Well, it finally happened.
Our 14-year-old son - our firstborn - is officially taller than me.
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He's only a fraction of an inch taller right now, about the width of my thumb. But like Secretariat thundering down the backstretch at Belmont Park, his lead will only lengthen. Some of you who have been on this column journey with me since he was a toddler and called me "Gaggy" may appreciate this milestone.
Meanwhile, I'm shrinking like a wool sweater caught in the dryer.
This day has been inevitable since our older son was a baby and our pediatrician plotted his length on the growth chart. Our doctor placed a dot on the 95th percentile, and we were told our little boy would easily top six feet some day.
That seemed theoretical then, not so much now that he's 14 and eats two hamburgers and two hot dogs for lunch. I remember when that much food would have fed our whole family.
Last weekend, we were dining at a local restaurant and I teased him about his meat-carving technique as a piece of steak jumped off his plate.
"I thought you learned how to cut your steak at Junior Cotillion," I said.
He pretended to frown and - summoning the newfound bass note in his voice - said, "Daddy, don't forget I'm taller than you now."
Whoa. For a half-second I was taken aback. Then his mother and younger brother began to giggle, and I joined in - nervously.
"Maybe so," I said, spearing a butter-soaked mushroom with my fork, "but I have about 50 pounds on you. If I decide to sit on you, you're a goner."
Anyway, I guess it's my fate to "look up" to my son for the rest of my life. This doesn't bother me. I don't even mind looking up to him in more metaphorical ways. The truth is, as his personality grows along with his skeleton, I'm seeing more and more to like.
Unlike my father, a good man who, nonetheless, only made eye contact with me in moments when he wanted to show dominance, I want my son to know that even at age 14, he's not too young to begin accumulating my admiration. I can already see signs that my son will be "better man" than me in important ways.
Here are three:
* Athleticism. This is an easy one. I've known since he was pre-schooler that he would be a better athlete than I was. In his first soccer game, at age 3, he pancaked a kid who had elbowed him in the face. Then he jumped up, scored a goal and ran to the sideline to give me a high five.
To say I was stunned is an understatement.
While technically not an approved soccer skill, the pancake tackle flashed a competitive side that would surface again and again in cross-country running, baseball, basketball, soccer, track and lacrosse. Eventually, my son learned to harness that aggressiveness and channel the energy into tenacity, often pushing himself to exhaustion.
* Empathy. Last Sunday, my younger son, age 9, was sulking because his math homework wasn't progressing as quickly as he's hoped.
"Here's your problem, Bubby," my older son observed. "You're trying to do too much in your head. Go get some paper so we can show your work."
With that, the two sat side-by-side on the couch for 30 minutes as older brother gently coached his younger brother in the tedious art of subtracting five-digit numbers.
If this is alliance is a sign of things to come, my work may soon be done.
* Mechanical aptitude. My son's bedroom, really an oversized bonus room, looks like a weapons factory. There are no real guns there, of course, just BB rifles and pistols. Yet he has become expert in disassembling his Airsoft arsenal and reconstructing the guns in inventive ways.
Last week he beckoned me outside.
"Look, watch this," he said, unloading an Airsoft gun on full automatic and unleashing a stream of white BBs that looked like a milk-colored laser beam arcing across the back yard.
"Whoa," I said. "How did you do that?"
He shrugged and smiled.
I'm sure my dad was probably proud of me for something, but I can't recall him ever telling me so. I'm determined not to make that mistake with my first-born son. If I died tomorrow, he would never have to wonder if his Dad was proud of him.
Because I look him in the eyes and tell him.
Sincerely. Almost every day.
Contact Mark Kennedy at mkennedy@timesfreepress.com or 423-757-6645. Follow him on Twitter @TFPCOLUMNIST.