Little Jacky H.

That's what I am going to have to call "it". I know, I must be one sick mother to name my son's "it". I am not the type to do that kind of thing. However, his recent obsession with "it", requires this extreme measure. It really is something to observe.
Due to the fact that Jack Henry has been blessed with enough gut to shame any 36-year-old, ex-frat boy, who never learned to put down the Bud Light, he has trouble standing up and looking straight down at "it". So he is forced to sit down, hold his stomach back with one hand, and use his free hand to admire his manly-ness. I have to say though, this comes as a relief. For awhile I was a little afraid "it" would go unnoticed, that he would be the only boy that didn't dig and adjust out on the baseball field. That he would let one of his hands fall uselessly to his side as the other held the remote and switched between ESPN and any channel hosting a poker tournament.
So thankfully I am checking this concern off my list of things to worry about when I don't sleep at night. I can now put on my attention back on that disease I might catch from a Nigerian (or was it Sierra Leone) immigrant.