Why do I have the feeling that I have the kid that other parents are someday going to talk about in disapproving whispers?
This isn't the cherub I came home from the hospital with. I have no idea why he's making that face, but I do know this: if I ever find myself standing next to the banister on the upper landing of our palatial manor and I see Sam driving toward me at full speed on his Hot Wheels? I'm getting the hell out of the way.
What's that? You want a close-up? All righty.
Let me know if you want a print of this in poster size for over your bed. I'm taking orders.