Little boy and big boy

When I look back at the scant few photographs of me and my father from when I was a baby, I see the grainy images of an adult and his baby boy.

A grown man and his infant son.

I can’t help but wonder:

When my son is older, will he look back on photos like these and think the same?

 

Because I don’t. I look at these photos and see a big boy holding his little boy.

I know that I’m a grownup. I own a home. I have a career (or three). I’m a husband and the father of two. I’m a  responsible citizen who has been living on his own and taking care of himself and others ever since he was eighteen years old.

Even so, it’s still such a stretch for me to think of myself an honest-to-goodness adult. I look back on the photos from my childhood and see real grownups in those pictures. I see serious people with serious expressions.

I see a man without an ounce of boyhood in him. My father is all adult. All man.

I look at pictures and me and Charlie, and I see none of that.  

Will Charlie look at these photos someday and see the same?