coaching methods (i.e. yelling) he could become a three-point specialist in the NBA or a journeyman relief pitcher in the majors. I had hope until last night that is.

We dropped $30 at Toys R Us on newborn toys featuring contrasting black and white colors on various rattles. (Shelbi shot down my idea of simply wrapping a can of mini-Pringles in newspaper). We sat down to shake it in front of his obviously unimpressed face. And then... he reached for the toy to grab it. My wife showered him with praise and kissed him on the forehead. I was mortified and crestfallen. Sure tracking and reaching for objects is a sign of development and blah,blah blah. My wife was completely missing the bigger picture here. All three times Elliott reached out, he reached with his right hand.

Why???!!! As everyone knows, southpaws are coveted in professional sports. A left-handed point guard is more valuable than a right-handed point guard. A left-handed pitcher who can't top 90 mph on the gun  but throws strikes is referred to as "wily" or "crafty" while a right-handed pitcher fitting that same description is described as "a gas can."

So you can understand my dismay. At first the solution seemed simple. Tie Elliott's right arm behind his back until he's 3. While I refer to this strategy as a commitment to excellence, Shelbi calls it child abuse. Sigh... What's her plan for our retirement, I ask? Fiscal responsibility? Sorry, last time I checked we still live in America.

We'll see. I won't officially bury this dream yet along with so many others of mine including: owning a gold suit and discovering a case of Gummi Berry Juice (est. 1987). If he practices 9 hours a day from the time he can walk, Elliott still might achieve another dream I have for him, becoming an NFL punter. But, unlike I have always imagined, he'll likely be punting right-footed.