Studly? Yes he is.

The picture to the right, an image of my desk at work, poses a serious question: Will the wee captain someday win the Heisman Trophy? More importantly, do I care?

Say in the year 2027, or thereabout, I find myself sitting in the New York Hilton, staring up at Quinn as he and two other nervous young men wait to see if they're to be crowned the greatest player in college football that year.

Yeah, then I'd care.

But otherwise, no. Not really.

Certainly, every dad hopes, perhaps secretly, that his son can be a triumphant athlete -- usually because they were never one themselves. On that same note, dads might also hope to see their sons follow in their footsteps. For example, friends, knowing my fanatacism toward the Minnesota Twins, often ask me, "What happens if Quinn isn't a Twins fan like his daddy?" My response: then he's a Pirates fan, or a Dodgers fan or -- God forbid -- a Yankees fan.

I deal with it, and get back to cheering for the Twins.

But I can't help asking myself similar questions. Will he play soccer? How about the trombone? Will he be a writer? Or an X-ray tech like his mommy? How about a chef? Will he play first base?

I'm careful not to want too much for my son. In much the same way, I'm reticent to force childhood characters like the Sesame Street gang, Winnie the Pooh or Spongebob Squarepants upon him in the hope that he can somehow make his own choices when the time is right.

These are some of the emotions I'm encountering in these first weeks of parenthood. Suddenly I'm pondering the future of someone other than myself. I'm also finding myself sensitive to the criticism of other parents. Not that it's happened. I'm merely bracing myself for that moment when someone questions our methods -- if you can call them methods -- only to profess their own rock-solid, foolproof ways of mastering this inexact science.

We must be doing something right, though. The good Capt. Quinn (as a side note, I'm also considering the nickname Sir Cries-a-lot. Chew on that a bit.) has now surpassed 8 pounds and is likely nearing the 9 pound threshhold as we speak.

He's a big, tough fella. A linebacker maybe?

I've got to stop that.

He does have one thing his dad doesn't . A wiseacre editor named Phill was kind enough to point it out on a sticky note he placed next to Quinn's picture on my desk at work. It's written as if it's coming from Quinn's mouth:

"Too bad my dad's not as studly as me, dude."

I'll give you that one, son. You certainly are studly.

Today's picture I call, "A good mommy":