Monkey Business

I met my nephew when he was five days old. We hung out for about a week, and had a blast. He pooped whenever I'd hold him. There was an occasional spit-up or gurgle, and I think he opened his eyes a couple times, too. But there was always poop. Like clockwork. Uncle Time was Poopy Time. And holy zita he was good at Poopy Time. Most infants are, I'm sure. But he had something special. Indescribable, but there was something intrinsically mind-blowing about the bond we shared as I cradled him and he eagerly released his bowels, not dissimilar to an upturned ketchup bottle reacting after the elusive perfect hit. It doesn't take a rocket surgeon to know this was fun times for both sides.

I went back home when he was twelve days old, and didn't see him until this weekend, his three-month birthday. That means that in August, we had known each other for more than half of his life. But now, he'd spent more than 90% of his life without his long-lost uncle (yes, I did the calculations). Meeting new doctors, friends, strangers-on-the-street, nosey neighbors with spatulas, crackheads screaming at blue dragons made of pudding on the street, etc. My glorious visage was a completely unfamiliar face to his now-always-open steely gray eyes.

Still, every time I hold him, I can tell he remembers me. And how do I know that we are once again sharing a magical moment of togetherness? He poops.