The weirdest thing about being a father of three is being a father of three very different children. Samantha: lanky, pale skin, fine dark hair, hazel eyes. Jake: round cheeked, olive skin, wavy brown hair, endless brown eyes. And then there’s Luke…

For Luke

If you went poking through my baby pictures, there’d be no doubt that this is my son. Straight, blonde hair. Beautiful blue eyes. Slightly translucent skin. Without a date stamp, you’d be hard pressed to tell who is whom now that 70′s fashion is becoming vogue again.

Luke, I am your father.

Luke is our third, our youngest, and the last we will ever have naturally. (Kerri and I are keeping open the possibility of adoption down the line.) Because he’s our last, every moment has additional significance. No longer will we cycle through the newborn routines of midnight feedings, spit up, and belly button stumps. We’ve had our last first birthday, our last first steps, our last first words. From here on out we are moving forward, leaving things that have been part of our everyday life for half a decade behind.

And I am thrilled! It’s no secret: I think babies are alright, but I love ‘em when they start doing tricks. Just this afternoon Luke was imitating Jake, crawling around on the floor pretending to be a dog. Scruffy from Bob the Builder to be precise. Sunday he was doing his best to sing along in the car to “Away in a Manger.”

Luke is sly and subtle. He’s the only one who’ll sit and watch football with me. He’s my baby, and I’m thankful for him.