My son is turning seven months old this weekend.  As my first child and obviously only child, I’ve had to endure the slew of challenges that every new father has had to face – the shrill, high pitch cry-scream combination, the green sludge pouring from his rosy bottom, and the endless shopping list of items that only further reduce my PS3 video game fund.  But …

There are some things about my son in particular that I can honestly say that very few other parents have had to cope with.  In fact, no more than 1 in 100 according to the national growth statistics that are shared with our friendly, neighborhood mid-wife (remember we’re in Australia).  My son is a colossus.  He’s titanic.  He’s gargantuan.

I’m not saying that my son is obese, though he is jolly in a Saint Nick sort of way – big cheeks, round belly, and all that.  He’s just big.  For instance, my wife was play wrestling in the living room during family time and he shattered her ulna with a superplex, tombstone pile driver.  I told her to shake it off.  She’s tough.  I’m now enrolling myself in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu right now just so I can stay ahead of him for as long as possible, which most childhood experts are predicting to end at 7 years, 3 months old.

Other parents tell you not to compare your children to others, because each child is unique and different.  Those are the same people that have dumb, ugly kids.  I say compare away – if you happen to have Sloth as your little one, then find Rosemary’s Baby or Quasimodo and start lauding your child as the Jewish messiah or Tupac.

I compare and my boy dwarfs kids that are double his age.  Now most of these kids are Vietnamese, which as a people are not widely known as a land of giants, quite the contrary.  But these kids are 1 year old or more and Lil Lucky collects money to protect them from bullies.  He’s just super advanced beyond the spectrum of his age.  For example, he got his two first teeth by four months.  Now, he’s shaving his neck beard and getting a second tattoo on his back.

I bought a home gym, conveniently delivered in 1,500 parts for self assembly, and I found that when I was doing any shoulder exercises, my shoulder sockets felt like they were going to pop out.  Only after a few moments of quizzical inquiry did I realize that carrying my 100 kg son had created a mechanical weakness in my upper body.  I now wear a weightlifting belt during feeding time.

So here’s my fear.  Well, actually I have two of them.  I’m a soccer player, which means that I’m too short to play the real American sports – football and basketball.  With my son being so large, I’m worried that I am only setting myself up to disappoint when all of the sudden his preternatural size ends and the other kids sprout up around him as he continues to spin his wheels at 5′ 4″.  Remember, he’s half Vietnamese, a demure people to put it lightly.  I was recently invited by the People’s Republic of Vietnam to be the official light bulb changer and top shelf reacher for the entire country.

My other fear is far worse than having a midget son.  What if he reaches a standard height, but he never loses his baby chub.  What if my son is a fat bastard?  I’m not sure what I would do with myself.  So much of my forward thinking visions of father-son bonding time is predicated on him having an appropriate weight.  Such as sports … or fishing in a small dingy … or fitting into airplane economy seats.

Is it too much to ask that a short Oklahoman and an even shorter Vietnamese woman could produce a Dat Nguyen clone?  What about a Bolo Yeung remake?  All signs point to “yes”.

Below is a picture of my boy – judge for yourself.