When Great Danes Mate

Ace had his 18 years and 6 months checkup at the pediatrician yesterday, and, as his doctor had predicted many years ago, he is tall.  Six feet five and one quarter of an inches tall, to be exact.  Now that he is getting ready to head off to college, any bit of news like this sends me back to his baby days.

I spiral through the psychedelic vortex of time and arrive at the day baby Ace was helping me clean out a closet.  Well, you know, sitting on the floor chewing on coat hangers and shoes and whatever else he could grab and shove in his mouth.  I noticed a dry cleaners' tag hanging from his sweet baby lips and pulled it out, staples and all.  His dad laughed with pride and did The Hulk muscle pose (in which you put your fists together and flex your biceps and growl, "Urrgghh!")   "Eating steel at only six months old!"

I tried not to gag as he roared with delight.

Later that day, we had Ace's 6 month checkup (exactly 18 years ago).  This was when we first learned that Ace was vertically gifted.  "Off the charts," the doctor said.  Ace's dad perked up.  Visions of ACC basketball glory were dancing through his head.  He was thinking about Carolina blue, and I was thinking about nutrition.  Have I been feeding Ace too much?  Is it my fault?  Is this bad?

"Nope," said the doctor.  "When great danes mate, you don't get chihuahuas."