“That'll put hair on your chest!”
It's what my father always says when the tea's too strong.
It's a standing joke. Legs aside, none of the men in my family have much body hair to speak of. If there's any Neandertal DNA left in there, it must have got diluted out a long, long time ago.
“Gee,” I quip, “You mean I'll have seventeen?”
“Quit bragging!” says my father.
You raised a son with the courage to be himself.
I call that pretty damned good parenting.
Happy Birthday, dad.
Job well done.