Make room for daddy

We received an envelope from our lawyer the other day. Inside, she led with a quick letter letting us know that we had now completed our business, thanks for your time, etc., etc. Tucked inside that was a copy of the kid's new and improved birth certificate.

All the basics are there. Place of birth. Date of birth. Mother: Judybat. Father: AnnaRay.

Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles.

Who's your Daddy? If your name is TheBoy, then apparently I am.

Part of me wonders how our lawyer managed to find the only liberal -- or perhaps illiterate -- file clerk in the entire state of North Carolina? Part of me feels like we hoodwinked 'em, and fears a middle-of-the-night phone call from an angry old white guy sounding a lot like Jesse Helms: "That birth certificate we sent you? A mistake. And by the way, you're all going to hell."

Maybe, but not for this. If any of you folks are in the neighborhood anytime soon, I'll be the one passing out "It's a Boy!" cigars and teaching the pooper to throw a ball. That's what fathers do, right?